s from him; and yet
he drew from these meetings an infinite series of pictures, which were
as if engraved upon his brain. She became for him in these days like a
lily drooping in a shadowed place and in a thunderous air; something
fading away mutely and sorrowfully, like the old figure of Mariana in
the Grange, looking wearily through listless hours for something which
had once beckoned to her with a radiant gesture, but which did not
return. There were brighter hours, when in the hot July days a little
peace fell on him, a little sense of the fragrance and beauty of the
world. He took to long and solitary walks on the down in search of
bodily fatigue. There was one day in particular which he long
remembered, when he had gone up to the camp, and sate in the shade of
the thicket on the crisp turf, looking out over the valley, unutterably
quiet and peaceful in the hot air. The trees were breathlessly still;
the hamlet roofs peeped out above the orchards, the hot air quivered on
the down. There were little figures far below moving about the fields.
It all looked lost in a sweetness of serene repose; and the thoughts
that had troubled him rose with a bitter poignancy, that was almost a
physical pain. The contrast between the high summer, the rich life of
herb and tree, and his own weary and arid thoughts, fell on him like a
flash. Would it not be better to die, to close one's eyes upon it all,
to sink into silence, than thus to register the awful conflict of will
and passion with the tranquil life that could not surrender its dreams
of peace? What did he need and desire? He could not tell; he felt
almost a hatred of the slender, quiet girl, with her sweet look, her
delicate hands, her noiseless movements. She had made no claim, she did
not come in radiant triumph, with impressive gestures and strong
commanding influences into his life; she had not even cried out
passionately, demanded love, displayed an urgent need; there had been
nothing either tragic or imperious, nothing that called for instant
solution; she was just a girl, sweet, wayward, anxious-minded, living a
trivial, simple, sheltered life. What had given her this awful power
over him, which seemed to have rent and shattered all his tranquil
contentment, and yet had offered no splendid opportunity, claimed no
all-absorbing devotion, no magnificent sacrifice? It was a sort of
monstrous spell, a magical enchantment, which had thus made havoc of
all his plans and gent