The Diothas, or, A Far Look Ahead/Chapter 36
"What shall I say to thank you?" said Reva, when I found her next morning in their garden feeding her goldfish. "You have been very good to me."
A something in her manner emboldened me to ask, purposely making use of her own expression,—
"Are you yet able to say, what you once gave me some ground to hope for, that we are—very good friends?"
"More than friends, Ismar," said she simply, yet with a certain faltering shyness. "Yes," she continued, answering the glad question she read in my eyes, "I think I really—what they call love you—somewhat at least."
"What makes you believe you begin to love me?" said I, with difficulty repressing any too energetic expression, even in words, of the wild joy I felt, fearing I might scare this shy confidence.
"Many things," replied she, gathering confidence now that the ice was broken, and re-assured by my manner. I always liked you, as I said before; and, when you told me—that time, I found it pleasant to be loved by you. But now I begin to find that it is even better to love than to be loved. Besides, yesterday"—
"Well?" said I encouragingly and interrogatively.
"I am almost ashamed to tell it. But, as I was going away with those sketches, I happened to see you, in a mirror, talking gayly with Udene Vadarna. She is very pretty," she continued apologetically, "and, I know, admires you. Then I felt a miserable feeling I had never known before, and knew that I must love you, since I could not bear the thought of your caring too much for another."
In return for this sweet confession, I told how, on almost the same spot, I had become aware of my love on experiencing that same miserable feeling while watching Anvar Siured await her coming forth. This we both, of course, regarded as a remarkable coincidence, and found multitudes of similar confidences to impart. So many, indeed, did we find, that the hours sped on unheeded, till, to Reva's confusion, her father came forth to call us to luncheon, much as Reva had been accustomed to summon himself and me when we had been too engrossed with our task to come forth unwarned. Hulmar had now set vigorously to work to arrange the mass of material with which I had helped to provide him.
Thus, too, the days sped on till there wanted but about ten days till Olay and Ialma's marriage-day. In that first sweet interchange of mutual confidences, Edith Alston had, in sooth, been altogether lost sight of. Happy love is apt to be engrossed with the blissful prescut. But, during our succeeding talks, Edith formed an apparently exhaustless topic for Reva's questioning. Now that she had confessed her love, she took endless delight in learning all the circumstances of my engagement to that former self. For so, since recognizing in those sketches Edith's wonderful likeness to herself, she had come more and more to regard her. Seeing the pleasure these had afforded, by her special request, indeed, I had made another sketch representing Edith in a costume she wore on a certain never-to-be-forgotten occasion. With this before us, I had been made to go over the whole story again. Reva had listened somewhat pensively.
"Do you really and truly love Reva as much as you did Edith?" she asked suddenly, at a certain point in my narration.
I protested that the question was altogether absurd, seeing that Edith and Reva were to me one and the same person. She herself laughed at what she termed her foolish question, and begged me to proceed with the narrative of events.
"What!" exclaimed Reva, when a certain particular hitherto omitted had escaped me: "you kissed her every time you called?"
I was then obliged to explain that such was the accorded privilege under the stated circumstances.
"She must indeed have been much more dear to you than I am," exclaimed Reva, with a slight tremor in her voice, "since you have never"—She checked herself, blushing violently, and seemed frightened at the impulsive utterance that had so unwittingly escaped her.
We were standing on the veranda at the time, just about to enter to join Hulmar, who was busily engaged in his study. What I did was wrong, very wrong, according to the then received standard of propriety; and I knew it. But, carried along by a seemingly incontrollable. impulse, I clasped her in my arms, and imprinted, not one kiss, but many, upon those virgin lips. For one blissful moment she yielded to my embrace, then gently, but firmly, disengaged herself, and stood before me pale and agitated.
"O Ismar, what have I done!" she exclaimed, and looked into my face, not reproachfully, but as if for sympathy. "How can I tell this? I, who never expected such a thing could happen, must now meet my father's reproachful eyes. But I must not linger, lest I lose courage altogether."
I was now sobered, and aghast at my own folly, the consequences of which I began to perceive. But I dared not even suggest the keeping of this matter from Hulmar. To do so would be to suggest a serious infraction of Reva's moral code,—would, perhaps, cost me her confidence forever. Girls were trained to regard it as a matter of the highest obligation to conceal from their mothers no dereliction of duty, no act, indeed, of whose propriety they entertained any doubt. Hulmar had, to a great extent, filled this office of moral director to his daughter. Still pale, but now outwardly calm, Reva entered her father's presence.
"What is the matter, Reva?" inquired he, looking up from his work, and at once struck by her manner.
"Father, I have to confess a great fault; I have allowed Ismar—to kiss me:" the utterance of the last words seemed to cost a great effort, and was accompanied by a deep blush.
At these words the expression of Hulmar's face, as it was turned toward me, became stern,—very stern. But, not giving him time to speak, Reva went on hurriedly,—
"Do not blame him: it was wholly my fault; I—all but asked him."
"Reva," said her father, still very grave, yet apparently relieved, "what is this I hear? Explain."
"I can hardly explain how it happened. But a most foolish idea had taken possession of me. I thought Ismar did not love me as—as he once did when I was Edith. I could not bear the thought: I hardly knew what I was saying."
