When Miltoun came to thank her, Audrey Noel was waiting in the middle
of the room, dressed in white, her lips smiling, her dark eyes smiling,
still as a flower on a windless day.
In that first look passing between them, they forgot everything but
happiness. Swallows, on the first day of summer, in their discovery of
the bland air, can neither remember that cold winds blow, nor imagine
the death of sunlight on their feathers, and, flitting hour after hour
over the golden fields, seem no longer birds, but just the breathing
of a new season—swallows were no more forgetful of misfortune than were
those two. His gaze was as still as her very self; her look at him had
in at the quietude of all emotion.
When they' sat down to talk it was as if they had gone back to those
days at Monkland, when he had come to her so often to discuss everything
in heaven and earth. And yet, over that tranquil eager drinking—in of
each other's presence, hovered a sort of awe. It was the mood of morning
before the sun has soared. The dew-grey cobwebs enwrapped the flowers
of their hearts—yet every prisoned flower could be seen. And he and she
seemed looking through that web at the colour and the deep-down forms
enshrouded so jealously; each feared too much to unveil the other's
heart. They were like lovers who, rambling in a shy wood, never dare
stay their babbling talk of the trees and birds and lost bluebells, lest
in the deep waters of a kiss their star of all that is to come should
fall and be drowned. To each hour its familiar—and the spirit of that
hour was the spirit of the white flowers in the bowl on the window-sill
above her head.
They spoke of Monk-land, and Miltoun's illness; of his first speech, his
impressions of the House of Commons; of music, Barbara, Courtier, the
river. He told her of his health, and described his days down by the
sea. She, as ever, spoke little of herself, persuaded that it could not
interest even him; but she described a visit to the opera; and how she
had found a picture in the National Gallery which reminded her of him.
To all these trivial things and countless others, the tone of their
voices—soft, almost murmuring, with a sort of delighted gentleness—gave
a high, sweet importance, a halo that neither for the world would have
dislodged from where it hovered.
It was past six when he got up to go, and there had not been a moment to
break the calm of that sacred feeling in both their hearts. They parted
with another tranquil look, which seemed to say: 'It is well with us—we
have drunk of happiness.'
And in this same amazing calm Miltoun remained after he had gone away,
till about half-past nine in the evening, he started forth, to walk down
to the House. It was now that sort of warm, clear night, which in
the country has firefly magic, and even over the Town spreads a
dark glamour. And for Miltoun, in the delight of his new health and
well-being, with every sense alive and clean, to walk through the warmth
and beauty of this night was sheer pleasure. He passed by way of St.
James's Park, treading down the purple shadows of plane-tree leaves
into the pools of lamplight, almost with remorse—so beautiful, and as if
alive, were they. There were moths abroad, and gnats, born on the water,
and scent of new-mown grass drifted up from the lawns. His heart felt
light as a swallow he had seen that morning; swooping at a grey feather,
carrying it along, letting it flutter away, then diving to seize it
again. Such was his elation, this beautiful night! Nearing the House of
Commons, he thought he would walk a little longer, and turned westward
to the river: On that warm evening the water, without movement at turn
of tide, was like the black, snake-smooth hair of Nature streaming out
on her couch of Earth, waiting for the caress of a divine hand. Far away
on the further; bank throbbed some huge machine, not stilled as yet. A
few stars were out in the dark sky, but no moon to invest with pallor
the gleam of the lamps. Scarcely anyone passed. Miltoun strolled along
the river wall, then crossed, and came back in front of the Mansions
where she lived. By the railing he stood still. In the sitting-room of
her little flat there was no light, but the casement window was wide
open, and the crown of white flowers in the bowl on the window-sill
still gleamed out in the darkness like a crescent moon lying on its
face. Suddenly, he saw two pale hands rise—one on either side of that
bowl, lift it, and draw it in. And he quivered, as though they had
touched him. Again those two hands came floating up; they were parted
now by darkness; the moon of flowers was gone, in its place had been set
handfuls of purple or crimson blossoms. And a puff of warm air rising
quickly out of the night drifted their scent of cloves into his face, so
that he held his breath for fear of calling out her name.
Again the hands had vanished—through the open window there was nothing
to be seen but darkness; and such a rush of longing seized on Miltoun
as stole from him all power of movement. He could hear her playing, now.
The murmurous current of that melody was like the night itself, sighing,
throbbing, languorously soft. It seemed that in this music she was
calling him, telling him that she, too, was longing; her heart, too,
empty. It died away; and at the window her white figure appeared. From
that vision he could not, nor did he try to shrink, but moved out into
the lamplight. And he saw her suddenly stretch out her hands to him, and
withdraw them to her breast. Then all save the madness of his longing
deserted Miltoun. He ran down the little garden, across the hall, up the
stairs.
The door was open. He passed through. There, in the sitting-room, where
the red flowers in the window scented all the air, it was dark, and he
could not at first see her, till against the piano he caught the glimmer
of her white dress. She was sitting with hands resting on the pale
notes. And falling on his knees, he buried his face against her. Then,
without looking up, he raised his hands. Her tears fell on them
covering her heart, that throbbed as if the passionate night itself were
breathing in there, and all but the night and her love had stolen forth.