In the uncertain light he ran towards the clump of trees where he had left Salome, and strained his eyes to discover some moving thing. He knew that he must be very near the spot, but neither the expected sound nor object greeted him, and, while he stopped and held his breath to listen, the silence was profound and death-like. He was opening his lips to call the girl’s name, when he fancied he saw something move slightly, and simultaneously a human voice smote the oppressive stillness. She was very near him, and he heard her saying to herself, with mournful emphasis,—
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“Have I brought Joy, and slain her at his feet? Have I brought Peace, for his cold kiss to kill? Have I brought youth, crowned with wild-flowers sweet, With sandals dewy from a morning hill, For his gray, solemn eyes, to fright and chill? Have I brought Scorn the pale, and Hope the fleet, And First Love, in her lily winding-sheet,— And is he pitiless still?” |
Dr. Grey knew now that she was not crying. Her hard, ringing, bitter tone, forbade all thought of sobs or tears; but his heart ached as he listened, and surmised the application she was making of the melancholy lines.
Unwilling that she should know he had overheard her, he waited a moment, then raised his voice and shouted,—
“Salome! Salome! Where are you?”
There was no answer, and, fearing that she might elude him, he stretched out his arms, and advanced to the spot, which he felt assured was only a few yards distant.
She had risen, and, standing in the gloom of the coming 198 night, deepened by the interlacing boughs above her, she felt Dr. Grey’s hand on her dress, then on her head, where the moisture hung heavily in her thick hair.
“Salome, why do you not answer me?”
Shame kept her silent.
He passed his hand over her hot face, then groped for her fingers, which he grasped firmly in his.