What was he? The past--nothing! And she flew on.She noted carefully the river bank opposite the tall poplar.It would be quite easy to get down from there into a boat.But they would not stay in that dark backwater.They would go over to the far side into those woods from which last night the moon had risen, those woods from which the pigeons mocked her every morning, those woods so full of summer.Coming back, no one would see her landing; for it would be pitch dark in the backwater.And, while she hurried, she looked back across her shoulder, marking where the water, entering, ceased to be bright.A dragon-fly brushed her cheek; she saw it vanish where the sunlight failed.How suddenly its happy flight was quenched in that dark shade, as a candle flame blown out.The tree growth there was too thick--the queer stumps and snags had uncanny shapes, as of monstrous creatures, whose eyes seemed to peer out at you.She shivered.She had seen those monsters with their peering eyes somewhere.Ah! In her dream at Monte Carlo of that bull-face staring from the banks, while she drifted by, unable to cry out.No! The backwater was not a happy place--they would not stay there a single minute.And more swiftly than ever she flew on along the path.Soon she had crossed the bridge, sent off her message, and returned.But there were ten hours to get through before eight o'clock, and she did not hurry now.She wanted this day of summer to herself alone, a day of dreaming till he came; this day for which all her life till now had been shaping her--the day of love.Fate was very wonderful! If she had ever loved before; if she had known joy in her marriage--she could never have been feeling what she was feeling now, what she well knew she would never feel again.She crossed a new-mown hayfield, and finding a bank, threw herself down on her back among its uncut grasses.Far away at the other end men were scything.
It was all very beautiful--the soft clouds floating, the clover-stalks pushing themselves against her palms, and stems of the tall couch grass cool to her cheeks; little blue butterflies; a lark, invisible; the scent of the ripe hay; and the gold-fairy arrows of the sun on her face and limbs.To grow and reach the hour of summer; all must do that! That was the meaning of Life! She had no more doubts and fears.She had no more dread, no bitterness, and no remorse for what she was going to do.She was doing it because she must....As well might grass stay its ripening because it shall be cut down! She had, instead, a sense of something blessed and uplifting.Whatever Power had made her heart, had placed within it this love.Whatever it was, whoever it was, could not be angry with her!
A wild bee settled on her arm, and she held it up between her and the sun, so that she might enjoy its dusky glamour.It would not sting her--not to-day! The little blue butterflies, too, kept alighting on her, who lay there so still.And the love-songs of the wood-pigeons never ceased, nor the faint swish of scything.
At last she rose to make her way home.A telegram had come saying simply: "Yes." She read it with an unmoved face, having resorted again to her mask of languor.Toward tea-time she confessed to headache, and said she would lie down.Up there in her room she spent those three hours writing--writing as best she could all she had passed through in thought and feeling, before making her decision.It seemed to her that she owed it to herself to tell her lover how she had come to what she had never thought to come to.
She put what she had written in an envelope and sealed it.She would give it to him, that he might read and understand, when she had shown him with all of her how she loved him.It would pass the time for him, until to-morrow--until they set out on their new life together.For to-night they would make their plans, and to-morrow start.
At half-past seven she sent word that her headache was too bad to allow her to go out.This brought a visit from Mrs.Ercott: The Colonel and she were so distressed; but perhaps Olive was wise not to exert herself! And presently the Colonel himself spoke, lugubriously through the door: Not well enough to come? No fun without her! But she mustn't on any account strain herself! No, no!
Her heart smote her at that.He was always so good to her.
At last, watching from the corridor, she saw them sally forth down the drive--the Colonel a little in advance, carrying his wife's evening shoes.How nice he looked--with his brown face, and his grey moustache; so upright, and concerned with what he had in hand!
There was no languor in her now.She had dressed in white, and now she took a blue silk cloak with a hood, and caught up the flower that had so miraculously survived last night's wearing and pinned it at her breast.Then making sure no servant was about, she slipped downstairs and out.It was just eight, and the sun still glistened on the dove-cot.She kept away from that lest the birds should come fluttering about her, and betray her by cooing.When she had nearly reached the tow-path, she stopped affrighted.
Surely something had moved, something heavy, with a sound of broken branches.Was it the memory of last night come on her again; or, indeed, someone there? She walked back a few steps.Foolish alarm! In the meadow beyond a cow was brushing against the hedge.
And, stealing along the grass, out on to the tow-path, she went swiftly towards the poplar.
