After watching
Betty give little Gyp her bath, she crossed the passage to her bedroom
and leaned out of the window. Could it have been to-day she had lain on
the ground with tears of despair running down on to her hands? Away to
the left of the pine-tree, the moon had floated up, soft, barely visible
in the paling sky. A new world, an enchanted garden! And between her and
it--what was there?
That evening she sat with a book on her lap, not reading; and in her
went on the strange revolution which comes in the souls of all women who
are not half-men when first they love--the sinking of 'I' into 'Thou,'
the passionate, spiritual subjection, the intense, unconscious giving-up
of will, in preparation for completer union.
She slept without dreaming, awoke heavy and oppressed. Too languid to
bathe, she sat listless on the beach with little Gyp all the morning.
Had she energy or spirit to meet him in the afternoon by the rock
archway, as she had promised? For the first time since she was a small
and naughty child, she avoided the eyes of Betty. One could not be
afraid of that stout, devoted soul, but one could feel that she knew too
much. When the time came, after early tea, she started out; for if she
did not go, he would come, and she did not want the servants to see him
two days running.
This last day of August was warm and still, and had a kind of
beneficence--the corn all gathered in, the apples mellowing, robins
singing already, a few slumberous, soft clouds, a pale blue sky, a
smiling sea.
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