“Do you like it?” he asked. He had seated himself with a sigh of contentment. His outstretched arms lay along the back of the settee, and he was looking at her eagerly.
Yes, she said, it was nice.... “It is strange that he should be thinking of the view just now,” she was saying to herself. A painful turmoil raged within her; but outwardly she was so calm that Harboro was puzzled. To him, too, that view became a negative thing for the moment. “I suspect that house down under the mesquite-tree was a bit shabby,” he was thinking. “She’s oppressed by so many new things.” He gave her time to find her bearings. That was a thing she would do better by being left alone.
And out of the chaos in Sylvia’s mind there came the clear realization that Harboro was not living for the moment, but that he was looking forward, planning for a lifetime, and not for a swift, passing storm of passion. There was something static in his nature; there was a stability in the house he had provided and furnished. Her experiences with him were not to be like a flame: sanctioned, yet in all other respects like other experiences she had had in the past.
The silence between them had become uncomfortable—inappropriate; and Harboro put a gentle arm about her and drew her closer to him. “Sit down by me,” he said.
He was dismayed by the result of that persuasive movement. The hand he had taken into his trembled, and she would not yield to the pressure of his arm. She hung her head as if desolate memories were crowding between him and her, and he saw that moisture glistened in her eyes.
“Eh?” he inquired huskily, “you’re not afraid of me?”
She allowed him to draw her closer, and he felt the negative movement of her head as it lay on his shoulder; but he knew that she was afraid, though he did not gauge the quality of her fear. “You mustn’t be afraid, you know.” He continued the pressure of his arm until she seemed to relax wholly against him. He felt a delicious sense of conquest over her by sympathy and gentleness. He was eager for that moment to pass, though he held it precious and knew that it would never return again. Then he felt her body tremble as it lay against his.
“That won’t do!” he chided gently. “Look!” He stood her on her feet before him, and took her arms at the elbows, pinioning them carefully to her sides. Then he slowly lifted her above him, so that he had to raise his face to look into hers. The act was performed as if it were a rite.
“You mean ... I am helpless?” She checked the manifestation of grief as abruptly as a child does when its mind has been swiftly diverted.
“God bless me, no! I mean anything but that. That’s just what I don’t mean. I mean that you’re to have all the help you want—that you’re to look to me for your strength, that you are to put your burdens on me.” He placed her on the seat beside him and took one of her hands in both his. “There, now, we’ll talk. You see, we’re one, you and I. That isn’t just a saying of the preachers. It’s a fact. I couldn’t harm you without harming myself. Don’t you see that? Nobody could harm you without harming me, too.”