"Reva," said her father, but much less gravely than before, "you have, indeed, committed a grave fault, and one that would expose you to a severe rebuke from the council of matrons, should it come to their knowledge. They do not know the special reasons that greatly excuse what would otherwise be inexcusable. I do not greatly blame Ismar. How could he be expected to resist such a challenge? I, perhaps, am really more to blame than either of you. Yet, my dear children," he continued, "we must face this fact. You two can never again be trusted together as hitherto. You, Reva, have granted Ismar a privilege due only to a betrothed husband. Are you willing at once to accept him as such?"
Much as it had cost me, I had remained a silent auditor during this scene. For comparatively a stranger, as I was, to the pervading ideas and nicer shades of opinion of the period, what could I say that might not give. deep, though unintended, offence? On hearing this demand on the part of her father, Reva raised her eyes timidly and doubtingly towards mine. So deeply was she humiliated in her self-esteem, that, as she afterwards confided to me, she almost doubted her worthiness. The yearning entreaty she read in my eyes removed her hesitation.
"To-morrow, then," said her father, on receiving her blushing assent, "to-morrow you shall enter the ranks of the zeruan. We have said all that is necessary in regard to this matter. It breaks up our pleasant company. Let us enjoy the few hours that remain before our separation."
On the following morning, accordingly, Reva and I entered the second stage of courtship. In the presence of a large company of relatives,—my mother was not present, but sent her heartfelt congratulations,—I placed the betrothal-ring upon the engaged finger of that dear hand, which trembled in mine as I did so, and received from her a ring in return. After receiving the congratulations of those present, I gave the blushing zerua the kiss of betrothal, and set out at once on my journey to Salu.
According to the fixed custom of the period, I was now banished from the place of residence of my betrothed for the space of a year. The rest of the world was before me, but from the one spot most dear to me I was debarred inexorably as Adam from paradise. There was but one relaxation from this severe rule. Custom did not forbid our meeting anywhere beyond the bounds of her native district. But this was a privilege dependent entirely upon the judgment of those to whom she owed obedience.
Much as I chafed at first at what I considered as the excessive harshness of this custom, I soon began to appreciate the profound wisdom that had dictated its adoption. Separated in body, we seemed to draw yet nearer in soul. The happiness I now enjoyed in our daily communion of soul with soul, if not so intense as that in her presence, was of a higher order. That mutual interaction of mind on mind, that moulding of character by character, on which Utis had laid so much stress, became to me day by day a matter of happy personal experience. How much we had to say during that happy hour of converse! How rapidly it seemed to flee!
I shall not weary the reader with the details of my life near the great city of Salu, the seat of the great central depository, with its hundred million volumes. It was this drew me there, in order to carry out a plan of investigation already determined on before that act of impulsive folly expelled me prematurely from my paradise. I did not, of course, spend all my time amid the mouldering records of the past. It was necessary, not only from considerations of health, but also from regard to the custom of the period, for me to adopt some regular manual occupation. Not having received the training of a zerdar, I had no great choice of active occupations. I accordingly, at the suggestion of Utis, adopted one that not only required no special skill, but also had the advantage of taking me much into the open air, a consideration of some importance, considering the hours I spent in the alcoves of the great depository.
Imagine me, therefore, engaged from four in the morning til nearly eight, in the useful and necessary, but among us somewhat contenmed, occupation of setting in order the streets of Salu for the business of the ensuing day. So far was such an employment from being regarded as derogatory, that this one was specially affected by men of the highest intellectual eminence, whose other pursuits tended to confine them within doors. It was, in fact, through the agency of an eminent scientist, to whom I received a note of introduction from Hulmar, that I obtained a post in the section in which he himself worked during the early morning hours. It must be remembered, too, that the work was done almost entirely by the ingenious machines we merely directed.
Besides these four hours, and the five regularly spent in the library, I found time for many an interesting excursion. At one time I would indulge in a long stretch in my curricle over the extensive prairies that surrounded the city. Again, from the deck of one of the swift electric boats, I would view with admiration the verdant banks of the Mississippi, now an orderly stream, long since broken of its lawless freaks.
Less than a hundred miles away, about an hour's journey by rail, was one of the immense reservoirs that, storing up the superabundant waters of one season, at another gave them forth to maintain the average level of the mighty river. All that the Nile was to Egypt, the "Father of Waters" had become to a region compared with which Egypt was as insignificant in extent as its boasted civilization was inferior to that of the ninetysixth century. Scattered along its fertilizing banks, and throughout its basin, were numerous and famous cities, that had possessed a name and place during more than double the number of years denoting the present age of Damascus, most venerable of existing cities.
The reservoirs—lakes in extent—were almost covered with a species of floating gardens, or, rather, farms, on which were raised various products requiring abundant moisture. These products were produced in quantities that sounded incredible to me, difficult as it had become to surprise me, and would perhaps raise doubts as to my veracity should I be so incautious as to mention the exact figures as reported to me. By means of a welldevised system of pisciculture, all rivers were well stocked with choice fish; but these reservoirs fairly teemed with them, and supplied a great population with what, eggs excepted, was the only variety of animal food ever indulged in.