Meanwhile there was time to be passed, and he did not care to leave this
spot, though its present desolation tore at his very vitals, with
memories of incalculable promise, and of unconsummated delight. As,
awakening from his dream of satisfied love long ago, during that strange
former existence, in the summer noon under the light, sibilant shelter
of the lime grove, so now he hungered for completeness of possession,
for the crowning of desire. Yet he kept himself in hand, even as he had
kept the young, brown, thorough-bred horse in hand, when, finding the
level, would have broken its pace and run riot more than once on the
road up from the station. He moved away and sat down on the defaced and
ragged sill of the bay-window. The moon had risen, but its mild light
was often obscured by softly-moving floats of thin, opalescent vapour.
These crossed its face in apparently endless procession, herded up from
southward and the narrow Channel sea. Laurence watched them, at first
almost unconsciously, his mind occupied with other, and, to himself,
more immediate and vital interests. But at length their slow and stately
progress began to work upon his imagination, and insinuate itself into
the very substance and foundation of his thought. He began to see in
them a procession of the souls of all those generations of men and
women, whose efforts and emotions, power of intellect, fiercely pursued
ambitions, passionate devotions, passionate revolts, had gone to
generate his own constitution, mental and physical, and determine his
ultimate fate. And so he came to regard them with a sustained and
deepening attention, since their aspect seemed pregnant with suggestion
of admonition, of encouragement, of warning, or restraint. Once again he
decided to keep vigil in this house, to watch with the unnumbered and
unrecorded dead whose offspring and inheritor he was. Not until all of
them should have passed by, and the moon ride solitary in the heavens,
would he go across the valley--himself now somewhat bitterly
solitary--and visit Agnes Rivers's grave.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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