It was not much, certainly, but it persisted. The impression,
defective as I give it, had been pleasing; an impression of warm
femininity, of graceful motion. It had had the quality, besides, of
the unexpected and the fugitive, and the advantage of a sylvan
background. Anyhow, it pursued him. He went on to his journey's end;
stopped before the great gilded grille, with its multiplicity of
scrolls and flourishes, its coronets and interlaced initials; gazed up
the shadowy aisle of plane-trees to the bit of castle gleaming in the
sun at the end; remembered the child Helene, and how he and she had
loved each other there, a hundred years ago; and thought of the
exiled, worse than widowed woman immured there now: but it was mere
remembering, mere thinking, it was mere cerebration. The emotion he
had looked for did not come. An essential part of him was
elsewhere,--following the pale lady in the black riding-habit, trying
to get a clearer vision of her face, blaming him for his inattention
when she had been palpable before him, wondering who she was.
'If she should prove to be a neighbour, I shan't bore myself so
dreadfully down here after all,' he thought. 'I wonder if I shall meet
her again as I go home.' She would very likely be returning the way
she had gone. But, though he loitered, he did not meet her again.
Pages:
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157