Their movements gradually resolved themselves into
melody in Charles Batty's mind: the beauty of the reflected and
exaggerated twigs and branches was not consciously realized by his
eyes, but the swaying, the sudden ceasing, and the resumption of that
delicate agitation became music in his ears. He, too, swayed slightly
on his big feet and forgot his business, to remember it with a jerk
and a fear that Henrietta had escaped him. Rose had told him he must
not make music in his head. How had she known he would want to do
that? She must have some faculty denied to him, the same faculty which
warned her that Henrietta was going to do something strange to-night.
He felt in his pocket to assure himself of the money's safety. He
rearranged his hat and determined to concentrate on watching. The pain
which, varying in degrees, always lived in his bosom, the pain of
misunderstanding and being misunderstood, of doing the wrong thing, of
meaning well and acting ill, became acute. He was bound to make a
mistake; he would lose Henrietta or incense her, though now he was
more earnest to do wisely than he had ever been. He had told her he
was going to make an art of love, but he knew that art was far from
perfected, and she was incapable of appreciating mere endeavour. He
was afraid of her, but to-night he was more afraid of failing.
The music tripped in his head but he would not listen to it. He
strained his ears for the opening of the Malletts' door, and just as
the sound of the clock striking two steady notes for half-past five
was fading, as though it were being carried on the light wings of the
wind over the big trees, over the green, across the gorge, across the
woods to the essential country, he heard a faint thud, a patter of
feet and the turning of the handle of the gate.
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