The young foreigners went across the tracks and established themselves

on the rocks, partly out of sight, just at the brink of the great drop

to the Campagna. The setting sun was full in their faces. But they did

not see it, seeing only each other.

Below them spread the divinely colored plain, crossed by the ancient

yellow river, rolling its age-old memories out to the sea, a blue

reminder of the restfulness of eternity, at the rim of the weary old

land. Like a little cluster of tiny, tarnished pearls, Rome gleamed

palely, remote and legendary.

* * * * *

The two young people looked at each other earnestly, with a passionate,

single-hearted attention to their own meaning, thrusting away

impatiently the clinging brambles of speech which laid hold on their

every effort to move closer to each other. They did not look down, or

away from each other's eyes as they strove to free themselves, to step

forward, to clasp the other's outstretched hands. They reached down

blindly, tearing at those thorny, clutching entanglements, pulling and

tugging at those tenuous, tough words which would not let them say what

they meant: sure, hopefully sure that in a moment . . . now . . . with the

next breath, they would break free as no others had ever done before

them, and crying out the truth and glory that was in them, fall into

each other's arms.

The girl was physically breathless with this effort, her lips parted,

her eyebrows drawn together. "Neale, Neale dear, if I could only tell

you how I want it to be, how utterly utterly true I want us to be.

Nothing's of any account except that."

She moved with a shrugging, despairing gesture. "No, no, not the way

that sounds. I don't mean, you know I don't mean any old-fashioned

impossible vows never to change, or be any different! I know too much

for that. I've seen too awfully much unhappiness, with people trying to

do that. You know what I told you about my father and mother. Oh, Neale,

it's horribly dangerous, loving anybody. I never wanted to. I never

thought I should. But now I'm in it, I see that it's not at all

unhappiness I'm afraid of, your getting tired of me or I of you . . .

everybody's so weak and horrid in this world, who knows what may be

before us? That's not what would be unendurable, sickening. That would

make us unhappy. But what would poison us to death . . . what I'm afraid

of, between two people who try to be what we want to be to each

other . . . how can I say it?" She looked at him in an anguish of endeavor,

". . . not to be true to what is deepest and most living in us . . . that

would be the betrayal I'm afraid of. That's what I mean. No matter what it

costs us personally, or what it brings, we must be true to that. We

must!"




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