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She
clung
to
him
desperately
,
and
as
he
drew
her
to
his
knees
on
the
couch
she
felt
as
if
they
were
being
sucked
down
together
into
some
bottomless
abyss
.
That
night
,
as
usual
,
they
said
good
-
bye
at
the
wood
’
s
edge
.
Harney
was
to
leave
the
next
morning
early
.
He
asked
Charity
to
say
nothing
of
their
plans
till
his
return
,
and
,
strangely
even
to
herself
,
she
was
glad
of
the
postponement
.
A
leaden
weight
of
shame
hung
on
her
,
benumbing
every
other
sensation
,
and
she
bade
him
good
-
bye
with
hardly
a
sign
of
emotion
.
His
reiterated
promises
to
return
seemed
almost
wounding
.
She
had
no
doubt
that
he
intended
to
come
back
;
her
doubts
were
far
deeper
and
less
definable
.
Since
the
fanciful
vision
of
the
future
that
had
flitted
through
her
imagination
at
their
first
meeting
she
had
hardly
ever
thought
of
his
marrying
her
.
She
had
not
had
to
put
the
thought
from
her
mind
;
it
had
not
been
there
.
If
ever
she
looked
ahead
she
felt
instinctively
that
the
gulf
between
them
was
too
deep
,
and
that
the
bridge
their
passion
had
flung
across
it
was
as
insubstantial
as
a
rainbow
.
But
she
seldom
looked
ahead
;
each
day
was
so
rich
that
it
absorbed
her
.
.
.
.
Now
her
first
feeling
was
that
everything
would
be
different
,
and
that
she
herself
would
be
a
different
being
to
Harney
.
Instead
of
remaining
separate
and
absolute
,
she
would
be
compared
with
other
people
,
and
unknown
things
would
be
expected
of
her
.
She
was
too
proud
to
be
afraid
,
but
the
freedom
of
her
spirit
drooped
.
.
.
.
Harney
had
not
fixed
any
date
for
his
return
;
he
had
said
he
would
have
to
look
about
first
,
and
settle
things
.
He
had
promised
to
write
as
soon
as
there
was
anything
definite
to
say
,
and
had
left
her
his
address
,
and
asked
her
to
write
also
.
But
the
address
frightened
her
.
It
was
in
New
York
,
at
a
club
with
a
long
name
in
Fifth
Avenue
:
it
seemed
to
raise
an
insurmountable
barrier
between
them
.
Once
or
twice
,
in
the
first
days
,
she
got
out
a
sheet
of
paper
,
and
sat
looking
at
it
,
and
trying
to
think
what
to
say
;
but
she
had
the
feeling
that
her
letter
would
never
reach
its
destination
.
She
had
never
written
to
anyone
farther
away
than
Hepburn
.
Harney
’
s
first
letter
came
after
he
had
been
gone
about
ten
days
.
It
was
tender
but
grave
,
and
bore
no
resemblance
to
the
gay
little
notes
he
had
sent
her
by
the
freckled
boy
from
Creston
River
.
He
spoke
positively
of
his
intention
of
coming
back
,
but
named
no
date
,
and
reminded
Charity
of
their
agreement
that
their
plans
should
not
be
divulged
till
he
had
had
time
to
“
settle
things
.
”
When
that
would
be
he
could
not
yet
foresee
;
but
she
could
count
on
his
returning
as
soon
as
the
way
was
clear
.
She
read
the
letter
with
a
strange
sense
of
its
coming
from
immeasurable
distances
and
having
lost
most
of
its
meaning
on
the
way
;
and
in
reply
she
sent
him
a
coloured
postcard
of
Creston
Falls
,
on
which
she
wrote
:
“
With
love
from
Charity
.
”
She
felt
the
pitiful
inadequacy
of
this
,
and
understood
,
with
a
sense
of
despair
,
that
in
her
inability
to
express
herself
she
must
give
him
an
impression
of
coldness
and
reluctance
;
but
she
could
not
help
it
.
She
could
not
forget
that
he
had
never
spoken
to
her
of
marriage
till
Mr
.
Royall
had
forced
the
word
from
his
lips
;
though
she
had
not
had
the
strength
to
shake
off
the
spell
that
bound
her
to
him
she
had
lost
all
spontaneity
of
feeling
,
and
seemed
to
herself
to
be
passively
awaiting
a
fate
she
could
not
avert
.
She
had
not
seen
Mr
.
Royall
on
her
return
to
the
red
house
.
The
morning
after
her
parting
from
Harney
,
when
she
came
down
from
her
room
,
Verena
told
her
that
her
guardian
had
gone
off
to
Worcester
and
Portland
.
It
was
the
time
of
year
when
he
usually
reported
to
the
insurance
agencies
he
represented
,
and
there
was
nothing
unusual
in
his
departure
except
its
suddenness
.
She
thought
little
about
him
,
except
to
be
glad
he
was
not
there
.
.
.
.
