All her nature was exquisitely
loosened that night, and quivering; it was not a time to be so
wounded and to forget.
She did not forget as she sat in her room after all had gone. She
took the kindnesses and caresses, the congratulations and triumphs,
of those full-fruited hours, pressed them together and derived
merely one clear drop of bitterness--the languorous poison of one
haunting desire. It followed her into her sleep and through the
next day; and not until night came again and she had passed through
the gateway of dreams was she happy: for in those dreams it was he
who was setting out from the house of his fathers on a voyage down
the River of Life; and he had paused and turned and called her to
come to him and be with him always.
Marguerite lifted her face from her palms, as she finished her
revery. She slipped to the floor out of the big walnut bed, and
crossing to the blinds laid her fingers on the young man's
shoulder. It was the movement with which one says: "I have come."
With a sigh she drew one of the blinds aside and looked out upon
the leaves and roses of her yard and at the dazzling sunlight.
Within a few feet of her a bird was singing. "How can you?" she
said. "If you loved, you would be silent. Your wings would droop.
You could neither sing nor fly." She turned dreamily back into her
room and wandered over to a little table on which her violin lay in
its box. She lifted the top and thrummed the strings.
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