epy pigs. He put his hands on the dry, almost warm tree trunk, whose
rough mossy surface gave forth a peaty scent at his touch. Would she
come--would she? And among these quivering, haunted, moon-witched trees
he was seized with doubts of everything! All was unearthly here, fit for
no earthly lovers; fit only for god and goddess, faun and nymph not for
him and this little country girl. Would it not be almost a relief if she
did not come? But all the time he was listening. And still that unknown
bird went "Pip-pip," "Pip-pip," and there rose the busy chatter of the
little trout stream, whereon the moon was flinging glances through the
bars of her tree-prison. The blossom on a level with his eyes seemed to
grow more living every moment, seemed with its mysterious white beauty
more and more a part of his suspense. He plucked a fragment and held it
close--three blossoms. Sacrilege to pluck fruit-tree blossom--soft,
sacred, young blossom--and throw it away! Then suddenly he heard the
gate close, the pigs stirring again and grunting; and leaning against the
trunk, he pressed his hands to its mossy sides behind him, and held his
breath. She might have been a spirit threading the trees, for all the
noise she made! Then he saw her quite close--her dark form part of a
little tree, her white face part of its blossom; so still, and peering
towards him. He whispered: "Megan!" and held out his hands. She ran
forward, straight to his breast. When he felt her heart beating against
him, Ashurst knew to the full the sensations of chivalry and passion.
Because she was not of his world, because she was so simple and young and
headlong, adoring and defenceless, how could he be other than her
protector, in the dark! Because she was all simple Nature and beauty, as
much a part of this spring night as was the living blossom, how should he
not take all that she would give him how not fulfil the spring in her
heart and his! And torn between these two emotions he clasped her close,
and kissed her hair. How long they stood there without speaking he knew
not. The stream went on chattering, the owls hooting, the moon kept
stealing up and growing whiter; the blossom all round them and above
brightened in suspense of living beauty. Their lips had sought each
other's, and they did not speak. The moment speech began all would be
unreal! Spring has no speech, nothing but rustling and whispering.
Spring has so much more than speech in it