She was
drunken with her own music.
When she opened them again a few moments later, they fell upon the
face of Arthur Stuart, who stood a few feet distant regarding her
with haggard eyes. Unexpected and strange as his presence was, Joy
felt neither surprise nor wonder. She had been thinking of him so
intensely, he had been so interwoven with the music she had been
playing, that his bodily presence appeared to her as a natural
result. He was the first to speak; and when he spoke she noticed
that his voice sounded hoarse and broken, and that his face was drawn
and pale.
"I came to Beryngford this morning expressly to see you, Joy," he
said. "I have many things to say to you. I went to your residence
and was told by the maid that I would find you here. I followed, as
you see. We have had many meetings in church edifices, in organ
lofts. It seems natural to find you in such a place, but I fear it
will be unnatural and unfitting to say to you here, what I came to
say. Shall we return to your home?"
His eyes shone strangely from dusky caverns, and there were deep
lines about his mouth.
"He, too, has suffered," thought Joy; "I have not borne it all
alone." Then she said aloud:
"We are quite undisturbed here; I know of nothing I could listen to
in my room which I could not hear you say in this place.
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