It was eleven o'clock when they parted for the night. Dartmouth wentup to his room and sat down at his desk to write a letter to hisfather. In a moment he threw down the pen; he was not in a humorfor writing. He picked up a book (he never went to bed until he feltsleepy), and crossed the room and sat down before the fire. But hehad not read two pages when he dropped it with an exclamation ofimpatience: the story Weir had told him was written between everyline. She had told it so vividly and realistically that she hadcarried him with her and almost curdled his blood. He had answered herwith a joke, because, in spite of the fact that he had been stronglyaffected, he was angry as well. He hated melodrama, and the idea ofWeir having had an experience which read like a sensational column ina newspaper was extremely distasteful to him. He sympathized with herwith all his heart, but he had a strong distaste for anythingwhich savored of the supernatural. Nevertheless, he was obliged toacknowledge that this horrible, if commonplace experience of Weir'shad taken possession of his mind, and refused to be evicted. The scenekept presenting itself in all its details again and again, and finallyhe jumped to his feet in disgust and determined to go to the longgallery which overhung the sea, and watch the storm. Rhyd-Alwyn wasbuilt on a steep cliff directly on the coast, and exposed to all thefury of the elements. In times of storm, and when the waves were high,the spray flew up against the lower windows.
He left his room and went down the wide hall, then turned into acorridor, which terminated in a gallery that had been built as a sortof observatory. The gallery was long and very narrow, and the floorwas bare. But there were seats under the windows, and on a table werea number of books; it was a place Dartmouth and Weir were very fond ofwhen it was not too cold.
It was a clear, moonlit night, in spite of the storm. There was norain; it was simply a battle of wind and waves. Dartmouth stood at oneof the windows and looked out over the angry waters. The billows werepiling one above the other, black, foam-crested, raging like wildanimals beneath the lash of the shrieking wind. Moon and stars gazeddown calmly, almost wonderingly, holding their unperturbed watchover the war below. Sublime, forceful, the sight suited the somewhatexcited condition of Dartmouth's mind. Moreover, he was beginning tofeel that one of his moods was insidiously creeping upon him: not anattack like the last, but a general feeling of melancholy. If he couldonly put that wonderful scene before him into verse, what a solaceand distraction the doing of it would be! He could forget--he pulledhimself together with something like terror. In another moment therewould be a repetition of that night in Paris. The best thing he coulddo was to go back to his room and take an anodyne.
He turned to leave the gallery, but as he did so he paused suddenly.Far down, at the other end, something was slowly coming toward him.The gallery was very long and ill-lighted by the narrow, infrequentwindows, and he could not distinguish whom it was. He stood, however,involuntarily waiting for it to approach him. But how slowly it came,as one groping or one walking in a dream! Then, as it graduallyneared him, he saw that it was a woman, dimly outlined, but stillunmistakably a woman. He spoke, but there was no answer, nothing butthe echo of his voice through the gallery. Someone trying to play apractical joke upon him! Perhaps it was Weir: it would be just likeher. He walked forward quickly, but before he had taken a dozensteps the advancing figure came opposite one of the windows, and themoonlight fell about it. Dartmouth started back and caught his breathas if someone had struck him. For a moment his pulses stood still, andsense seemed suspended. Then he walked quickly forward and stood infront of her.
"Sioned!" he said, in a low voice which thrilled through the room."Sioned!" He put out his hand and took hers. It was ice-cold, and itscontact chilled him to the bone; but his clasp grew closer and hiseyes gazed into hers with passionate longing.
"I am dead," she said. "I am dead, and I am so cold." She drew closerand peered up into his face. "I have found you at last," she went on,"but I wandered so far. There was no nook or corner of Eternity inwhich I did not search. But although we went together, we were hurledto the opposite poles of space before our spiritual eyes had met, andan unseen hand directed us ever apart. I was alone, alone, in a great,gray, boundless land, with but the memory of those brief moments ofhappiness to set at bay the shrieking host of regrets and remorseand repentance which crowded about me. I floated on and on and on formillions and millions of miles; but of you, my one thought on earth,my one thought in Eternity, I could find no trace, not even thewhisper of your voice in passing. I tossed myself upon a hurrying windand let it carry me whither it would. It gathered strength and hasteas it flew, and whirled me out into the night, nowhere, everywhere.And then it slackened--and moaned--and then, with one great sob, itdied, and once more I was alone in space and an awful silence. Andthen a voice came from out the void and said to me, 'Go down; heis there;' and I knew that he meant to Earth, and for a moment Irebelled. To go back to that terrible--But on Earth there had beennothing so desolate as this--and if you were there! So I came--and Ihave found you at last."
She put her arms about him and drew him down onto the low window-seat.He shivered at her touch, but felt no impulse to resist her will, andshe pressed his head down upon her cold breast. Then, suddenly, allthings changed; the gallery, the moonlight, the white-robed, ice-coldwoman faded from sense. The storm was no longer in his ears norwere the waves at his feet. He was standing in a dusky Eastern room,familiar and dear to him. Tapestries of rich stuffs were about him,and the skins of wild animals beneath his feet. Beyond, the twilightstole through a window, but did not reach where he stood. And in hisclose embrace was the woman he loved, with the stamp on her faceof suffering, of desperate resolution, and of conscious, welcomedweakness. And in his face was the regret for wasted years andpossibilities, and a present, passionate gladness; that he could seein the mirror of the eyes over which the lids were slowly falling....And the woman wore a clinging, shining yellow gown, and a blaze ofjewels in her hair. What was said he hardly knew. It was enough tofeel that a suddenly-born, passionate joy was making his pulses leapand his head reel; to know that heaven had come to him in this soft,quiet Southern night.
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