Then Gabrielle grew tired and white. Her hand became tremulous; her light foot stumbled; she left off dancing in the garden. She sighed wistfully; her song ceased; her mouth showed scarcely a smile’s wasted ghost. Her eyes, like those of a wounded creature, followed everywhere; her tears flowed at nothing. She grew as languid as a withering flower. The light of her seemed going out. The pallor of her face and the feverish luster of her eyes startled and frightened Margot.
Days dragged a laggard length; night still more oppressed her. She lay awake, whispering with dry lips she knew not what; calling she knew not whom; her trembling hands pressed against her breast. Fancies for which she found no name, thoughts for which she had no words, and visions inexpressible, would not let her sleep. Night after night she lay awake, consuming the hours with wonder; or, if she slept, awoke in tears, fell asleep to tears again, and waking, tear-wet, trembling, with darkened lids and drawn face, grew daily worse.
Vague, moody wants annoyed her; the night was harassed by melancholy dreams; the day vexed with formless fancies.
Walking alone in the garden, answerless questionings beset and frightened her; she listened where there was nothing to be heard; stared where there was nothing to be seen; found peace nowhere.
Her heart ached with unreasoning pain; she grew as gusty as a storm; the speechless, inexplicable wonder within her breast throbbed like a festered thorn.
Margot too well knew the cause: there was but one alleviation.
Spring, with its universal song, from grove and garden lifted up its deathless melody of bloomy verdure and warm-breathed sweetness. All living creatures voiced the universal theme: “Rejoice with the partner of thine heart in the happy days of thy youth!”
The blue dove moaned out his heart’s desire; the copper beetle wooed and won his lady in the dust; butterflies and dragon-flies glittered in the wind, happy in their airy ecstasy—they fluttered among the hedges; they sported among the flowers—and all the earth rejoiced in having its heart’s desire. Thrush and mocker sang, “Passion, passion ... heart-breaking passion!” to their pretty feathered paramours. From every spray the vireo cried shrill, in shreds of melody, “Heart’s desire! Heart’s desire!” In the fragrant green-bay the painted bunting’s love-call rang incessantly; while from the tufted grove arose the stirring chant of earth’s universal choir, the canticle, all passionate and shrill, of “Love, love, love!” and yet again of “Love!”
How can one keep it from the heart of youth, that, all unknowing, yet numb with longing, breathlessly awaits its coming, and trembles like a leaf with the wordless yearning of unrecognized desire.