It was terrible how little
they seemed now--a handful of dust--beside this mounting, imperative
desire. He had been so invulnerable. In wanting nothing but what was
in himself he had been able to defy exterior events. Now he was
stripped of his defence. He could be hurt. He could be made
desperately happy or unhappy by things which he had thought trivial and
purposeless--the playthings of inferior children.
He came upon her suddenly. She knelt in the long grass, idle, with a
few scattered primroses in her lap as though in the midst of gathering
them she had been overtaken by a dream. He called her by name,
angrily, because of what he suffered. He stumbled to her and flung
himself down beside her and held her close to him, ruthless with desire
and his child's fear.
In that sheer physical explosion his whole personality blazed up and
seemed to melt away, flowing into new form. He had dashed down the
hill, a crude, exultant boy, into the whole storm and mystery of
manhood. And for all his fierceness his heart was small within him,
afraid of her, and of itself, and its own hunger.
At last he let her go. He tore himself from her and dropped face down
in the grass, trembling with grief and shame. He heard her say:
"Robert--dear Robert," very quietly, and her hand touched him, passing
like a breath of cool wind over his hair and neck. He kissed it
humbly, pressing it to his wet, hot cheek.
"I was frightened, Francey--and jealous--of everything--of the things
you love that I don't even know of--of the places you've been to--of
your friends--your money--your work.
Pages:
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178