CHAPTER XIV
Marcella hurried to her field of Philippi that day. She went up to the station to meet Louis at half-past eleven in alternating moods of trembling softness and militancy, softness to welcome him, belligerency for Ole Fred and the gang, and strange gusts of helpless, blazing, hungry joy at the thought of getting him away from them, all to herself. Almost she wished she could snatch him from life itself. As the train came in she caught sight of him, laughing foolishly, dirty and dishevelled from the long journey. She ran down the clanging platform on feet of wind to meet him. He tumbled out of the carriage with half a dozen draggled men after him.
"Oh—my dear," she cried, clinging to his hand, her face flushed, her eyes shining.
He stared, his eyes glassy and pale, almost startled.
"Hello, ole girl," he stammered. "G—g—good of you to mm—mm—meet me."
He stood awkwardly, undecided, the others edging round him.
"Louis, you'll never guess how awful it's been without you! I know what you meant, now, about not being able to do without each other—Uncle gave me the money—let's get away and talk—" The words all tumbled out breathlessly.
He gazed at her again, as though he scarcely knew her.
"These chaps have been awfully good to me," he said thickly. "We must—must—s-say good-bye. They s-sail for New Zealand this—safternoon."