And what of their holy life
thereafter, breast to breast, fronting the dawn? Glyde's heart, purged of
his dishonesty, beat at the thought. He turned all his erotic over to the
more generous emotion, and faced with glowing blood the picture of the
woman he had coveted in the arms of the master he avowed.
When February began to show a hint of spring, in pairing plovers and
breaking eglantine, Senhouse, in a temporary dejection, ceased work upon
his poem, and Glyde said that he must know the news. All through the
winter they had had little communication with the world beyond their
gates. A shepherd homing from the folds, a sodden tinker and his drab,
whom he touchingly cherished, a party of rabbit-shooters beating the furze
bushes, had been all their hold upon a life where men meet and hoodwink
each other. Once in a week one of them ploughed through the drifts to the
cottage at the foot of the third valley, and got as he needed flour and
candles, soap or matches. It had not yet occurred to either of them--to
Senhouse it never did occur--to beg the sight of a newspaper. But Saint
Valentine's call stirred the deeps of Glyde, who now said that he must
have news. He departed for Sarum, and stayed away until March was in.
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