Anyway, the first
breath of suspicion would have blown my little rising
practice to wind. What awful things lurk at the corners
of Life's highway, ready to pounce upon us as we pass!
And so you really are going a-voyaging! Well, I
won't write again until I hear that you are back from the
Islands, and then I hope to have something a little more
cheery to talk about.
XVI.
1 OAKLEY VILLAS, BIRCHESPOOL, 4th November, 1884.
I face my study window as I write, Bertie. Slate-
coloured clouds with ragged fringes are drifting slowly
overhead. Between them one has a glimpse of higher
clouds of a lighter gray. I can hear the gentle swish
of the rain striking a clearer note on the gravel path
and a duller among the leaves. Sometimes it falls
straight and heavy, till the air is full of the delicate
gray shading, and for half a foot above the ground there
is a haze from the rebound of a million tiny globules.
Then without any change in the clouds it cases off again.
Pools line my walk, and lie thick upon the roadway, their
surface pocked by the falling drops. As I sit I can
smell the heavy perfume of the wet earth, and the laurel
bushes gleam where the light strikes sideways upon them.
The gate outside shines above as though it were
new varnished, and along the lower edge of the
upper bar there hangs a fringe of great clear drops.
That is the best that November can do for us in our
dripping little island.
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