Stone observed him with surprise. "I did not perceive that it was
you," he said. "I have to avoid brain action before bathing."
They had crossed the road dividing the Gardens from the Park, and,
seeing that Mr. Stone had already seen the water where he was about to
bathe, and would now see nothing else, Hilary stopped beside a little
lonely birch-tree. This wild, small, graceful visitor, who had long
bathed in winter, was already draping her bare limbs in a scarf of
green. Hilary leaned against her cool, pearly body. Below were the
chilly waters, now grey, now starch-blue, and the pale forms of fifteen
or twenty bathers. While he stood shivering in the frozen wind, the
sun, bursting through the hail-cloud, burned his cheeks and hands. And
suddenly he heard, clear, but far off, the sound which, of all others,
stirs the hearts of men: "Cuckoo, cuckoo!"
Four times over came the unexpected call. Whence had that ill-advised,
indelicate grey bird flown into this great haunt of men and shadows? Why
had it come with its arrowy flight and mocking cry to pierce the heart
and set it aching? There were trees enough outside the town, cloud-swept
hollows, tangled brakes of furze just coming into bloom, where it could
preside over the process of Spring. What solemn freak was this which
made it come and sing to one who had no longer any business with the
Spring?
With a real spasm in his heart Hilary turned away from that distant
bird, and went down to the water's edge.
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