He had never passed a lovely stranger on the street, in the old days,
without a thrill of delight and warmth. If he never saw her again, and the
vision only lasted the time it takes a lady to cross the sidewalk from a
shop door to a carriage, he was always a little in love with her, because
she bore about her, somewhere, as did every pretty girl he ever saw, a
suggestion of the far-away divinity. One does not pass lovely strangers in
the streets of Plattville. Miss Briscoe was pretty, but not at all in the
way that Harkless dreamed. For five years the lover in him that had loved
so often had been starved of all but dreams. Only at twilight and dusk in
the summer, when, strolling, he caught sight of a woman's skirt, far up
the village street--half-outlined in the darkness under the cathedral arch
of meeting branches--this romancer of petticoats could sigh a true lover's
sigh, and, if he kept enough distance between, fly a yearning fancy that
his lady wandered there.
Ever since his university days the image of her had been growing more and
more distinct. He had completely settled his mind as to her appearance and
her voice. She was tall, almost too tall, he was sure of that; and out of
his consciousness there had grown a sweet and vivacious young face that he
knew was hers. Her hair was light-brown with gold lustres (he reveled in
the gold lustres, on the proper theory that when your fancy is painting a
picture you may as well go in for the whole thing and make it sumptuous),
and her eyes were gray. They were very earnest, and yet they sparkled and
laughed to him companionably; and sometimes he had smiled back upon her.
The Undine danced before him through the lonely years, on fair nights in
his walks, and came to sit by his fire on winter evenings when he stared
alone at the embers.
And to-night, here in Plattville, he heard a voice he had waited for long,
one that his fickle memory told him he had never heard before. But,
listening, he knew better--he had heard it long ago, though when and how,
he did not know, as rich and true, and ineffably tender as now. He threw a
sop to his common sense. "Miss Sherwood is a little thing" (the image was
so surely tall) "with a bumpy forehead and spectacles," he said to
himself, "or else a provincial young lady with big eyes to pose at you."
Then he felt the ridiculousness of looking after his common sense on a
moonlight night in June; also, he knew that he lied.
The song had ceased, but the musician lingered, and the keys were touched
to plaintive harmonies new to him. He had come to Plattville before
"Cavalleria Rusticana" was sung at Rome, and now, entranced, he heard the
"Intermezzo" for the first time. Listening to this, he feared to move lest
he should wake from a summer-night's dream.