He had heard the Litany
of the Glory of Valentine, and the suffocation, and the anger, and the
stirring beneath his yoke of Julian. He had heard the many women sing in
the heart of the lady of the feathers. But all this seemed leading him
forward and onward, step by step, as to a threshold beyond which was some
greater, some more importunate, thing. And he took the last step with
Cuckoo. It was as if he was handed on from one room to another, as is the
fashion in the palace of a great king, his name being called in each, and
sent before, like a voice sent on the wind, and as if Cuckoo was in the
last anteroom that gave upon the audience-chamber. Now he had arrived,
and suddenly a great wave of mysterious expectation ran over him and
filled the cup of his soul. He felt that he stood still and waited. The
sense of Cuckoo, of all she felt and thought in the darkness, gradually
dropped away from him, like leaves from a tree, till every branch was
leafless. And this autumnal ravishment, like the ravishment of nature,
was but a preparation surely for a future spring.
The doctor waited outside that door, beyond which, perhaps, spring
blossomed and sang. He lost at last all sense of being in a company of
people, and felt as one feels who is entirely alone, expectant, calm,
ready.
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