Panic seized her; she clutched the breast of her rose-coloured
frock and panic-driven turned and fled into a thick clump of bushes
where there was no path and where even Donal had never pierced.
"That child has run away at last," the distant nurse remarked,
"I'd like to find out what she WAS waiting for."
The shrubs were part of the enclosing planting of the Gardens. The
children who came to play on the grass and paths felt as if they
formed a sort of forest. Because of this, Robin had made her
frantic dash to their shelter. No one would come--no one would
see her--no one would hear her, beneath them it was almost dark.
Bereft, broken and betrayed, a little mad thing, she pushed her
way into their shadow and threw herself face downward, a small,
writhing, rose-coloured heap, upon the damp mould. She could not
have explained what she was doing or why she had given up all,
as if some tidal wave had overwhelmed her. Suddenly she knew that
all her new world had gone--forever and ever. As it had come so
it had gone. As she had not doubted the permanence of its joy,
so she KNEW that the end had come. Only the wisdom of the occult
would dare to suggest that from her child mate, squaring his sturdy
young shoulders against the world as the flying train sped on its
way, some wave of desperate, inchoate thinking rushed backward.
There was nothing more.
Pages:
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161