A step on the deck cheered her. She called out, and Ben's head appeared. "Let me take over. You look tired." he said tenderly. "How long have you been steering?"
"Oh, only about half an hour. I love it really, but I don't know the channel."
He was standing beside her, and as he put out a hand to take a spoke, she moved hers to the same one ahead of him. His hand closed over hers. It tightened at once to a painful grip, squeezing her hand into the wood, while she felt his eyes fixed upon her face. She stared straight ahead, but a pink flush began to mount in her pale cheeks.
"My hand," she said distantly. "You're hurting it."
"I'm sorry." He released his grip at once. "But you're so beautiful! I-- had to tell you." His voice was low, almost a whisper. Slowly he bent his dark head and kissed the hand upon the wheel. Her confusion vanished. She suddenly felt very old and wise and maternal. "Thank you! But d'you know how old I am, Ben? I'll be thirty this year; and by the time you're thirty, I'll be forty-- middle-aged. Apart from from the fact that I'm married."
"I can't help it."
By now the boat, unguided, had veered towards the left bank. Ben hastily swung the wheel up and away, while looking at her with the eyes of a sensitive dog that has been rebuked.
"To me, fair friend, you never can be old,' " he quoted, "I've read all of Shakespeare's sonnets to the Dark Lady in the book you gave me, and they always make me think of you:
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate...
"Ben! Hush! Stop this foolishness at once." But her voice was moved, gentle.
"It's not foolishness. It's my life. You-- are -- everything to me: mother, teacher, friend, sister and... my only love."
"Ben! Please!"
Now he was kissing her arm, the hollow of her elbow beneath the rolled-up sleeve. She had felt herself beginning to be moved by his passionate voice, and now a stirring of responce in her deepest feminine being told her that he was no longer a boy, but a man with a man's desires. She steeled herself to hurt him. "I'm going to have another child, quite soon. His child. He's my husband, and I love him."
Even as she said it she wondered with detachment if it were still entirely true. She loved the image of Brenton as he had been, the gay, golden-haired, irresistable lover; and since he was still the same person-- he was, of course he was!--she must love him still. Ben had dropped her arm abruptly. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I guess I forgot myself." It was his turn to flush. He glared painfully at the river, his face averted.
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