* * * * *
It began to rain and darkness came, but Hugh did not go home to Clara. It
did not seem to him that he could spend another night in the house with
her, lying awake, hearing the little noises of the night, waiting--for
courage. He could not sit under the lamp through another evening pretending
to read. He could not go with Clara up the stairs only to leave her with a
cold "good-night" at the top of the stairs.
Hugh went up the Medina Road almost to the house and then retraced his
steps and got into a field. There was a low swampy place in which the
water came up over his shoetops, and after he had crossed that there was
a field overgrown with a tangle of vines. The night became so dark that
he could see nothing and darkness reigned over his spirit. For hours he
walked blindly, but it did not occur to him that as he waited, hating the
waiting, Clara also waited; that for her also it was a time of trial and
uncertainty. To him it seemed her course was simple and easy. She was a
white pure thing--waiting--for what? for courage to come in to him in order
that an assault be made upon her whiteness and purity.
That was the only answer to the question Hugh could find within himself.
The destruction of what was white and pure was a necessary thing in life.
It was a thing men must do in order that life go on. As for women, they
must be white and pure--and wait.
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