He did come, and when they had read some three hundred lines, and the rest were separating, he proposed to Julian a turn in the great court.
The stars were crowding in their bright myriads, and the clear silvery moonlight bathed the court, except where the hall and chapel flung fantastic and mysterious shadows across the green smooth-mown lawns of the quadrangle. The soft light, the cool exhilarating night air were provocative of thought, and they walked up and down for a time in silence.
Many thoughts were evidently working in Kennedy’s mind, and they did not all seem to be bright or beautiful as the thoughts of youth should be. Julian’s brain was busy, too; and as they paced up and down, arm in arm, the many-coloured images of hope and fancy were flitting thick and fast across his vision. He was thinking of his own future and of Kennedy’s, whom he was beginning to love as a brother, and for whose moral weakness he sometimes feared.
“Julian,” said Kennedy, suddenly breaking the silence; “were you ever seized by an uncontrollable, unaccountable, irresistible presentiment of coming evil,—a feeling as if a sudden gulf of blackness and horror yawned before you—a dreadful something haunting you, you knew not what, but only knew that it was there?”
“I have had presentiments, certainly; though hardly of the kind you describe.”
“Well, Julian, I have such a presentiment now, overshadowing me with the sense of guilt, of which I was never guilty; as though it were the shadow of some crime committed in a previous state of existence, forgotten yet unforgotten, incurred yet unavenged.”
“Probably the mere result of a headache this morning, and the night air now,” said Julian, smiling at the energetic description, yet pained by the intensity of Kennedy’s tone of voice.
“Hush, Julian! I hate all that stupid materialism. Depend upon it, some evil thing is over me. I wonder whether crimes of the future can throw their crimson shadow back over the past. My life, thank God, has been an innocent one, yet now I feel like the guiltiest thing alive.”
“One oughtn’t to yield to such feelings, or to be the victim of a heated imagination, Kennedy. In my own case at least, half the feelings I have fancied to be presentiments have turned out false in the end—presentiments, I mean, which have been suggested, as perhaps this has, by passing circumstances.”
“God grant this may be false,” said Kennedy, “but something makes me feel uneasy.”