The poet in him--and in an artist there is always more
or less of the poet--kept him back from ridicule, nay, moved him to pity
and respect.
They were absurdly simple words no doubt, had little wisdom in them, and
were quite childish in their utterance, and yet they moved him curiously
as a man very base and callous may at times be moved by the look in a
dying deer's eyes, or by the sound of a song that some lost love once
sang.
He rose and drew her hands away, and took her small face between his own
hands instead.
"Poor little Bebee!" he said gently, looking down on her with a breath
that was almost a sigh. "Poor little Bebee!--to envy the corncrake and
the mouse!"
She was a little startled; her cheeks grew very warm under his touch, but
her eyes looked still into his without fear.
He stooped and touched her forehead with his lips, gently and
without passion, almost reverently; she grew rose-hued as the bright
bean-flowers, up to the light gold ripples of her hair; she trembled a
little and drew back, but she was not alarmed nor yet ashamed; she was
too simple of heart to feel the fear that is born of passion and of
consciousness.
Pages:
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189