Often while she sat near him when they were reading, she would look
up and note that unaware a shadow had stolen out on his face. She
studied that shadow. And one consolation she drew: that whatsoever
the cause, it was nothing by which he felt dishonored. At such
moments her love broke over him with intolerable longings. She
remembered things that her mother had told her about her father;
she recalled the lives of her brothers, his uncles. She yearned to
say: "What is it, Rowan? You can tell me anything, anything. I
know so much more than you believe."
But some restraint dissuaded her from bridging that reserve. She
may have had the feeling that she spared him a good deal by her not
knowing.
For more than a year after his return he had kept aloof from
society--going into town only when business demanded, and accepting
no invitations to the gayeties of the neighborhood. He liked
rather to have his friends come out to stay with him: sometimes he
was off with them for days during the fishing and hunting seasons.
Care of the farm and its stock occupied a good deal of his leisure,
and there were times when he worked hard in the fields--she thought
so unnecessarily. Incessant activity of some kind had become his
craving--the only ease.
She became uneasy, she disapproved. For a while she allowed things
to have their way, but later she interfered--though as always with
her silent strength and irresistible gentleness.
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