That was the way with Johannes, in the pretty villa of Countess Dolores.
He stayed on, week after week, month after month, writing nothing to Holland, nor to Aunt Seréna—nothing to his Brother, nor to Marjon, either because of he knew not what, or because he was ashamed.
One thought alone prevailed over all others; what would she say when he should have another talk with Countess Dolores, and what should he reply? Would she stroke his hair, or even press a kiss upon it, as once she had done—the same as with her two little daughters?
Perhaps you have never yet been in love. If you never have, you cannot know what all this means. But it is not a slight matter, and there is nothing in it to rail about.
Johannes himself did not quite know what had happened. He only felt that never yet in his life had anything so perplexing and distressing come to him.
It was so wonderful, too. It gave him pain—sharp pain—and yet it was sweet to him, and he welcomed it. It caused him anguish and anxiety, and yet he would not run away from it. It was so contradictory—so confounding!
One sultry, stormy evening he took a lonely walk over the cliffs, and followed a narrow path lying close to the grey steeps at the foot of which the breakers were pounding.
He saw the sun go down behind great masses of clouds, just as he had formerly done. But now how different it was! How cold and strange it seemed! He felt left out. Life—cruel, human life—with its passions and entanglements, now had him in its grasp.
It seemed agonizing and frightful, as if a great monster had pursued him to the shore of the sea, and were still close behind. And now Nature had become strange and inhospitable.
He stretched out his hand, and cried to the clouds: