Into the face of the monster there had come of late a hungry, yearning look.The artist in him had done his work that unconscious justice; against his will had set down the truth.And, wondering whether he would ever work at it again, he redamped the cloths and wrapped it carefully.
He did not go to her village, but to one five or six miles down the river--it was safer, and the row would steady him.Hiring a skiff, he pulled up stream.He travelled very slowly to kill time, keeping under the far bank.And as he pulled, his very heart seemed parched with nervousness.Was it real that he was going to her, or only some fantastic trick of Fate, a dream from which he would wake to find himself alone again? He passed the dove-cot at last, and kept on till he could round into the backwater and steal up under cover to the poplar.He arrived a few minutes before eight o'clock, turned the boat round, and waited close beneath the bank, holding to a branch, and standing so that he could see the path.If a man could die from longing and anxiety, surely Lennan must have died then!
All wind had failed, and the day was fallen into a wonderful still evening.Gnats were dancing in the sparse strips of sunlight that slanted across the dark water, now that the sun was low.From the fields, bereft of workers, came the scent of hay and the heavy scent of meadow-sweet; the musky odour of the backwater was confused with them into one brooding perfume.No one passed.And sounds were few and far to that wistful listener, for birds did not sing just there.How still and warm was the air, yet seemed to vibrate against his cheeks as though about to break into flame.
That fancy came to him vividly while he stood waiting--a vision of heat simmering in little pale red flames.On the thick reeds some large, slow, dusky flies were still feeding, and now and then a moorhen a few yards away splashed a little, or uttered a sharp, shrill note.When she came--if she did come!--they would not stay here, in this dark earthy backwater; he would take her over to the other side, away to the woods! But the minutes passed, and his heart sank.Then it leaped up.Someone was coming--in white, with bare head, and something blue or black flung across her arm.It was she! No one else walked like that! She came very quickly.
And he noticed that her hair looked like little wings on either side of her brow, as if her face were a white bird with dark wings, flying to love! Now she was close, so close that he could see her lips parted, and her eyes love-lighted--like nothing in the world but darkness wild with dew and starlight.He reached up and lifted her down into the boat, and the scent of some flower pressed against his face seemed to pierce into him and reach his very heart, awakening the memory of something past, forgotten.Then, seizing the branches, snapping them in his haste, he dragged the skiff along through the sluggish water, the gnats dancing in his face.She seemed to know where he was taking her, and neither of them spoke a single word, while he pulled out into the open, and over to the far bank.
There was but one field between them and the wood--a field of young wheat, with a hedge of thorn and alder.And close to that hedge they set out, their hands clasped.They had nothing to say yet--like children saving up.She had put on her cloak to hide her dress, and its silk swished against the silvery blades of the wheat.What had moved her to put on this blue cloak? Blue of the sky, and flowers, of birds' wings, and the black-burning blue of the night! The hue of all holy things! And how still it was in the late gleam of the sun! Not one little sound of beast or bird or tree; not one bee humming! And not much colour--only the starry white hemlocks and globe-campion flowers, and the low-flying glamour of the last warm light on the wheat.
