I never heard tones so sweet, so infantine. But we had reached the door of the glass chamber, and I then observed that he was gazing anxiously—certainly with inquiry—at the sky. At that moment it first struck me that since our entrance beneath the shadowy greenness the sun had gone in. Simultaneously a shade, as from a springing cloud, had fallen upon that brilliant countenance. We stepped out into the linden grove, and then it came upon me, indeed, that the heavens were dulled, and a leaden languor had seized upon the fresh young foliage. Both leaves and yellow blossom hung wearily in the gloom, and I felt the intense lull that precedes an electric shower. I looked at him. He was entirely pale, and the soft lids of his eyes had dropped,—their lights had gone in like the sun. His lips seemed to flutter, and he spoke with apprehensive agitation.
"I think it will rain, but we cannot stay in the conservatory."
"Sir, it will be dry there," I ventured.
"No, but if it should thunder."
At the very instant the western cloudland, as it were, shook with a quivering flash, though very far off; for the thunder was, indeed, but a mutter several minutes afterwards. But he seemed stricken into stillness, and moved not from the trees at the entrance of the avenue.
"Oh! sir," I cried,—I could not help it, I was in such dread for him,—"do not stand under the trees. It is a very little way to the house, and we can run."
"Run, then," he answered sweetly. "But I cannot; I never could stir in a storm."
"Pray, sir, oh pray, come!" the big drops were beginning to prick the leafy calm. "And you will take cold too, sir. Oh, come!"
But he seemed as if he could scarcely breathe. He pressed his hands on his brow and hid his eyes. I thought he was going to faint; and under a vague impression of fetching assistance, I rushed down the avenue.