“Of course,” said John again, “I see her point of view, but it’s such a confoundedly quixotic one. It isn’t level; it isn’t sane; it—it won’t work.” And then John frowned fiercely, and gazed glumly before him.
He was sitting in the shadow of a haystack, the afternoon being intensely hot. The sleepy air was curiously still. Had John not been entirely engrossed in his own reflections, it is possible he might have read something ominous in this stillness. It is certain that he would have done so had he looked past the haystack behind him, and seen the purple-black clouds gradually massing up on the distant horizon. Before him, however, all was serene, sunny, and drowsy; therefore he continued to dream.
His thoughts leaving, for a time at least, a subject at once unfruitful and irritating, they rambled over the incidents of the last few days. Undercurrently, as a kind of connecting link to the scattered beads of incident, was a half-wondering reflection on the inscrutable leadings of Fate, Providence,—call it what you will. And if it wasn’t Fate which had led him here, it was Providence, and if it was Providence there was no gainsaying the plan, and so—and so— He broke off.
Oh, he’d follow up the leading fast enough. It was his one whole and sole desire. Hadn’t he had this desire for months past? Hadn’t it been his one dream since five minutes to four precisely one windy March afternoon? He’d follow hot afoot fast enough. The whole question was, Would she come the merest fraction of a step towards him? Would she even pause to await his coming? Or would he come to the end of the pathway to find that she had eluded him,—a locked gate the end of his quest? And there must be no stumbling, no clumsy blundering on that pathway. Despite his desire for swiftness, he must walk warily. And then his thoughts came to a halt, overcome, I fancy, by some suspicion of their presumption. For a moment he staggered mentally, yet but for a moment. Courage called high-handed to his heart. “On, man, and take the risk,” she cried. “Cowardice and false modesty never yet led to a fair goal.”
Now his thoughts went back slowly step by step, dwelling with interest on each little incident that had brought him to his present vantage point. It being a vantage point, this method of thought had its fascination. It was pleasant enough to give mental fingering to each little bead of incident, to marvel at their connection with each other. Truly there are times when such a process brings pain, when each bead will hold a tiny poisoned prick. But why think of such times? To John, each bead was carved in happiness.
And then, suddenly, he was aware that the physical sunshine around him had dimmed. Glancing upwards he saw the edge of a dark cloud. He got to his feet and came out from the shelter of the haystack.
Rolling up from the westward, thunderous, leaden, were great massive clouds. The air below was extraordinarily still; he was aware now of something electric in its stillness. Overhead there was unquestionably wind, since the clouds rolled up and spread with rapidity.
“We’re in for a deluge,” said John, making for the high road.
It led downhill, straight, dusty, and very white, flanked on either side by high hedges, dust-sprinkled. John made his way down it at a fine pace. A thin flannel suit would be poor enough protection against the torrent that was at hand.
Nearing the bottom of the hill, he heard the sharp ting of a bicycle bell behind him. The next instant the bicycle and its rider flashed past.