Angela was also watching Martin. The pastor put his hand on her shoulder; she started.
“He terrifies me; I am afraid of him.” She threw herself sobbing into the old man’s arms.
19
The pale women were coming up from the Springs, where they drank the arsenic water with a prayer for red corpuscles, strength, beauty. The Spring of Youth was in a cleft in the mountain—a dark mysterious fountain of gushing water unlit by the sun.
Martin paced his room in the hotel. She was there, arrived two weeks before; the cure was nearly over. The madness came back now; he had been free of it for a few hours. It was like the relapse of a fever, violent—vicious—raging. He had waited too long for her with stupid patience, and more stupid scruples. He heard Julie’s voice downstairs; he went to the window. She was standing on the terrace talking to Miss Mary, who was leaving. She kissed Julie, jumped into the hotel omnibus, and drove off. Julie stood a moment waving her hand, then turned and entered the house. He heard her voice outside in the corridor speaking to the maid. The next door opened; her room adjoined his.
The Sun-God sinking slowly behind the mountain scattered an orgy of color. Julie stepped out on her balcony. There was a low railing between them. He jumped over.
“Julie!”
She started with sudden fear, fled into the room. He followed, tried to say something, stood speechless looking at her. She was wonderful. The force of the rich blood surging under the white skin swept him like a cyclone. There was a new intensity of life in her, quick flashes of passion in her eyes. She gave a low cry, threw her arms out trembling with uncontrollable joy.
“You! You!” She kissed him again and again. How she kissed him! then drew him outside.