the dark flower-第9章
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gone up that mountain！
〃Cheer up！ You will break your neck yet！ When I was your age； I
remember feeling it deeply that I was not allowed to risk the lives
of others。〃
Lennan stammered out：
〃I didn't think of that； but I thought where Mrs。 Stormer could go；
I could。〃
〃Ah！ For all our admiration we cannot quite admitcan we； when it
comes to the point？〃
The boy's loyalty broke into flame：
〃It's not that。 I think Mrs。 Stormer as good as any manonly
only〃
〃Not quite so good as you； eh？〃
〃A hundred times better； sir。〃
Stormer smiled。 Ironic beast！
〃Lennan；〃 he said； 〃distrust hyperbole。〃
〃Of course； I know I'm no good at climbing；〃 the boy broke out
again； 〃butbutI thought where she was allowed to risk her life；
I ought to be！〃
〃Good！ I like that。〃 It was said so entirely without irony for
once； that the boy was disconcerted。
〃You are young； Brother Lennan；〃 his tutor went on。 〃Now； at what
age do you consider men develop discretion？ Because； there is just
one thing always worth rememberingwomen have none of that better
part of valour。〃
〃I think women are the best things in the world；〃 the boy blurted
out。
〃May you long have that opinion！〃 His tutor had risen； and was
ironically surveying his knees。 〃A bit stiff！〃 he said。 〃Let me
know when you change your views！〃
〃I never shall； sir。〃
〃Ah； ah！ Never is a long word； Lennan。 I am going to have some
tea；〃 and gingerly he walked away； quizzing； as it were； with a
smile； his own stiffness。
Lennan remained where he was； with burning cheeks。 His tutor's
words again had seemed directed against her。 How could a man say
such things about women！ If they were true； he did not want to
know； if they were not true； it was wicked to say them。 It must be
awful never to have generous feelings； always to have to be
satirical。 Dreadful to be like the 'English Grundys'； only
different； of course； because； after all； old Stormer was much more
interesting and intelligentever so much more； only； just as
'superior。' 〃Some never get away！〃 Had she meantfrom that
superiority？ Just down below were a family of peasants scything
and gathering in the grass。 One could imagine her doing that； and
looking beautiful； with a coloured handkerchief over her head； one
could imagine her doing anything simpleone could not imagine old
Stormer doing anything but what he did do。 And suddenly the boy
felt miserable； oppressed by these dim glimmerings of lives
misplaced。 And he resolved that he would not be like Stormer when
he was old！ No； he would rather be a regular beast than be like
that！ 。 。 。
When he went to his room to change for dinner he saw in a glass of
water a large clove carnation。 Who had put it there？ Who could
have put it therebut she？ It had the same scent as the mountain
pinks she had dropped over him； but deeper； richera scent moving；
dark； and sweet。 He put his lips to it before he pinned it into
his coat。
There was dancing again that nightmore couples this time； and a
violin beside the piano； and she had on a black frock。 He had
never seen her in black。 Her face and neck were powdered over
their sunburn。 The first sight of that powder gave him a faint
shock。 He had not somehow thought that ladies ever put on powder。
But if SHE didthen it must be right！ And his eyes never left
her。 He saw the young German violinist hovering round her； even
dancing with her twice； watched her dancing with others； but all
without jealousy； without troubling； all in a sort of dream。 What
was it？ Had he been bewitched into that queer state； bewitched by
the gift of that flower in his coat？ What was it； when he danced
with her； that kept him happy in her silence and his own？ There
was no expectation in him of anything that she would say； or dono
expectation； no desire。 Even when he wandered out with her on to
the terrace； even when they went down the bank and sat on a bench
above the fields where the peasants had been scything； he had still
no feeling but that quiet； dreamy adoration。 The night was black
and dreamy too； for the moon was still well down behind the
mountains。 The little band was playing the next waltz； but he sat；
not moving； not thinking； as if all power of action and thought had
been stolen out of him。 And the scent of the flower in his coat
rose； for there was no wind。 Suddenly his heart stopped beating。
She had leaned against him； he felt her shoulder press his arm； her
hair touch his cheek。 He closed his eyes then； and turned his face
to her。 He felt her lips press his mouth with a swift； burning
kiss。 He sighed； stretched out his arms。 There was nothing there
but air。 The rustle of her dress against the grass was all！ The
flowerit； too； was gone。
X
Not one minute all that night did Anna sleep。 Was it remorse that
kept her awake； or the intoxication of memory？ If she felt that
her kiss had been a crime； it was not against her husband or
herself； but against the boythe murder of illusion； of something
sacred。 But she could not help feeling a delirious happiness too；
and the thought of trying to annul what she had done did not even
occur to her。
He was ready； then； to give her a little love！ Ever so little；
compared to hers； but still a little！ There could be no other
meaning to that movement of his face with the closed eyes； as if he
would nestle it down on her breast。
Was she ashamed of her little manoeuvres of these last few days
ashamed of having smiled at the young violinist； of that late
return from the mountain climb； of the flower she had given him； of
all the conscious siege she had laid since the evening her husband
came in and sat watching her； without knowing that she saw him？
No； not really ashamed！ Her remorse rose only from the kiss。 It
hurt to think of that； because it was death； the final extinction
of the mother…feeling in her； the awakening ofwho knew whatin
the boy！ For if she was mysterious to him； what was he not to her；
with his eagerness； and his dreaminess； his youthful warmth； his
innocence！ What if it had killed in him trust； brushed off the
dew； tumbled a star down？ Could she forgive herself for that？
Could she bear it if she were to make him like so many other boys；
like that young violinist； just a cynical youth； looking on women
as what they called 'fair game'？ But COULD she make him into such
would he ever grow like that？ Oh！ surely not； or she would not
have loved him from the moment she first set eyes on him and spoke
of him as 'an angel。'
After that kissthat crime； if it were onein the dark she had
not known what he had done； where goneperhaps wandering； perhaps
straight up to his room。 Why had she refrained； left him there；
vanished out of his arms？ This she herself hardly understood。 Not
shame； not fear； reverence perhapsfor what？ For lovefor the
illusion； the mystery； all that made love beautiful； for youth； and
the poetry of it； just for the sake of the black still night
itself； and the scent of that flowerdark flower of passion that
had won him to her； and that she had stolen back； and now wore all
night long close to her neck； and in the morning placed withered
within her dress。 She had been starved so long； and so long waited
for that momentit was little wonder if she did not clearly know
why she had done just this； and not that！
And now how should she meet him； how first look into his eyes？
Would they have changed？ Would they no longer have the straight
look she so loved？ It would be for her to lead； to make the
future。 And she kept saying to herself： I am not going to be
afraid。 It is done。 I will take what life offers！ Of her husband
she did not think at all。
But the first moment she saw the boy； she knew that something from
outside； and untoward； had happened since that kiss。 He came up to
her； indeed； but he said nothing； stood trembling all over and
handed her a telegram that contained these words： 〃Come back at
once Wedding immediate Expect you day after to…morrow。 Cicely。〃
The words grew indistinct even as she read them； and the boy's face
all blurred。 Then； making an effort； she said quietly：
