“But what can they do if we don’t?”
“He said you might have your freedom.”
“I!”
“He said, with a stress, ‘My dear young lady, it would be better, it would be more dignified, if you parted, willingly.’ That was all he said. With a stress on willingly.”
“But—! What business is it of these little wretches, where we love, how we love? What have they and their world to do with us?”
“They do not think that.”
“Of course,” he said, “you disregard all this.”
“It seems utterly foolish to me.”
“That their laws should fetter us! That we, at the first spring of life, should be tripped by their old engagements, their aimless institutions! Oh—! We disregard it.”
“I am yours. So far—yes.”
“So far? Isn’t that all?”
“But they—If they want to part us—”
“What can they do?”
“I don’t know. What can they do?”
“Who cares what they can do, or what they will do? I am yours and you are mine. What is there more than that? I am yours and you are mine—forever. Do you think I will stop for their little rules, for their little prohibitions, their scarlet boards indeed!—and keep from you?”
“Yes. But still, what can they do?”
“You mean,” he said, “what are we to do?”
“Yes.”
“We? We can go on.”
“But if they seek to prevent us?”
He clenched his hands. He looked round as if the little people were already coming to prevent them. Then turned away from her and looked about the world. “Yes,” he said. “Your question was the right one. What can they do?”
“Here in this little land,” she said, and stopped. He seemed to survey it all. “They are everywhere.”
“But we might—”
“Whither?”
“We could go. We could swim the seas together. Beyond the seas—”
“I have never been beyond the seas.”
“There are great and desolate mountains amidst which we should seem no more than little people, there are remote and deserted valleys, there are hidden lakes and snow-girdled uplands untrodden by the feet of men. There—”
“But to get there we must fight our way day after day through millions and millions of mankind.”
“It is our only hope. In this crowded land there is no fastness, no shelter. What place is there for us among these multitudes? They who are little can hide from one another, but where are we to hide? There is no place where we could eat, no place where we could sleep. If we fled—night and day they would pursue our footsteps.”
A thought came to him.
“There is one place,” he said, “even in this island.”
“Where?”
“The place our Brothers have made over beyond there. They have made great banks about their house, north and south and east and west; they have made deep pits and hidden places, and even now—one came over to me quite recently. He said—I did not altogether heed what he said then. But he spoke of arms. It may be—there—we should find shelter. …
“For many days,” he said, after a pause, “I have not seen our Brothers … Dear! I have been dreaming, I have been forgetting! The days have passed, and I have done nothing but look to see you again … I must go to them and talk to them, and tell them of you and of all the things that hang over us. If they will help us, they can help us. Then indeed we might hope. I do not know how strong their place is, but certainly Cossar will have made it strong. Before all this—before you came to me, I remember now—there was trouble brewing. There was an election—when all the little people settle things, by counting heads. It must be over now. There were threats against all our race—against all our race, that is, but you. I must see our Brothers. I must tell them all that has happened between us, and all that threatens now.”
V
He did not come to their next meeting until she had waited some time. They were to meet that day about midday in a great space of park that fitted into a bend of the river, and as she waited, looking ever southward under her hand, it came to her that the world was very still, that indeed it was broodingly still. And then she perceived that, spite of the lateness of the hour, her customary retinue of voluntary spies had failed her. Left and right, when she came to look, there was no one in sight, and there was never a boat upon the silver curve of the Thames. She tried to find a reason for this strange stillness in the world. …
Then, a grateful sight for her, she saw young Redwood far away over a gap in the tree masses that bounded her view.
Immediately the trees hid him, and presently he was thrusting through them and in sight again. She could see there was something different, and then she saw that he was hurrying unusually and then that he limped. He gestured to her, and she walked towards him. His face became clearer, and she saw with infinite concern that he winced at every stride.
She ran towards him, her mind full of questions and vague fear. He drew near to her and spoke without a greeting.
“Are we to part?” he panted.
“No,” she answered. “Why? What is the matter?”
“But if we do not part—! It is now.”
“What is the matter?”
“I do not want to part,” he said. “Only—” He broke off abruptly to ask, “You will not part from me?”
She met his eyes with a steadfast look. “What has happened?” she pressed.
“Not for a time?”
“What time?”
“Years perhaps.”
“Part! No!”
“You have thought?” he insisted.
“I will not part.” She took his hand. “If this meant death, now, I would not let you go.”
“If it meant death,” he said, and she felt his grip upon her fingers.
He looked about him as if he feared to see the little people coming as he spoke. And then: “It may mean death.”
“Now tell me,” she said.
“They tried to stop my coming.”
“How?”
“And
