The desire grew so
intense that the words which would give it voice rushed to his lips.
However he merely replied--
'No, Donna Maria, thank you, I feel quite well. It is only that the
September weather rather affects me.'
She looked at him as if she rather doubted the sincerity of his reply;
but, to avoid an awkward silence after his evasive remark, she asked--
'Which of the neutral months do you like best--April or September?'
'Oh, September. It is more feminine, more discreet, more
mysterious--like a Spring seen in a dream. Then all the plants slowly
lose their vital forces, and, at the same time, some of their reality.
Look at the sea over there--has it not more the appearance of an
atmosphere than of a solid mass of water? And never, to my mind, does
the union of sea and sky seem so mystical, so profound as in September.'
They had very nearly reached the end of the path. Why should Andrea be
suddenly seized with a tremor of nervous fear on approaching the spot
where, a fortnight ago, he had written the sonnets on his deliverance?
Why this struggle between hope and anxiety lest she should discover them
and read them? Why did some of the lines keep running in his mind to
the exclusion of others, as if they expressed his actual sentiments at
that moment, his aspirations, the new dream he carried in his heart?
'I lay at thine untroubled feet my fate!'
It was true! It was true! He loved her, he laid his whole life at her
feet--was conscious of but one desire--humble and absorbing--to be the
earth between her footsteps.
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