He loved her, and
she him: before she would not, now she would. Before she
had preferred an ideal to the desire of her heart; now
it lay about her; her strenuous heart had pulled it down
to foolish ruin, and how should she lie abased with it and
see him still erect and full of the deed they had to do?
"Come," he said, "let me take you home, dear," and at
that and some accent in it that struck again at hope,
she sank at his feet in a torrent of weeping, clasping
them and entreating him, "Oh send her away! Send her
away!"
He lifted her, and was obliged literally to support her.
Her hat had fallen off; he stroked her hair and murmured
such comfort to her as we have for children in their
extremity, of which the burden is chiefly love and "Don't
cry." She grew gradually quieter, drawing one knows not
what restitution from the intrinsic in him; but there
was no pride in her, and when she said "Let me go home
now," it was the broken word of hapless defeat. They
struggled together out into the boisterous street, and
once or twice she failed and had to stop and turn. Then
she would cling to a wall or a tree, putting his help
aside with a gesture in which there was again some pitiful
trace of renunciation. They went almost without a word,
each treading upon the heart of the other toward the gulf
that was to come.
Pages:
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410