And now it was over, and she was going away. She was going back to her little room, she was going back to her somber aunts—she was going back to Crispin.
For her father had, perhaps, been right in that. If Crispin had not been within reach of the farm, would she have gone? Was it, after all, entirely her sense of integrity which was taking her back?
She stood up. The dogs, eager, followed her through the door, led the way toward the stables. But she was not going to the stables. She turned down the hill and made her way to the pool.
There had been a day or two of warmth, and the bronze turtle was free from ice or snow. He rested placidly on the surface of the water, his head raised a little as if to catch the sound of Hildegarde's step.
She stopped at the edge of the pool. All about her the dry rushes rustled. Her mother's garden would never bloom for her. She was going away. All this, the house on the hill, the gay company within, would be as if they had never been. She would go back to her aunts and Crispin, and if some day she married Crispin, they would have a little house. . . . Were people happy in little houses? Was her father right? Was she like himself in needing luxury? Not strong enough to do without it?
Her mother had been strong enough. Her mother—up there somewhere in the infinite blue. Hildegarde lifted her face to the sky. "I want to be happy," was the cry of her heart to that unseen presence.
And was happiness here? Had her mother found it on the farm? Or had she acquired only a sort of sublime serenity which had served her until the end?
