hours each week this growing consciousness that she could never have the
whole of him. But all the time the patch of silence grew, for doubt in
the heart of one lover reacts on the heart of the other.
When the long vacation came, she made an heroic resolve. He must go to
Scotland, must have a month away from her, a good long rest. And while
Betty was at the sea with little Gyp, she would take her father to his
cure. She held so inflexibly to this resolve, that, after many protests,
he said with a shrug:
"Very well, I will then--if you're so keen to get rid of me."
"Keen to get rid!" When she could not bear to be away from him! But she
forced her feeling back, and said, smiling:
"At last! There's a good boy!" Anything! If only it would bring him
back to her exactly as he had been. She asked no questions as to where,
or to whom, he would go.
Tunbridge Wells, that charming purgatory where the retired prepare their
souls for a more permanent retirement, was dreaming on its hills in long
rows of adequate villas. Its commons and woods had remained unscorched,
so that the retired had not to any extent deserted it, that August, for
the sea. They still shopped in the Pantiles, strolled the uplands, or
flourished their golf-clubs in the grassy parks; they still drank tea in
each other's houses and frequented the many churches. One could see
their faces, as it were, goldened by their coming glory, like the chins
of children by reflection from buttercups. From every kind of life they
had retired, and, waiting now for a more perfect day, were doing their
utmost to postpone it. They lived very long.
Gyp and her father had rooms in a hotel where he could bathe and drink
the waters without having to climb three hills. This was the first cure
she had attended since the long-past time at Wiesbaden. Was it possible
that was only six years ago? She felt so utterly, so strangely
different! Then life had been sparkling sips of every drink, and of none
too much; now it was one long still draft, to quench a thirst that would
not be quenched.
During these weeks she held herself absolutely at her father's disposal,
but she lived for the post, and if, by any chance, she did not get her
daily letter, her heart sank to the depths. She wrote every day,
sometimes twice, then tore up that second letter, remembering for what
reason she had set herself to undergo this separation. During the first
week, his letters had a c
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