CHAPTER XXXI

eywentforlongtrampsthroughtheexquisitereticenceofwinterwoodsandthesilverjunglesoffrostedtrees,andfoundlovelinesseverywhere. Attimestheyseemedtobewalkingthroughaspellboundworldofcrystalandpearl,sowhiteandradiantwereclearingsandlakesandsky.Theairwassocrispandclearthatitwashalfintoxicating. Oncetheystoodinahesitationofecstasyattheentranceofanarrowpathbetweenranksofbirches.Everytwigandspraywasoutlinedinsnow.Theundergrowthalongitssideswasalittlefairyforestcutoutofmarble.Theshadowscastbythepalesunshinewerefineandspiritual. “Comeaway,”saidBarney,turning.“Wemustnotcommitthedesecrationoftrampingthroughthere.” Oneeveningtheycameuponasnowdriftfarbackinanoldclearingwhichwasintheexactlikenessofabeautifulwoman’sprofile.Seentoocloseby,theresemblancewaslost,asinthefairy-taleoftheCastleofSt.John.Seenfrombehind,itwasashapelessoddity.Butatjusttherightdistanceandangletheoutlinewassoperfectthatwhentheycamesuddenlyuponit,gleamingoutagainstthedarkbackgroundofspruceintheglowofthatwintersunsettheybothexclaimedinamazement.Therewasalow,noblebrow,astraight,classicnose,lipsandchinandcheek-curvemodelledasifsomegoddessofoldtimehadsattothesculptor,andabreastofsuchcold,swellingpurityastheveryspiritofthewinterwoodsmightdisplay. “‘AllthebeautythatoldGreeceandRome,sungpainted,taught,’”quotedBarney. “Andtothinknohumaneyessaveourshaveseenorwillseeit,”breathedValancy,whofeltattimesasifshewerelivinginabookbyJohnFoster.AsshelookedaroundhersherecalledsomepassagesshehadmarkedinthenewFosterbookBarneyhadbroughtherfromthePort—withanadjurationnottoexpecthimtoreadorlistentoit. “‘Allthetintingsofwinterwoodsareextremelydelicateandelusive,’”recalledValancy.“‘Whenthebriefafternoonwanesandthesunjusttouchesthetopsofthehills,thereseemstobealloverthewoodsanabundance,notofcolour,butofthespiritofcolour.Thereisreallynothingbutpurewhiteafterall,butonehastheimpressionoffairy-likeblendingsofroseandviolet,opalandheliotropeontheslopes—inthedinglesandalongthecurvesoftheforest-land.Youfeelsurethetintisthere,butwhenyoulookatit