It was sorely against her will to go forth, yet desire called to her from the sunlit ways. Slowly down the stairs, slowly to the end of Walnut Tree Walk.
Look at that white billow of cloud on its fathomless ocean! Even now there were clouds like that high up over Eastbourne. One such had hung above her as she drove with Mrs. Ormonde up Beachy Head. At this moment the sea was singing; this breeze, which swept the path of May, made foam flash upon the pebbled shore. Sky and water met on that line of mystery; far away and beyond was the coast of France.
More quickly now. Whither was she tending? She had at first kept southwards, straight along Kennington Road; now she had crossed, and was turning into a street which might—only might—conduct her round into Brook Street. Desire was in her feet; she could no longer check them; she must hasten on whithersoever they led.
Oh, why had she left the house! Why had Mrs. Grail—a cruel mother—bidden her go forth when her will was to stay, and work, and forget! Could she not stop, even now, and turn?
She stopped. Was it likely that he would be there this morning? No, not very likely. He would finish all the books yesterday. Yet others might have been brought.
If he would give her one long look—the look for which she fainted—then that should be the end. That should be the very end. She would not play with danger after that. For now she knew that it was danger; that thought of Lyddy had made everything terribly clear. He would never know anything of what had been in her foolish heart, and it would cost him nothing to look once at her with a rich, kind look. He was all kindness. He had done, was doing, things such as no other man in his position ever thought of. She would like to tell him the immeasurable worship with which his nobleness inspired her; but the right words would never come to her, and the wrong would be so near her lips. No, one look for him, and therewith an end.
The library was within sight; she had walked very quickly. If he should not be there! Her hand was on the door; the bitterness of it if the door proved to be locked.
It was open. She was in the little entrance hall. At the door of the library itself she stood listening.
Was that a sound of someone within? No, only the beat of her own heart, the throb which seemed as if it must kill her. She could not open the door! She had not the strength to stand. The pain, the pain!
Yet she had turned the handle, and had entered. He was in the act of placing volumes on the shelves. She moved forward and he looked round.