He rested his head in his hands, and bore the truth as
he might have borne a physical pain. The summer woods, the green
thickets, the sunlight on the turf, the white clouds, the rich
plain just visible through the falling tree-trunks, all seemed to
him like a vision seen by a spirit in torment, something horribly
unreal and torturing. The two streams of beauty and misery appeared
to run side by side, so distinct, so unblending; but the horrible
fact was that though sorrow was able not only to assert its own
fiery power, like the sting of some malignant insect, it could also
obliterate and efface joy; it could even press joy into its
service, to accentuate its torment; while the joy and beauty of
life seemed wholly unable to soothe or help him, but were brushed
aside, just as a stern soldier, armed and mailed, could brush aside
the onslaught of some delicate and frenzied boy. Was pain the
stronger power, was it the ultimate power? In that dark moment,
Howard felt that it was. Joy seemed to him like a little pool of
crystalline water, charming enough if tended and sheltered, but a
thing that could be soiled and scattered in a moment by the onrush
of some foul and violent beast.
He came at last to the rendezvous. Miss Merry sat at her post
transferring to a little block of paper a smeared and streaky
picture of the chalk-pit, which seemed equally unintelligible at
whatever angle it might be held. Jack was couched at a little
distance in the heather, smoking a pipe.
Pages:
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191