No, Trina did not know. “Do I love him?
Do I love him?” A thousand times she put the
question to herself during the next two or three days.
At night she hardly slept, but lay broad awake for
hours in her little, gayly painted bed, with its white
netting, torturing herself with doubts and questions.
At times she remembered the scene in the station with
a veritable agony of shame, and at other times she
was ashamed to recall it with a thrill of joy.
Nothing could have been more sudden, more unexpected,
than that surrender of herself. For over a year
she had thought that Marcus would some day be her
husband. They would be married, she supposed,
some time in the future, she did not know exactly
when; the matter did not take definite shape in her
mind. She liked Cousin Mark very well. And
then suddenly this cross-current had set in; this
blond giant had appeared, this huge, stolid fellow,
with his immense, crude strength. She had not
loved him at first, that was certain. The day
he had spoken to her in his “Parlors” she
had only been terrified. If he had confined himself
to merely speaking, as did Marcus, to pleading with
her, to wooing her at a distance, forestalling her
wishes, showing her little attentions, sending her
boxes of candy, she could have easily withstood him.
But he had only to take her in his arms, to crush
down her struggle with his enormous strength, to subdue
her, conquer her by sheer brute force, and she gave
up in an instant.
But why—why had she done so? Why did
she feel the desire, the necessity of being conquered
by a superior strength? Why did it please her?
Why had it suddenly thrilled her from head to foot
with a quick, terrifying gust of passion, the like
of which she had never known? Never at his best
had Marcus made her feel like that, and yet she had
always thought she cared for Cousin Mark more than
for any one else.
When McTeague had all at once caught her in his huge
arms, something had leaped to life in her—something
that had hitherto lain dormant, something strong and
overpowering. It frightened her now as she thought
of it, this second self that had wakened within her,
and that shouted and clamored for recognition.
And yet, was it to be feared? Was it something
to be ashamed of? Was it not, after all, natural,
clean, spontaneous? Trina knew that she was a
pure girl; knew that this sudden commotion within
her carried with it no suggestion of vice.
Dimly, as figures seen in a waking dream, these ideas
floated through Trina’s mind. It was quite
beyond her to realize them clearly; she could not
know what they meant. Until that rainy day by
the shore of the bay Trina had lived her life with
as little self-consciousness as a tree. She was
frank, straightforward, a healthy, natural human being,
without sex as yet. She was almost like a boy.
At once there had been a mysterious disturbance.
The woman within her suddenly awoke.
