“So do I. But I expect it isn’t. Artists is scarce.”
“You’re right, there.” The Corporal sighed heavily. “Artists is scarce.” There was a strange look in his eyes and he turned them suddenly upon the duck pond so that Melia shouldn’t notice it.
Across the road, beside the duck pond, was a wooden bench, sacred to the village elders, none of whom, however, was in occupation at this moment. The Corporal pointed to it. “Let’s go an’ set there a minute,” he said in a husky voice. As if she had been a child he took her by the hand and led her to it.
They sat down and in a moment or two it was as if the spirit of the place had descended upon them. The magic hush of evening crept into their blood like a subtle wine. A strange soft rapture seemed to pervade the air. The Unseen spoke to them as never before.
The Corporal took off his hat and wiped the dew from his forehead. And then with a queer tightening of the throat and breast he scanned earth and sky. They seemed marvelous indeed. He felt them speak to him, to the infinite, submerged senses whose presence he had hardly suspected. Never had he experienced such awe as now in the presence of this peace that passed all understanding.
In a little while the silence of the Corporal began to trouble Melia. A cold hand crept into his. “What is it, love?” she said softly.
Not daring to look at her, he kept his eyes fixed on the sky.
“What is it, love—tell me?” He hardly knew the voice for hers; not until that moment had he heard her use it; but it had the power to ease just a little the intolerable pressure of his thoughts.
“I was wondering,” he said slowly, at last, “whether it would not have been better never to have been born.”