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Updated: June 23, 2025
He can dispense with a medium, being himself a fountain of light, and experiencing the wondrous self-illumination of which Thomas Treherne sang O Joy! O wonder and delight! O sacred mystery! My soul a spirit infinite! An image of the Deity! A pure substantial light! That being greatest which doth nothing seem! . . . . . O wondrous Self!
"Excuse me," I said, laughing, though I was impressed; "that sounds as if you had been writing about her, and applying to her the novelist's system of analysis, which makes an imperfect individual a perfect type. Now, frankly, are you speaking of Miss Treherne, or of some one of whom she is the outline, as it were?" Clovelly turned and looked at me steadily.
Here's Treherne; so we're all mustered, as the politician said when Mr. Colman came late for dinner. No, the doctor's off again. How restless we all are!" The poet had drawn near, his feet were falling soft on the grass, and was gazing at them with a singular attentiveness. "It will soon be over," he said. "What?" snapped Ashe very abruptly.
And Treherne had long since taken up his position openly, at the great house, as the husband of the great lady, and he and she were occupied with sweeping reforms on the estate. The lady especially, being of the sort whose very dreams "drive at practice," was landscape gardening as with the gestures of a giantess.
She wants to know you, and I think will be very fond of you. Will you come with me?" And then, as they went along the passage and downstairs, he explained to her that he was not alone at the hotel, but that his aunt, Mrs. Treherne, was also there, and that he had been telling her what old friends he and Madelon were, and how unexpectedly they had met last night.
In this connection I thought of Belle Treherne, and of how I should appear in her eyes if that little scene with Mrs. Falchion, now always staring me in the face, were rehearsed before her.
Presently his vision cleared a little and he read more easily. Suddenly he laughed, a short, rather mirthless, laugh. "What's up?" inquired Aubrey Treherne. "Oh, nothing much; only I suppose I'm in for a lecture again! Helen says: 'Ronald' " Ronnie lifted his eyes from the paper. "What a nuisance it is to own that kind of name.
As the sailors hauled it up, I noticed that the initials upon the portmanteaus were G. R. The owner was evidently an officer going home on leave, or invalided. It did not, however, concern me, as I thought, and I turned away to look for Mr. Treherne, that I might fulfil my promise to escort his daughter and Mrs.
"The night, of course," replied Treherne in a motionless manner. "The darkest hour has passed." "Didn't some other minor poet remark," inquired Paynter flippantly, "that the darkest hour before the dawn ? My God, what was that? It was like a scream." "It was a scream," replied the poet. "The scream of a peacock."
"I think it is the most dreadful thing I ever heard of," said Mrs. Treherne "a child of that age alone in such a place!" "Well, I really don't know," answered Graham, half laughing. "I don't suppose it has done her much mischief; and of this I am quite sure, that she had no idea of there being any more harm in going to a gambling-table than in going for a walk."
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