"
"Ah, yes, sadness," he said; "but gladness too, and the gladness is
more than the sadness. Would you not sooner know the fine even though
you cannot attain to it, than be content with the little all your
life? I would, and it is that which you have given me. It is I who
give nothing--"
He hesitated as if for a moment at a loss, and she had no words to
fill in the pause.
"Will you take this?" he said, half thrusting something forward. "It
is, perhaps, not much to some, but I would like you to have it; it
seems fitting; I think I owe it to you, and you to it."
"Oh, yes, yes," she murmured, hardly hearing and not grasping the last
words; there was something choking in her throat; it was this strange,
humble, disinterested love, so new to her, which brought it there and
prevented her from understanding.
She stretched out her hands, and he put something into them; then he
stepped back, and the carriage drove on. It was not till the gateway
was passed that she realised what it was she held--a small bag made
of the greyish-brown paper used on a bulb farm; inside, a single bulb;
and outside, written, according to the invariable custom of growers--
"Narcissus Triandrus Azureum Vrouw Van Heigen."
CHAPTER XI
A REPRIEVE
Rawson-Clew was reading a letter. It was breakfast time; the letter
had missed the afternoon post yesterday, which was what the writer
would have wished, and so was not delivered at the hotel till the
morning.
Pages:
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216