On the evening of the day when she received that early morning call, as
soon as dusk had fallen, wrapped in a long thin cloak, with black lace
over her dark hair, Audrey Noel herself fluttered out into the lanes, as
if to join the grave winged hunters of the invisible night. Those far,
continual sounds, not stilled in the country till long after the
sun dies, had but just ceased from haunting the air, where the late
May-scent clung as close as fragrance clings to a woman's robe. There
was just the barking of a dog, the boom of migrating chafers, the song
of the stream, and of the owls, to proclaim the beating in the heart of
this sweet Night. Nor was there any light by which Night's face could be
seen; it was hidden, anonymous; so that when a lamp in a cottage threw
a blink over the opposite bank, it was as if some wandering painter had
wrought a picture of stones and leaves on the black air, framed it in
purple, and left it hanging. Yet, if it could only have been come at,
the Night was as full of emotion as this woman who wandered, shrinking
away against the banks if anyone passed, stopping to cool her hot face
with the dew on the ferns, walking swiftly to console her warm heart.
Anonymous Night seeking for a symbol could have found none better than
this errant figure, to express its hidden longings, the fluttering,
unseen rushes of its dark wings, and all its secret passion of revolt
against its own anonymity.
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