SILENCIEUX WHISPERS

So Antony first knew how cruel could be Silencieux to those who loved
her. Her sudden silences he had grown to understand, even to love.
Always they had been broken again by some wonderful word, which he had
known would come sooner or later. All great natures are full of silence.
Silence is the soil of all passion. But now it was not silence that was
between them, but terrible speech. As with a knife she had stabbed their
love right in its heart. Yet Antony knew that his love could never die,
but only suffer.

During these days he half turned to Beatrice. How kind was her simple
earth-warm affection, after the star-cold transcendentalism in which he
had been living! How full of comfort was her unselfish humanity, after
the pitiless egoism of the divine!

And yet, while it momentarily soothed him, he realised, with a heart sad
for Beatrice as for himself, that it could never satisfy him again. For
days he left Silencieux alone in the wood, and Beatrice's face
brightened with their renewed companionship; but all the time he seemed
to hear Silencieux calling him, and he knew that he would have to go
back.

One night, almost happy again, as he lay by the side of Beatrice, who
was sleeping deeply, he rose stealthily, and looked out into the wood.

The moonlight fell through it mysteriously, as on that night when he had
stolen up there to meet Silencieux--"at the rising of the moon." He
could hesitate no longer. Leaving Beatrice asleep, he was soon making
his way once more through the moonlit trees.