o that he had to make his way by clawing
with the hook at branches. Birds seemed to shun this gloom, but a single
magpie crossed the one little clear patch of sky, and flew low behind the
willows. The air here had a sweetish, earthy odour of too rank foliage;
all brightness seemed entombed. He was glad to pass out again under a
huge poplar-tree into the fluttering gold and silver of the morning. And
almost at once he saw the yew-hedge at the border of some bright green
turf, and a pigeon-house, high on its pole, painted cream-white. About
it a number of ring-doves and snow-white pigeons were perched or flying;
and beyond the lawn he could see the dark veranda of a low house, covered
by wistaria just going out of flower. A drift of scent from late lilacs,
and new-mown grass, was borne out to him, together with the sound of a
mowing-machine, and the humming of many bees. It was beautiful here, and
seemed, for all its restfulness, to have something of that flying quality
he so loved about her face, about the sweep of her hair, the quick, soft
turn of her eyes--or was that but the darkness of the yew-trees, the
whiteness of the dovecote, and the doves themselves, flying?

He lay there a long time quietly beneath the bank, careful not to attract
the attention of the old gardener, who was methodically pushing his
machine across and across the lawn. How he wanted her with him then!
Wonderful that there could be in life such beauty and wild softness as
made the heart ache with the delight of it, and in that same life grey
rules and rigid barriers--coffins of happiness! That doors should be
closed on love and joy! There was not so much of it in the world! She,
who was the very spirit of this flying, nymph-like summer, was untimely
wintered-up in bleak sorrow. There was a hateful unwisdom in that
thought; it seemed so grim and violent, so corpse-like, gruesome, narrow
and extravagant! What possible end could it serve that she should be
unhappy! Even if he had not loved her, he would have hated her fate just
as much--all such stories of imprisoned lives had roused his anger even
as a boy.

Soft white clouds--those bright angels of the river, never very long
away--had begun now to spread their wings over the woods; and the wind
had dropped so that the slumbrous warmth and murmuring of summer gathered
full over the water. The old gardener had finished his job of mowing,
and came with a little basket of grain to feed th