"Don't forget, Nan, what we said just now. We can each remember that--our troth. Hang on to it--_hard_, when life seems a bit more uphill than usual."
Nan awoke the next morning to find the sunlight pouring into her room. Outside, the notes of a bird's song lilted very sweetly on the air, while the creamy head of a rose tapped now and again at the window as though bidding her come out and share in the glory of the summer's day. She had slept far into the morning--the deep, dreamless slumber of utter mental and physical exhaustion. And now, waking, she stared about her bewilderedly, unable at first to recall where she was or what had happened.
But that blessed lack of realisation did not last for long. Almost immediately the recollection of all that had occurred yesterday rushed over her with stunning force, and the sunlight, the bird song, and that futile rose tapping softly there against the window-pane, seemed stupidly incongruous.
Nan felt she almost hated them. Only a few hours before she had said good-bye to the man she loved. Not good-bye for a month or a year, but for the rest of life. Possibly, at some distant time, they might chance to meet at the house of a mutual friend, but they would meet merely as acquaintances, never again as lovers. Triumphing in spirit over the desire of the heart, they had taken their farewell of love--bowed to the destiny which had made of that love a forbidden thing.
But last night, even through the anguish of farewell, they had been unconsciously upheld by a feeling of exultation--that strange ecstasy of sacrifice which sometimes fires frail human beings to live up to the god that is within them.
To-day the inevitable reaction had succeeded and only the bleak, bitter facts remained. Nan faced them squarely, though it called for all the pluck of which she was possessed. Peter had gone, and throughout the years that stretched ahead she saw herself travelling through life step by step with Roger, living the same dull existence year in, year out, till at last, when they were both too old for anything to matter very much--too supine for romance to send the quick blood racing through their veins, too dull of sight to perceive the glamour and glory of the world--merciful death would step in and take one or other of them away.