After the divine!
Striving ever for some goal
Past the blunder-god’s control!
Dreaming of potential years
When no day shall dawn in fears!
That’s the Marna of my soul,
Wander-bride of mine!”
Wander-bride of mine! Was it a woman like Haidee who had suggested those lines to the poet?— Haidee with her narrow, oval face, and brow of ivory, and slow, bell-like voice. Or had it been some elf-girl, some girl of flame with a temperament wilder than most—a gipsy thing of changing moods, and passionate phases of self-will, alternating with abnegation and tenderness,—with a face like a wind-blown flower, and a nature very human, very lovable and rare!—a girl like Wanza—say?
After a time I slept. When I awakened the horizon showed a silvery light. The purple darkness still mantled the woods and the stars still shone, but day was coming on apace. As I lay there, half dozing, and gradually becoming tranquil and restored, I heard faint footfalls and a modulated whistling on the road beyond. There was a mellowness about the whistle that was infinitely piquant, some quality that stirred me as a bird’s song stirs. Doubtless some ranch hand thus early astir, I said to myself.
I had not long to speculate, for the whistler approached, left the road, and entered the grove wherein I lay. I could hear a light crackling as the invader of my solitude brushed through the growth of young scrub pines. The whistle changed to a low song, and the song was sung in a woman’s voice.