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Updated: May 4, 2025
The mold, I think, was broken. What a piece of luck the thing's at Cottarsport." He paused, obviously expecting her to comment; but suddenly phrases failed her. In place of herself she should be considering Dodge; her sympathy even for him was submerged in her own extraordinary injury. However, she recovered from her first gasping shock, and made an utterly commonplace remark.
Her mind returned continually to Pleydon, and deep in the mystery of his passion she was suddenly invaded by an insistent desire to see the monument at Cottarsport. She spoke to Arnaud at once about this; and alone, through his delicacy of perception, Linda went to Boston the following day.
"Neither, probably, will you have heard of Simon Downige. He was born at Cottarsport, in Massachusetts, about eighteen forty; and, after in the support of his hatred of any slavery he fought through the Civil War, he came home and found that his town stifled him.
The further ride to Cottarsport followed the sea a brilliant serene blue, fretted on the landward side by innumerable bare promontories, hideous towns and factories, but bowed in a far unbroken arc at the immaculate horizon.
How could I? Who has had more from living? Love and complete self-expression. That exhausts every possibility. Three words. Remember Cottarsport. But the love ah," he smiled, but not directly at her. Linda was at once reassured and disturbed; and she rose, proceeding into the drawing-room.
He rose and stood over her, towering and portentous against the curtained light. "I don't pretend to guess. I'm a creative artist Simon Downige at Cottarsport I have you. If it's God so much the better." What principally swept over Linda was the knowledge that his possession of her must keep them always apart. The reality, all realities, were veils to Pleydon.
The spirit dragging the flesh higher; but spirit alone empty balloons. A dream in bronze, harder even than men's heads, more durable than their prejudices, so permanent that it will wear out their ignorance; and in the end always in the end they'll bring their wreath. "A replica has gone to Cottarsport, from me; and you ought to see it there, on a block of New England granite.
The afternoon was advancing. She rose and turned, looking out over the sea to the horizon as brightly sharp as a curved sword. The life of Cottarsport, below her, proceeded in detached figures, an occasional unhurried passage. The boats in the harbor were slumberous. It was time to go.
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