Where
was he--where was he--WHERE? Childe Harold's hoofs began to beat it out
as a refrain. She heard nothing else. She did not know where she was
going and did not ask herself. She went down any road or lane which
looked empty of life, she took strange turnings, without caring; she did
not know how far she was afield.
Where was he now--this hour--this moment--where was he now? Did he know
the rain, the greyness, the desolation of the world?
Once she stopped her horse on the loneliness of the marsh land, and
looked up at the low clouds about her, at the creeping mist, the dank
grass. It seemed a place in which a newly-released soul might wander
because it did not yet know its way.
"If you should be near, and come to me, you will understand," her clear
voice said gravely between the caught breaths, "what I gave you was
nothing to you--but you took it with you. Perhaps you know without my
telling you. I want you to know. When a man is dead, everything melts
away. I loved you. I wish you had loved me."
CHAPTER XLVIII
THE MOMENT
In the unnatural unbearableness of her anguish, she lost sight of
objects as she passed them, she lost all memory of what she did. She did
not know how long she had been out, or how far she had ridden.
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