He could not banish the thought that this might be the last time.
III
The gray desolation of a March afternoon brooded out over the wide meadows, out over the dim woods beyond, and still on to the half-visible hills in the distance, where it merged itself imperceptibly into a low, lead-colored sky. Though the rain was not falling, everything dripped with the damp. In front of the Waring farmhouse the road, wallowing with fat mud, stretched off in a dirty streak under the glistening limbs of the maples. The door of the house opened and David came out. His mother followed him anxiously.
"David, I hope it isn't bad news," she asked, laying her hand lightly on his shoulder. "Can't you tell me about it?"
"Not now, mother. It's nothing very unexpected; I'll tell you later, but I'd rather wait a little while." He pushed open the gate and stepped out into the road, his heavy boots sinking in to half their height.
The mother watched him with strained attention as he set off towards the barn. There was a sort of savage aimlessness in his gait. His shoulders were bent forward, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and he looked neither to the one side nor the other of the road. At the barnyard gate he seemed to hesitate a second, then turned in, and the small, gray-haired woman on the step sighed and went back into the house.
David strode deliberately through the yard and out of the gate on the other side—the one that opened on the sloping meadow behind the barn. Not a living thing was in sight. A chill, white fog had slowly settled over the land, obliterating outline and color, toning everything down to a monotonous sameness of appearance—a flat, unrelieved vacancy. David walked on mechanically, unmindful of any destination or definite purpose; a dumb bitterness wrung his heart, and, in comparison with that, all that was external and objective seemed unaccountable. Involuntarily he thrust his hand into his coat and drew out a letter. He had read it twice already.
* * * * *
"My dear David,—I hardly know how I am to tell you what I know I must tell you—and if not now, certainly before many more weeks pass. Let me admit then first of all that you were right in your anticipation of what college life would do for me. It has changed my ways of looking at things more than I can tell you, and things that once seemed very beautiful to me are so no longer. This was inevitable and we need not regret it, for I know that the aggregate enjoyment of life has been increased, at least potentially. You may know that your brother Loren spent part of his Christmas vacation here, and he has just been here again for a flying visit. Need I tell you the result, David? I think you foresaw it long ago, and I cannot of course feel sad that things have come about in this way, though I realize that for a time, at least, it may be hard for you to understand it. But there are many interests we have in common, he and I; I know that you will see sometime that we were made for each other and that you will be happy with us in our great happiness.
"I doubt whether this news will much surprise you, for I know, from the tenor of your latest letters, you have noticed a change and have been suspicious of the truth…."