Mrs. Latimer looked at the young man steadily, for the first time since his entrance. “No,” she said quietly, “do go.”
“I wonder,” said Marian gaily, “whether Marian is going to have anything to say about it.” But then, before the earnestness of Stacey’s expression, she ceased smiling and led him away.
Upstairs in the library she made him sit down in an easy chair and perched herself on an ottoman at his feet. She was admirably quick in responding to moods and she looked up at Stacey now with a tender gravity. He longed to stretch out his hand and touch her and draw her to him. But he knew that if he did so she would slip away from him to become all motion and fluidity again; so he merely sat and gazed at her fair curly hair, her eyes, her small mouth, and the delicate contour of her cheeks, thinking her like a Tanagra come to life.
“Marian dearest,” he said at last, “I’ve made up my mind about something—all alone, without asking you first, because if I’d asked you I’d have made it up wrong, no matter what you said. Marian, I’m going to the war.”
For just an instant the girl continued to gaze up at him, clearly not taking it in. Then her face flamed with eagerness.
“Oh, Stacey!” she cried, her eyes shining. “Oh, Stacey!”
But Stacey’s heart had all at once grown intolerably heavy with pain.
It is true that the very next instant Marian’s mouth drooped and she cried: “Oh, Stacey!” again in a different lower tone, and suddenly was in the young man’s arms and kissing him tenderly.
But, though Stacey was made dizzy with love, the pain endured. As long as he lived, he felt, he would remember that Marian’s first thought had been that he was going to be a hero; that he was going away from her into that horrid mess across the Atlantic, perhaps to be killed, only her second thought. This perception did not develop into criticism of Marian. Stacey was incapable of criticizing Marian. She was perfect. It was simply a wound—the first the war inflicted on him.
And also he felt dimly that since this morning all the fine clarity of his life had given place to confusion. His reaction to everything was hopelessly different. Throughout the evening Marian was prodigal of her grace, showered him with impulsive expressions of affection; yet, instead of sheer loving delight in her, such things stirred him to physical and mental desire, desire to possess this girl, body and soul. He flushed with shame. He had never felt this way before; or, if he had, he had not known it.