VIII
Never since he had walked out of the great gate with Sylvia's dog at his heels to a wilful tutoring of his body and brain had George yielded to such untrammelled emotion, to so unbounded a desire. This moment of parting, in which he had felt himself helpless, had swept it all away—the carefully applied manner, the solicitous schooling of an impulsive brain, the minute effort to resemble the class of which he had imagined himself a part. Temporarily he was back at the starting point, the George Morton who had lifted Sylvia in his arms, blurting out impossible words, staring at her lips with an abrupt and narrow realization that sooner or later he would have to touch them.
Sylvia's quick action brought some of it back, but he had no remorse, no feeling of reversion, for the moment itself was naked, inimical to masquerade.
"Lambert!" she called.
Her voice didn't suggest fright or too sharp a hurry. Looking at her face he could understand how much her control had cost, for her expression was that of the girl Sylvia, filled with antipathy, abhorrence, an inability to believe. It appeared to tell him that if he had ever advanced toward her at all, he had just now forced himself back to his own side of the vast space dividing them.
"Don't be a fool," he whispered. "I could take it, but you have to give."
Her lips were pressed tight as if in a defence against the possible approach of his. They both heard a quick step outside. He let her arms go, and turned to the door where Dalrymple stood, unquestionably good to look upon in his uniform. He frowned at this picture which might have suggested to him a real intimacy between George Morton and Sylvia Planter.
"Lambert's gone on with Betty and the others. What's up?"
Sylvia's voice wasn't quite steady.
"The Major can't leave the area. I want somebody to take me to Officers' House."
George nodded. He had quite recovered his control, and he knew he had failed, that there was nothing more to be done. The thought of the doubtful days ahead was like a great burden on his soul.
"I've one more word for the Major," she said at the door, motioning Dalrymple on.
George went close to her.
"It's only this," she said. "I'm sorry it had to come at the last minute."
He laughed shortly.
"It was the last minute that made it. I'm not sorry."
Her face twisted passionately, as if she were on the point of angry tears.
"I hope I shall never see you again. Do you understand that?"
"Quite," he said, dryly. "To George on going to the wars!"
"I didn't mean just that," she cried, angrily.
"It's your only chance," he said, "and I can understand how you can wish I shouldn't come back."
"I didn't mean it," she repeated.
"Don't count too heavily on it," he went on. "I can't imagine dying before having had what I have always wanted, have always sooner or later intended to get. If I come back I shall have it."
Without another word she turned and left him. He watched her walk side by side with Dalrymple out of the area.