The
butterflies were circling still in the patches of yellow sunlight.
At first Terence was certain of his way, but as they walked he became
doubtful. They had to stop to consider, and then to return and start
once more, for although he was certain of the direction of the river he
was not certain of striking the point where they had left the others.
Rachel followed him, stopping where he stopped, turning where he turned,
ignorant of the way, ignorant why he stopped or why he turned.
"I don't want to be late," he said, "because--" He put a flower into her
hand and her fingers closed upon it quietly. "We're so late--so
late--so horribly late," he repeated as if he were talking in his sleep.
"Ah--this is right. We turn here."
They found themselves again in the broad path, like the drive in the
English forest, where they had started when they left the others. They
walked on in silence as people walking in their sleep, and were oddly
conscious now and again of the mass of their bodies. Then Rachel
exclaimed suddenly, "Helen!"
In the sunny space at the edge of the forest they saw Helen still
sitting on the tree-trunk, her dress showing very white in the sun,
with Hirst still propped on his elbow by her side. They stopped
instinctively. At the sight of other people they could not go on. They
stood hand in hand for a minute or two in silence.
Pages:
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399