Chapter XLVIII: Section 8: So for hours he went. But when he had come home, and stood in

the vestibule, stamping the snow from him, there came a reaction. It was Corydon he had been thinking of--Corydon, the gentle and innocent! How could he say such things to her? How could he hint of them? Why, he would fill her with terror! It was not to be thought of!

He went upstairs, and found that she was asleep. So he crept into his little bunk; but sleep would not come to him. The image of her haunted him. He listened to her breathing--he was as close to her as that, and still she was not his!

It was nearly day before he slept, and so he awoke tired and restless. And then came rage at himself--he went out and walked again, and stormed and scolded. He would not permit this, he had work to do. And he made up his mind that he would not allow himself to think about the matter for three days. By that time the truth would be clearer to him; and he meant to settle this question with his reason, and not with his blind desire.

He adhered to his resolution firmly. But when the three days were past, and he tried to think about it, it was only to be swept away in another storm of emotion. It seemed that the more tightly he pent this river up, the fiercer was its rush when finally it broke loose. For always his will was paralyzed by that suggestion that he might be doing harm to Corydon!

At last he made up his mind that he must speak to her; and one afternoon he came and knelt beside her and put his arms about her. “Sweetheart,” he said, “I’ve something to ask you about.”

Now to Corydon the mind of Thyrsis was like an open book. For days she had known that something was disturbing him. But also she had known that he was not ready to tell her. “What is it?” she asked.

“It’s something very important,” he said.

“Yes, dear.”

“You know, I went to see the doctor the other day.”

“Yes.”

“And he told me--he thinks we are doing each other harm by the way we are living.”

“What way, Thyrsis?”

“By not being really married. He says you are suffering because of it.”

“But Thyrsis!” she cried, in astonishment. “I’m not!”

“He says you wouldn’t know it, Corydon. It would keep you nervous and upset.”

“But dear,” she said, “I’m perfectly happy!”

“Are you sure of it?”

“Perfectly sure.”

“And--and if it was ever otherwise--you would tell me?”

“Why, yes.”

“And are you sure of _that_?”

She hesitated; and when she tried to answer, her voice was a whisper--“I think so, dear.”

There was a pause. “Thyrsis,” she exclaimed, suddenly, “I would have a child!”

“No, you needn’t,” he said; and he told her what the doctor had said.

It was quite as new to her as it had been to him, and even more startling. “I see,” she said, in a low voice.

“Listen, Corydon,” he whispered, “do you think you love me at all that way?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “I never thought of such a thing.”

“Do you think you could learn to love me so?”

“How can I tell, Thyrsis? It’s so strange to me. It--it frightens me.”

He looked up at her; and he saw that a flush was mottling her throat, and spreading over her cheeks. He saw the wild look in her eyes also; and he turned away.

“Very well, dearest,” he said. “I don’t want to disturb you.”

So he tried to go back to his work. But he could not do his real work at all. He could practice the violin or read German with Corydon, but when he tried to plan his new book--that involved turning his thoughts loose to graze in a certain pasture, and they would not stay in that pasture, but jumped the fence and came back to her. And so he found himself taking more long journeys, in which he walked in the midst of the storm of his desire.

So, of course, all the former naturalness was gone between them. No longer could they kiss and toy with one another as children in a fairy-world. They had suddenly become man and woman--fighting the age-long duel of sex. They would talk about the question; and the more they talked about it, the more it came to dominate the thoughts of both of them; and this broke down the barriers between them--Thyrsis became bolder, and more open in his speech. He lost his awe of her maidenhood and her innocence--he wooed her, he lured her on; he rejoiced in his power to agitate her, to startle her, to speak to her about secret things. He would clasp her in his arms and shower his kisses upon her; and she would yield to him, almost fainting with bliss--and then shrink from him in sudden alarm.

Then he would go out into the night and battle again with the wintry winds. That frightened shrinking of hers puzzled him. Everything was so strange to him; and how could he be sure what was right? He wanted to do what was right, with all his soul he wanted it; if he were to do wrong, or to make her think less of him, he could never forgive himself all his life. But then would come the wild surge of his longing, and his man’s power would cry out within him. It was his business to overcome her shrinking, to compel her to yield. The question of the doctor rang in his ears as a taunt--“Why are you a man?” Why _was_ he a man?