"Gyp!"
She raised herself and threw her arms round him. Such an embrace a
drowning woman might have given. Pride and all were abandoned in an
effort to feel him close once more, to recover the irrecoverable
past. For a long time she listened to his pleading, explanations,
justifications, his protestations of undying love--strange to her and
painful, yet so boyish and pathetic. She soothed him, clasping his head
to her breast, gazing out at the flickering fire. In that hour, she rose
to a height above herself. What happened to her own heart did not matter
so long as he was happy, and had all that he wanted with her and away
from her--if need be, always away from her.
But, when he had gone to sleep, a terrible time began; for in the small
hours, when things are at their worst, she could not keep back her
weeping, though she smothered it into the pillow. It woke him, and all
began again; the burden of her cry: "It's gone!" the burden of his:
"It's NOT--can't you see it isn't?" Till, at last, that awful feeling
that he must knock his head against the wall made him leap up and tramp
up and down like a beast in a cage--the cage of the impossible. For, as
in all human tragedies, both were right according to their natures. She
gave him all herself, wanted all in return, and could not have it. He
wanted her, the rest besides, and no complaining, and could not have it.
Pages:
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429