striding easily up the bank.
IF, CONSCIOUSLY, David did not know why he was walking through the woods, he knew now from the tumbling of his heart.
Sara saw him and was not startled. She said, simply, “Hello, David.” As if she had expected him.
He stepped toward her, stopped.
“But you can say something, David?”
He looked down at her face.
“What can I say?” he asked.
She said, softly, “You can say why you haven’t been around lately.”
He stared at her then. He stammered helplessly, “I—I didn't think you wanted me. You were—so cold.”
Wistfulness crept into her voice.
“I do not feel cold, David.”
Almost imperceptibly, she leaned toward him. And David felt a vague discomfort—as if some blurred signal were warning him of some equally indefinite danger. It was but momentary. And then he had her in his arms.
“Darling.”
Over and over, again and again he kissed her smooth full lips. Over and over he stroked the velvet of her hair; and gently his fingers caressed her soft cheeks. But finally, when he held her out at arm's length to gaze at her, and to delight in that gaze, he was surprised at the look of her. There was impassioned yearning, hunger so vividly portrayed that he became afraid.
Arm in arm, they turned and walked back along the path. They walked without words. And David trembled. He could not analyze this thing that had happened. But he knew, with definiteness, that here was a relationship he had never felt when they were together before. Then he had adored Sara—but within the bounds of reason. Now, reason had fled; control had gone. Instead, a merciless compulsion attended him, grew more intense with each passing moment. The touch of her hand inflamed him.
They stopped once in a patch of moonlight. The discomfort seemed to return to David. He felt that, when she turned her face up toward his, the yearning in her eyes was but a mask; that behind the mask was calculation. It was as if she were watching, with the scientific coldness of a biologist, the hot growth within him unfold.
And so he stood, dimly fearful.
They kissed. And she smiled mistily. And then they walked on. And after a little they stopped again and David lit a match for cigarettes. Her hand held the cigarette to her lips. And in the flare of the match David saw her fingers.
“Dearest! Why, what’s happened?”
He felt the pain his own. But she only glanced at her swollen fingers and shrugged gently.
“Not much. Still throbs a bit. I slipped and fell back there and cracked my hand against a tree.”
Anxiously he lit another match to examine her injury.
“More like you’d crushed it,” he said. He was aware that she was looking at him curiously. Then she dropped her cigarette and with both palms reached up and stroked his face. And he dropped his cigarette. And again they were in each other’s arms. They clung to each other.
They clung to each other. And when the first dizziness of delight passed, David felt that her kisses were more cruel than sweet. They were harsh. They hurt. In the breathless pause that followed he tasted blood from his lip.
An insulated wall rises between the classes of society, so that one class cannot really know the thoughts and reasoning of the other. Though each may hold possession .of precisely the same facts, each will interpret those facts differently in the light of its own culture.
So Pierre and Manning Trent, materialistic men, spoke only of objective possibilities. But at the Well, men who feared God were not unequal to coating a problem with a paint of supernatural evil.
They were too close, for one thing, to the Hexenkopf—and to all for which the Hexenkopf stood. They could see, from high hills on clear days, that forested Witch’s Head frowning starkly against the northern sky. And they remembered the dark stories of their grandfolk of how the
IF, CONSCIOUSLY, David did not know why he was walking through the woods, he knew now from the tumbling of his heart.
Sara saw him and was not startled. She said, simply, “Hello, David.” As if she had expected him.
He stepped toward her, stopped.
“But you can say something, David?”
He looked down at her face.
“What can I say?” he asked.
She said, softly, “You can say why you haven’t been around lately.”
He stared at her then. He stammered helplessly, “I—I didn't think you wanted me. You were—so cold.”
Wistfulness crept into her voice.
“I do not feel cold, David.”
Almost imperceptibly, she leaned toward him. And David felt a vague discomfort—as if some blurred signal were warning him of some equally indefinite danger. It was but momentary. And then he had her in his arms.
“Darling.”
Over and over, again and again he kissed her smooth full lips. Over and over he stroked the velvet of her hair; and gently his fingers caressed her soft cheeks. But finally, when he held her out at arm's length to gaze at her, and to delight in that gaze, he was surprised at the look of her. There was impassioned yearning, hunger so vividly portrayed that he became afraid.
Arm in arm, they turned and walked back along the path. They walked without words. And David trembled. He could not analyze this thing that had happened. But he knew, with definiteness, that here was a relationship he had never felt when they were together before. Then he had adored Sara—but within the bounds of reason. Now, reason had fled; control had gone. Instead, a merciless compulsion attended him, grew more intense with each passing moment. The touch of her hand inflamed him.
They stopped once in a patch of moonlight. The discomfort seemed to return to David. He felt that, when she turned her face up toward his, the yearning in her eyes was but a mask; that behind the mask was calculation. It was as if she were watching, with the scientific coldness of a biologist, the hot growth within him unfold.
And so he stood, dimly fearful.
They kissed. And she smiled mistily. And then they walked on. And after a little they stopped again and David lit a match for cigarettes. Her hand held the cigarette to her lips. And in the flare of the match David saw her fingers.
“Dearest! Why, what’s happened?”
He felt the pain his own. But she only glanced at her swollen fingers and shrugged gently.
“Not much. Still throbs a bit. I slipped and fell back there and cracked my hand against a tree.”
Anxiously he lit another match to examine her injury.
“More like you’d crushed it,” he said. He was aware that she was looking at him curiously. Then she dropped her cigarette and with both palms reached up and stroked his face. And he dropped his cigarette. And again they were in each other’s arms. They clung to each other.
They clung to each other. And when the first dizziness of delight passed, David felt that her kisses were more cruel than sweet. They were harsh. They hurt. In the breathless pause that followed he tasted blood from his lip.
An insulated wall rises between the classes of society, so that one class cannot really know the thoughts and reasoning of the other. Though each may hold possession .of precisely the same facts, each will interpret those facts differently in the light of its own culture.
So Pierre and Manning Trent, materialistic men, spoke only of objective possibilities. But at the Well, men who feared God were not unequal to coating a problem with a paint of supernatural evil.
They were too close, for one thing, to the Hexenkopf—and to all for which the Hexenkopf stood. They could see, from high hills on clear days, that forested Witch’s Head frowning starkly against the northern sky. And they remembered the dark stories of their grandfolk of how the
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