tion. It seemed that the more tightly he pent this river up, the fiercer was its rush when finally it broke loose. For always his will was paralyzed by that suggestion that he might be doing harm to Corydon!
At last he made up his mind that he must speak to her; and one afternoon he came and knelt beside her and put his arms about her. "Sweetheart," he said, "I've something to ask you about."
Now to Corydon the mind of Thyrsis was like an open book. For days she had known that something was disturbing him. But also she had known that he was not ready to tell her. "What is it?" she asked.
"It's something very important," he said.
"Yes, dear."
"You know, I went to see the doctor the other day."
"Yes."
"And he told me—he thinks we are doing each other harm by the way we are living."
"What way, Thyrsis ?"
"By not being really married. He says you are suffering because of it."
"But Thyrsis!" she cried, in astonishment. "I'm not!"
"He says you wouldn't know it, Corydon. It would keep you nervous and upset."
"But dear," she said, "I'm perfectly happy!"
"Are you sure of it?"
"Perfectly sure."
"And—and if it was ever otherwise—you would tell me?"
"Why, yes."
"And are you sure of that?"
She hesitated; and when she tried to answer, her voice was a whisper—"I think so, dear."
There was a pause. "Thyrsis," she exclaimed, suddenly, "I would have a child!"
"No, you needn't," he said; and he told her what the doctor had said.
It was quite as new to her as it had been to him, and even more startling. "I see," she said, in a low voice.
"Listen, Corydon," he whispered, "do you think you love me at all that way?"
"I don't know," she answered. "I never thought of such a thing."
"Do you think you could learn to love me so?"
"How can I tell, Thyrsis? It's so strange to me. It —it frightens me."
He looked up at her; and he saw that a flush was mottling her throat, and spreading over her cheeks. He saw the wild look in her eyes also; and he turned away.
"Very well, dearest," he said. "I don't want to disturb you."
So he tried to go back to his work. But he could not do his real work at all. He could practice the violin or read German with Corydon, but when he tried to plan his new book—that involved turning his thoughts loose to graze in a certain pasture, and they would not stay in that pasture, but jumped the fence and came back to her. And so he found himself taking more long journeys, in which he walked in the midst of the storm of his desire.
So, of course, all the former naturalness was gone between them. No longer could they kiss and toy with one another as children in a fairy-world. They had suddenly become man and woman—fighting the agelong duel of sex. They would talk about the question; and the more they talked about it, the more it came
to dominate the thoughts of both of them; and this broke down the barriers between them—Thyrsis became bolder, and more open in his speech. He lost his awe of her maidenhood and her innocence—he wooed her, he lured her on; he rejoiced in his power to agitate her, to startle her, to speak to her about secret things. He would clasp her in his arms and shower his kisses upon her; and she would yield to him, almost fainting with bliss—and then shrink from him in sudden alarm.
Then he would go out into the night and battle again with the wintry winds. That frightened shrinking of hers puzzled him. Everything was so strange to him; and how could he be sure what was right? He wanted to do what was right, with all his soul he wanted it; if he were to do wrong, or to make her think less of him, he could never forgive himself all his life. But then would come the wild surge of his longing, and his man's power would cry out within him. It was his business to overcome her shrinking, to compel her to yield. The question of the doctor rang in his ears as a taunt—"Why are you a man ?" Why was he a man ?
§ 9. IN the end these emotions reached a point where Thyrsis could no longer bear them. They were a torment to him, they deprived him of all rest and sleep. One afternoon he had held her a long time in his arms, and it hurt him; he turned away, and put his hands to his forehead. "Dearest," he cried, "I can't stand this any longer!"
"Why ?" she asked. "What do you mean ?" "I mean it's just tearing me to pieces!" She stared at him in fright. "Thyrsis!" she exclaimed. "You are unhappy!"
He sunk down upon the bed and hid his face in his arms. "Yes," he whispered, "I am unhappy!"
And so, all at once, he broke down her resistance. What had swayed him had been the thought of her suffering; and the thought of his suffering now conquered her.
I Only she did not take days to debate it. She fled to him instantly, and wrapped her arms about him.
"Thyrsis," she whispered, "listen to me! I had no idea of that!"
"No, sweetheart," he said. "I'm sorry—I'm ashamed of myself r
"No, no!" she cried, vehemently. "Don't say that! I love you, Thyrsis! I love you, heart and soul!"
He turned and gazed at her with his haggard eyes.
"I will do anything for you," she rushed on. "You shall have me! I will be your wife!"
Then, however, as he clasped her to him, there came once more the shrinking. "Only give me a little time, dear," she whispered. "Let me get used to it. Let it come naturally."
But the only way he could have given her time would have been to go away. Here he was, in her room—with every reminder of her about him, with every incitement to his desire. And he had but two things to choose between—to go out and walk and think about her, or to come home and sit with her and talk about their love.
They had their supper, and then again she was in his arms. He told her about this trouble—he showed how the love of her was consuming him. Far into the night they sat talking, and he poured out his heart to her, he bore her with him to the mountain-tops of his desire. He took down a book of Spenser's, and read her the "Epithalamium"; he read her Shelley's "Epip-
sychidion," which they both loved. All the power of Thyrsis' genius was turned now to passion, and the hidden forces of him were revealed as never had they been revealed to her before. He became eloquent; he talked to her as he had lived with himself; he awed her and frightened her, as he had that evening upon the hill-top. Then at last, as the tide of his feeling swept him away again, he clasped her to him tightly, and hid his face in her neck. "I love you! Oh, I love you!" he cried.
She had sunk back and closed her eyes. "My Thyrsis!" she whispered.
"You love me?" he asked. "You are quite sure?"
"I am quite sure!" she said.
He kissed her; again and again he kissed her, until he had made sure of her desire. Then suddenly,-he began with trembling fingers to unfasten the neck of her dress.
For a moment she did not comprehend what he meant. Then she gave a start. "Thyrsis!" she cried.
And she sprang up, staring at him with fright in her eyes.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Thyrsis!" she gasped. "What—what were you going to do?"
And at her question, shame swept over him. He was horrified at himself. How could he find words to tell her what he had been going to do?
He turned away with a moan, and put his hands over his face. "Oh God, I can't stand this!" he exclaimed.
Suddenly he went to his hat and coat. "I must go out!" he said.
"What do you mean?" cried Corydon.
"I mean I've got to go somewhere!" he replied. "I can't stand it—I can't stay here."
"Thyrsis.!" she cried, wildly. And she sprang to him and flung her arms about him. "No, no!" she cried. "No!"
"But what am I to do?"
"Wait! Wait!"
And she pressed him tightly to her. "Thyrsis!" she whispered. "Can't you understand? Don't be so stupid, dear!"