down the path leading to the little Viéze, thinking of these things.
There had been a nominal, a partial and unsatisfactory reconciliation with Basil in the week before her hurried departure from New York. His evident misery had broken down her first stony resistance. She could not resist her own tenderness for him; all they had been to one another spoke too strongly; she could not part from him in unkindness. But the passion that flung them into one another's arms had not healed the breach, had only deepened the wound. Both knew it—both were unhappy. Something was changed, was gone—the old confidence, the old assurance. Joy was gone, and trust; and love, that remained, was bitter, a torment.
Basil had begged her not to leave him just then, to put off her sailing for a month at least.
"It's better we should fight it out together, now—and I need you, I want you with me," he had said again and again. But Teresa had only one idea—to get away somewhere, alone—to get away!
"I must go, I'm ill—I can't bear it," she had repeated. "I must get back my strength, then perhaps it will come right. I can't see anything clear now, I'm just one mass of aching nerves. Can't you see? If I stay here I shall only torment you and myself. … It will come right, if only we have time."
