Page:O Genteel Lady! (1926).pdf/248

 against the floor of the coach, gritted her teeth—shut her eyes until the gold Catherine wheels rolled through the darkness. She would never again really see him except in half-profile. Again and again she went through many meetings with him, and her mind and finally her body became so inflamed and her heart so wrecked by her memory's inability to see him as she wished, that she wrung her hands in the dusty coach and prayed to God to hasten her and to hold back the sailing of the Lux Benigna.

What the land was that she passed through or what the sky or weather she did not know...'Anthony, I've come thousands of miles...and you will not turn and look at me.' But the day was crisp and golden, and the larks, hanging before the door of Heaven, poured out their bubbling song as though they were little miraculous pitchers forever emptying and forever full. From Basingstoke to Steventon, from Steventon to Stratton. Right now, and the road turns down and the lights gleam self-righteously in the cottages of good women—who never have heard the magic name of Anthony Jones.

She was alone inside the coach, and although she knew every word of the anonymous letter she must read it. A change of horses. She leaned out, 'Boy, boy, your lantern—for a moment.' Staring stupidly at a woman he considered beautiful, the uncouth lad, wrapped in an aroma of horse stables, leaned within and held his lantern so that she might read.

She folded the letter and slipped it back into her bosom. She sleeked her hair and swallowed.