Лето
XI
Itwasalittledesertedhouseonaslopeinoneofthelonelyriftsofthehills.Shehadseenitonce,yearsbefore,whenshehadgoneonanuttingexpeditiontothegroveofwalnutsbelowit.Thepartyhadtakenrefugeinthehousefromasuddenmountainstorm,andsherememberedthatBenSollas,wholikedfrighteninggirls,hadtoldthemthatitwassaidtobehaunted.
Shewasgrowingfaintandtired,forshehadeatennothingsincemorning,andwasnotusedtowalkingsofar.Herheadfeltlightandshesatdownforamomentbytheroadside.Asshesattheresheheardtheclickofabicycle-bell,andstarteduptoplungebackintotheforest;butbeforeshecouldmovethebicyclehadsweptaroundthecurveoftheroad,andHarney,jumpingoff,wasapproachingherwithoutstretchedarms.
“Charity!Whatonearthareyoudoinghere?”
Shestaredasifhewereavision,sostartledbytheunexpectednessofhisbeingtherethatnowordscametoher.
“Wherewereyougoing?HadyouforgottenthatIwascoming?”hecontinued,tryingtodrawhertohim;butsheshrankfromhisembrace.
“Iwasgoingaway—Idon’twanttoseeyou—Iwantyoushouldleavemealone,”shebrokeoutwildly.
Helookedatherandhisfacegrewgrave,asthoughtheshadowofapremonitionbrushedit.
“Goingaway—fromme,Charity?”
“Fromeverybody.Iwantyoushouldleaveme.”
Hestoodglancingdoubtfullyupanddownthelonelyforestroadthatstretchedawayintosun-fleckeddistances.
“Wherewereyougoing?’
“Home.”
“Home—thisway?”
Shethrewherheadbackdefiantly.“Tomyhome—upyonder:totheMountain.
