Таинственный сад
XXVII. In The Garden
Bythenextnighthehadopenedthedoorswidetohisdarkthoughtsandtheyhadcometroopingandrushingback.Heleftthevalleyandwentonhiswanderingwayagain.But,strangeasitseemedtohim,therewereminutes—sometimeshalf-hours—when,withouthisknowingwhy,theblackburdenseemedtoliftitselfagainandheknewhewasalivingmanandnotadeadone.Slowly—slowly—fornoreasonthatheknewof—hewas“comingalive”withthegarden.
AsthegoldensummerchangedintothedeepgoldenautumnhewenttotheLakeofComo.Therehefoundthelovelinessofadream.Hespenthisdaysuponthecrystalbluenessofthelakeorhewalkedbackintothesoftthickverdureofthehillsandtrampeduntilhewastiredsothathemightsleep.Butbythistimehehadbeguntosleepbetter,heknew,andhisdreamshadceasedtobeaterrortohim.
“Perhaps,”hethought,“mybodyisgrowingstronger.”
Itwasgrowingstrongerbut—becauseoftherarepeacefulhourswhenhisthoughtswerechanged—hissoulwasslowlygrowingstronger,too.HebegantothinkofMisselthwaiteandwonderifheshouldnotgohome.Nowandthenhewonderedvaguelyabouthisboyandaskedhimselfwhatheshouldfeelwhenhewentandstoodbythecarvedfour-postedbedagainandlookeddownatthesharplychiseledivory-whitefacewhileitsleptand,theblacklashesrimmedsostartlinglytheclose-shuteyes.Heshrankfromit.
Onemarvelofadayhehadwalkedsofarthatwhenhereturnedthemoonwashighandfullandalltheworldwaspurpleshadowandsilver.
