The Necromancers | Page 6

overhead with peeping stars, amber to the
westwards, where the sun had gone down in glory. She was in her
sun-bonnet and print dress, stepping towards him across the
fresh-scented meadow grass lately shorn of its flowers and growth,
looking at him with that curious awed admiration that delighted him
with its flattery. Her face was to the west, the reflected glory lay on it
as delicate as the light on a flower, and her blue eyes regarded him
beneath a halo of golden hair.
He saw her again as she had been one moonlight evening as the two
stood together by the sluice of the stream, among the stillness of the
woods below the village, with all fairyland about them and in their
hearts. She had thrown a wrap about her head and stolen down there by
devious ways, according to the appointment, meeting him, as was
arranged, as he came out from dinner with all the glamour of the Great
House about him, in his evening dress, buckled shoes, and
knee-breeches all complete. How marvelous she had been then--a sweet
nymph of flesh and blood, glorified by the moon to an ethereal delicacy,
with the living pallor of sun-kissed skin, her eyes looking at him like
stars beneath her shawl. They had said very little; they had stood there
at the sluice gate, with his arm about her, and herself willingly nestling

against him, trembling now and again; looking out at the sheeny
surface of the slow flowing stream from which, in the imperceptible
night breeze, stole away wraith after wraith of water mist to float and
lose themselves in the sleeping woods.
Or, once more, clearer than all else he remembered how he had
watched her, himself unseen, delaying the delight of revealing himself,
one August morning, scarcely three weeks ago, as she had come down
the road that ran past the house, again in her sun-bonnet and print dress,
with the dew shining about her on grass and hedge, and the haze of a
summer morning veiling the intensity of the blue sky above. He had
called her then gently by name, and she had turned her face to him,
alight with love and fear and sudden wonder.... He remembered even
now with a reflection of memory that was nearly an illusion the smell
of yew and garden flowers.
This, then, had been the dream; and today the awakening and the end.
That end was even more terrible than he had conceived possible on that
horrible Friday morning last week, when he had opened the telegram
from her father.
He had never before understood the sordidness of her surroundings, as
when, an hour ago, he had stood at the grave-side, his eyes wandering
from that long elm box with the silver plate and the wreath of flowers,
to the mourners on the other side--her father in his broadcloth, his
heavy, smooth face pulled in lines of grotesque sorrow; her mother,
with her crimson, tear-stained cheeks, her elaborate black, her
intolerable crape, and her jet-hung mantle. Even these people had been
seen by him up to then through a haze of love; he had thought them
simple honest folk, creatures of the soil, yet wholesome, natural, and
sturdy. And now that the jewel was lost the setting was worse than
empty. There in the elm box lay the remnants of the shattered gem....
He had seen her in her bed on the Sunday, her fallen face, her sunken
eyes, all framed in the detestable whiteness of linen and waxen flowers,
yet as pathetic and as appealing as ever, and as necessary to his life. It
was then that the supreme fact had first penetrated to his consciousness,
that he had lost her--the fact which, driven home by the funeral scene

this morning, the rustling crowd come to see the young Squire, the elm
box, the heap of flowers--had now flung him down on this couch,
crushed, broken, and hopeless, like young ivy after a thunderstorm.
His moods alternated with the rapidity of flying clouds. At one instant
he was furious with pain, at the next broken and lax from the same
cause. At one moment he cursed God and desired to die, defiant and
raging; at the next he sank down into himself as weak as a tortured
child, while tears ran down his cheeks and little moans as of an animal
murmured in his throat. God was a hated adversary, a merciless Judge ...
a Blind Fate ... there was no God ... He was a Fiend.... there was
nothing anywhere in the whole universe but Pain and Vanity....
Yet, through it all, like a throbbing pedal note, ran his need of this girl.
He would do anything, suffer anything, make any sacrifice, momentary
or lifelong, if he