Her eyes, wide and startled,
questioned him. "A letter from Li Ho? But Li Ho can't write--in
English."
"Can't he? Wait until you've read it. But I shan't let you read it,
if you look like that."
"Like what? Frightened? But I am frightened. I can't help it. I know
it's foolish. But the more I forget--the worse it is when I
remember."
"You must get over that. Sit here while I fetch the letter. Aunt is
out. I'll tell Olive to bring tea."
Desire sat where he placed her. It was very pleasant there with the
green slope of the lawn and the cool shadow of trees. But her widely
opened eyes saw nothing of its homely peace. They saw, instead, a
curving stretch of moonlit beach and a trail which wound upwards
into thick darkness. Ever since she had broken away, that vision had
haunted her, now near and menacing, now dimmer and farther off, but
always there like a spectre of the past.
"It hasn't let me go--it is there always--waiting," thought Desire.
And in the still warmth of the garden she shivered.
The sense of Self, which is our proudest possession, receives some
curious shocks at times. Before the mystery of its own strange
changing the personality stands appalled. The world swings round in
chaos before the startled question, "Who am I--where is that other
Self that once was I?"
Only a few months separated Desire from her old life in the mountain
cottage and already the mental and spiritual separation seemed
infinite.
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