Perhaps it was because he loved her far more than he knew, that his mind was filled with gloom and apprehension.
But it was the time for action, not for thought; only a few hours lay before him in which to prepare for this journey—the journey from which he would return quite soon perhaps.
He would leave the house just as it was to Campanula and the Mousmés till he came back and made other arrangements. M’Gourley, as his agent, would supply them with all the money needful just as he had done before.
Then he called Pine-breeze and told her to get his portmanteau up to his room, as he was going on a journey.
He packed hurriedly, whilst Lotus-bud handed him things. He wanted to get the packing over and done with.
The strong sunlight reflected from the matting lit up the room with a golden glow. Pine-breeze in the kitchen below was singing a song about a lilac bough—the same song he had heard in the orchard that day when Campanula had cried: “Hist, some one at the gate!”
He leaned back sitting on his heels to listen. He heard the end of the song now. He did not hear it that day, for Jane, knocking at the veranda, had cut it short.
This was the gist of the last verse:
“The bee comes no more
When the lilac’s white blossom is dead.”
Then he went on with his packing at a furious rate, stuffing in shirts, collars, handkerchiefs, his mind wandering over all sorts of subjects.