One
of those nights when all the mystery of life seems to be revealing
itself in the one word--Love. The nightingale throbbed out its note in
the copse amidst a perfect stillness, and the ground was soft without a
drop of dew.
John Derringham, hatless, and with his hands plunged in the pockets of
his dinner coat, wandered down the garden towards the apple tree,
picking an early red rosebud as he passed a bush--its scent intoxicated
him a little. Then he went to the gate, and, opening it, he strolled
into the park. Here was a vaster and more perfect view. It was all
clothed in the unknown of the half dark, and yet he could distinguish
the outline of the giant trees. He went on as if in some delicious
dream, which yet had some heart-break in it, and at last he came to the
tree where he and Halcyone had sat those seven years ago, when she had
told him of what consisted the true point of honor in a man. He
remembered it all vividly, her very words and the cloud of her soft hair
which had blown a little over his face. He sat down upon the fallen log
that had been made into a rude bench; and there he gazed in front of
him, unconscious now of any coherent thought.
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