Таинственный сад
XXVII. In The Garden
Hefeltasifhewerebeingdrawnbacktotheplacehehadsolongforsaken,andhedidnotknowwhy.Ashedrewneartoithisstepbecamestillmoreslow.Heknewwherethedoorwaseventhoughtheivyhungthickoverit—buthedidnotknowexactlywhereitlay—thatburiedkey.
Sohestoppedandstoodstill,lookingabouthim,andalmostthemomentafterhehadpausedhestartedandlistened—askinghimselfifhewerewalkinginadream.
Theivyhungthickoverthedoor,thekeywasburiedundertheshrubs,nohumanbeinghadpassedthatportalfortenlonelyyears—andyetinsidethegardenthereweresounds.Theywerethesoundsofrunningscufflingfeetseemingtochaseroundandroundunderthetrees,theywerestrangesoundsofloweredsuppressedvoices—exclamationsandsmotheredjoyouscries.Itseemedactuallylikethelaughterofyoungthings,theuncontrollablelaughterofchildrenwhoweretryingnottobeheardbutwhoinamomentorso—astheirexcitementmounted—wouldburstforth.Whatinheaven’snamewashedreamingof—whatinheaven’snamedidhehear?Washelosinghisreasonandthinkingheheardthingswhichwerenotforhumanears?Wasitthatthefarclearvoicehadmeant?
Andthenthemomentcame,theuncontrollablemomentwhenthesoundsforgottohushthemselves.
