I should think the two ought to be able to live
peaceably in the same tenement; they do manage it in some cases; but
it seems a law of my being that I shall either be all one or all the
other.
The question for me to ask myself now is, "Am I in love with loving
and with being loved, or am I in love with Willie Beresford?" How
many women have confounded the two, I wonder?
In this mood I fell asleep, and on a sudden I found myself in a dear
New England garden. The pillow slipped away, and my cheek pressed a
fragrant mound of mignonette, the self-same one on which I hid my
tear-stained face and sobbed my heart out in childish grief and
longing for the mother who would never hold me again. The moon came
up over the Belvern Hills and shone on my half-closed lids; but to
me it was a very different moon, the far-away moon of my childhood,
with a river rippling beneath its silver rays. And the wind that
rustled among the poplar branches outside my window was, in my
dream, stirring the pink petals of a blossoming apple-tree that used
to grow beside the bank of mignonette, wafting down sweet odours and
drinking in sweeter ones. And presently there stole in upon this
harmony of enchanting sounds and delicate fragrances, in which
childhood and womanhood, pleasure and pain, memory and anticipation,
seemed strangely intermingled, the faint music of a voice, growing
clearer and clearer as my ear became familiar with its cadences.
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