I do understand you,--
I do. I know you for a better man than you know yourself this
night."
She turned to go. He put his hand on her arm; something we have
never seen on his face struggled up,--the better soul that she
knew.
"Come back," he said, hoarsely; "don't leave me with myself.
Come back, Margret."
She did not come; stood leaning, her sudden strength gone,
against the broken wall. There was a heavy silence. The night
throbbed slow about them. Some late bird rose from the sedges of
the pool, and with a frightened cry flapped its tired wings, and
drifted into the dark. His eyes, through the gathering shadow,
devoured the weak, trembling body, met the soul that looked at
him, strong as his own. Was it because it knew and trusted him
that all that was pure and strongest in his crushed nature
struggled madly to be free? He thrust it down; the self-learned
lesson of years was not to be conquered in a moment.
"There have been times," he said, in a smothered, restless voice,
"when I thought you belonged to me. Not here, but before this
life. My soul and body thirst and hunger for you, then,
Margret."
She did not answer; her hands worked feebly together, the dull
blood fainting in her veins.
Knowing only that the night yawned intolerable about her, that
she was alone,--going mad with being alone. No thought of heaven
or God in her soul: her craving eyes seeing him only. The
strong, living man that she loved: her tired-out heart goading,
aching to lie down on his brawny breast for one minute, and die
there,--that was all.
Pages:
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133