But he did sleep, all through a night of many dreams, in the last of which he was lying on a mountain side, Anna looking down into his eyes, and bending her face to his.He woke just as her lips touched him.Still under the spell of that troubling dream, he became conscious of the sound of wheels and horses' hoofs on the gravel, and sprang out of bed.There was the waggonette moving from the door, old Godden driving, luggage piled up beside him, and the Stormers sitting opposite each other in the carriage.Going away like that--having never even said good-bye! For a moment he felt as people must when they have unwittingly killed someone--utterly stunned and miserable.Then he dashed into his clothes.
He would not let her go thus! He would--he must--see her again!
What had he done that she should go like this? He rushed downstairs.The hall was empty; nineteen minutes to eight! The train left at eight o'clock.Had he time to saddle Bolero? He rushed round to the stables; but the cob was out, being shoed.He would--he must get there in time.It would show her anyway that he was not quite a cad.He walked till the drive curved, then began running hard.A quarter of a mile, and already he felt better, not so miserable and guilty; it was something to feel you had a tough job in hand, all your work cut out--something to have to think of economizing strength, picking out the best going, keeping out of the sun, saving your wind uphill, flying down any slope.It was cool still, and the dew had laid the dust; there was no traffic and scarcely anyone to look back and gape as he ran by.What he would do, if he got there in time--how explain this mad three-mile run--he did not think.He passed a farm that he knew was just half-way.
He had left his watch.Indeed, he had put on only his trousers, shirt, and Norfolk jacket; no tie, no hat, not even socks under his tennis shoes, and he was as hot as fire, with his hair flying back--a strange young creature indeed for anyone to meet.But he had lost now all feeling, save the will to get there.A flock of sheep came out of a field into the lane.He pushed through them somehow, but they lost him several seconds.More than a mile still; and he was blown, and his legs beginning to give! Downhill indeed they went of their own accord, but there was the long run-in, quite level; and he could hear the train, now slowly puffing its way along the valley.Then, in spite of exhaustion, his spirit rose.
He would not go in looking like a scarecrow, utterly done, and make a scene.He must pull himself together at the end, and stroll in--as if he had come for fun.But how--seeing that at any moment he felt he might fall flat in the dust, and stay there for ever! And, as he ran, he made little desperate efforts to mop his face, and brush his clothes.There were the gates, at last--two hundred yards away.The train, he could hear no longer.It must be standing in the station.And a sob came from his overdriven lungs.
He heard the guard's whistle as he reached the gates.Instead of ****** for the booking-office, he ran along the paling, where an entrance to the goods'-shed was open, and dashing through he fell back against the honeysuckle.The engine was just abreast of him;he snatched at his sleeve and passed it over his face, to wipe the sweat away.Everything was blurred.He must see--surely he had not come in time just not to see! He pushed his hands over his forehead and hair, and spied up dizzily at the slowly passing train.She was there, at a window! Standing, looking out! He dared not step forward, for fear of falling, but he put out his hand-- She saw him.Yes, she saw him! Wasn't she going to make a sign? Not one? And suddenly he saw her tear at her dress, pluck something out, and throw it.It fell close to his feet.He did not pick it up--he wanted to see her face till she was gone.It looked wonderful--very proud, and pale.She put her hand up to her lips.Then everything went blurred again and when he could see once more, the train had vanished.But at his feet was what she had thrown.He picked it up! All dry and dark, it was the flower she had given him in the Tyrol, and stolen back from his buttonhole.
Creeping out, past the goods'-shed, he made his way to a field, and lay down with his face pressed to that withered thing which still had its scent....
The asphyxiated speculation in his guardian's eyes had not been without significance.Mark did not go back to Oxford.He went instead to Rome--to live in his sister's house, and attend a school of sculpture.That was the beginning of a time when nothing counted except his work.
To Anna he wrote twice, but received no answer.From his tutor he had one little note:
"MY DEAR LENNAN, "So! You abandon us for Art? Ah! well--it was your moon, if Iremember--one of them.A worthy moon--a little dusty in these days--a little in her decline--but to you no doubt a virgin goddess, whose hem, etc.
"We shall retain the friendliest memories of you in spite of your defection.
"Once your tutor and still your friend, "HAROLD STORMER."After that vacation it was long--very long before he saw Sylvia again.