He paused there for a moment, uncertain whether to turn or venture on, when a figure came out of the shop which—without his recognising either the dress or the face—startled him, and made him involuntarily withdraw a step. It was the form, perhaps, or the motion, that told him who it was; at all events he knew that she herself was there, within a few yards of him. He did not know what to do. There was a vague desire in his heart to throw to the wind all considerations—his promise, his duty to one very dear to him; but he only looked apprehensively at her. It was all over in a second, in half a second. She caught sight of him, shrank back a little, uncertain, trembling, and then appeared as if she were about to pass on. But the great yearning in both their hearts suddenly became master of the situation; for, at the same moment, apparently moved by the same impulse, they advanced to each other, he caught her hands in his, and there was between them only one intense look of supreme and unutterable joy.
Such a look it is given to most men to receive once or twice—seldom oftener—in their lives. It is never to be forgotten. When a strong revulsion of feeling, from despondency and despair to the keen delight of meeting again, draws away from a girl's eyes that coy veil of maiden bashfulness that generally half-shrouds their light, when the spirit shines full and frank there, no disguise being longer possible, and it seems as if the beautiful eyes had speech in them—but how is it possible to describe such a moment in cold and brittle words? The remembrance of one such meeting colours a man's life. You know that when you have lain and dreamed of enjoying companionship with one hopelessly separated from you—of seeing glad eyes you can never see again, and hearing sweet talk that you can never again hear—you rise with a confused sense of happiness, as if the morning air were full of tender thrills; you still hear the voice, and you seem to be walking by the side of the sea, and there is sunshine and the sound of waves abroad. That dizzy remembrance, in itself a perplexing, despairing joy, is something like the thought of such a moment and such a look as that I speak of, when one glances backward, after long years, and wonders how near heaven earth has been.
When she went towards him, and looked up into his face, and when they walked away together, there was no thought of speech between them. Silence being so full of an indescribable joy, why should they break it? It was enough that they were near each other—that, for the present, there was no wide and mournful space between them, full of dim longings and bitter regrets. To-morrow was afar off, and did not concern them.
"Did you come to see me?" she said at last, very timidly.
"No."
Another interval of supreme silence, and then he said—
"Have you got quite reconciled yet? I was afraid of seeing you—of meeting you; but now it seems as if it were a very harmless pleasure. Do you remember the last terrible night?"
"There is no use talking of that," she said; "and yet we ought not to meet each other—except—you know——"
"As friends, of course," he said, with a smile. "Well, Annie, we shan't he enemies; but I do think, myself, it were rather more prudent, you understand, that we should not see each other—for a long time, at least. Now, tell me, why are you not at the theatre?"
"I have given up the theatre."