But then she had expected to return isolated
by incommunicable happiness; now she had returned isolated by
incommunicable grief. Nevertheless she glided Into her seat with
feigned cheerfulness, taking a natural part in their conversation;
and she rose at last, smiling with the rest.
But she immediately quitted the house, eager to be out of doors
surrounded by things that she loved but that could not observe her
or question her in return--alone with things that know not evil.
These were the last days of May. The rush of Summer had already
carried it far northward over the boundaries of Spring, and on this
Sunday morning it filled the grounds of Isabel's home with early
warmth. Quickened by the heat, summoned by the blue, drenched with
showers and dews, all things which have been made repositories of
the great presence of Life were engaged in realizing the utmost
that it meant to them.
It was in the midst of this splendor of light and air, fragrance,
colors, shapes, movements, melodies and joys that Isabel, the
loftiest receptacle of life among them all, soon sat in a secluded
spot, motionless and listless with her unstanched and desperate
wound. Everything seemed happy but herself; the very brilliancy of
the day only deepened the shadow under which she brooded. As she
had slipped away from the house, she would soon have escaped from
the garden had there been any further retreat.
It was not necessary long to wait for one.
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