Page:The Novels and Tales of Henry James, Volume 2 (New York, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1907).djvu/450

 XXI

is a pretty public walk at Poitiers, laid out upon the crest of the high hill around which the little city clusters, planted with thick trees and looking down on the fertile fields in which the old English princes fought for their right and held it. Newman paced up and down this retreat for the greater part of the next day, letting his eyes wander over the historic prospect; but he would have been sadly at a loss to tell you afterwards if the latter was made up of coal fields or of vineyards. He was wholly possessed by his pang, of which reflection by no means diminished the ache. He feared the creature he had thus learned to adore was irretrievably lost; and yet in what case of straight violation of his right of property had he ever merely sat down and groaned? In what case had he not made some attempt at recovery? Wholly unused to giving up in difficulties, he found it impossible to turn his back upon Fleurières and its inhabitants; it seemed to him some germ of hope or reparation must lurk there somewhere if he could only stretch his arm out far enough to pluck it. It was as if he had his hand on a door-knob and were closing his clenched fist on it: he had thumped, he had called, he had pressed the door with his powerful knee and shaken it with all his strength, and dead, damning silence had answered him. And yet something held him there—something hardened the grasp of his 420