She
could not sleep--who could sleep on such a night, the herald of such a
morrow? The wail and roar of the wind, the crash of falling trees, and
the rattle of flying stones seemed to form a fit accompaniment to the
turmoil of her mind.
She rose, went to the window, and in the dim light watched the trees
gigantically tossing in struggle for their life. An oak and a birch
were within her view. The oak stood the storm out--for a while.
Presently there came an awful gust and beat upon it. It would not
bend, and the tough roots would not give, so beneath the weight of the
gale the big tree broke in two like a straw, and its spreading top was
whirled into the moat. But the birch gave and bent; it bent till its
delicate filaments lay upon the wind like a woman's streaming hair,
and the fierceness of the blast wore itself away and spared it.
"See what happens to those who stand up and defy their fate," said Ida
to herself with a bitter laugh. "The birch has the best of it."
Ida turned and closed the shutters; the sight of the tempest affected
her strained nerves almost beyond bearing. She began to walk up and
down the big room, flitting like a ghost from end to end and back
again, and again back. What could she do? What should she do? Her fate
was upon her: she could no longer resist the inevitable--she must
marry him.
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