Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - The Broby Parson
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started forward, the footman came and swore, but
the back wheels were firmly fixed and immovable.
The earl’s daughter cannot enter the courtyard
of her beloved!
But here comes some one—here he comes. He
lifted her out of the carriage, and his arms had lost
none of their old strength; she was held in an
embrace as warm as in the olden days, as warm as forty
years ago. She gazed into eyes as bright as if they
had looked out upon twenty-five summers.
A storm of feeling overwhelmed her, greater than
ever before. He had carried her once up the steps
of the terrace, she remembered now, and although
she had believed her love to be living all these
years, she found she had forgotten what it was to be
clasped in a pair of strong arms and to gaze into
bright, young eyes.
She did not see that he was old: she only saw
his eyes. She did not notice the black floor nor the
green, damp rafters; she only saw his shining eyes.
The Broby parson was a stately and beautiful man
at that moment. He became beautiful whenever he
looked at her.
She listened to his voice—his strong, clear voice—with
its caressing tone, reserved for her alone.
What did he want with furniture from the rectory,
with food or servants? The little old lady would
hardly have missed them; she was listening to his
voice and looking at his glowing eyes.
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