Hateful word! Take him, hankering after what she could not give him--youth, white innocence, Spring? It would be infamous, infamous! She sprang up from the fern, and ran along the hillside, not looking where she went, stumbling among the tangled growth, in and out of the boulders, till she once more sank breathless on to a stone.It was bare of trees just here, and she could see, across the river valley, the high larch-crowned tor on the far side.The sky was clear--the sun bright.A hawk was wheeling over that hill;far up, very near the blue! Infamous! She could not do that!
Could not drug him, drag him to her by his senses, by all that was least high in him, when she wished for him all the finest things that life could give, as if she had been his mother.She could not.It would be wicked! In that moment of intense spiritual agony, those two down there in the sun, by the grey stone and the dark water, seemed guarded from her, protected.The girl's white flower-face trembling up, the boy's gaze leaping down! Strange that a heart which felt that, could hate at the same moment that flower-face, and burn to kill with kisses that eagerness in the boy's eyes.The storm in her slowly passed.And she prayed just to feel nothing.It was natural that she should lose her hour!
Natural that her thirst should go unslaked, and her passion never bloom; natural that youth should go to youth, this boy to his own kind, by the law of--love.The breeze blowing down the valley fanned her cheeks, and brought her a faint sensation of relief.
Nobility! Was it just a word? Or did those that gave up happiness feel noble?
She wandered for a long time in the park.Not till late afternoon did she again pass out by the gate, through which she had entered, full of hope.She met no one before she reached her room; and there, to be safe, took refuge in her bed.She dreaded only lest the feeling of utter weariness should leave her.She wanted no vigour of mind or body till she was away from here.She meant neither to eat nor drink; only to sleep, if she could.To-morrow, if there were any early train, she could be gone before she need see anyone; her husband must arrange.As to what he would think, and she could say--time enough to decide that.And what did it matter? The one vital thing now was not to see the boy, for she could not again go through hours of struggle like those.She rang the bell, and sent the startled maid with a message to her husband.
And while she waited for him to come, her pride began revolting.
She must not let him see.That would be horrible.And slipping out of bed she got a handkerchief and the eau-de-Cologne flask, and bandaged her forehead.He came almost instantly, entering in his quick, noiseless way, and stood looking at her.He did not ask what was the matter, but simply waited.And never before had she realized so completely how he began, as it were, where she left off; began on a plane from which instinct and feeling were as carefully ruled out as though they had been blasphemous.She summoned all her courage, and said: "I went into the park; the sun must have been too hot.I should like to go home to-morrow, if you don't mind.I can't bear not feeling well in other people's houses."She was conscious of a smile flickering over his face; then it grew grave.
"Ah!" he said; "yes.The sun, a touch of that will last some days.
Will you be fit to travel, though?"
She had a sudden conviction that he knew all about it, but that--since to know all about it was to feel himself ridiculous--he had the power of making himself believe that he knew nothing.Was this fine of him, or was it hateful?
She closed her eyes and said:
"My head is bad, but I SHALL be able.Only I don't want a fuss made.Could we go by a train before they are down?"She heard him say:
"Yes.That will have its advantages."
There was not the faintest sound now, but of course he was still there.In that dumb, motionless presence was all her future.Yes, that would be her future--a thing without feeling, and without motion.A fearful curiosity came on her to look at it.She opened her gaze.He was still standing just as he had been, his eyes fixed on her.But one hand, on the edge of his coat pocket--out of the picture, as it were--was nervously closing and unclosing.And suddenly she felt pity.Not for her future--which must be like that; but for him.How dreadful to have grown so that all emotion was exiled--how dreadful! And she said gently:
"I am sorry, Harold."
As if he had heard something strange and startling, his eyes dilated in a curious way, he buried that nervous hand in his pocket, turned, and went out.
