Page:The Yellow Book - 05.djvu/192



By C. S. the cold grey dawn I sit up and look at the woman by my side. One soft little white hand peeps out from the dainty lace, and on one ringer is a gold ring. There is just such another upon my own finger; and these two rings bind us to one another for ever and ever. And I am tired already.

She moves in her sleep, and buries her face deeper in the heavy folds of the bed-clothes. The little hand is still out, and lies so near me (so temptingly near, as I should have thought only a little while ago) that I can trace the faint blue lines in it as I have done many a time before. But now how horrible it all seems! She stirs again, and draws the hand into the lace so that it is almost hidden. How pretty she looks with her silky brown hair. Ah, why do I find it so difficult to think of her, even when she is before my eyes thus? Why do I never think of her when she is absent? Why do great masses of tumbling black hair come into my mind, while I watch this soft brown tangle on the pillow before me? I have tried to beat down these thoughts—but they will come and how can I help myself?

Look at her neck—how white it is! And yet—and yet, why does a warm brown something continually haunt me? A living something which brings with it the sun, the sky, and the sea?

Rh