Perhaps he would hold
her hand and feel the shadow of her body bending towards his own! And his
heart stopped beating; and he was suddenly cold with a splendid terror.
Then he did meet her again and had nothing to say. It seemed to him that
she was frightened. He came home that day in a cold fog of miserable
despair. A letter from his publishers informing him of a tenth edition was
of ironical unimportance. He lay awake all night restlessly unhappy.
For the first time for many months the old shadows stole out into the
room--the black bulk of Scaw House--the trees, the windows, his father....
And to him, tossing on his bed there came thoughts of a certain house in
the town. He could get up and dress now--a cab would soon take him there
... in the early morning he could slink back.
Clare did not want him! A fool to fancy that she had ever cared.
He, Peter Westcott, nobody! Why then should he not have his adventures, he
still so young and vigorous? He would go to that house....
And then, almost reluctantly, as he sat up in bed and watched the grey,
shadowy walls, Stephen seemed to be visible to him--Stephen, walking the
road, starting early in the fresh air when the light was breaking and the
scent of the grass was cool and filled with dew.
He would write to Stephen in the morning--he lay down and went to sleep.
Pages:
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405