Читать книгу Folded Hills - Stewart Edward White - Страница 24

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Andy saw his guests bestowed, then returned, as a good Californian, to extinguish the last coals of the fire. For a moment, after he had finished his little task, he stood enjoying the quiet of the night. It seemed to him that never had he known such complete suspension, such absolute stillness, such profound repose. He stood looking east. Already the hilltops had more sharply defined themselves against the coming of the new day. His imagination had been stirred by the talk of the evening, roused to the immense turmoil and vitality of the plains. Standing here, he felt himself a part of a remote world, of a settled order of things which had long endured and must so continue as it had always been, quiet, charming, peaceful, friendly, constituted of the grace of life. Like the sheltered bay at Monterey, where the lazy, slow-pulsing wavelets crept up the sands and receded with a sigh of contentment. He saw it vividly in his mind’s eye, and the slow-sailing pelicans, and the warm quieting gold of the sunlight like an infusion in the blue sky. And in his mind’s ear the stern thunder of the distant surf beyond the barrier. He raised his head, startled. For the flash of a moment the analogy completed itself. He seemed to catch the faint far menace of another tide rising against the age-old barrier to the east. As he listened it died. The night resumed the serenity of its peace.