“So I shall know you weary of me? Well, I will go.”
“No, stay a little. I cannot spare you to the dark. There is something fearful in it. The trees look as if they were watching us. Everything seems as if it draws near.”
It was one of those crystal-clear nights which give the impression as of an unnaturally close approach of all objects, earthly and celestial. There was no moon, but every star was like a sharp splint of light cut upon a background of purple glass. Austere, immense, the inky masses of the ilexes seemed, in their apparent contiguity, as if their very shadows had taken root, filling the vacant spaces of the lawn between with menacing growth. A night when all things seemed to stop and listen, as in the deep-midmost of sleep when breathing almost ceases, and the soul hangs at the neutral poise between life and death.
“Even the stars,” he said—“and most that beautiful bright one that stoops to guide us on our way. Look to the North, faint heart.”
She caught his two wandering hands in hers, and, imprisoning them, brushed them with kisses as soft as flowers.
“Home,” she whispered—“‘where the strange thing is’—where we can love and be good. O, sweet! I would you could sing to me!”
“Shall I sing?”
“It is not the time of nightingales. No, I dare not let you.”
“As well, perhaps. I have been out of tune of late.”
“Ah me! Were you so sick at heart?”