The Lady Paramount
Page 5
V
Judged by the standards of a cit, countrymen, I believe, are generallyearly risers; but even for a countryman, Anthony, next morning, rose atan unlikely hour. The tall clock in the hall, accenting with its slowsardonic tick the silence of the sleeping house, marked a quarter tofive, as he undid the heavy old-fashioned fastenings of the door, theoaken bar, the iron bolts and chains, and let himself out.
He let himself out; but then he stood still for a minute on theterrace, arrested by the exquisite shock of the wonderful early air:the wonderful light, keen air, a fabric woven of elfin filaments, thebreathings of green lives: an aether distilled of secret essences, inthe night, by the earth and the sea,--for there was the sea's tang, aswell as the earth's balm, there was the bitter-sweet of the sea and theearth at one.
He stood for a minute, stopped by the exquisite shock of it; and thenhe set forth for an aimless morning ramble.
The dew clung in big iridescent crystals to the grass, where the sheepwere already wide-awake and eager at their breakfasts; it gleamed likesprinkled rubies on the scarlet petals of the poppies, and likefairies' draughts of yellow wine in the enamelled hollows of thebuttercups; on the brown earth of the pathways, where the long shadowswere purple, it lay white like hoar-frost. The shadows were stilllong, the sunbeams still almost level; the sun shone gently, as throughan imperceptible thin veil, gilding with pinkish gold the surfaces ittouched--glossy leaves, and the rough bark of tree-trunks, and thepoints of the spears of grass. A thicker veil, a gauze of pearl andsilver, dimmed the blue of the sea, and blurred the architecture of thecliffs. On the sea's edge lay a long grey cloud, a long, low, softcloud, flat, like a band of soft grey velvet. The cloud was greyindeed; but (as if prismatic fires were smouldering there) its greyheld in solution all the colours of the spectrum, so that you coulddiscern elusive rose-tints, fugitive greens, translucent reflections ofamethyst and amber.
The morning was inexpressibly calm and peaceful--yet it was busy withsound and with movement. Rooks, those sanctimonious humbugs, circledoverhead, cawing thieves' warnings, that had the twang of sermons, toother rooks, out of sight in neighbouring seed-fields. Lapwings,humbugs too, but humbugs in a prettier cause, started from theshrubberies where their eggs were hidden, and fluttered lamely towardsthe open. Sparrows innumerable were holding their noisy, high-spiriteddisputations; blackbirds were repeating and repeating that deepmelodious love-call of theirs, which they have repeated from thebeginning of the world, and no ear has ever tired of; finches weresinging, greenfinches, chaffinches; thrushes were singing, singingecstatically in the tree-tops, and lower down the imitative littleblackcaps were trying to imitate them. Recurrently, from a distance,came the soft iterations of a cuckoo. Bees went about their affairswith a mien of sombre resolution, mumbling to themselves, in stolidmonotone, "It-'s-got-to-be-done-and-it-'s-dogged-that-does-it,it-'s-got-to-be-done-and-it-'s-dogged-that-does-it," and showing thusthat even the beautiful task of flying from flower to flower andgathering honey, may, if you are a bee, fail to interest you, andnecessitate an act of will; while butterflies, charmed by the continualsurprises, satisfied by the immediate joys, of the present moment,flitted irresponsibly, capriciously, whithersoever a bright colourbeckoned, and gave no thought to the moments that had not yet come.Everywhere there was business, rumour, action; but everywhere, none theless, there was the ineffable peace of early morning, of the hours whenman--the peace-destroyer?--is still at rest. And everywhere,everywhere, there was the wonderful pristine air, the virginal air,that seemed to penetrate beyond the senses, and to reach theimagination, a voice whispering untranslatable messages, waking mysticsurmises of things unknown but somehow kindred.
Anthony strolled on at random, down the purple-shaded paths, under thespreading oaks and bending elms, over the sun-tipped greensward,satisfied, like the butterflies, by the experiences of the passingmoment, enjoying, in leisurely intimacy, the aspects and vicissitudesof his way; for a melancholy man, curiously cheerful; the tears ofthings, the flat and unprofitable uses of the world, forgotten: for amelancholy man, even curiously elated: elated--oh, more than likelywithout recognising it--as one is to whom the house of life hasdiscovered a new chamber-door, and, therewith, new promises ofadventure. He strolled on at random, swinging his stick nonchalantly,. . . till, all at once, he saw something that brought him, and theheart within him, to a simultaneous standstill: something he had beenmore or less sub-consciously thinking of the whole time, perhaps?--forit brought him to a standstill, as if he saw his thought made flesh.
He had just mounted a little knoll, and now, glancing down before him,he saw, not twenty yards away, under a hawthorn in full blossom,--
"Madame Torrebianca, as I am alive," he gasped.