Ellen lay down and pushed the pillow away and turned over on her face, her cheek on her arm. Her heart throbbed, her cheek was flushed. The strange journey, Stephen's eyes, his long, slim hand, the touch of his arm against hers as she stepped to her place beside him, the darkness, the swift, unbroken pace, once a deep breath—all passed through her mind. She did not think coherently; she merely recalled each detail with nervous excitement.
Stephen wheeled his bed to the bay-window from which he could look out upon the river. Sleep was far from him. It was many years since he had thought of Hilda with tenderness, but he thought of her tenderly now. After a while he rose and went across to her rooms and sat down. The low moon illuminated some of the luxurious furnishings and cast others into shadow. He sat motionless, recalling the early days of his devotion, the hours of dreaming before Edward Levis's meager fire, Hilda's advances, his shy response, his rapture.
Then other recollections thronged, and face and heart burned. He rose quickly. He would not think of her unkindly in this house, nor in this hour, now that she was gone. No blame could be imputed to her; she was a creature unfinished, spoiled, ill. He wished that he had been as patient in his heart as he had been unfailingly kind in his behavior. Now she was gone, she could trouble him no more, harass him no more, embarrass, shame, terrify him no more. He went to his bed and to sleep.
CHAPTER XXIV
AN UNHAPPY SCHOLAR
No sooner had Amos let Ellen go away from him than he regretted his foolishness. He might as well have walked back with her to the house where she lived and thus have been much longer in the half-paradise, half-purgatory of her company. He did not cross to the next street as he had intended, but walked rapidly after her.
The sun was setting and the river was bathed in golden light. Over all lay a spell broken only by bird-songs. Men and women walked slowly; a succession of lovers wandered arm-in-arm; automobiles moved quietly; and occasionally a pair of horses trotted briskly by, drawing a mistress who clung, for this hour at least, to the vehicle of an older time. But Amos saw neither the river nor the pedestrians nor heard the bird-songs; his eyes were fixed ahead searching for a figure which had already vanished.
When he reached Ellen's habitation a sheltering twilight had fallen and he sat down on a bench in the park. He saw lights shine here and there and he thought that she might be lighting them, though his idea of her duties was still vague. After a while he hid his face in his hands. The ways of the world, the quickening of the pulse as night drew on, the intercourse of delicate, silken-clad women and predatory men, the prospect of fond assignations, the eluding of watchful wives and guardians—it was the world of Evelyn Innes and Anna Karenina in which Ellen was moving, though only a narrow space of street and wall divided her from him. He felt that he should go mad.
Presently he saw that a car had glided into place before the Lanfair house. The door opened and let out a soft glow and at once a tall man and a short woman came down the steps and drove away. The man helped his companion into the car with careful solicitude—it was, except for one, the last drive which Stephen and Hilda were to have together. Amos saw himself and Ellen going thus happily.