Love's Pilgrimage. Upton Sinclair

      And this was no blind asceticism; it was simply a choosing of the best. It was not a denial of love, but on the contrary a consecration of love. Some day Thyrsis would meet the woman he was to cleave to, and he would expect her to come to him a virgin; and he must honor her as much—he must save the fire and fervor of his young desire for his life’s great consummation.

      Such was the ideal; and these two men made a compact between them, that once every month Thyrsis would write and tell of his success or failure. And this amateur confessional was a mighty motive to the lad—he knew that he could never tell a lie, and the thought of telling the truth was like a sword hanging over him. There were hours of trial, when he stood so close to the edge of the precipice that this alone was what kept him clear.

      Section 10. The summer had come, and Thyrsis had gone away to live in a country village, and was reading Keats and Shelley, and the narrative poems of Scott. There came a soft warm evening, when all the world seemed a-dream; and he had been working hard, and there came to him a yearning for the stars. He went out, and was strolling through the streets of the village, when he saw a girl come out of one of the houses. She was younger than he, graceful of form, and pretty. The lamp-light flashed on her bright cheeks, and she smiled at him as she passed. And Thyrsis’ heart gave a great leap, and the blood surged to his face; he turned and looked, and saw that she was gazing over her shoulder at him.

      He stopped, and turned to follow, his meditations all gone, and gone his resolutions. A trembling seized him, and every nerve of him tingled. He could feel his heart as if it were underneath his throat.

      In a moment more he was beside the girl. “May I join you?” he asked, and she replied with a nod.

      Thyrsis moved beside her and took her arm in his. A moment later they came to a place where the road was dark, and he put his arm about her waist; she made no resistance.

      “I—I’ve seen you often before,” she said.

      “Yes,” he replied, “I have seen you.” And he suddenly remembered a remark that he had heard about her. There was a large summer-hotel in this neighborhood, which as usual had brought all the corruptions of the city in its train; and a youth whom Thyrsis had met there had pointed out the girl with the remark, “She’s a little beast.”

      And this idea, as it came to him, swept him away in a fierce tide of madness; he bent suddenly down and whispered into her ear. They were words that never in Thyrsis’ life had passed his lips before.

      The girl pushed him away; but she laughed.

      “You don’t mind, do you?” exclaimed Thyrsis, his heart thumping like a hammer.

      “Listen,” he whispered, bending towards her. “Let us go and take a walk. Let us go where no one will see us.”

      “Where?” she asked.

      “Out into the country,” he said.

      “Not now,” she replied. “Some other time.”

      “No, now!” exclaimed Thyrsis, desperately. “Now!”

      They had been moving slowly; they came to a place where a great tree hung over the road, shadowing it; and there they stopped, as by one impulse.

      “Listen to me,” he whispered, swiftly. “Listen. You don’t know how anxious I have been to meet you. It’s true—indeed it’s true!”

      He paused. “Yes,” said the girl, “and I have been wanting to meet you. Didn’t you ever see me nod to you?”

      And suddenly Thyrsis put his arms about her, and pressed her to him. The touch of her bosom sent the blood driving through his veins in torrents of fire; he no longer knew or cared what he said, or what he did.

      “Listen to me,” he raced on. “Listen to me! Nobody will know! And you are so beautiful, so beautiful! I love you!” The words burned his lips, but he forced himself to say them, again and again—“I love you!”

      The girl was gazing around her nervously. “Not now,” she exclaimed. “Not to-night. To-morrow I will meet you, to-morrow night, and go with you.”

      “No,” cried Thyrsis, “not to-morrow night, but now!” And he clasped her yet more tightly, with all his strength. “Listen,” he panted, his breath on her cheek. “I love you! I cannot wait till to-morrow—I could not bear it. I am all on fire! I should not know what to do!”

      The girl gazed about her again in uncertainty, and Thyrsis swept on in his swift, half-incoherent exclamations. He would take no refusal; for half his madness was terror of himself, and he knew it. And then suddenly, as he cried out to her, the girl whispered, faintly, “All right!” And his heart gave a throb that hurt him.

      “I’ll tell you,” she went on, hastily, “I was going to the store for something, and they expect me home. But wait here till I get back, and then I’ll go with you.”

      “You mean it?” whispered Thyrsis. “You mean it?”

      “Yes, yes,” she answered.

      “And it will be soon?”

      “Yes, soon.”

      “All right,” said he. “But first give me a kiss.” As she held up her face, Thyrsis pressed her to him, and kissed her again and again, until her cheeks were aflame. At last he released her, and she turned swiftly and darted up the street.

      Section 11. And after she was gone the boy stood there motionless, not stirring even a hand. A full minute passed, and the color went out of his cheeks, and the fire out of his veins, and he could hardly stand erect. His head sunk lower and lower, until suddenly he whispered hoarsely, under his breath, “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”

      He looked up at the sky, his face ghastly white; and there came from his throat a low moan, like that of a wounded animal. Suddenly he turned, and fled away down the street.

      He went on and on, block after block; but then, all at once, he stopped again and faced about. He gripped his hands until the nails cut him, and shut his teeth together like a steel-trap. “No, no!” he muttered. “No—you coward!”

      He turned and began to march, grimly, as a soldier might; he went back, and stopped on the spot from which he had come; and there he stood, like a statue. So one minute passed, then another; and at last a shadow moved in the distance, and a step came near. It was the girl.

      “Here I am,” she whispered, laughing.

      “Yes,” said Thyrsis. “I have something I must say to you, please.”

      She noticed the change in a flash, and she stopped. “What’s the matter?”

      “I don’t know just how to tell you,” said Thyrsis, in a low, quivering voice. “I’ve been a hound, and now I don’t want to be a cad. But I’m sorry for what we were talking about.”

      “You mean what you were talking about, don’t you?” demanded the girl, her eyes flashing.

      Thyrsis dropped his glance. “Yes,” he said. “I am a cur. I beg your pardon. I am so ashamed of myself that I don’t know what to do. But, oh, I was crazy. I couldn’t help it! and I—I’m so sorry!” There were tears in his voice.

      “Humph,” said the girl, “it’s all right.”