He had seen nothing of these newcomers, but of a
sudden as he knelt there, his thoughts and sensations in strange
confusion, himself half in revolt against what lay before him, there
floated up the little aisle an exquisite perfume of crushed violets, and
he heard the soft rustling of a gown which was surely worn by none of
those who were gathered together to listen to him. He opened his eyes
involuntarily, and met the steady gaze of the lady whose whim it had
been to enter the place.
He had never seen her before, nor any one like her. Yet he felt that,
in her presence, the task which lay before him had become immeasurably
more difficult. She was a type to him of all those things, the memory
of which he had been strenuously trying to put away from him, the
beautiful, the worldly, the joyous. As he rose slowly to his feet, he
looked half despairingly around. It was a stern religion which they
loved, this handful of weatherbeaten farmers and their underlings.
Their womenkind were made as unlovely as possible, with flat hair,
sombre and ill-made clothes. Their surroundings were whitewashed and
text-hung walls, and in their hearts was the love for narrow ways. He
gave out his text slowly and with heavy heart. Then he paused, and,
glancing once more round the little building, met again the soft,
languid fire of those full dark eyes.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25