In the dim light, she could just see the outline of the
face and the eyes gazing at her. The scent of the blossom penetrated her
nerves; in her heart, something faintly stirred, as a leaf turns over,
as a wing flutters. And, blossom and all, she clasped her hands over her
breast, where again her heart quivered with that faint, shy tremor.
It was late, no--early, when she fell asleep and had a strange dream.
She was riding her old mare through a field of flowers. She had on a
black dress, and round her head a crown of bright, pointed crystals;
she sat without saddle, her knee curled up, perched so lightly that she
hardly felt the mare's back, and the reins she held were long twisted
stems of honeysuckle. Singing as she rode, her eyes flying here and
there, over the field, up to the sky, she felt happier, lighter than
thistledown. While they raced along, the old mare kept turning her head
and biting at the honeysuckle flowers; and suddenly that chestnut face
became the face of Summerhay, looking back at her with his smile. She
awoke. Sunlight, through the curtains where she had opened them to find
the flowers, was shining on her.
II
Very late that same night, Summerhay came out of the little Chelsea
house, which he inhabited, and walked toward the river. In certain moods
men turn insensibly toward any space where nature rules a little--downs,
woods, waters--where the sky is free to the eye and one feels the broad
comradeship of primitive forces.
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