IV.
Late that night he resumed work in his study, but a thousand memories and fancies came crowding to his mind. He tried to shake them off, but they clung to him—memories of the war—memories of the times when the world was drunk with passion. He heard, as if afar off, the whine and shriek of shells, and he saw the dead—grotesque, silent, horrible.
That was the great absurdity—the dead.
It was hopeless to write. He was no longer pilot of his thoughts.
He rose to his feet and threw open the door with an impatient desire for fresh air. Though the cool breeze refreshed his temples, the restlessness of his mind was only increased by the hush of nature's nocturne, through which the sound of the sea came like a drone.
Beneath the canopy of that same sky the dead were lying. Across the seas a breeze of spring was stealing about the graves, as now it played about his face.
What was his part towards them—to mourn, and fill his life with useless melancholy? To forget, and turn his face towards the future?
Forget . . . ?
'There are times'—he found himself repeating mechanically the words which, a few hours before, he had spoken to Elise—'when I long for the power to reach out for the great truths—hidden in space—and in the silence of the night.'
Suddenly his brow grew calm. The baffled, questioning look left his eyes, and he smiled strangely.