He could not sleep, it was impossible. For nearly two hours he lay
turning from side to side, and thinking till his brain seemed like to
burst. To-morrow he must leave her, leave her for ever, and go back to
his coarse unprofitable struggle with the world, where there would be no
Beatrice to make him happy through it all. And she, what of her?
The storm had lulled a little, now it came back in strength, heralded
by the lightning. He rose, threw on a dressing-gown, and sat by a window
watching it. Its tumult and fury seemed to ease his heart of some little
of its pain; in that dark hour a quiet night would have maddened him.
In eight hours--eight short hours--this matter would be ended so far as
concerned their actual intercourse. It would be a secret locked for ever
in their two breasts, a secret eating at their hearts, cruel as the worm
that dieth not. Geoffrey looked up and threw out his heart's thought
towards his sleeping love. Then once more, as in a bygone night, there
broke upon his brain and being that mysterious spiritual sense. Stronger
and more strong it grew, beating on him in heavy unnatural waves,
till his reason seemed to reel and sink, and he remembered naught but
Beatrice, knew naught save that her very life was with him now.
Pages:
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374