It seemed like the warm radiance of an unclouded afternoon succeeding a day of rain which has been ushered in by deceitful sun-bursts, sent, as it were, to deepen the succeeding gloom. The peace and trust, and the contented sense of basking, without a wish left unfulfilled, were inexpressibly sweet. The sense of doubleness, which had disturbed his earlier intercourse with his companion, had disappeared. His spiritual eyes had focussed themselves into agreement, and now the two images were blended into one. It was the first and only tenderness of his life, stifled though still smouldering beneath the years of widowhood, on which this stranger had chanced to let in air; and the spark divine had awoke among its ashes, and was again aflame.
Words he had none just then. His being was strung too high for the vibrations to be made audible in common utterance. He was only receptive now, drinking in influence from her presence, but making no response. They had been together all the day. In the morning they had been gay at the cheerful starting. They had been conversational as the day waxed warmer, companionable when it threatened to grow oppressive, and they had felt like very old friends who understood each other thoroughly, when they set out to walk.
The extreme tranquillity at which they had now arrived was a little more complete than Rose Hillyard altogether enjoyed. Fortunately she was sympathetic by nature, and understood a great deal more than was conveyed to her by words. She appreciated the silence--felt, indeed, that it was the highest compliment, or rather something immeasurably beyond compliment; but ere long she began to wish that it would not last much longer.
The mind of Rose was not altogether so utterly at ease as it appeared, though she would not for the world that any one should have so suspected. She would have done violence to herself, even, sooner than acknowledge in her heart that she was not at peace; but still there was a fever in her blood, making her restless, and eager to be doing, and drown an inarticulate yearning for something she would not name.
The silence drove her back upon herself, and gave voices opportunity to make themselves audible within--voices she had endeavoured to silence, and forbidden to be there. "If the man would only say something! If he would even flirt!" That was a pretty game which she believed she understood and could play with the best. But this was not flirtation: it was right down solemn earnest; and she was pleased in thinking that it was. A good man's happiness was in her hands; and more, she liked the man, and believed, I dare affirm--though we must not say "intended to accept" what has not yet been offered--that when he declared himself she would lend a friendly ear.
And yet she had rather he would have flirted. The stir and interest of the game would have afforded the excitement for which she craved. It was but a game, and could be played without a second thought. The serious thing was different. So much depends on it, that people play it slower; and they play it with the heart, and not the head, which is the more nimble member. It was movement and excitement for which her fibres ached; though peace, if that had been attainable, had been far more precious.
"How fond you must be of the sea!" she said at last. "We seem to have been standing here a long time."
Joseph started, and turned. Her voice had broken in upon a reverie which could not be called a day-dream. It had been too passive for succession of ideas, and was rather a receptive bathing in the blissfulness of the situation. But yet no waking could have been sweeter than the sound of that voice which now addressed him. It was the same which he remembered long ago, whose echoes had thrilled him in his dreams, and made his wakings sorrowful to find it was not there. It was with a smile and a deep full breath of satisfaction that he turned to his companion.
"Forgive me," he said. "It is so pleasant being here, that I forgot about passing time.... Yes, I am fond of the sea. I always was. I left home to go to sea when I was a boy--could not stay away from it. It is so big and so even, and it changes under one's very eye, you can't tell how. It feels as if it were alive--a being that could understand your thoughts without your telling them."
"So it does. I know the feeling, although I never attempted to put it into words.... The sea is company--when one is alone; but now----?" and she looked up in his eyes with the flicker of a smile which was scarcely reproachful, yet not quite humorous.