The Autobiography of Mark Rutherford · Chapter 6 (3/3)

For some reason or the other, or for many reasons, Mary’s voice wound itself into the very centre of my existence. I seemed to be listening to the tragedy of all human worth and genius. The ball rose in my throat, the tears mounted to my eyes, and I had to suppress myself rigidly.

Presently she ceased. There was silence for a moment. I looked round, and saw that Mardon’s face was on the table, buried in his hands. I felt that I had better go, for the presence of a stranger, when the heart is deeply stirred, is an intrusion. I noiselessly left the room, and Mary followed. When we got to the door she said: “I forgot that mother used to sing that song. I ought to have known better.” Her own eyes were full; I thought the pressure of her hand as she bade me goodbye was a little firmer than usual, and as we parted an overmastering impulse seized me. I lifted her hand to my lips; without giving her time to withdraw it, I gave it one burning kiss, and passed out into the street. It was pouring with rain, and I had neither overcoat nor umbrella, but I heeded not the heavens, and not till I got home to my own fireless, dark, solitary lodgings, did I become aware of any contrast between the sphere into which I had been exalted and the earthly commonplace world by which I was surrounded.