He turned to Riska, who had played life’s game so recklessly, plunging off the raft of maidenhood, swimming and drifting on chance-found dÃÆébris to the land of maternity, about which her mother was always talking.
In searching Riska’s face he found Jehane’s dreamings come true—self-fulfilment and mastery. Sacrifice, by the road of sin, had accomplished them. He recollected how he had said of her, “Ripe fruit—ready to fall to the ground.” He smiled wisely, remembering his own unwisdom.
CHAPTER XLVIII—AND GLORY
H e was late. It didn’t matter; no one had been warned of his coming.
He punted down the last stretch of river. It had been Peterish, yet appropriate of him to choose this means of travel. He had arrived in Henley that morning. Had he gone by road, he could have been at The Winged Thrush for lunch. Now, full behind him, spying beneath the bent arm of a willow stooped the setting sun.
All day he had had the sense of things watching—memories, associations of the past, hopes and dreads which had lost their power to help or harm him. A new hope had become his companion; he gazed back, taking a farewell glance at the old affections.
As he stole down the streak of silver, through ash-gray autumn meadows, he had many thoughts. Cherry and the last time he had made that journey! The Faun Man and himself—the way in which men mistake their love! Withered reeds rustled with the motion of his passing. Fallen leaves, scarlet and brown and yellow, starred the water’s surface. Thrusting himself forward, he sang and hummed,
“I’ve been shipwrecked off Patagonia,