He was telling her
how she appeared to him as a being of light and sweetness and
necessity; he was telling her how he loved her; he was asking for
nothing, but he was saying amazing things in language worthy of his
thoughts of her.
That muffled ticking of her heart went on like distant drum beats, the
symphony of tiny instruments did not pause, the dominant sound of
Charles's voice continued, and now, as she listened, she heard nothing
but his voice. He was not pathetic, he did not plead, he did not
claim: he spoke of very old and lasting things, and it was like
hearing some one read a tale. She did not stir. She forgot that this
was Charles; it was a simple heart become articulate. And then
suddenly the voice stopped and the orchestra, as though in relief, in
triumph, seemed to play more loudly. A water rat dived again, a duck
quacked sleepily and a branch of a tree creaked mournfully under a
lost puff of wind.
Henrietta turned her head and saw Charles Batty standing motionless
against the tree. His hat was tilted a little to one side and his eyes
were staring straight before him. Even the darkness was not entirely
kind to him, but that did not matter. She wondered if he knew what he
had been saying; she could not remember it all, but it would come
back. As they went home over the dark fields, she would remember it.
It seemed to have everything and yet nothing to do with her; it was
like poetry that, without embarrassment, profoundly moves the hearer,
and his very voice had developed the dignity of his theme.
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