"Evelyn, I love you. How
wonderful our lives have been!" But what use to break the music,
audible and inaudible, with such weak words? The villagers under the
hill could speak as well; the bird in the bush and the stars above it
were speaking for him; and he was content to listen.
The silence of the night grew more intense, there were millions of
stars, small and great, and the moon now shone amidst them alone, "of
different birth," divided from them for ever as he was divided from
this woman, whose arm touched his as they walked through the
darkness, divided for ever, unable to communicate his soul to hers.
Did she understand what he was feeling--the mystery of their lives
written in the stars, sung by the nightingale and breathed by the
flowers? Did she understand? Had the convent rule left her sufficient
sensibility to understand such simple human truths?
"How sweetly the tobacco plant smells!" she said.
"Yes, doesn't it? But what is the meaning of our story? My finding
you at Dulwich--Evelyn, have you ever thought enough about it? How
extraordinary that event was, extraordinary as the stars above us; my
going down that evening and hearing you sing? Do you remember the
look with which you greeted me--do you remember that cup of tea?"
"It was coffee.
Pages:
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478