Faint quackings came from
some unseen ducks among the willows and water gurgled at the invisible
outlet of the pond; there were little stirrings and sighings among the
trees. The protruding roots of an oak offered a seat to Henrietta, and
behind her Charles leaned against the trunk.
It was comfortable to have him there, to be able to look at this dark
beauty without fear, and as she sat there she heard an ever-increasing
number of little sounds; they were caused by she knew not what: small
creatures moving among the pine needles, night birds on the watch for
prey, water rats, the flop of fish, the fall of some leaf over-ripe on
the tree, her own slow breathing, the muffled ticking of her heart;
and into this orchestra of tiny instruments there came slowly, and as
if it grew out of all these, another sound.
It was the voice of Charles, and it was so much a part of this rare
experience, it seemed so right a complement, that at first she did not
listen to the sense of what he said. The words had no clearer meaning
than had the other voices of the night; the whole thing was wonderful
--the tall, immobile trees, the small, secret sounds, the black lake
like an immense, mysterious pall, the steady booming of the voice, had
the effect of magic.
This was essential beauty revealed to her ears and eyes, but gradually
the words formed themselves into sentences and were carried to her
brain. She understood that Charles was talking of himself, of her,
with an eloquence born of long-considered thoughts.
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