Inthemorning,afterbreakfast,Jameswentforawalk.Hewantedtothinkoutclearlywhathehadbetterdo,feelingthathemustmakeuphismindatonce.Hesitationwouldbefatal,andyettospeakimmediatelyseemedsocruel,sobrutallycallous.
Wishingtobeabsolutelyalone,hewanderedthroughthegardentoalittlewoodofbeech-trees,whichinhisboyhoodhadbeenafavouritehaunt.ThedaywasfreshandsweetafterthehappyrainofApril,theskysoclearthatitaffectedonelikeaverybeautifulaction.
Jamesstoodstillwhenhecameintothewood,inhalingtheodourofmoistsoil,thevoluptuousscentsofourmother,theEarth,gravidwithsilentlife.Foramomenthewasintoxicatedbytheparadiseofverdure.Thebeech-treesroseverytall,withtheirdelicatebranchessingularlyblackamidtheyoungleavesofthespring,tenderandvivid.Theeyecouldnotpiercetheintricategreeneryitwasmoredelicatethanthesummerrain,subtlerthanthemistsofthesunset.Itwasascenetodriveawayallthoughtofthesadnessoflife,ofthebitterness.ItsexquisitefreshpuritymadeJamesfeelpurealso,andlikealittlechildhewanderedovertheundulatingearth,brokenbythetortuouscoursesofthestreamletsofwinter.
Thegroundwassoft,coveredwithbrowndeadleaves,andhetriedtoseetherabbitrustlingamongthem,orthehastyspringingofasquirrel.Thelongbranchesofthebriarentangledhisfeetandhereandthere,inshelteredcorners,blossomedtheprimroseandthevioletHelistenedtothechantofthebirds,sojoyousthatitseemedimpossibletheysanginaworldofsorrow.Hiddenamongtheleaves,aloftinthebeeches,thelinnetsangwithfull-throatedmelody,andtheblackbirdandthethrush.Inthedistanceacuckoocalleditsmysteriousnote,andfaraway,likeanecho,afellow-birdcalledback.
AllNaturewasrejoicinginthedelightofthesunshineallNaturewasrejoicing,andhisheartalonewasheavyaslead.Hestoodbyafir-tree,whichrosefarabovetheothers,immenselytall,likethemastofasolitaryshipitwasstraightasalifewithoutreproach,butcheerless,cold,andsilent.Hislife,too,waswithoutreproach,thoughtJames—withoutreproachtillnow....HehadlovedMaryClibborn.Butwasitlove,orwasitmere