Chapter 10

stonandwork,”saidMissAbbott. “No.” “Whynot?”sheasked,smiling. “You’veseentoomuch.You’veseenasmuchanddonemorethanIhave.” “Butit’ssodifferent.OfcourseIshallgotoSawston.Youforgetmyfatherandevenifhewasn’tthere,I’veahundredties:mydistrict—I’mneglectingitshamefully—myeveningclasses,theSt.James’—” “Sillynonsense!”heexploded,suddenlymovedtohavethewholethingoutwithher.“You’retoogood—aboutathousandtimesbetterthanIam.Youcan’tliveinthatholeyoumustgoamongpeoplewhocanhopetounderstandyou.Imindformyself.Iwanttoseeyouoften—againandagain.” “OfcourseweshallmeetwheneveryoucomedownandIhopethatitwillmeanoften.” “It’snotenoughit’llonlybeintheoldhorribleway,eachwithadozenrelativesroundus.No,MissAbbottit’snotgoodenough.” “Wecanwriteatallevents.” “Youwillwrite?”hecried,withaflushofpleasure.Attimeshishopesseemedsosolid. “Iwillindeed.” “ButIsayit’snotenough—youcan’tgobacktotheoldlifeifyouwantedto.Toomuchhashappened.” “Iknowthat,”shesaidsadly. “Notonlypainandsorrow,butwonderfulthings:thattowerinthesunlight—doyourememberit,andallyousaidtome?Thetheatre,even.Andthenextday—inthechurchandourtimeswithGino.” “Allthewonderfulthingsareover,”shesaid.“Thatisjustwhereitis.” “Idon’tbelieveit.Atalleventsnotforme.Themostwonderfulthingsmaybetocome—” “Thewonderfulthingsareover,”sherepeated,andlookedathimsomournfullythathedarenotcontradicther.ThetrainwascrawlingupthelastascenttowardstheCampanileofAiroloandtheentranceofthetunnel. “MissAbbott,”hemurmured,speakingquickly,asiftheirfreeintercoursemightsoonbeended,“whatisthematterwithyou?IthoughtIunderstoodyou,andIdon’t.AllthosetwogreatfirstdaysatMonterianoIreadyouasclearlyasyoureadmestill.Isawwhyyouhadcome,andwhyyouchangedsides,andafterwardsIsawyourwonderfulcourageandpity.Andnowyou’refrankwithmeonemoment,asyouusedtobe,andthenextmomentyoushutmeup.YouseeIowetoomuchtoyou—mylife,andIdon’tknowwhatbesides.Iwon’tstandit.You’vegonetoofartoturnmysterious.I’llquotewhatyousaidtome:‘Don’tbemysteriousthereisn’tthetime.’I’llquotesomethingelse:‘IandmylifemustbewhereIlive.’Youcan’tliveatSawston.” Hehadmovedheratlast.Shewhisperedtoherselfhurriedly.“Itistempting—”Andthosethreewordsthrewhimintoatumultofjoy.Whatwastemptingtoher?Afterallwasthegreatestofthingspossible?Perhaps,afterlongestrangement,aftermuchtragedy,theSouthhadbroughtthemtogetherintheend.Thatlaughterinthetheatre,thosesilverstarsinthepurplesky,eventhevioletsofadepartedspring,allhadhelped,andsorrowhadhelpedalso,andsohadtendernesstoothers. “Itistempting,”sherepeated,“nottobemysterious.I’vewantedoftentotellyou,andthenbeenafraid.Icouldneve