nothing to increase her self-control, and when at length she parted from him, she almost ran out of the lighted foyer with one thought only in her mind, to find Stephen.
Twilight had deepened into dusk pricked with a few faint stars, but she saw him almost at once, coming along the riverbank below the hotel. She ran toward him, down the steep bank between the dark trees, stumbling unheedingly over the pine roots that webbed the path.
He had stopped below her, on the stone-flagged bridge that crossed the fall, and was looking down at the boiling foam beneath. The rowans fanned out across it, their shadowy leaves whipped by the wind of the fall into a whitening dance, and the ravine was luminous with the froth of falling water. He stood, head bent, watching the torrent.
To Jennifer, running down the dark track under the pine trees, the sight of that familiar figure did much to strip from her the last vestiges of her careful control.
While she had had the burden to bear alone, she had—somewhat to her own surprise—been equal to it; but now it was weighing her down, it must be shared.
With the sharing, she knew, much of her tight grasp on herself must be loosened.
And here was Stephen, representing all that just at that moment she needed most.
Comfort, strength, reassurance ... no more. Big-brother Stephen. She was suddenly glad that that was the way he seemed to want it. Elder-brother Stephen . . . that was the way it was. Jennifer, retreating into innocence like a snail into its shell, put out her hands and ran toward him, calling his name.
He turned his head and saw her. The noise of the fall had prevented him from hearing her approach, and all he saw was Jenny, a ghostly figure under the pines, running toward him with her hands held out.
His lips shaped the words, "Why, Jenny!"
"Stephen—oh, Stephen!"
He turned swiftly to meet her, holding out his arms. And then she was in them, folded close. His heart had begun to race, in sickening hammer thuds. His arms tightened, his head went down, his mouth seeking hers. . . . But her head was bent, pressed hard into his shoulder, and his lips only found the silk of her hair.
He said hoarsely, "Jenny."
She did not lift her head.
"Jenny."
Still no movement. It was five blind and whirling seconds later that he realized that she was crying, oblivious of everything save her own distress. The trembling of her body was due, not to passion, but to tears, and her arms clung to him only for comfort. Big-brother Stephen. Hold your horses, fool: she doesn't even know it's you....
Five lifetimes later he heard his voice repeat, unrecognizably, "Why, Jenny!" And then again, very gently, "What's the matter?"
She shook her head, burying it more deeply in his shoulder, so he remained silent, holding her closely, till her sobs began to subside. He had himself well in hand now: over her head his face was like a mask, but he was breathing fast, and the hand that crept up, in spite of itself, to stroke her hair, shook ever so slightly. It seemed that presently he noticed this, for his mouth twisted wryly, and he dropped his hand.
After a while she stirred in his arms and, pushing away from him a little, groped for her handkerchief.
"Have mine." He proffered it. "I don't know why men are always better equipped than women for these emergencies. Self-defense, I suppose."
Jennifer, dabbing at her eyes, managed a rather shaky smile. "Have I soaked your shoulder? I'm sorry. I must say you show up suspiciously well in the said emergency, Stephen. Do a lot of people run and cry on you?"
"Not more than three a day."
"Poor Stephen. I'm sorry."
"Silly child." The words mocked, but his voice was gentle, and his eyes considered her face gravely. Then he dropped an arm lightly across her shoulders and urged her toward the far side of the bridge. "Come away where we can hear ourselves think, and tell me all about it."
They began to climb the path that led to the mountain pastures, emerging
Twilight had deepened into dusk pricked with a few faint stars, but she saw him almost at once, coming along the riverbank below the hotel. She ran toward him, down the steep bank between the dark trees, stumbling unheedingly over the pine roots that webbed the path.
He had stopped below her, on the stone-flagged bridge that crossed the fall, and was looking down at the boiling foam beneath. The rowans fanned out across it, their shadowy leaves whipped by the wind of the fall into a whitening dance, and the ravine was luminous with the froth of falling water. He stood, head bent, watching the torrent.
To Jennifer, running down the dark track under the pine trees, the sight of that familiar figure did much to strip from her the last vestiges of her careful control.
While she had had the burden to bear alone, she had—somewhat to her own surprise—been equal to it; but now it was weighing her down, it must be shared.
With the sharing, she knew, much of her tight grasp on herself must be loosened.
And here was Stephen, representing all that just at that moment she needed most.
Comfort, strength, reassurance ... no more. Big-brother Stephen. She was suddenly glad that that was the way he seemed to want it. Elder-brother Stephen . . . that was the way it was. Jennifer, retreating into innocence like a snail into its shell, put out her hands and ran toward him, calling his name.
He turned his head and saw her. The noise of the fall had prevented him from hearing her approach, and all he saw was Jenny, a ghostly figure under the pines, running toward him with her hands held out.
His lips shaped the words, "Why, Jenny!"
"Stephen—oh, Stephen!"
He turned swiftly to meet her, holding out his arms. And then she was in them, folded close. His heart had begun to race, in sickening hammer thuds. His arms tightened, his head went down, his mouth seeking hers. . . . But her head was bent, pressed hard into his shoulder, and his lips only found the silk of her hair.
He said hoarsely, "Jenny."
She did not lift her head.
"Jenny."
Still no movement. It was five blind and whirling seconds later that he realized that she was crying, oblivious of everything save her own distress. The trembling of her body was due, not to passion, but to tears, and her arms clung to him only for comfort. Big-brother Stephen. Hold your horses, fool: she doesn't even know it's you....
Five lifetimes later he heard his voice repeat, unrecognizably, "Why, Jenny!" And then again, very gently, "What's the matter?"
She shook her head, burying it more deeply in his shoulder, so he remained silent, holding her closely, till her sobs began to subside. He had himself well in hand now: over her head his face was like a mask, but he was breathing fast, and the hand that crept up, in spite of itself, to stroke her hair, shook ever so slightly. It seemed that presently he noticed this, for his mouth twisted wryly, and he dropped his hand.
After a while she stirred in his arms and, pushing away from him a little, groped for her handkerchief.
"Have mine." He proffered it. "I don't know why men are always better equipped than women for these emergencies. Self-defense, I suppose."
Jennifer, dabbing at her eyes, managed a rather shaky smile. "Have I soaked your shoulder? I'm sorry. I must say you show up suspiciously well in the said emergency, Stephen. Do a lot of people run and cry on you?"
"Not more than three a day."
"Poor Stephen. I'm sorry."
"Silly child." The words mocked, but his voice was gentle, and his eyes considered her face gravely. Then he dropped an arm lightly across her shoulders and urged her toward the far side of the bridge. "Come away where we can hear ourselves think, and tell me all about it."
They began to climb the path that led to the mountain pastures, emerging
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