The Pool in the Desert [73]
with sudden, uncontrollable tears, so that she had to lower them, and look steadily at the hoof-marks in the road while she waited for his answer.
'You know how I feel about seeing you--how glad I always am,' he stammered. 'But there are reasons--'
'Reasons?' she repeated, half audibly.
'I don't know how to tell you. I will write. But let me put you up again--'
'I will not,' Madeline said, with a sob, 'I won't be sent home like a child. I am going to walk, but--but I can quite well go alone.' She started forward, and her foot caught in her habit so that she made an awkward stumble and came down on her knee. In rising she stumbled again, and his quick arm was necessary. Looking down at her, he saw that she was crying bitterly. The tension had lasted long, and the snap had come when she least expected it.
'Stop,' Innes said, firmly, hardly daring to turn his head and ascertain the blessed fact that they were still alone. 'Stop instantly. You shall not go by yourself.' He flicked the dust off her habit with his pocket-handkerchief. 'Come, please; we will go on together.' Her distress seemed to make things simple again. It was as if the cloud that hung over them had melted as she wept, and lifted, and drifted a little further on. For the moment, naturally, nothing mattered except that she should be comforted. As she walked by his side shaken with her effort at self-control, he had to resist the impulse to touch her. His hand tingled to do its part in soothing her, his arm ached to protect her, while he vaguely felt an element of right, of justice, in her tears; they were in a manner his own. What he did was to turn and ask the syce following if he had loosened the Turk's saddle-girths.
'I shall be better--in a moment,' Madeline said, and he answered, 'Of course'; but they walked on and said nothing more until the road ran out from under the last deodar and round the first bare boulder that marked the beginning of the Ladies' Mile. It lay rolled out before them, the Ladies' Mile, sinuous and grey and empty, along the face of the cliff; they could see from one end of it to the other. It was the bleak side of Jakko; even tonight there was a fresh springing coldness in it blowing over from the hidden snows behind the rims of the nearer hills. Madeline held up her face to it, and gave herself a moment of its grateful discipline.
'I have been as foolish as possible,' she said, 'as foolish as possible. I have distressed you. Well, I couldn't help it--that is all there is to be said. Now if you will tell me--what is in your mind--what you spoke of writing--I will mount again and go home. It doesn't matter--I know you didn't mean to be unkind.' Her lip was trembling again, and he knew it, and dared not look at it.
'How can you ask me to tell you--miserable things!' he exclaimed. 'How can I find the words? And I have only just been told--I can hardly myself conceive it--'
'I am not a child in her teens that my ears should be guarded from miserable things. I have come of age, I have entered into my inheritance of the world's bitterness with the rest. I can listen,' Madeline said. 'Why not?'
He looked to her with grave tenderness. 'You think yourself very old, and very wise about the world,' he said; 'but you are a woman, and you will be hurt. And when I think that a little ordinary forethought on my part would have protected you, I feel like the criminal I am.'
'Don't make too much of it,' she said, simply. 'I have a presentiment--'
'I'll tell you,' Innes said, slowly; 'I won't niggle about it. The people of this place--idiots!--are unable to believe that a man and a woman can be to each other what we are.'
'Yes?' said Madeline. She paused beside the parapet and looked down at the indistinct little fields below, and the blurred masses of white wild roses waving midway against the precipice.
'They can not understand that there can be any higher plane of intercourse between us than the one they know. They won't see--they can't see--that the satisfaction we find
'You know how I feel about seeing you--how glad I always am,' he stammered. 'But there are reasons--'
'Reasons?' she repeated, half audibly.
'I don't know how to tell you. I will write. But let me put you up again--'
'I will not,' Madeline said, with a sob, 'I won't be sent home like a child. I am going to walk, but--but I can quite well go alone.' She started forward, and her foot caught in her habit so that she made an awkward stumble and came down on her knee. In rising she stumbled again, and his quick arm was necessary. Looking down at her, he saw that she was crying bitterly. The tension had lasted long, and the snap had come when she least expected it.
'Stop,' Innes said, firmly, hardly daring to turn his head and ascertain the blessed fact that they were still alone. 'Stop instantly. You shall not go by yourself.' He flicked the dust off her habit with his pocket-handkerchief. 'Come, please; we will go on together.' Her distress seemed to make things simple again. It was as if the cloud that hung over them had melted as she wept, and lifted, and drifted a little further on. For the moment, naturally, nothing mattered except that she should be comforted. As she walked by his side shaken with her effort at self-control, he had to resist the impulse to touch her. His hand tingled to do its part in soothing her, his arm ached to protect her, while he vaguely felt an element of right, of justice, in her tears; they were in a manner his own. What he did was to turn and ask the syce following if he had loosened the Turk's saddle-girths.
'I shall be better--in a moment,' Madeline said, and he answered, 'Of course'; but they walked on and said nothing more until the road ran out from under the last deodar and round the first bare boulder that marked the beginning of the Ladies' Mile. It lay rolled out before them, the Ladies' Mile, sinuous and grey and empty, along the face of the cliff; they could see from one end of it to the other. It was the bleak side of Jakko; even tonight there was a fresh springing coldness in it blowing over from the hidden snows behind the rims of the nearer hills. Madeline held up her face to it, and gave herself a moment of its grateful discipline.
'I have been as foolish as possible,' she said, 'as foolish as possible. I have distressed you. Well, I couldn't help it--that is all there is to be said. Now if you will tell me--what is in your mind--what you spoke of writing--I will mount again and go home. It doesn't matter--I know you didn't mean to be unkind.' Her lip was trembling again, and he knew it, and dared not look at it.
'How can you ask me to tell you--miserable things!' he exclaimed. 'How can I find the words? And I have only just been told--I can hardly myself conceive it--'
'I am not a child in her teens that my ears should be guarded from miserable things. I have come of age, I have entered into my inheritance of the world's bitterness with the rest. I can listen,' Madeline said. 'Why not?'
He looked to her with grave tenderness. 'You think yourself very old, and very wise about the world,' he said; 'but you are a woman, and you will be hurt. And when I think that a little ordinary forethought on my part would have protected you, I feel like the criminal I am.'
'Don't make too much of it,' she said, simply. 'I have a presentiment--'
'I'll tell you,' Innes said, slowly; 'I won't niggle about it. The people of this place--idiots!--are unable to believe that a man and a woman can be to each other what we are.'
'Yes?' said Madeline. She paused beside the parapet and looked down at the indistinct little fields below, and the blurred masses of white wild roses waving midway against the precipice.
'They can not understand that there can be any higher plane of intercourse between us than the one they know. They won't see--they can't see--that the satisfaction we find