The Mettle of the Pasture | Page 6

of the
veranda on that side; and it was at a frame-like opening in the massive
foliage of this that the upper part of her pure white figure now stood
revealed in the last low, silvery, mystical light. The sinking of the
moon was like a great death on the horizon, leaving the pall of darkness,
the void of infinite loss.
She hung upon this far spectacle of nature with sad intensity, figuring
from it some counterpart of the tragedy taking place within her own
mind.

II
Isabel slept soundly, the regular habit of healthy years being too firmly
entrenched to give way at once. Meanwhile deep changes were wrought
out in her.
When we fall asleep, we do not lay aside the thoughts of the day, as the
hand its physical work; nor upon awakening return to the activity of
these as it to the renewal of its toil, finding them undisturbed. Our most
piercing insight yields no deeper conception of life than that of
perpetual building and unbuilding; and during what we call our rest, it
is often most active in executing its inscrutable will. All along the dark
chimneys of the brain, clinging like myriads of swallows deep-buried
and slumbrous in quiet and in soot, are the countless thoughts which
lately winged the wide heaven of conscious day. Alike through
dreaming and through dreamless hours Life moves among these,
handling and considering each of the unredeemable multitude; and
when morning light strikes the dark chimneys again and they rush forth,

some that entered young have matured; some of the old have become
infirm; many of which have dropped in singly issue as companies; and
young broods flutter forth, unaccountable nestlings of a night, which
were not in yesterday's blue at all. Then there are the missing--those
that went in with the rest at nightfall but were struck from the walls
forever. So all are altered, for while we have slept we have still been
subject to that on-moving energy of the world which incessantly
renews us yet transmutes us--double mystery of our permanence and
our change.
It was thus that nature dealt with Isabel on this night: hours of swift
difficult transition from her former life to that upon which she was now
to enter. She fell asleep overwhelmed amid the ruins of the old; she
awoke already engaged with the duties of the new. At sundown she was
a girl who had never confessed her love; at sunrise she was a woman
who had discarded the man she had just accepted. Rising at once and
dressing with despatch, she entered upon preparations for completing
her spiritual separation from Rowan in every material way.
The books he had lent her--these she made ready to return this morning.
Other things, also, trifles in themselves but until now so freighted with
significance. Then his letters and notes, how many, how many they
were! Thus ever about her rooms she moved on this mournful
occupation until the last thing had been disposed of as either to be sent
back or to be destroyed.
And then while Isabel waited for breakfast to be announced, always she
was realizing how familiar seemed Rowan's terrible confession, already
lying far from her across the fields of memory--with a path worn deep
between it and herself as though she had been traversing the distance
for years; so old can sorrow grow during a little sleep. When she went
down they were seated as she had left them the evening before,
grandmother, aunt, cousin; and they looked up with the same pride and
fondness. But affection has so different a quality in the morning. Then
the full soundless rides which come in at nightfall have receded; and in
their stead is the glittering beach with thin waves that give no rest to the
ear or to the shore--thin noisy edge of the deeps of the soul.

This fresh morning mood now ruled them; no such wholesome relief
had come to her. So that their laughter and high spirits jarred upon her
strangely. She had said to herself upon leaving them the evening before
that never again could they be the same to her or she the same to them.
But then she had expected to return isolated by incommunicable
happiness; now she had returned isolated by incommunicable grief.
Nevertheless she glided Into her seat with feigned cheerfulness, taking
a natural part in their conversation; and she rose at last, smiling with
the rest.
But she immediately quitted the house, eager to be out of doors
surrounded by things that she loved but that could not observe her or
question her in return--alone with things that know not evil.
These were the last days of May. The rush of Summer had already
carried it far northward over the