England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Villages -- England -- Fiction
might look at her, listen to her at the very moment he was turning away,
touch something she had touched, unconsciously compare her with her
companions. Unconsciously, I repeat, for, although many problems were
puzzling him at this moment, he was thinking least of all about his own
heart. He did very much what he liked, and if it pleased him to talk to
Miss Milman and to sit near Winifred, he talked and he sat. That was
all.
That was all, and no one could have said a word against it if it had
been always so. He had no intention of neglecting Winifred; but to a
girl who loves, unintentional neglect is more cruelly wounding than any
other. Each day worked with a sort of slow torture upon her, the more
so that her cheeks burnt with shame, when she even acknowledged it to
herself. She was in high spirits,--or so it seemed. She fancied
herself that all sweetness and gentleness had died out of her heart,
leaving bitter ashes behind. When she spoke to Anthony it was
laughingly and lightly, only every now and then there would descend a
sharp cut, or one that she thought sharp, poor child, and would repeat
over to herself with a dreary satisfaction, while she invented other
sayings more terrible, which the time never came for uttering. After
all, they were not so severe as she intended, for such weapons did not
belong to her by nature, and she used them as tremblingly as a woman
will fire off a gun that she expects to explode in her hands. As often
as not, Anthony did not notice these little attacks; he noticed more
what she did not say, the pleasant things which fell so trippingly from
others' lips, to Winifred's disdain. Feeling as if Anthony were
slipping away altogether from the pleasant, familiar intercourse which
had been enough to satisfy her while it lasted, and which, therefore,
she fancied would have satisfied her forever, these sweet summer days,
in which all the world was making holiday, were to her full of restless
misery, to which she dared neither give a name nor a cause, and over
which she shed the bitterest tears that her life as yet had known.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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