Callandar spent that tragic Sunday is not
clearly on record. We have watched Esther so closely that he has been
permitted to escape our observation, and it would be manifestly unfair
to expect any coherent account of the day from him. He knows that he
went for a walk, early, and that he walked all day. He remembers once
resting by the willow-fringed pool which had seen his introduction into
Coombe, but he could not stay there. Between him and that hot June day
lay the wreck of a world. Once he stumbled upon the Pine Lake road and
followed it a little way. But here, too, memory came too close and drove
him aside into the fields. There he tried to face his future fairly,
under the calm sky. But it was hard work. With such a riot of feeling,
it was difficult to think. His mind continually fell away into the
contemplation of his own misery. It was a bad day, a day which left an
ineffaceable mark.
With night came the first sign of peace, or rather of capitulation. He
fought no more because he realised that there was nothing for which to
fight.
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