The Torrents Of Spring

XXVII
At five o’clock Sanin woke up, at six he was dressed, at half-past six he
was walking up and down the public garden within sight of the little arbour
which Gemma had mentioned in her note. It was a still, warm, grey
morning. It sometimes seemed as though it were beginning to rain; but
the outstretched hand felt nothing, and only looking at one’s coat-sleeve,
one could see traces of tiny drops like diminutive beads, but even these
were soon gone. It seemed there had never been a breath of wind in the
world. Every sound moved not, but was shed around in the stillness. In
the distance was a faint thickening of whitish mist; in the air there was a
scent of mignonette and white acacia flowers.
In the streets the shops were not open yet, but there were already
some people walking about; occasionally a solitary carriage rumbled
along … there was no one walking in the garden. A gardener was in a
leisurely way scraping the path with a spade, and a decrepit old woman
in a black woollen cloak was hobbling across the garden walk. Sanin
could not for one instant mistake this poor old creature for Gemma; and
yet his heart leaped, and he watched attentively the retreating patch of
black.
Seven! chimed the clock on the tower. Sanin stood still. Was it possible
she would not come? A shiver of cold suddenly ran through his limbs.
The same shiver came again an instant later, but from a different cause.
Sanin heard behind him light footsteps, the light rustle of a woman’s
dress… . He turned round: she!
Gemma was coming up behind him along the path. She was wearing a
grey cape and a small dark hat. She glanced at Sanin, turned her head
away, and catching him up, passed rapidly by him.
‘Gemma,’ he articulated, hardly audibly.
She gave him a little nod, and continued to walk on in front. He followed
her.
He breathed in broken gasps. His legs shook under him.
Gemma passed by the arbour, turned to the right, passed by a small
flat fountain, in which the sparrows were splashing busily, and, going
behind a clump of high lilacs, sank down on a bench. The place was snug
and hidden. Sanin sat down beside her.
A minute passed, and neither he nor she uttered a word. She did not
even look at him; and he gazed not at her face, but at her clasped hands,
in which she held a small parasol. What was there to tell, what was there
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