I don't know though,"--he laughed a little, as he spoke
aloud,--bitterly it would have been, had his voice been capable of
bitterness,--"perhaps she will think the organism of the poor thing has
become diseased in camp and fightings,"--putting his hand up to his
throat and holding the swollen veins, where the blood was beating
furiously.
Presently he went down stairs and out to the street, in pursuit of some
cut flowers which he found in a little cellar, a stone's throw from his
hotel,--a fresh, damp little cellar, which smelt, he could not help
thinking, like a grave. Coming out to the sunshine, he shook himself
with disgust. "Faugh!" he thought, "what sick fancies and sentimental
nonsense possess me? I am growing unwholesome. My dreams of the other
night have come back to torment me in the day. These must put them to
flight."
The fancy which had sent him in pursuit of these flowers he confessed to
be a childish one, but none the less soothing for that. He had
remembered that the first day he beheld her a nosegay had decorated his
button-hole; a fair, sweet-scented thing which seemed, in some subtle
way, like her. He wanted now just such another,--some mignonette, and
geranium, and a single tea-rosebud. Here they were,--the very
counterparts of those which he had worn on a brighter and happier day.
How like they were! how changed was he! In some moods he would have
smiled at this bit of girlish folly as he fastened the little thing over
his heart; now, something sounded in his throat that was pitifully like
a sob.
Pages:
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117