Page:The Galaxy, Volume 5.djvu/764

734 I strolled around to John's as usual about twilight; and, finding the front door unclosed, entered and walked to the parlor, expecting to find Mrs. Conway there. As I stood noiselessly upon the threshold, I saw straight before me, seated by the window, the figure of a woman, the outline of whose head and face seemed cut like a cameo upon the outer light. At her feet, half kneeling, half sitting, was the smaller figure of John's wife. I was hesitating whether to speak or to go away while I was still unobserved, when the low tone of an unfamiliar voice so aroused my attention that I ceased to think of myself at all. The figure at the window was speaking; I could see the lips move, though for a second I failed to catch the words. A moment later I found they were perfectly known to me. How came she to gravitate to the truest poem in Christina Rossetti's book, to the only verses among them all which have unconsciously clung to my memory word for word. I like people with memories; especially women with that form of the faculty which is more truly such a natural congeniality with beauty and harmony, that music and poetry seem to adhere to them without their volition. This was evidently the case with her; for the lines seemed to fall almost involuntarily from her lips, with as little effort as another woman would have sung some low, sad tune. I thought I knew that poem of "Uphill" perfectly; and yet, as I listened, I could scarcely believe I had ever read it. As I write it down now, and try to recall her tone and accent, the same feeling of absolute revelation is upon me.

I had heard famous actors and singers made great simply by what is termed the "sympathetic" voice—that which made Rubini the "king of tenors," which gives Gazzaniga ability to sing through your very heart—but I had never listened to anything like this. Never rising from its low, murmurous sound, the way in which her voice passed from the wistful, pleading accents of a weary, half hoping, half despairing soul, to the infinite calmness and quietude of Fate itself speaking, thrilled me like a miracle wrought there in my presence. In the shadowy room and semi-solitude that woman was half unconsciously laying bare her soul; and I, standing there unseen and unknown, read and recognized it. I comprehended her nature more thoroughly, I seemed to really know her better than any other human being I had ever seen, even through long years of companionship. A woman with a Past, who stands upon the edge of the Present, and looks straight on to the end; whose eyes, in gazing forward, see nothing further in life for her but its conclusion. It may be that some great sorrow or disappointment has