'A spirit in my feet
Hath led me—who knows how?
To thy chamber-window, sweet.'
Slowly he went on along the dark little path. It came out on the rose-garden, Grace's special pride and care, which was now in its full glory. By the faint light of the summer dawning, for the night was already on the turn, he could see the clustered blossoms, crimson and pink and yellow, hanging from trellises and pillars, and weighing down the branches of the young standards. But it was not this that made him pause and catch at a pillar of the verandah for support. Once already that night the beauty of the earth had touched him. Now it was something more. As he stood the branch of a tall standard was swept towards him by the breeze. There were roses on it, opened and half opened. He caught at it passionately. Ah! how well he knew the touch of the soft pale petals, the odour they exhaled! It was a La Trance, Grace's favourite rose. The last time he saw her she had worn one in her girdle. Scarcely knowing what he did he kissed the sweet flower that had touched him. But in the next instant the colour had flooded his face, and he was passing on rapidly to the lawn by the river, for it was as if he had stolen what he had not won, as if his lips and her lips had met on the petals of the flower that was her darling.
At the end of the lawn there was a bank crowned with willows, at whose roots purple loosestrife and rosy willow-herb were growing. He could see these things dimly as he looked out before him. Under one of the willows was a rustic seat, where the girls often clustered in the evening. Tom sat down upon it and gave himself up to the dreams that were crowding upon him. Dreams! Dreams! In a misty radiance of lovely shapes they swept by him. What a fool he had been! It was the beauty of nature; it was love that binds young lives together; it was passion, whose feet were on earth, and whose soul was in heaven which was the reality. These other things—reason, philosophy, maxims of prudence—they were an illusion—webs that the dull of heart weave to hide their own dullness from themselves. And, after all, why should a man think; why should a man be serious when happiness such as this—this! was opening out before him?
He got up and walked on for a few steps. His feet were unsteady, and, with a smile of self-ridicule, he sat down again. He spread out his arms with a low cry. 'Grace!' he murmured. 'Grace! do you know that I love you?'
He paused. The faint, sweet kiss of the pale-petaled rose was lingering about his lips. He was remembering how, two days ago, only two, when he and she were together here—here at this very spot, he had longed to speak but dared not. That rose was in her girdle. His lips had been open to ask for it. Something had sealed them. He was too young—too insignificant—his fortunes were too uncertain. For her sweet sake he had held himself in check.
Now—ah! everything had changed. He was no longer insignificant—he was the heir of a man of wealth and distinction—his fortunes were certain—he could make a future for the woman he loved. If, as he had imagined, dreamed——
But he could go no further. He flung himself on the grass. His lips were towards the earth, and it was as if he was speaking to it—telling it the secret ecstasy that he had not breathed to any living soul. 'I could not speak then, but I can now. This wealth has freed my hand. They will listen to me—they must! And she! Oh, Grace! oh, my darling! Come to me and I will make the earth a Paradise to you! Others do not know what love means. They promise and they forget. I never will. My love! my beautiful love! Come to me, and let me care for you. I will, I will. Care for you as never woman was cared for before. Your lightest wish shall be my law. Your very imaginations and dreams shall come to pass. You and I, Grace, you and I—our two lives shall flow on together, loving and beloved, until——'
What was this? He pulled up short. It was a pang, sudden and swift, like a cold hand on his heart. He rose slowly, and found that his limbs were stiff, and that his clothes were wet with the night dews. Like one in a maze he went on, for a few steps, blindly. The roots of a willow stopped him, and he saw that he was on the edge of the sloping bank that ran down to the river. He stood where he was, gazing out before him, with eyes that saw nothing. In that little instant all his ecstasy had gone, to be replaced by a dull misery such as he had never felt before. Between night and morning there is a moment when life is said to run sluggishly in the veins of earth's children. It is then that the long-tortured drop into blissful, if brief unconsciousness; that watchers nod drowsily; and that the dying fall on the sleep that knows no waking. That moment had come.
Tom lifted his heavy lids and looked round him. A chill stole through his frame, penetrating to the very marrow of his bones. He buttoned his coat up to the chin and turned to leave the garden. But in the next instant he was transfixed. It was as if a hand of iron was laid upon his wrist, compelling him to stand where he was.
He passed his hand before his eyes dreamily.