Vanamee lifted his head, looking about him with unseeing eyes, trembling with the exertion of his vain effort.But he could not as yet allow himself to despair.Never before had that curious power of attraction failed him.He felt himself to be so strong in this respect that he was persuaded if he exerted himself to the limit of his capacity, something--he could not say what--must come of it.If it was only a self-delusion, an hallucination, he told himself that he would be content.
Almost of its own accord, his distorted mind concentrated itself again, every thought, all the power of his will riveting themselves upon Angele.As if she were alive, he summoned her to him.His eyes, fixed upon the name cut into the headstone, contracted, the pupils growing small, his fists shut tight, his nerves braced rigid.
For a few seconds he stood thus, breathless, expectant, awaiting the manifestation, the Miracle.Then, without knowing why, hardly conscious of what was transpiring, he found that his glance was leaving the headstone, was turning from the grave.
Not only this, but his whole body was following the direction of his eyes.Before he knew it, he was standing with his back to Angele's grave, was facing the north, facing the line of pear trees and the little valley where the Seed ranch lay.At first, he thought this was because he had allowed his will to weaken, the concentrated power of his mind to grow slack.And once more turning toward the grave, he banded all his thoughts together in a consummate effort, his teeth grinding together, his hands pressed to his forehead.He forced himself to the notion that Angele was alive, and to this creature of his imagination he addressed himself:
"Angele!" he cried in a low voice; "Angele, I am calling you--do you hear? Come to me--come to me now, now."Instead of the Answer he demanded, that inexplicable counter-influence cut across the current of his thought.Strive as he would against it, he must veer to the north, toward the pear trees.Obeying it, he turned, and, still wondering, took a step in that direction, then another and another.The next moment he came abruptly to himself, in the black shadow of the pear trees themselves, and, opening his eyes, found himself looking off over the Seed ranch, toward the little house in the centre where Angele had once lived.
Perplexed, he returned to the grave, once more calling upon the resources of his will, and abruptly, so soon as these reached a certain point, the same cross-current set in.He could no longer keep his eyes upon the headstone, could no longer think of the grave and what it held.He must face the north; he must be drawn toward the pear trees, and there left standing in their shadow, looking out aimlessly over the Seed ranch, wondering, bewildered.
Farther than this the influence never drew him, but up to this point--the line of pear trees--it was not to be resisted.
For a time the peculiarity of the affair was of more interest to Vanamee than even his own distress of spirit, and once or twice he repeated the attempt, almost experimentally, and invariably with the same result: so soon as he seemed to hold Angele in the grip of his mind, he was moved to turn about toward the north, and hurry toward the pear trees on the crest of the hill that over-looked the little valley.
But Vanamee's unhappiness was too keen this night for him to dwell long upon the vagaries of his mind.Submitting at length, and abandoning the grave, he flung himself down in the black shade of the pear trees, his chin in his hands, and resigned himself finally and definitely to the inrush of recollection and the exquisite grief of an infinite regret.
To his fancy, she came to him again.He put himself back many years.He remembered the warm nights of July and August, profoundly still, the sky encrusted with stars, the little Mission garden exhaling the mingled perfumes that all through the scorching day had been distilled under the steady blaze of a summer's sun.He saw himself as another person, arriving at this, their rendezvous.All day long she had been in his mind.
