“Yes, one might call it the good beauty,” said Beatrice.

“Yes,” continued Antony, perhaps somewhat ominously interested in the subject, “that is a great mystery—­the seeming moral meaning of the forms of things.  Some shapes, however beautiful, suggest evil; others, however ugly, suggest good.  As we look at a snake, or a spider, we know that evil is shaped like that; and not only animate things but inanimate.  Some aspects of nature are essentially evil.  There are landscapes that injure the soul to look at, there are sunsets that are unholy, there are trees breathing spiritual pestilence as surely as some men breathe it—­”

“Do you remember,” continued Antony with a smile, which died as he realised he was committed to an allusion best forgotten, “that old twisted tree that stood on the moor near our wood?  I often wonder what mysterious sin he had committed—­”

“Yes,” laughed Beatrice, “he looked a terribly depraved old tree, I must admit—­but don’t you think that when we have arrived at the discussion of the mysterious sins of trees it is time to start home?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Antony gaily, “let us change the subject to the vices of flowers.”

From which conversation it will be seen that Antony’s mind was still revolving with unconscious attraction around the mystery of Art.  Was it some far-travelled sea-wind bringing faint strains from that sunken harp, strains too subtle for the ear, and even unrecognised by the mind?

CHAPTER XIX

LAST TALK ON THE HILLS

Beatrice’s prayer had been answered.  Antony had come back to her.  She was necessary to him once more.  The old look was in his eyes, the old sound in his voice.  One day as they were out together she was so conscious of this happiness returned that she could not forbear speaking of it—­with an inner feeling that it was better to be happy in silence.

What is that instinct in us which tells us that we risk our happiness in speaking of it?  Happiness is such a frightened thing that it flies at the sound of its own name.  And yet of what shall we speak if not our happiness?  Of our sorrows we can keep silence, but our joys we long to utter.

So Beatrice spoke of her great happiness to Antony, and told him too of her old great unhappiness and her longing for death.

“What a strange and terrible dream it has been—­but thank God, we are out in the daylight at last,” said Antony.  “O my little Beatrice, to think that I could have forsaken you like that!  Surely if you had come and taken me by the hands and looked deep into my eyes, and called me out of the dream, I must have awakened, for, cruel as it was, the dream was but part of a greater dream, the dream of my love for you—­”