And as each step brought her nearer
to the inevitable act, the conviction grew on her that this conduct of
hers was cowardly, and unworthy both of him and of herself. A refusal
to see him was a confession of fear, and fear assumed the existence of
the very thing his letter had ignored. It was absurd too, if he had
come to see that his feeling for her was (as she persisted in
believing it to be) a piece of poetic folly, an illusion of the
literary imagination. She turned back and tore up that cold little
note, and wrote another that said she would be very glad to see him
any day next week, except Friday. There was no reason why she should
have excepted Friday; but it sounded more business-like somehow.
She did not take Kitty into her confidence, and in this she failed to
perceive the significance of her own secrecy. She told herself that
there was no need to ask Kitty's advice, because she knew perfectly
well already what Kitty's advice would be.
He came on Tuesday. Monday was too early for his self-respect,
Wednesday too late for his impatience. He had looked to find
everything altered in and about Court House; and he saw, almost with
surprise, the same April flowers growing in the green garden, and the
same beech-tree dreaming on the lawn. He recognized the black rifts in
its trunk and the shining sweep of its branches overhead. The door was
opened by Robert, and Robert remembered him. There was a shade more
gravity in the affectionate welcome, but then Robert was nine years
older.
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