moment
possible she flew out, and slipped away under cover of the yew-trees
towards the river. Passing the spot where her husband had dragged her
down to him on her knees in the grass, she felt a sort of surprise that
she could ever have been so terrified. 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