Useful in hate, they were
impotent in love. So Ruth recognised in her new humility. But when one
day, seized by panic at having spoken irritably to her, Dickie hastily
tried to propitiate her, to ingratiate himself so that she might spare
him, might let him live a little longer, then Ruth felt she must cry
aloud under the strain of this subtle torture. Why, he was her lover,
her man, her child.... In thought, her arm shaped itself into a crook
for his head to lie there; her fingers smoothed out the drawn
perplexity of his brows; her kisses were cool as snow on his hot,
twitching little mouth; her voice, hushed to a lullaby croon, promised
him that nobody should hurt him, nobody, while she was there to heal
and protect--
"Sleep, baby, sleep,
The hills are white with sheep----"
Over and over again she lulled herself with the old rhyme, for
comfort's sake. But Dickie she could not comfort, since, irony of
ironies, she was the cause of his pitiful breakdown. Why, if she spoke,
he started; if she moved towards him, he shrank. Yet still Ruth dreamt
that if he would only let her touch him, she could bring him
reassurance.
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