That night we sat again in the window seat. Her other guests faded here
and there. For a time there were shadowy fancies from the piano, then
the house was stilled. But outside an April rain was falling. It pelted
the windowpanes as softly as driven petals. It made a fairy swish as of
far-off waves, and we sat together in a dim light. Isabel's eyes were
closed. Her head rested partly on my shoulder, partly on a pillow. Her
hand lay limp in my hand. Her whole being was relaxed. We were quite
alone.
Isabel was with me body and mind. But a terror crept upon me. My very
hair trembled. I pressed her hand to my breast. It seemed only an act of
will, however, not of emotion. I drew her head close to my breast. All
these actions arrayed themselves before my detached observation.
Paralyzing self-analysis preoccupied me. I kissed her upon the brow, the
eyes, with pressure and strength upon the lips. I was not acting; I was
thinking out these demonstrations. The consciousness that I was
deceiving Isabel broke my emotional concentration. Could she sense that
my heart was beating, but with terror? Where were the flames that had
sung to me ethereally before? Where the song out of the flesh, but too
subtle for the ears of flesh? Yet I drew her closer to me, folded her
tightly against my breast. My imaginative strength was more and more
absorbed in self-analysis, into wonder as to what weakness had taken
place in me.
Pages:
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392