‘You’re just about done in,’ he said. ‘It’s natural.’
Again he placed his hand on Mary’s arm, hoping to soothe her and to persuade. She gave a strange shudder, as though his fingers had been ice, and burst into tears, covering her face with her hands.
He comforted her clumsily, talking to her as he would have done to a child, until she no longer shrank from him, being too weak to care. Then she took hold of his coat and clung to him, still sobbing her heart away. She was broken . . . quite broken.
The moment was terrible for Abner. He felt his heart leap so wildly that he knew she must be conscious of its thudding. The movement of her body, shaken with sobs, against his own, filled him not with pity but with exultation. There was no woman like her in the world. He knew it. Hadn’t he known it long enough? If he told himself the truth he must admit that for months he had never wanted any other woman. The desires that had hungered him the night before, walking beneath her window and in the moonlit lane, returned to him in waves of greater force. He laughed to think that, being so near to her, he should ever have given a thought to Susie Hind. Now she was in his arms. His hands caressed her beauty. How should he touch her body without passion? And why? Surely she could feel the blood beating in his fingers, even if she told herself that he was only trying to comfort her. No one could see them there . . . no one except the two children, crying softly together because they heard their mother crying. Why shouldn’t he gather her in his arms, overwhelming her with kisses? He could see nothing but her lips. . . .
But when he strained her to him she stopped sobbing and pushed him away. It was now dark but for the light of the moon hidden above the mist, and he could only see the paleness of her face. Her ghost spoke to him.
‘I’ve lost my handkerchief,’ she said simply.
He gave her his own, and she thanked him.
‘I don’t know what I’ve been saying,’ she whispered. ‘I think I must have been mad, Abner. Please forget it.’
He would have helped her to her feet, but her muscles would not respond to the brain’s message. She gave a weak laugh. Now she did not mind being weak. She looked at him helplessly.
‘I can’t go another step,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t. Perhaps, if you left us here, you might find if there’s a house near. I’ll look after these poor lambs. We can keep warm close together.’