ife. He had been passionate but never
sensual, romantic and primal, but never immoral. He had consoled
thousands for the penance of living, and he had written much that
would perish only with the English language. All this might be as
nothing to what strove for delivery now. And this he was desperately
engaged in stifling to death; and not the beauty of his mind alone but
of his nature, for beyond all doubt his gentleness and sweetness and
refinement were as much a part of his genius as irritability and
violence were fellows to the genius of other men.
Anne was tempted to wish that he had died before she met him, taken
body and unmaimed gifts out of life before she was burdened with their
keep. But she was a strong women and the wish passed. The wild
ebullition of self had gone before. She did not recall her promises
to Hunsdon but she remembered her solemn acknowledgment of her
responsibilities the night before her marriage and her silent vows
at the altar.
Suddenly she became aware that she was soaked to the skin. She went
hastily within and changed her clothes, wrung out her hair and twisted
it up. Then she went to the library and opened the door softly. Warner
was sitting at the table with his face pressed to the wood, his arms
flung outward among the scattered white blank sheets. Anne longed to
go forward and take his head into the shelter of her deep maternal
bosom. But it was not the time for sentiment, maternal or connubial.
To reach his plane and solve his problem she must leave her sex behind
her, and treat him as a man and a comrade. She left the room, and
returning a moment later placed the decanter of brandy and a tumbler
on the table beside him. Then she left the room again.
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Minor changes have been made to correct obvious typesetter errors;
otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's
words and intent.
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