CHAPTER IV

THE HILL OF VENUS

Some by land, and some by sea, the revellers took their morning way

along the coast towards the ruins of ancient Baiae. Francesco was on

horseback, a friend having furnished him with an excellent mount. As

he cantered on, the road continually revealed the far-sparkling sea. A

flock of brilliant butterflies dipped and poised on the

waters,--pleasure boats bound for the tryst. Ilaria! Ilaria! She and

he were moving by different ways to the same goal.

Steeds proved swifter than sails that morning; the horsemen arrived

half an hour before the boats. The place was a lonely wonder. The

sloping hillsides, broken by the green hollows of an ancient

amphitheatre, rose gently from the beach. From the turf, strewn with

wild hyacinth, cyclamen, Star of Bethlehem and tiny fleurs-de-lys,

great columns, half embedded in the ground, raised ivy-mantled shafts,

now broken, now crowned with Corinthian capitals, which peered through

trailing vines. Choice marbles, their rose or white mellowed to gold,

lay scattered here and there, the surfaces, fluted or bevelled, still

gleaming with the polish of by-gone centuries. Below and above the

amphitheatre mysterious masonry broke the climbing slope. The ruins

extended to the very verge of the sea.

Francesco ran down the bank as the first boat drew near. Under an

awning of silk, shot with green and blue and gold, sat Ilaria, the

Countess Violetta and Stefano Maconi. Violetta was rippling with

joyous laughter. Ilaria smiled and the beauty of the day found its

meaning. She had thrown aside the misty veil, with which she was wont

to envelop herself. Her gown, or so Francesco thought, was the same

which Proserpina had worn, in the "Triumph of Amor." At least, the

same strange broideries shone among its folds.

She stepped lightly ashore. Her fingers rested on Francesco's hand and

her eyes accepted his adoring look with a strange inscrutable

expression.

"We have been sailing over marvels," cried Violetta wide-eyed. "Below

the clear green waves rise palaces! We saw great white columns and a

pavement of mosaics. Did we not, Madonna Ilaria?"

"Yes," said Ilaria, dreamily. "Had they not quivered in the light, we

could have traced the pattern!"

"The palaces of the sea ladies," Violetta exclaimed gleefully. "I

thought I saw one, but she turned out to be a fish!"

"The home of strange beings, at any rate," mused Ilaria,--"of flowers

that are alive! Did you see that long blue ribbon sway and beckon to

us?"

Ilaria's gravity and pallor seemed to have vanished with the mists of

morning. She was flushed and gay,--almost too gay, Francesco thought.

A startled quietude, as of one expectant, was upon her.

"I have bidden you to a land of enchantment," laughed Stefano Maconi

as they climbed upwards. "We are still within the power of the sea, as

you perceive," he added, when the company paused by the half-buried

columns below the amphitheatre.

"It is true," said Francesco, pausing by a half-buried shaft. "The

stone is fretted by the waves. See the clustered barnacles and tiny

shells clinging half-way up!"

A party of cavaliers and their ladies met them on this spot.

As they exchanged greetings, all studied the strange sight.

"Probably," reflected a young page of the court, "it was the doing of

Messer Vergilio."

"He had great power hereabout," asserted Andrea Ravignano, "and was a

mighty clerk of necromancy. Perhaps it was he who built all these

marvels!"

"It was the old Roman folk that built them, ages ago," said another.

"A city rose here once, a marvel indeed, as these ruins tell. For

their pleasure men built it, and here they lived and throve. And evil

livers were they all, and slaves to the foul fiends, their gods!"

"But how did the city sink into the sea?" asked Violetta.

"That was the work of Messer Saint Paul," replied the other. "He

landed here and preached the Cross of our Saviour, and when men would

not heed but spat upon the cross and defied it, he laid the land under

a curse, and it sank to the depths of the sea!"

"And when the waves had done their work,"--it was Ilaria, speaking

dreamily, "they flowed back, and the ruins rested on a gentle hill.

But forever and ever do they remember the sea!"

She sighed a little.

"The slope on which we sit is hollow within," ventured the youthful

page. "Behind us is many a love-grotto, tunnelled deep and far. The

country folk, when they run the harrow, find great walls. And so none

dare come here of nights: strange things are seen!"

"Perhaps the waters will rise again some day and swallow Naples and

the court, and we shall turn into sea-folk all," Ilaria said, laughing

a little wildly. "Subjects of Lady Venus we should be. She was Queen

of the Sea, I've heard!"

"Though Terce is hardly passed, such talk is not wise," said some

one.

And two or three crossed themselves.

But as the light words drifted on, dim vistas of thought, at the end

of which immemorial things were gleaming, had opened to Francesco.

Violetta had been deftly weaving a green garland of ivy.

"Dream no more, fairest," she turned smiling to Ilaria. "Tell me

rather what flowers to weave into your chaplet. Of no strange blooms

of the sea shall it be wrought, but, at your will, of roses or the

small fior-da-lisa!"

