She set down the little basket which carried cakes of her own making and butter and fresh eggs from the farm beyond the Green, and, coming up behind him, put her hand on his shoulder to see his dream shape itself on paper, until her hair brushed his ear. She knew well that as you never wake a child suddenly from sleep, so it must also be with such as Romney.
He took no heed of her—so deep was their harmony—but with the hand on his shoulder, worked peacefully on.
It was herself, of course; for all that time, submerged in the loveliness and charm of her, he scarcely had another thought. He was making a study in wash for the Circe—the cave, the rocks, a hint of the gracious figure emerging like light from the womb of darkness; the chaotic beginning of the lovely world to be.
Not a word between them. The big old clock in the corner ticked solemnly, the silent figures on the easels pursued their dreams, the noise of traffic outside had sunk into a lulling murmur, and though she could no more have worded it than have flown, the eternal peace of Art stole into her heart and made her quarrel with Greville a transient impertinence. “You were born for better things than that,” an inward voice said, coming from the quiet, and her very soul assented.
After awhile he pushed the paper away and looked up at her, his glance still dull with abstraction. A plain rugged face of strongly marked features and powerful jaw; the extinguished-looking eyes heavy with the melancholy that was to drown him later, and the mouth of the dreamer—whether in tone or colour—passionately sensitive as her own. Their eyes beheld each other a moment, and then hers dropped as she fell on her knees beside him, and put her head on his knee.
“Dear Mr. Romney, I’m ashamed of myself. I am, indeed. You make me what I should be, all beauty and wonder, scarce treading the earth, and I so far below it. Only this very morning I wasted your precious time and didn’t come because of a miserable quarrel with Greville. You painted me as Serena, and I’m all tumult and folly; not worth your notice.”
“Why, what’s o’clock?” he asked, feeling for his big repeater. His dialect matched her own, for Romney too was a child of the people. “I didn’t know, child; the time went. Two hours late! Well, well, not wasted anyhow. It’s shaping, it’s shaping. Just stand there in front a minute, and put up your left arm—so!—arresting, commanding. You’re a witch, reversing the spell that turned men into beasts. The other arm hangs down. Take my mahl-stick in your hand for a rod, pointing downwards, the magic gone out of it.”
He looked at her a moment as she melted slowly into the attitude he desired. Instinctively she poised herself on the ball of the left foot, a pose of wonderful strength and lightness, the lifted hand arresting the pressing beasts.
“You lovely creature!” he said softly, with a kind of tender awe. Then, thinking aloud, went on, “No, but the face! Not right. Depress the chin a little; the eyes level and strong; but—no—I’ll tell you the story. The woman in the goddess betrays her because her lover leaves her. She’s frightened, for her own power means nothing to her beside him. He has conquered her, for all she’s a goddess. The heavenly thing obeys the earthly, but with majesty. Can you do it?”
“I know,” she cried, “I know!” and steadied like marble on the instant, her features composing themselves into calm. No sorrow, a solemn awe, a noble shame, a deep immortal regret that darkened the eyes and locked the lips in eternal silence; and so stood Divinity by the waters of oblivion she may not stoop to drink forever.