WALTER.
So could I when I wrote them.
VIOLET.
What is next?
"A sin lies dead and dreadful in my soul,
Why should I gaze upon it day by day?
Oh, rather, since it cannot be destroyed,
Let me as reverently cover it
As with a cloth we cover up the dead,
And place it in some chamber of my soul,
Where it may lie unseen as sound, yet felt,—
Making life hushed and awful."
WALTER.
No more. No more.
Let God wash out this record with His rain!
This is the summer-house. [They enter.
It is as sweet
As if enamoured Summer did adorn
It for his Love to dwell in. I love to sit
And hear the pattering footsteps of the shower,
As he runs over it, or watch at noon
The curious sunbeams peeping through the leaves.
VIOLET.
I've always pictured you in such a place
Writing your Book, and hurrying on, as if
You had a long and wondrous tale to tell,
And felt Death's cold hand closing round your heart.
WALTER.
Have you read my Book?