These surfaces of
ivory and silver, of stucco or marble, of wood or canvas, pottery or
porcelain, on which the human mind, in love with some fraction of the
beauty interwoven with the world, had stamped an impress of itself,
sometimes exquisite, sometimes whimsical, sometimes riotous--above all,
_living_, life reaching to life, through the centuries: these, from a
refuge or an amusement, had become an abiding delight, something,
moreover, that seemed to point to a definite lifework--paid honourably by
cash as well as pleasure.
What would she think, he asked her, of a great Museum for the north--a
centre for students--none of your brick and iron monstrosities, rising
amid slums, but a beautiful house showing its beautiful possessions to
all who came; and set amid the streams and hills? And in one wing of it,
perhaps, curator's rooms--where Lydia, the dear lover of nature and art,
might reign and work--fitly housed?...
But his brow contracted before she could smile.
"Some time perhaps--some time--not now! Let's forget--for a little.
Lydia--come away with me--let's be alone. Oh, my dear!--let's be alone!"
She was in his arms again, calming the anguish that would recur--of those
nights in the Tower after the murder, when it had seemed to him that not
Brand, but himself, was the prey that a whole world was hunting, with
Hate for the huntsman.
But presently, as they clung to each other in the firelight, he roused
himself to say:
"Now, let me see your mother; and then I must go.
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