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weeds and slime； a desperate agony of groping in that pitchy
blackness； among tree…stumps； in dead water that seemed to have no
bottomhe and that other； who had leaped at them in the dark with
his boat； like a murdering beast； a nightmare search more horrible
than words could tell； till in a patch of moonlight on the bank
they laid her； who for all their efforts never stirred。 。 。 。
There she lay all white； and they two crouched at her head and
feetlike dark creatures of the woods and waters over that which
with their hunting they had slain。
How long they stayed there； not once looking at each other； not
once speaking； not once ceasing to touch with their hands that dead
thinghe never knew。 How long in the summer night； with its
moonlight and its shadows quivering round them； and the night wind
talking in the reeds！
And then the most enduring of all sentient things had moved in him
again； so that he once more felt。 。 。 。 Never again to see those
eyes that had loved him with their light！ Never again to kiss her
lips！ Frozenlike moonlight to the earth； with the flower still
clinging at her breast。 Thrown out on the bank like a plucked
water…lily！ Dead？ No； no！ Not dead！ Alive in the nightalive
to himsomewhere！ Not on this dim bank； in this hideous
backwater； with that dark dumb creature who had destroyed her！ Out
there on the riverin the wood of their happinesssomewhere
alive！ 。 。 。 And； staggering up past Cramier； who never moved； he
got into his boat； and like one demented pulled out into the
stream。
But once there in the tide； he fell huddled forward； motionless
above his oars。 。 。 。
And the moonlight flooded his dark skiff drifting down。 And the
moonlight effaced the ripples on the water that had stolen away her
spirit。 Her spirit mingled now with the white beauty and the
shadows； for ever part of the stillness and the passion of a summer
night； hovering； floating； listening to the rustle of the reeds；
and the whispering of the woods； one with the endless dreamthat
spirit passing out； as all might wish to pass； in the hour of
happiness。
PART III
AUTUMN
I
When on that November night Lennan stole to the open door of his
dressing…room； and stood watching his wife asleep； Fate still
waited for an answer。
A low fire was burningone of those fires that throw faint shadows
everywhere； and once and again glow so that some object shines for
a moment； some shape is clearly seen。 The curtains were not quite
drawn； and a plane…tree branch with leaves still hanging； which had
kept them company all the fifteen years they had lived there； was
moving darkly in the wind； now touching the glass with a frail tap；
as though asking of him； who had been roaming in that wind so many
hours； to let it in。 Unfailing comradesLondon plane…trees！
He had not dared hope that Sylvia would be asleep。 It was merciful
that she was； whichever way the issue wentthat issue so cruel。
Her face was turned towards the fire； and one hand rested beneath
her cheek。 So she often slept。 Even when life seemed all at sea；
its landmarks lost； one still did what was customary。 Poor tender…
hearted thingshe had not slept since he told her； forty…eight
hours； that seemed such years； ago！ With her flaxen hair； and her
touching candour； even in sleep； she looked like a girl lying
there； not so greatly changed from what she had been that summer of
Cicely's marriage down at Hayle。 Her face had not grown old in all
those twenty…eight years。 There had been till now no special
reason why it should。 Thought； strong feeling； suffering； those
were what changed faces； Sylvia had never thought very deeply；
never suffered much； till now。 And was it for him； who had been
careful of hervery careful on the whole； despite man's
selfishness； despite her never having understood the depths of him
was it for him of all people to hurt her so； to stamp her face
with sorrow； perhaps destroy her utterly？
He crept a little farther in and sat down in the arm…chair beyond
the fire。 What memories a fire gathered into it； with its flaky
ashes； its little leaf…like flames； and that quiet glow and
flicker！ What tale of passions！ How like to a fire was a man's
heart！ The first young fitful leapings； the sudden； fierce；
mastering heat； the long； steady sober burning； and thenthat last
flaming…up； that clutch back at its own vanished youth； the final
eager flight of flame； before the ashes wintered it to nothing！
Visions and memories he saw down in the fire； as only can be seen
when a man's heart； by the agony of long struggle； has been
stripped of skin； and quivers at every touch。 Love！ A strange
haphazard thing was loveso spun between ecstacy and torture！ A
thing insidious； irresponsible； desperate。 A flying sweetness；
more poignant than anything on earth； more dark in origin and
destiny。 A thing without reason or coherence。 A man's love…life
what say had he in the ebb and flow of it？ No more than in the
flights of autumn birds； swooping down； alighting here and there；
passing on。 The loves one left behindeven in a life by no means
vagabond in love； as men's lives went！ The love that thought the
Tyrol skies would fall if he were not first with a certain lady。
The love whose star had caught in the hair of Sylvia； now lying
there asleep。 A so…called lovethat half…glamorous； yet sordid
little meal of pleasure； which youth； however sensitive； must eat；
it seems； some time or other with some young light of lovea
glimpse of life that beforehand had seemed much and had meant
little； save to leave him disillusioned with himself and sorry for
his partner。 And then the love that he could not； even after
twenty years； bear to remember； that all…devouring summer passion；
which in one night had gained all and lost all terribly； leaving on
his soul a scar that could never be quite healed； leaving his
spirit always a little lonely； haunted by the sense of what might
have been。 Of his share in that night of tragedythat 'terrible
accident on the river'no one had ever dreamed。 And then the long
despair which had seemed the last death of love had slowly passed；
and yet another love had been bornor rather born again； pale；
sober； but quite real； the fresh springing…up of a feeling long
forgotten； of that protective devotion of his boyhood。 He still
remembered the expression on Sylvia's face when he passed her by
chance in Oxford Street； soon after he came back from his four
years of exile in the East and Romethat look； eager； yet
reproachful； then stoically ironic； as if saying： 'Oh； no！ after
forgetting me four years and moreyou can't remember me now！' And
when he spoke； the still more touching pleasure in her face。 Then
uncertain months； with a feeling of what the end would be； and then
their marriage。 Happy enoughgentle； not very vivid； nor
spiritually very intimatehis work always secretly as remote from
her as when she had thought to please him by putting jessamine
stars on the heads of his beasts。 A quiet successful union； not
meaning； he had thought； so very much to him nor so very much to
heruntil forty…eight hours ago he told her； and