Літо
XI
Buthehadturned,andwasdrawingherbackalongtheroadbywhichshehadcome.Shestiffenedherselfandstoppedshort.
“Iwon’tgoback,”shesaid.
Theylookedateachotheramomentinsilence;thenheansweredgently:“Verywell:let’sgotheotherway,then.”
Sheremainedmotionless,gazingsilentlyattheground,andhewenton:“Isn’tthereahouseupheresomewhere—alittleabandonedhouse—youmeanttoshowmesomeday?”Stillshemadenoanswer,andhecontinued,inthesametoneoftenderreassurance:“Letusgotherenowandsitdownandtalkquietly.”Hetookoneofthehandsthathungbyhersideandpressedhislipstothepalm.“DoyousupposeI’mgoingtoletyousendmeaway?DoyousupposeIdon’tunderstand?”
Thelittleoldhouse—itswoodenwallssun-bleachedtoaghostlygray—stoodinanorchardabovetheroad.Thegardenpalingshadfallen,butthebrokengatedangledbetweenitsposts,andthepathtothehousewasmarkedbyrose-bushesrunwildandhangingtheirsmallpaleblossomsabovethecrowdinggrasses.Slenderpilastersandanintricatefan-lightframedtheopeningwherethedoorhadhung;andthedooritselflayrottinginthegrass,withanoldapple-treefallenacrossit.
Inside,also,windandweatherhadblanchedeverythingtothesamewansilverytint;thehousewasasdryandpureastheinteriorofalong-emptyshell.
