She did not return to the house. A week of clear weather had ended; there was a lowering sky and a cold damp wind which gave warning that bad weather was at hand. She walked a long distance on the soft country road, and then struck across the fields, meaning to return through the woods which seemed to promise temporary peace of mind. She was aware as she approached her favorite seat that it was occupied and she was irritated when she recognized the occupant. Amos was young and strong, yet he was content to live in the past, to earn a pittance, never to see the world or to advance.
But before the ravaged face which he lifted, no one could long be angry. He seemed to have lost many pounds which he could ill spare; his clothes were too large, his hair was much too long, and he wore to Ellen's startled gaze a look so unworldly as to be almost imbecile. Her heart pitied him, while her mind was filled with a sharp repulsion.
Poor Amos's horror of the world as he found it in "Bertha Garlan" and "Evelyn Innes" had changed to an unspeakably shocking desire to know still more about it. The temptation was of the devil—that he well knew—and he was resisting it with all the strength that was in him. He was tempted, not to go into the world, but to take more of it into the Kloster in the form of books, to read and read and thus lose himself and forget his self-reproach, his despair, and a new and wild desire.
When Ellen spoke he stared like a man in hiding come upon by the enemy. Her brisk walk had made her cheeks glow, and her commiseration for Amos gave a deeper color to her eyes. Like Millie she breathed youth and freshness, but she had in place of Millie's empty beauty an eager vitality of mind and body. You could be with Millie and forget her—you could never forget Ellen. Her spirit had been for a while in eclipse, but it could not continue thus. Amos could not analyze her charm, but he felt its least emanation.
"I haven't seen you for a long time. Aren't you well?"
"Yes," he answered faintly.
"And Grandfather?"
Amos seemed not to have heard. He rose abruptly and approached Ellen, his hands clasped before him, his body trembling. His cheek-bones seemed to press against the skin, his gray eyes to have turned black. He saw not a helpless creature who needed his succor, but a gleaming light in darkness, a refuge in deep trouble, a rock to which he could cling.
"I've been thinking so much about you, Ellen, and I've been trying to help you. I thought once I would ask Uncle to let you go away. But I can't make my conscience agree to such a plan. I can't for a good reason." He laid his hand across his eyes. At this moment the world had become wholly unattractive; it offered no invitation to further acquaintance; he saw headless figures, heard men offering illicit love. "But I could take you away from where you are, Ellen."
"How?" asked Ellen stupidly.