"Haven't shown it much." He lifted his face from her shoulder.
In the instant before she bent to kiss him, there was a scurry of thoughts through her mind—leaves lifted in a puff of wind: He is contrite about Stella Partridge. He can't say that he is. He thinks I don't know about her. No use in airing that. He is through, and unhappy, and I love him.
"Let's not talk any more to-night," she said. "Lots of days coming to talk in. Spencer is well, and we are here, together."
IX
A square, rimmed in solid black, of something full of distant, colorless clarity. Not quite colorless, since an intense turquoise-blue seemed to move far behind it, like a wave. Catherine stared. She had come awake so suddenly that she could only see that square at first, without knowledge of it. Then, as suddenly, she knew. It was the sky, over the black rim of the opposite wall of the court, with window edges for its frame. Almost morning. What a strange dream, digging, trying to push the spade down through roots of dead grass, while someone kept saying, "Make it larger. That won't hold her." Had Spencer called out? Fully awake, she lifted herself on an elbow. The house was quiet. She could see dimly between her and the window the dark mound of Charles's head on his pillow.
That queer dream. As she lay down again, she had it, in a swift flash of association. The Actinidia vine! Bury an old hen at its roots, she had told Bill. She was digging, for herself. Oh, grotesque!
And yet, before she had slept, she had not thought of herself. She had worked patiently, tenderly, to restore Charles. She could hear him, humble, "You mean that, Cathy? You think this isn't a horrible failure? I couldn't prevent it, could I? After all—" and gradually she had drawn him clear of his forlorn dejection.
The patch of sky grew opaque, white. Morning.
There is no wall between us now, she thought. That is down. Love—tenderness—strength—sweet, fiery, ecstasy—all that he wished. Surely he would, in turn—lift her—into her whole self.
X