On a sofa placed about two-thirds down its length, lay
Beatrice asleep. She was wrapped in a kind of dressing-gown of some
simple blue stuff, and all about her breast and shoulders streamed her
lovely curling hair. Her sweet face was towards him, its pallor relieved
only by the long shadow of the dark lashes and the bent bow of the lips.
One white wrist and hand hung down almost to the floor, and beneath the
spread curtain of the sunlit hair her bosom heaved softly in her sleep.
She looked so wondrously beautiful in her rest that he stopped almost
awed, and gazed, and gazed again, feeling as though a present sense and
power were stilling his heart to silence. It is dangerous to look upon
such quiet loveliness, and very dangerous to feel that pressure at the
heart. A truly wise man feeling it would have fled, knowing that seeds
sown in such silences may live to bloom upon a bitter day, and shed
their fruit into the waters of desolation. But Geoffrey was not
wise--who would have been? He still stood and gazed till the sight
stamped itself so deeply on the tablets of his heart that through all
the years to come no heats of passion, no frosts of doubt, and no sense
of loss could ever dull its memory.
Pages:
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123