It was so long since he had known a Northern spring that he had
forgotten how much later the beginning of May was in New Hampshire; but
as his train ran up from Springfield he realized the difference of the
season from that which he had left in New York. The meadows were green
only in the damp hollows; most of the trees were as bare as in
midwinter; the willows in the swamplands hung out their catkins, and the
white birches showed faint signs of returning life. In the woods were
long drifts of snow, though he knew that in the brown leaves along their
edges the pale pink flowers of the trailing arbutus were hiding their
wet faces. A vernal mildness overhung the landscape. A blue haze filled
the distances and veiled the hills; from the farm door-yards the smell
of burning leaf-heaps and garden-stalks came through the window which he
lifted to let in the dull, warm air. The sun shone down from a pale sky,
in which the crows called to one another.
By the time he arrived at Upper Ashton Falls the afternoon had waned so
far towards evening that the first robins were singing their vespers
from the leafless choirs of the maples before the hotel. He indulged the
landlord in his natural supposition that he had come up to make a timely
engagement for summer board; after supper he even asked what the price
of such rooms as his would be by the week in July, while he tried to
lead the talk round to the fact which he wished to learn.
He did not know where Miss Simpson lived; and the courage with which he
had set out on his adventure totally lapsed, leaving in its place an
accusing sense of silliness. He was where he was without reason, and in
defiance of the tacit unwillingness of the person he had come to see;
she certainly had given him no invitation, she had given him no
permission to come. For the moment, in his shame, it seemed to him that
the only thing for him was to go back to New York by the first train in
the morning. But what then would the girl think of him? Such an act must
forever end the intercourse which had now become an essential part of
his life. That voice which had haunted him so long, was he never to hear
it again? Was he willing to renounce forever the hope of hearing it?
He sat at his supper so long, nervelessly turning his doubts over in his
mind, that the waitress came out of the kitchen and drove him from the
table with her severe, impatient stare.
He put on his hat, and with his overcoat on his arm he started out for a
walk which was hopeless, but not so aimless as he feigned to himself.
The air was lullingly warm still as he followed the long village street
down the hill toward the river, where the lunge of rapids filled the
dusk with a sort of humid uproar; then he turned and followed it back
past the hotel as far as it led towards the open country. At the edge of
the village he came to a large, old-fashioned house, which struck him as
typical, with its outward swaying fence of the Greek border pattern, and
its gate-posts topped by tilting urns of painted wood. The house itself
stood rather far back from the street, and as he passed it he saw that
it was approached by a pathway of brick which was bordered with box.
Stalks of last year's hollyhocks and lilacs from garden beds on either
hand lifted their sharp points, here and there broken and hanging down.
It was curious how these details insisted through the twilight.
He walked on until the wooden village pathway ended in the country mud,
and then again he returned up upon his steps. As he reapproached the
house he saw lights. A brighter radiance streamed from the hall door,
which was apparently open, and a softer glow flushed the windows of one
of the rooms that flanked the hall.
As Langbourne came abreast of the gate the tinkle of a gay laugh rang
out to him; then ensued a murmur of girls' voices in the room, and
suddenly this stopped, and the voice that he knew, the voice that seemed
never to have ceased to sound in his nerves and pulses, rose in singing
words set to the Spanish air of _La Paloma_.
It was one of the songs he had sent to Miss Simpson, but he did not need
this material proof that it was she whom he now heard. There was no
question of what he should do. All doubt, all fear, had vanished; he had
again but one impulse, one desire, one purpose. But he lingered at the
gate till the song ended, and then he unlatched it and started up the
walk towards the door. It seemed to him a long way; he almost reeled as
he went; he fumbled tremulously for the bell-pull beside the door, while
a confusion of voices in the adjoining room--the voices which had waked
him from his sleep, and which now sounded like voices in a dream--came
out to him.
The light from the lamp hanging in the hall shone full in his face, and
the girl who came from that room beside it to answer his ring gave a
sort of conscious jump at sight of him as he uncovered and stood
bare-headed before her.