Only, how to
know whether to recoil and fly, or to pass beyond the dread of letting
herself go, of plunging deep into the unknown depths of love--of that
passion, whose nature for the first time she had tremulously felt,
watching "Pagliacci"--and had ever since been feeling and trembling at!
Must it really be neck or nothing? Did she care enough to break through
all barriers, fling herself into midstream? When they could see each
other every day, it was so easy to live for the next meeting--not think
of what was coming after. But now, with all else cut away, there was
only the future to think about--hers and his. But need she trouble about
his? Would he not just love her as long as he liked?
Then she thought of her father--still faithful to a memory--and felt
ashamed. Some men loved on--yes--even beyond death! But, sometimes,
she would think: 'Am I a candle-flame again? Is he just going to burn
himself? What real good can I be to him--I, without freedom, and with my
baby, who will grow up?' Yet all these thoughts were, in a way, unreal.
The struggle was in herself, so deep that she could hardly understand
it; as might be an effort to subdue the instinctive dread of a
precipice. And she would feel a kind of resentment against all the happy
life round her these summer days--the sea-birds, the sunlight, and the
waves; the white sails far out; the calm sun-steeped pine-trees; her
baby, tumbling and smiling and softly twittering; and Betty and the
other servants--all this life that seemed so simple and untortured.
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