Three Weeks. Glyn Elinor

      "Only it must never come up again, this question", she insisted. "Should we spend more hours on this lake, or other lakes—or mountains, or rivers, or towns—let us speak never of money, or paying. If you only knew of how I hate it! the cruel yellow gold! I have heaps of it—heaps of it! and for it human beings have always paid so great a price. Just this once in life let it bring happiness and peace."

      He wondered at the concentrated feeling she expressed. What could the price be? And what was her history?"

      "So it is over, our little breeze," she said gently, after a pause. "And you will tease me no more, Paul?"

      "I would never tease you!" he exclaimed tenderly. And, if he had dared, he would have taken her hand.

      "You English are so wonderful! Full of your prejudices," she said in a contemplative way. "Bulldog tenacity of purpose, whether you are right or wrong. Things are a custom, and they must be done, or it is not 'playing the game,'" and she imitated a set English voice, her beautiful mouth pursed up, until Paul had to use violent restraint with himself to keep from kissing it. "A wonderful people—mostly gentlemen and generally honest, but of a common sense that is disastrous to sentiment or romance. If you were not so polished, and lazy and strong—and beautiful to look at, one would not consider you much beyond the German."

      "Not consider us beyond a beastly German!" exclaimed Paul indignantly.

      And the lady laughed like a child.

      "Oh! you darling Paul!" she said. "You dear, insular, arrogant

       Englishman! You have no equal in the world!"

      Paul was offended.

      "If you had said an Austrian now—but a German—" he growled sulkily.

      "The Austrians are charming," allowed the lady, "but they err the other way; they have not enough common sense, they are only great gentlemen. Also, they are naturally awake, whereas you English are naturally asleep, and you yourself are the Sleeping Beauty, Paul."

      They had climbed up the path now some two hundred feet, and all around them were stripling beeches of an unnaturally exquisite green, as fresh and pure and light almost as leaves of the forced lily of the valley.

      The whole world throbbed with youth and freshness, and here and there, wide of the path, by a mossy stone, a gentian raised its azure head, "small essences of sky;" the lady called them.

      "Let us sit down on this piece of rock," Paul said. "I want to hear why I am the Sleeping Beauty. It is so long since I read the story. But wasn't it about a girl, not a man—and didn't she get wakened up by a—kiss?"

      "She did!" said the lady, leaning back against a tree behind her; "but then it was just her faculties which were asleep, not her soul. Could a kiss wake a soul?"

      "I think so," Paul whispered. He was seated on a part of the rock which jutted out a little lower than her resting-place, and he was so close as to be almost touching her. He could look up under the brim of that tantalising hat, which so often hid her from his view as they walked. He was quivering with excitement at this moment, the result of the thought of a kiss—and his blue eyes blazed with desire as they devoured her face.

      "Yes—it is so," said the lady, a low note in her voice. "Because

       Huldebrand gave Undine a soul with a kiss."

      "Tell me about it," implored Paul. "I am so ignorant. Who was

       Huldebrand, and what did he do?"

      So she began in a dreamy voice, and you who have read De la Motte Fouqué's dry version of this exquisite legend would hardly have recognised the poetry and pathos and tender sentiment she wove round those two, and the varied moods of Undine, and the passion of her knight. And when she came to the evening of their wedding, when the young priest had placed their hands together, and listened to their vows—when Undine had found her soul at last, in Huldebrand's arms—her voice faltered, and she stopped and looked down.

      "And then?" said Paul, and his breath came rather fast. "And then?"

      "He was a man, you see, Paul; so when he had won her love, he did not value it—he threw it away."

      "Oh, no! I don't believe it!" Paul exclaimed vehemently. "It was just this brute Huldebrand. But you don't know men—to think they do not value what they win—you don't know them, indeed!"

      She looked down straight into his face, as he gazed up at her, and to his intense surprise he could have sworn her eyes were green now! as green as emeralds. And they held him and fascinated him and paralysed him, like those of a snake.

      "I do not know men?" she said softly. "You think not, Paul?"

      But Paul could hardly speak, he buried his face in her lap, like a child, and kept it there, kissing her gloved hands. His straw hat, with its Zingari ribbon, lay on the grass beside him, and a tiny shaft of sunlight glanced through the trees, gilding the crisp waves of his brushed-back hair into dark burnished gold.

      The lady moved one hand from his impassioned caress, and touched the curl with her finger-tips. She smiled with the tenderness a mother might have done.

      "There—there!" she said. "Not yet." Then she drew her hand away from him and leant back, half closing her eyes.

      Paul sat up and stared around. Each moment of the day was providing new emotions for him. Surely this was what Columbus must have felt, nearing the new world. He pulled himself together. She was not angry then at his outburst, and his caress—though something in her face warned him not to err again.

      "Tell me the rest," he said pleadingly. "Why did he not value Undine's love, and what made the fool throw it away?"

      "Because he possessed it, you see," said the lady. "That was reason enough, surely."

      Then she told him of the ceasing of Undine's wayward moods after she had received her soul—of her docility—of her tenderness—of Huldebrand's certainty of her love. Then of his inevitable weariness. And at last of the Court, and the meeting again with Hildegarde, and of all the sorrow that followed, until the end, when the fountains burst their stoppings and rushed upwards, wreathing themselves into the figure of Undine, to take her Love to death with her kiss.

      "Oh! he was wise!" Paul said. "He chose to die with her kiss. He knew at last then—what he had thrown away."

      "That one learns often, Paul, when it has grown—too late! Come, let us live in the sunshine. Live while we may."

      And the lady rose, and giving him her hand, she almost ran into the bright light of day, where even no tender shadows fell.