HEINE.
One evening in particular the sense of expectation in him felt very
close upon delivery. All day he had been aware of it, and a letter
received that morning from his cousin seemed the cause. The story, in
its shorter version, had been accepted. Its reality, therefore, had
already spread; one other mind, at least, had judged it with
understanding. Two months from now, when it appeared in print,
hundreds more would read it. Its beauty would run loose in many
hearts. And Rogers went about his work that day as though the pleasure
was his own. The world felt very sweet. He saw the good in every one
with whom he came in contact. And the inner excitement due to
something going to happen was continuous and cumulative.
Yet London just then--it was August--was dull and empty, dusty, and
badly frayed at the edges. It needed a great cleaning; he would have
liked to pour sea water over all its streets and houses, bathed its
panting parks in the crystal fountains of Bourcelles. All day long his
thoughts, indeed, left London for holidays in little Bourcelles. He
was profoundly conscious that the Anticipation he first recognised in
that forest village was close upon accomplishment now. On the journey
back to England he recalled how urgent it had been.
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