She laughed. That was better. It broke the heavy brooding in him that had brought him to such suspense.
The evening air chilled them, and they walked home under the stars. She clung to him and sang ditties of love and trysts and sentimental disasters. When they reached their sitting-room she came to him and placed her hand under his chin, pressed his lips with her forefinger, and then kissed him. Then she left him.
In the early hours of the morning he was out on the seashore, wandering aimlessly, nervously, dejectedly. Every now and then he threw up his head and took in a great draught of the keen morning air blowing in from the sea. That invigorated, cleansed him. Suddenly he crouched on the sands and hid his face in his hands, and cried within himself:
“I can’t go on. I can’t go back. Oh, Love, my love.”
He had counted on her to open up new wonders and sweet joys, and together they had attained nothing but heat and hunger and distress.
[XI
MATRIMONY]
Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An’ let poor damned bodies be:
I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie