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Page 81
"You will write?" he cried, with a flush of pleasure.
At times his hopes seemed so solid.
"I will indeed."
"But I say it's not enough--you can't go back to the old
life if you wanted to. Too much has happened."
"I know that," she said sadly.
"Not only pain and sorrow, but wonderful things: that
tower in the sunlight--do you remember it, and all you said
to me? The theatre, even. And the next day--in the church;
and our times with Gino."
"All the wonderful things are over," she said. "That is
just where it is."
"I don't believe it. At all events not for me. The
most wonderful things may be to come--"
"The wonderful things are over," she repeated, and
looked at him so mournfully that he dare not contradict
her. The train was crawling up the last ascent towards the
Campanile of Airolo and the entrance of the tunnel.
"Miss Abbott," he murmured, speaking quickly, as if
their free intercourse might soon be ended, "what is the
matter with you? I thought I understood you, and I don't.
All those two great first days at Monteriano I read you as
clearly as you read me still. I saw why you had come, and
why you changed sides, and afterwards I saw your wonderful
courage and pity. And now you're frank with me one moment,
as you used to be, and the next moment you shut me up. You
see I owe too much to you--my life, and I don't know what
besides. I won't stand it. You've gone too far to turn
mysterious. I'll quote what you said to me: 'Don't be
mysterious; there isn't the time.' I'll quote something
else: 'I and my life must be where I live.' You can't live
at Sawston."
He had moved her at last. She whispered to herself
hurriedly. "It is tempting--" And those three words threw
him into a tumult of joy. What was tempting to her? After
all was the greatest of things possible? Perhaps, after
long estrangement, after much tragedy, the South had brought
them together in the end. That laughter in the theatre,
those silver stars in the purple sky, even the violets of a
departed spring, all had helped, and sorrow had helped also,
and so had tenderness to others.
"It is tempting," she repeated, "not to be mysterious.
I've wanted often to tell you, and then been afraid. I
could never tell any one else, certainly no woman, and I
think you're the one man who might understand and not be
disgusted."
"Are you lonely?" he whispered. "Is it anything like that?"
"Yes." The train seemed to shake him towards her. He
was resolved that though a dozen people were looking, he
would yet take her in his arms. "I'm terribly lonely, or I
wouldn't speak. I think you must know already." Their
faces were crimson, as if the same thought was surging
through them both.
"Perhaps I do." He came close to her. "Perhaps I could
speak instead. But if you will say the word plainly you'll
never be sorry; I will thank you for it all my life."
She said plainly, "That I love him." Then she broke
down. Her body was shaken with sobs, and lest there should
be any doubt she cried between the sobs for Gino! Gino! Gino!
He heard himself remark "Rather! I love him too! When
I can forget how he hurt me that evening. Though whenever
we shake hands--" One of them must have moved a step or two,
for when she spoke again she was already a little way apart.
"You've upset me." She stifled something that was
perilously near hysterics. "I thought I was past all this.
You're taking it wrongly. I'm in love with Gino--don't pass
it off--I mean it crudely--you know what I mean. So laugh at me."
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