第62部分(第1/7 页)

war。　She　was　very　confused。

Skrebensky　was　busy；　he　could　not　e　to　see　her。　She　asked

for　no　assurance；　no　security。　What　was　between　them；　was；　and

could　not　be　altered　by　avowals。　She　knew　that　by　instinct；　she

trusted　to　the　intrinsic　reality。

But　she　felt　an　agony　of　helplessness。　She　could　do　nothing。

Vaguely　she　knew　the　huge　powers　of　the　world　rolling　and

crashing　together；　darkly；　clumsily；　stupidly；　yet　colossal；　so

that　one　was　brushed　along　almost　as　dust。　Helpless；　helpless；

swirling　like　dust！　Yet　she　wanted　so　hard　to　rebel；　to　rage；　to

fight。　But　with　what？

Could　she　with　her　hands　fight　the　face　of　the　earth；　beat

the　hills　in　their　places？　Yet　her　breast　wanted　to　fight；　to

fight　the　whole　world。　And　these　two　small　hands　were　all　she

had　to　do　it　with。

The　months　went　by；　and　it　was　Christmas……the　snowdrops

came。　There　was　a　little　hollow　in　the　wood　near　Cossethay；

where　snowdrops　grew　wild。　She　sent　him　some　in　a　box；　and　he

wrote　her　a　quick　little　note　of　thanks……very　grateful　and

wistful　he　seemed。　Her　eyes　grew　childlike　and　puzzled。　Puzzled

from　day　to　day　she　went　on；　helpless；　carried　along　by　all　that

must　happen。

He　went　about　at　his　duties；　giving　himself　up　to　them。　At

the　bottom　of　his　heart　his　self；　the　soul　that　aspired　and　had

true　hope　of　self…effectuation　lay　as　dead；　still…born；　a　dead

weight　in　his　womb。　Who　was　he；　to　hold　important　his　personal

connection？　What　did　a　man　matter　personally？　He　was　just　a

brick　in　the　whole　great　social　fabric；　the　nation；　the　modern

humanity。　His　personal　movements　were　small；　and　entirely

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