He would stand before her at his worst—all weakness and commonness of the man, Bellair, open before her. Perhaps she would see his love because of that, but he would not be able to tell her. Never could he ask for her. If it were made known, it would not be through words. It could only come from him in a kind of delirium. He must be carried away, a passion must take him out of self. Very far he seemed from passion; rather this was like a child in his heart, with gifts, deep and changeless, but inarticulate, as a child is. It had been long in coming, quietly fulfilling itself, and this was the rising.
... The last car was gone, but he found a carriage—an open carriage, a slow horse, a cool and starry night. The city was growing silent, the edges darkened. There were high trees, a homing touch about them after the sea, and a glimpse of the harbour to the left. Bellair had not even a bag with him. He would take off his hat for a way, and then put it on again. Sometimes he would let his ungloved hand hang overside, as one would do in a small boat. There was a leathery smell from the seat of the carriage, with a bit of stable flavour, that would get into a man’s clothes if he stayed long enough. It was dusty, too, something like a tight room full of old leather-bound books.
The horse plumped along, a little lurch forward at every fourth beat. Hunched and wrapped, the driver sat, and extraordinarily still—a man used to sitting, who gave himself utterly to it, a most spineless and sunken manner. Every little while he coughed, and every little while he spat.... Once they passed a motor-car—two men and a girl laughing between them; then the interurban trolley going back—the car he had missed. His heart thumped. It was the same car that he had known, the same tracks, no upheaval of the earth here so far.
Meanwhile, Bellair was rounding the Horn in the Jade; they struck rock or derelict, were lost for ages in an open boat; they came to Auckland and found a little stone house on the bluff, paused there....
He was away at sea again, from Auckland to ’Frisco, across the States, to Brandt’s, to Pastern’s, to Lot & Company’s and the tenements, to the Castle and the Landlady’s House; then trains and the long southern sweep of the Suwarrow, down the great sea again to this ... plumping along on the high, rocky shore. The brine came up to him, almost as from the open boat. His eyes smarted, his throat was dry, and the driver coughed.
Bellair had paper money in his hand. He meant to look at it under the carriage-light, when he stepped forth near the Gate. He leaned forward and touched the great coat.
“Whoa,” said the man, loud enough to rouse the seven sleepers, and the horse came up with a teeter.
“Don’t stop,” said Bellair. “It’s a little ahead yet. I’ll tell you when to stop.... Yes, let him walk——”
Now, Bellair surveyed what he had said. He was like that, just about as coherent as that. The whoa had shaken him empty for the most part.... He would not know what to say to her. He would sit or stand like a fool and grin.... But she was great-hearted. She would help him.... Awe and silence crept into him again.
“Now, pull up——”