XXX

Out of the dusk which lingered on the earth, while in the sky the light was approaching, a lark sprang up and, soaring above the darkness, sang by Beechknoll. It was a very early morning in May, and Felise, in her dressing-gown, had stolen quietly to the window, and sat there watching the dawn. Martial was sleeping. They had come down for awhile to be with Mr., Goring, who was lonely even among his trees. The man slept; the woman, wakeful in her happiness, stole to the window where she had so often sat of old time.

Upon the ground there lay a stratum of darkness which seemed scarcely to rise so high as the eaves⁠—a darkness visible like a mist, thickening in the corners and by the trees. Through this the lark soaring sang in the clear air above.

Afar along the ridge of the hills there was a white light⁠—the dawn⁠—which imperceptibly rushed rapidly through the atmosphere, not only rising to the zenith but spreading horizontally over the fields. The trees that were towards the east began to have beneath them the dim outline of their own shadow on the grass. Already these dim outlines of masses of foliage shadowed on the sward were visible through the sinking stratum of darkness.

Another lark sang at a distance, and then a third; their notes fell with the last rays of the stars. So long as the night-blue tint of the sky continued the stars shone; as the dawn-beams shot upwards and increased in brightness this night-blue tint began to change, and with it the stars retired into the depths of space. There was a gleam like dew on the pearls lying by the mirror; Martial had redeemed them, and she had worn them the previous evening.

In a moment, as it seemed to Felise, the darkness on the ground vanished, and all things appeared distinct and clear. Really the change had been gradually advancing⁠—in appearance it seemed effected almost suddenly.

Immediately a thrush commenced to call in the thickets that had been planted so abundantly about the house, a second answered; a blackbird called; then, as if at a signal, the whole choir began to sing. There was a score of them, thrushes and blackbirds; all started at once; their chorus burst upon the dawn.

The stars were gone, and the deep azure of the morning filled the sky. By the ridge of the hill the white light shone brightly; above it a purple mingled luminously with the blue; towards the zenith the loveliness of the colour is not to be written.

The man slept, but the woman, wakeful in happiness, sat by the window. The dawn shone on her face, and upon the beautiful golden hair drooping to her knees. Her hands were folded, the same attitude in great happiness as in inconsolable sorrow; the dawn glistened upon the tears in her eyes.

Her feeling was perhaps the deeper because he slept, because she was alone and yet with him. She did not strive, womanlike, to mould her feelings to his mood⁠—she gave way to her own.

Her joy was so great because her life was fulfilled. So soon in the springtime of youth her life was fulfilled; there was nothing more beyond to strive or hope for. It was the joy of intense rest in possession.

The man knows no such feeling. To him the joy of existence is in pursuit and conquest; while he is succeeding, while pursuing and gaining in pursuit he rejoices⁠—the mere possession is little or nothing. The more active his days⁠—the greater his scheme of the future⁠—so much the more he loves the woman he has chosen.

But the woman has no future. Her all is here. In possession is everything; in that her life is fulfilled.

As the miser gloats over his gold, not for what it will purchase, but for its own sake, so the woman gloats over possession, not for any future success, but because he is hers now.

Of what the day might bring forth she thought nothing, whether it should be profit or failure, so long only as he was there. Of what the years might have in store, wealth or poverty, concerned her nothing so long as he was with her.

A pure rest had come to her life.

Except to love and to love fulfilled, and then only to woman, is such rest ever given. For the heart, and the hand, and the mind of a man are forever driving onwards, and no profundity of rest ever comes to his inmost consciousness. At dawn he looks forward to the noonday.

So that true and restful happiness is for woman only, though it is given to her by man.

A golden breath came up among the bright whiteness of the light over the ridge of the hill; there were scarlet streaks, the lips of the morning. In the glorious beauty of the sunrise her heart brimmed to the full of love.

“Felise.”

Her answer was a kiss amid the dew of loving tears.