"He who, as I, loves best the sea, loves best the rose," replied

Ilaria smiling. "While he who climbs the height adores the lily!"

She glanced, as she spoke at Francesco, whose gaze had never for a

moment abandoned her. Never had she seemed so fair to him, so utterly

adorable, stirring in his soul the slumbering fires of desire.

Violetta quickly finished her wreath of eglantine, and dropped it

lightly on Ilaria's brow.

"Why fear we ghosts in this radiant air?" laughed she.

"Perhaps we are the ghosts,--ghosts of our former selves," suggested

Ilaria.

"No phantom heart beats in my bosom," laughed Stefano Maconi.

And a look of meaning, or so Francesco felt, passed between them.

"Fair phantom, let us tread a measure!" pleaded Violetta. "What was

this green level made for, if not for the beating of gentle feet?"

"And when the measure is over," said Francesco in an undertone, as

they rose, "perhaps Madonna Ilaria will graciously vouchsafe me a few

moments?"

She nodded assent; but he could see her eyelids quiver, and her breath

came fast. The measure finished, Stefano Maconi at once proposed a new

diversion, from which neither could escape, and time wore on, while

the light grew more intense and the sky burned a deeper blue. Ill at

ease, Francesco withdrew from the pastimes at last and climbed the

hill behind the amphitheatre. He was displeased and nervous. Ilaria,

he was sure, shrank from Stefano Maconi; yet was there not some secret

bond between them?

Would Ilaria come to him? He trembled, as in Avellino of old, and his

heart beat faster at the thought.

The hill was richly draped in ferns and swaying vines. Idly he pushed

aside a mass of ivy: a passage opened behind, deep-vaulted, paved with

broken fragments of mosaic. Stalactites dripped from the roof, through

the verdure of thick maiden-hair fern. The gloom looked grateful.

Francesco stepped within and, looking out on the blue day from the

waving green frame-work, saw Ilaria and Stefano Maconi approaching,

engaged in eager talk. She was flushed and bore herself haughtily.

Francesco stepped quietly out into the light, unnoticed by Ilaria's

companion. Ilaria evidently saw him at once. She paused and dismissed

the other, regardless of his somewhat insistent protests. With

half-ironic salutation she turned down the hill. Whether or no Stefano

had caught sight of Francesco, as he went, was difficult to say.

Ilaria came towards the grotto, trailing her draperies, her brow

troubled and sad beneath the gay chaplet.

"The sun is hot,--one craves shelter," she said lightly, yet with a

tremor in her voice.

Francesco, without replying, lifted the ivy curtain and with a mute

gesture invited her to enter.

They stood in the dusky gloom, speechless, hidden from each other,

till their gaze became accustomed to the shade.

He was helplessly unable to break the silence. Fear, joy, desire,

doubt were tossing him. The breath came fast.

She raised her arms and caught her white throat.

"How cool it is, how sweet!" she said. "At Avellino," and she glanced

at him half shyly, "you would never take me to your grotto!"

"Ah! But this grotto," he tried to speak as lightly as she, "we have

found together!"

"Together!" she reflected, looking away from him. "It is a word we

have not often had occasion to use,--you and I."

"Why might we not in the days to come?"

The words were on his lips; he held them back.

Ilaria waited, her hand pressed to her side, her look full of mingled

tenderness and dread.

As he kept silence, she sighed, almost, it would seem, with relief.

"I wish to explore the cave," she said suddenly. "Come with me, if you

like!"

And with quick steps she started into the darkness.

"Take care! Take care, Lariella!" cried Francesco, unconsciously using

the familiar diminutive, forgotten so long ago.

She took no heed and he hurried after her, terror-stricken, he knew

not why. She kept in advance, moving swiftly and lightly over the dark

uneven ground. For a short distance the dusk deepened, then a sudden

light, shining from a crack in the vaulting, revealed in startling

contrast a great blackness by the side of which there gleamed

something weird, ghost-like.

Ilaria screamed and stumbled. The passage, widening beneath her feet,

broke downwards into a pool of the waters of Styx. A lost stair had

betrayed her.

Francesco, speeding forward, caught her garments, drew her back. She

staggered and yielded to his arms. They leaned together against the

wall of the grotto. The earth had fallen away a little at the shock,

revealing in the uncertain light the white figure of a woman.

They both stared at it, holding their breath.

The image stood embedded in the rocky cavity, whither some force had

in past ages carried her from her old position, for she had evidently

presided over the Piscina, or the bath of some rich Roman, who

rejoiced in her Greek fairness. The face was free, but soil and mould

had given it a half-sinister expression. The limbs, so far as

visible,--and the earth in falling away had left one white side of the

body entirely bare,--were perfect.

Ilaria struggled to free herself from Francesco's embrace and sank,

half fainting, at the statue's base.

"The peril is over," said Francesco, and echoes filled the whole

cavern with murmuring. "Dearest, be not afraid! Look at me!"

