But the picture was gone, the dream was broken, the hope was darkened.  He tried to bring it all back again, and failed utterly.  He could not think of Christ riding into Jerusalem; he could only think of Norah walking along the road to Rodchurch.

XXVIII

Extreme heat came that year with the opening of July, and the atmosphere at night seemed as oppressive as in the day.

After an unusually wet June the foliage was rich and dense, but flowers were few and poor—­except the roses, which had prospered greatly.  Throughout the daylight hours trees close at hand looked solid, as if composed of some unbending green material; while those a little way off were rather firm, presenting the appearance of trees during heavy rain.  Indeed that was the appearance of the whole scene—­a country-side being drenched and rendered vague by a heavy downpour; but it was sheer heat that was descending, with never an atom of moisture in it.

The shadows beneath the trees were absolutely black, impenetrable; a dark cave under each ring of leaves.  Then toward nightfall this shadow grew lighter and lighter, until it was a transparent grayness into which one could see quite clearly.  Thus a girl and a man sitting under a hedgerow elm five or six hundred yards away were distinct objects, although perhaps themselves unaware that they had gradually lost their shelter and become conspicuous.

Dale, crossing his fields and staring at these two figures, for a moment fancied that one of them was Norah.  Yet that would have been an impossibility, because he had just left her behind him at the house; and she could not have swum round in a great half-circle, through the drowsy air, to confront him at a distant point where he did not expect to see her.  But the heat made one stupid and slow-witted.  This man and woman were farmer Creech’s people, and they had come sauntering along the edge of uncut grass to make lazy love to each other.  Dale turned aside to avoid disturbing them.

As he returned toward the house presently, he thought of Norah’s unwonted pallor.  Poor child, the heat seemed to be trying her more than anybody.  And he thought of how wan and limp and sad she looked early this morning, when he had again sent her out of his office and flatly refused to let her do any more writing or tidying for him.  Even her red lips had gone pale; she dropped her head; her white eyelids and black lashes fluttered as she looked up at him piteously, seeming to ask:  “What have I done that you treat me like this, oh, my cruel master?” He had driven his hands deep into his pockets, had shrugged his shoulders, and spoken almost roughly—­telling her to go about her business, and not bother.  He thought if he gave her time to do it, she might cry again; and he did not want to see any more of her tears.

But off and on throughout the day he had watched her when she did not in the least know that she was being observed.  Just after breakfast he had watched her as she scrubbed the kitchen floor, and had noticed the pretty lines of her figure in these sprawling attitudes—­her ankles, stockings, and the upturned soles of her buckle-shoes.