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CHAPTER XIII

When Miltoun came to thank her, Audrey Noel was waiting in the middle
of the room, dressed in white, her lips smiling, her dark eyes
smiling, still as a flower on a windless day.

In that first look passing between them, they forgot everything but
happiness. Swallows, on the first day of summer, in their discovery
of the bland air, can neither remember that cold winds blow, nor
imagine the death of sunlight on their feathers, and, flitting hour
after hour over the golden fields, seem no longer birds, but just the
breathing of a new season--swallows were no more forgetful of
misfortune than were those two. His gaze was as still as her very
self; her look at him had in at the quietude of all emotion.

When they' sat down to talk it was as if they had gone back to those
days at Monkland, when he had come to her so often to discuss
everything in heaven and earth. And yet, over that tranquil eager
drinking--in of each other's presence, hovered a sort of awe. It was
the mood of morning before the sun has soared. The dew-grey cobwebs
enwrapped the flowers of their hearts--yet every prisoned flower
could be seen. And he and she seemed looking through that web at the
colour and the deep-down forms enshrouded so jealously; each feared
too much to unveil the other's heart. They were like lovers who,
rambling in a shy wood, never dare stay their babbling talk of the
trees and birds and lost bluebells, lest in the deep waters of a kiss
their star of all that is to come should fall and be drowned. To
each hour its familiar--and the spirit of that hour was the spirit of
the white flowers in the bowl on the window-sill above her head.

They spoke of Monk-land, and Miltoun's illness; of his first speech,
his impressions of the House of Commons; of music, Barbara, Courtier,
the river. He told her of his health, and described his days down by
the sea. She, as ever, spoke little of herself, persuaded that it
could not interest even him; but she described a visit to the opera;
and how she had found a picture in the National Gallery which
reminded her of him. To all these trivial things and countless
others, the tone of their voices--soft, almost murmuring, with a sort
of delighted gentleness--gave a high, sweet importance, a halo that
neither for the world would have dislodged from where it hovered.

It was past six when he got up to go, and there had not been a moment
to break the calm of that sacred feeling in both their hearts. They
parted with another tranquil look, which seemed to say: 'It is well
with us--we have drunk of happiness.'

And in this same amazing calm Miltoun remained after he had gone
away, till about half-past nine in the evening, he started forth, to
walk down to the House. It was now that sort of warm, clear night,
which in the country has firefly magic, and even over the Town
spreads a dark glamour. And for Miltoun, in the delight of his new
health and well-being, with every sense alive and clean, to walk
through the warmth and beauty of this night was sheer pleasure. He
passed by way of St. James's Park, treading down the purple shadows
of plane-tree leaves into the pools of lamplight, almost with
remorse--so beautiful, and as if alive, were they. There were moths
abroad, and gnats, born on the water, and scent of new-mown grass
drifted up from the lawns. His heart felt light as a swallow he had
seen that morning; swooping at a grey feather, carrying it along,
letting it flutter away, then diving to seize it again. Such was his
elation, this beautiful night! Nearing the House of Commons, he
thought he would walk a little longer, and turned westward to the
river: On that warm evening the water, without movement at turn of
tide, was like the black, snake-smooth hair of Nature streaming out
on her couch of Earth, waiting for the caress of a divine hand. Far
away on the further; bank throbbed some huge machine, not stilled as
yet. A few stars were out in the dark sky, but no moon to invest
with pallor the gleam of the lamps. Scarcely anyone passed. Miltoun
strolled along the river wall, then crossed, and came back in front
of the Mansions where she lived. By the railing he stood still. In
the sitting-room of her little flat there was no light, but the
casement window was wide open, and the crown of white flowers in the
bowl on the window-sill still gleamed out in the darkness like a
crescent moon lying on its face. Suddenly, he saw two pale hands
rise--one on either side of that bowl, lift it, and draw it in. And
he quivered, as though they had touched him. Again those two hands
came floating up; they were parted now by darkness; the moon of
flowers was gone, in its place had been set handfuls of purple or
crimson blossoms. And a puff of warm air rising quickly out of the
night drifted their scent of cloves into his face, so that he held
his breath for fear of calling out her name.

Again the hands had vanished--through the open window there was
nothing to be seen but darkness; and such a rush of longing seized on
Miltoun as stole from him all power of movement. He could hear her
playing, now. The murmurous current of that melody was like the
night itself, sighing, throbbing, languorously soft. It seemed that
in this music she was calling him, telling him that she, too, was
longing; her heart, too, empty. It died away; and at the window her
white figure appeared. From that vision he could not, nor did he try
to shrink, but moved out into the, lamplight. And he saw her
suddenly stretch out her hands to him, and withdraw them to her
breast. Then all save the madness of his longing deserted Miltoun.
He ran down the little garden, across the hall, up the stairs.

The door was open. He passed through. There, in the sitting-room,
where the red flowers in the window scented all the air, it was dark,
and he could not at first see her, till against the piano he caught
the glimmer of her white dress. She was sitting with hands resting
on the pale notes. And falling on his knees, he buried his face
against her. Then, without looking up, he raised his hands. Her
tears fell on them covering her heart, that throbbed as if the
passionate night itself were breathing in there, and all but the
night and her love had stolen forth.




The Patrician by John Galsworthy
Category:
Contemporary

General Fiction
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