My thought went off at a tangent when I reached that point of my
reflection. I had found myself involved in the Banks's drama, but what
hope had I of ever seeing them again after the next day? What, moreover,
was the great thing I was called upon to do? I had decided only an hour or
two before that my old way of life had become impossible for me, but
equally impossible was any way of life that did not include the presence
of Anne.
I looked at my watch, and found that it was after ten o'clock, but how
long I had been standing at the gate, I had no idea; whether an hour or
ten minutes. I had been dreaming again, lost in imaginative delights;
until the reminder of this new urgency had brought me back to a reality
that demanded from me an energy of participation and of initiative.
I wished that Anne would come--and by way of helping her should she,
indeed, have come out to look for me, I strolled back to the Farm, and
then round to the front of the house.
The windows of the sitting-room had been closed but the blinds were not
drawn. The lamp had been lit and splayed weak fans of yellow light on to
the gravel, and the flower-beds of the grass plot. The path of each beam
was picked out from the diffused radiance of the moonlight, by the dancing
figures of the moths that gathered and fluttered across the prisms of
these enchanted rays. But I did not approach the windows. In the stillness
of the night I could hear Anne's clear musical voice. She was still there
in the sitting-room, still soothing and persuading her father. Her actual
words were indistinguishable, but the modulations of her tone seemed to
convey the sense of her speech, as a melody may convey the ideas of form
and colour.
I returned to my vigil at the gate and to thoughts of Anne--to romantic
thoughts of worship and service; of becoming worthy of her regard; of
immense faithfulness to her image when confronted with the most
provocative temptations; to thoughts of self-sacrifice and bravado, of
humility and boasting; of some transcending glorification of myself that
should make me worthy of her love.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account