Produced by Suzanne Shell, Beginners Projects, Mary Meehan and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team
1920
Every kind and beautiful thing on earth has been made so by somecruelty.
Saying of the Romantic
They turned again at the end of the platform.
The tail of her long, averted stare was conscious of him, of his big,tweed-suited body and its behaviour, squaring and swelling and tighteningin its dignity, of its heavy swing to her shoulder as they turned.
She could stave off the worst by not looking at him, by looking at otherthings, impersonal, innocent things; the bright, yellow, sharp gabledstation; the black girders of the bridge; the white signal post beside itholding out a stiff, black-banded arm; the two rails curving there, withthe flat white glitter and sweep of scythes; pointed blades comingtogether, buried in the bend of the cutting.
Small three-cornered fields, clean edged like the pieces of a puzzle, redbrown and pure bright green, dovetailed under the high black bar of thebridge. She supposed you could paint that.
Turn.
Clear stillness after the rain. She caught herself smiling at the noiseher boots made clanking on the tiles with the harsh, joyous candour thathe hated. He walked noiselessly, with a jerk of bluff knickerbockeredhips, raising himself on his toes like a cat.
She could see him moving about in her room, like that, in the halfdarkness, feeling for his things, with shamed, helpless gestures. Shecould see him tiptoeing down her staircase, furtive, afraid. Alwaysafraid they would be found out.
That would have ruined him.
Oh well—why should he have ruined himself for her? Why? But she hadwanted, wanted to ruin herself for him, to stand, superb and reckless,facing the world with him. If that could have been the way of it.
Turn.
That road over the hill—under the yellow painted canopy sticking outfrom the goods station—it would be the Cirencester road, the Fosse Way.She would tramp along it when he was gone.
Turn.
He must have seen her looking at the clock. Three minutes more.
Suddenly, round the bend, under the bridge, the train.
He was carrying it off fairly well, with his tight red face and his stareover her head when she looked at him, his straight smile when she said"Good-bye and Good-luck!"
And her silly hand clutching the window ledge. She let go, quick, afraidhe would turn sentimental at the end. But no; he was settling downheavily in his corner, blinking and puffing over his cigar.
That was her knapsack lying on the seat there. She picked it up and slungit over her shoulder.
Cirencester? Or back to Stow-on-the-Wold? If only he hadn't come therelast night. If only he had let her alone.
She meditated. She would have to wire to Gwinnie Denning to meet her atCirencester. She wo