During the afternoon the fear that had been in Clare's eyes for many weeks
suddenly flamed into terror--the doctor was sent for and Peter was banished
from the room.
Peter looked ludicrously, pitifully young as he sat, through the evening,
in his room at the top of the house, staring in front of him, his face grey
with anxiety, his broad shoulders set back as though ready for a blow; his
strong fingers clutched the things on his writing-table, held them, dropped
them, just like the hands of a blind man about the shining surface, tapping
the wood.
He saw her always as he had seen her last night when she had caught his arm
crying--"If I die, Peter.... Oh, Peter, if I die!"... and he had comforted
and stroked her hair, warming her cold fingers.
How young she was, how tiny for this suffering--and it was he, he who had
brought it upon her! Now, she was lying in her bed, as he had once seen his
mother lie, with her hair spread about the pillow, her hands gripping the
sheets, her eyes wide and black--the vast, hard bed-room closing her in,
shutting her down--
She who loved comfort, who feared any pain, who would have Life safe and
easy, that she should be forced--
The house was very still about him--no sound came up to him; it seemed to
him that the hush was deliberate. The top branches of the trees in the
little orchard touched his window and tapped ever and again; a fire burnt
brightly, he had drawn his curtains and beyond the windows the great sheet
of stars, the black houses, the white light of the moon.
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