Scarlet and white geraniums bloomed in
discoloured ancient vases. Clumps of oleanders showed pink showers of
blossoms. Tall bamboos reared their thin heads towards the tufted summits
of palms that suggested Africa. Monstrous cypresses aspired, with a sort
of haughty resignation, above their brother trees. The bees went to and
fro. Flies circled and settled. Lizards glided across the warm stones and
rustled into hiding among the ruddy fallen leaves. And always the white
water sang in the gorge as it rushed towards the piazza of Casa Felice.
And Lady Holme tried to hope.
Yet, as she walked slowly to and fro amid the almost rank luxuriance of
the garden, she was gnawed by a terrible anxiety. The dreadful
humbleness, the shrinking cowardice of the unsightly human being invaded
her. She strove to put them from her. She strove to call Robin's own
arguments and assertions to her aid. What she had been she still was in
all essentials. Her self was unharmed, existed, could love, hate, be
tender, be passionate as before. Viola was there still within her, the
living spirit to which a name had been given when she was a little child.
The talent was there which had spoken, which could still speak, through
her voice. The beating heart was there which could still speak through
her actions. The mysteries of the soul still pursued their secret courses
within her, like far-off subterranean streams. The essential part of her
remained as it had been.
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