Page:Edward Prime-Stevenson - The Intersexes.djvu/390

Oswald and Lieutenant Imre, when both are in a strong nervous tension from their mutual reserves. It occurs just before Oswald reaches the point of a narration of his tragic life-story, and confession to Imre, under stress of an expected parting which suddenly seems inevitable by Oswald's summons to England; a self-revelation which, however, the timorousness of Imre does not reward by equal frankness until the story's end.

"We had made a detour around the lonelier portion of the park. The sun was fairly setting as we came out before the open lawn, wide, and uncropped, save by two cows and a couple of farm-horses. There were trees on either border. At farther range, was the long, low mansion, three stories high, with countless white-painted croisées, and lime-blanched chimneys; an odd Austro-Magyar style of dwelling, of a long-past fashion, standing up solid and sharp against that silver-saffron sky. Not a sign of life, save those slow-moving beasts, far off in the middle of the lawn. No smoke from the yet more removed old homestead. Not a sound, except a gentle wind … melancholy and fitful. We two might been remote, near a village in the Siebenbürgen; not within twenty minutes of a great commercial city.

Instead of going on toward the avenue which led to the exit—the hour being yet early—we sat down on a stone bench, much beaten by weather. A few steps away, rose the monument I have mentioned … "To the Unforgettable Memory" of Lorand and Egon Z…

Neither Imre nor I spoke immediately. Each of us was a trifle leg-weary. I once more was sad and … angry. As we sat there, I read over for yet another time … the last time?… those carved words which reminded a reader, whether to his gladness of soul or dolour, that love, a love indeed strong as death, between two manly souls was no mere ideal; but instead, a possible crown of existence, a glory of life, a realizable unity that certain fortunate sons of men attained! A jewel that others must yearn for, in disappointment and folly, and with the taste of aloes, and the white of the egg, for the pomegranate and the honeycomb! I sighed.

"Oh, courage, courage, my well-beloved friend!" exclaimed Imre, hearing the sigh and apparently quite misreading my innermost thoughts. "Don't be down-hearted again as to leaving Szent-Istvànhely tomorrow; not to speak of being cheerful even if you must part from your most obedient servant. Such is life!… unless we are born

— 372 —