I watched them pass down the moss-covered path till the thick foliage of strange spices hid them from view—then I realized.
Numbed, chilled, I turned away, every thought swallowed in great physical pain, a hand of iron clutched my heart and wrung it dry as a sponge. I had a vague idea of falling, not suddenly, but gradually, easily; of many people hurrying to me; then Saxe. loomed above, and as in a dream, came the words: “Courage, courage, my boy; be a man. Help! help!” he shouted in tones that pierced my brain, then borne to me vividly, yet as though thousands of miles away: “Heavens! how the woman deceived us all!” and my last flickering thought before blank was she had deceived no one, least of all myself.
In the garden, full length upon the lawn, the sweet, cool air revived me, but not for an instant had I lost consciousness.
My friends were about me, anxious, grave; distinctly I heard Saxe. mutter: “We must get out of this and quick. Can’t have the boy carrying on this way.”
I remained silent, rather comfortable than otherwise, dreamily wondering what the row was about; then, like a flash, I knew and a dull, heavy, sickening feeling gripped my whole mind. To escape the hell’s torment of memory I would have given life. Oblivion? yes; if I could never have realized. Now, God! All the little tantalizing delights, the sweet doubts vanishing in happy possession I was so sure of—all was over. Who could have foreseen such an end? The very peculiarities of this woman forbade such a finale. Instead, all would have expected this stately, high-souled, devout creature to renounce mankind, remaining true to her deity, secluded, to bask forever in the warm rays of the fiery god she worshipped. Oh, if I could have remembered her always as the Priestess of the Sun! To have renounced the wonderful, mystical being I discovered! I mourned for the beautiful ideal shattered by the woman, though fashioned by a master’s hand the delicate veneer revealed the commonplace at the first test—the idealist’s mist blinds all eyes. And she had done as the whole world of women have ever done—surrendered at the first flash of a pair of handsome eyes and sensitive red lips.
Ah, Alpha! Alpha Centauri!
I mourn for the romance, bah! I have no passion for the woman. I rolled in the cool, green moisture, moaning aloud my misery. Some one attempted sympathy. I sprang up, pushing him aside.
“None of that,” I told them, roughly, “Saunders’s prophecy has come true. I am anxious for departure, the sooner now the better.”
I left them. How could they console me for the beautiful astral thing that had passed out of my soul. I was fond of them; yes, but—what a deadly disgust I felt for all things.
Sheldon followed me and drew my arm within his. He said nothing, but I understood his deep sympathy, far different from that usually extended by those who cruelly select the most inopportune moment for reminder, and all through distaste to witness suffering embarrassingly mouth stupid, meaningless warnings. My unhappiness caused Sheldon sincere pain. I held out for a second, haughty in my misery, then my head dropped to his shoulder as a choking sob escaped me.