As her head drooped, he knelt beside her, half distraught, and rubbed

her wrists and forehead with water from the pool.

She opened her eyes and smiled at him, as a child might.

"Fonté Gaia!" she whispered.

The words had been in his own mind.

Lifting her hand, she touched and stroked the marble, and the awe grew

in her eyes.

"Feel!" she said. "This is not marble! It is very flesh, though turned

to stone!"

And she shuddered.

"Only a statue, dearest!" he answered soothingly. "Around Naples, they

say, the earth is full of such!"

"It is the White Lady!"

She had risen now and regained her self-control, and she spoke with

unwonted dignity and calm.

"It is the White Lady," she repeated, "but you know, you have never

consented to her spells. She rules here in the dusk! How you tremble!

There is no need! Sunlight for you is but a few paces away! See, I

will go with you to the entrance of the grotto!"

In truth a strange tremor had seized him. He stood as if unable to

leave the spot. She was looking on his face with anxious eyes.

"Doubtless," he said at last, and despised himself as he spoke, "you

would prefer other company than mine in the presence of your White

Lady!"

She raised her white hands to her throat again, and laughed, a laugh

which the vaults re-echoed as a sob.

"Forgive,--forgive! I am cruel!" cried Francesco. "I know not what I

say!"

"You are overheated," she said. "Bathe your brows, as you have bathed

mine. It is true, I did not find the touch so cooling."

"The waters of Lethé," said Francesco very slowly. "Shall I bathe my

brows in them indeed? Already, simply standing by them, I think I have

forgotten many things. I have a better thought. Will you drink of them

with me, Ilaria? It would not be the first time we have tasted of the

same cup in the presence of Venus!"

Was he mistaken? Or, in the glimmering light, did he see a shadow

passing over the flower-soft face?

She did not reply, but softly stroked his hair.

Her touch burned, electrified him. For a moment he submitted to the

sensation, then, as her soft, white hands stole around his throat, he

folded her in a close embrace and kissed her passionately on her lips.

From the waters came the swinging rhythm of the Barcarole.

"Non senti mai Achillé

Per Pulisena bella,

Lé cocenti favillé

Quant' io senti per quella.

"Udendo sua favella

Angelica e venozza,

Parlar si amorosa

In su la fresca erbetta."

The time for metaphors had passed. He raised his head.

"I love you, Ilaria," he stammered, drunk with her sweetness, "love

you, as I have never loved anything on earth. Ilaria--Ilaria--"

"Are we not free?" she whispered, her lips very close to his.

He kissed them again and again, then tossed back his head.

"Free?" he said. "Who is free? Ghostly powers, fates from ancient

days,--drive us, flesh and blood, whither they will!"

She shook her head, and on her lips played the old-time childhood

smile.

"Have you forgot?" she whispered into his ear, holding him very close.

"But it is not for me to remind you--"

With a sudden change her restraint had vanished.

"We are among the shades," she continued, "where Proserpina should be

at home. The world of sun is far!"

"I love you--" he stammered, gazing at her with wide, hungry eyes.

She bent back his head, till their eyes met.

She gazed at him with all the love she bore him. Then, drawing him

close, she whispered a word in his ear.

He closed his eyes in mortal anguish.

"All creation knows it,--all things, animate and inanimate: but not

I,--not I!"

"Take me!" Ilaria said calmly, her face very white. "Yes--I will drink

with you! But first--a libation to Venus!"

She gathered a little water in her hands and sprinkled it at the feet

of the statue.

He stared at her for a moment, speechless, full of wonder at her

strange bearing. She was very pale, but in her eyes there gleamed a

subtle fire, which kindled the spark in his soul.

"We have no cup," he said trembling.

But she, stooping swiftly, gathered water once more in the hollow of

her palms and raised them to his face.

"Drink!" she whispered eagerly. "Drink, while yet we dare!"

He stooped to the soft white hands and held them close to his mouth,

kissing them again and again when he had drank.

"Come!" she said softly.

He did not stir. She bent over him.

"Francesco! I love you--come!"

He fell prone at her feet, with a sob that shook his whole frame as

with convulsions.

"Oh! That I might,--that I might! I would not sully your white purity

for all there is in earth, or heaven!"

For a moment she stood rigid, white, dazed.

Suddenly he felt two arms winding themselves about his neck, two soft

lips were pressed upon his own in one long, delirious kiss--then he

saw Ilaria precipitately retrace her steps, and Stefano Maconi peer

into the grotto.

After a time Francesco emerged into the sunlight, bewildered, dazed.

Ilaria had joined the revellers, and he sank down upon a rock and

covered his face with his hands.

His heart and his soul were bleeding to death within him; and like his

own phantom he at last arose and walked towards the sea. The revellers

had lost themselves in the depths of the groves. Again and again the

swinging rhythm of their song was borne to him on the soft, fragrant

breezes; yet there was but one thought in his heart, one name on his

lips, as his feet bore him slowly through the blossoming wilderness:

"Ilaria! Ilaria!"--