He
must just welter on, a figure visibly touched by depression and
ill-fortune, and hammering out the old grammar-grind. Had any
writer, any poet, ever agonised thus? The people who discoursed
glibly about love, and wove their sorrows into elegies, what sort
of prurient curs were they? It was all too bad to think of, to
speak of--a mere staggering among the mudflats of life.
In this raging self-contempt and misery, he drew near to the still
pool in the valley; he would sit there and bleed awhile, like the
old warrior, but with no hope of revisiting the fight: he would
just abandon himself to listless despair for an hour or two, while
the pleasant drama of life went on behind him. Why had he not at
least spoken to Maud, while he had time, and secured her loyalty?
It was his idiotic deliberation, his love of dallying gently with
his emotions, getting the best he could out of them.
Suddenly he saw that there was some one on the stone seat by the
spring, and in a moment he saw that it was Maud--and that she had
observed him. She looked troubled and melancholy. Had she stolen
away here, had she even appointed a place of meeting with the
wretched boy? was she vexed at his intrusion? Well, it would have
to be faced now. He would go on, he would say a few words, he would
at least not betray himself. After all, she had done no wrong, poor
child--she had only found her mate; and she at least should not be
troubled.
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