But, when he had gone to sleep, a terrible time began; for in the small hours, when things are at their worst, she could not keep back her weeping, though she smothered it into the pillow. It woke him, and all began again; the burden of her cry: "It's gone!" the burden of his: "It's NOT--can't you see it isn't?" Till, at last, that awful feeling that he must knock his head against the wall made him leap up and tramp up and down like a beast in a cage--the cage of the impossible. For, as in all human tragedies, both were right according to their natures. She gave him all herself, wanted all in return, and could not have it. He wanted her, the rest besides, and no complaining, and could not have it. He did not admit impossibility; she did.
At last came another of those pitying lulls till he went to sleep in her arms. Long she lay awake, staring at the darkness, admitting despair, trying to find how to bear it, not succeeding.
Impossible to cut his other life away from him--impossible that, while he lived it, this girl should not be tugging him away from her. Impossible to watch and question him. Impossible to live dumb and blind, accepting the crumbs left over, showing nothing.
Would it have been better if they had been married? But then it might have been the same--reversed; perhaps worse! The roots were so much deeper than that. He was not single-hearted and she was.
In spite of all that he said, she knew he didn't really want to give up that girl. How could he? Even if the girl would let him go! And slowly there formed within her a gruesome little plan to test him. Then, ever so gently withdrawing her arms, she turned over and slept, exhausted.
Next morning, remorselessly carrying out that plan, she forced herself to smile and talk as if nothing had happened, watching the relief in his face, his obvious delight at the change, with a fearful aching in her heart. She waited till he was ready to go down, and then, still smiling, said:
"Forget all about yesterday, darling. Promise me you won't let it make any difference. You must keep up your friendship; you mustn't lose anything. I shan't mind; I shall be quite happy." He knelt down and leaned his forehead against her waist. And, stroking his hair, she repeated: "I shall only be happy if you take everything that comes your way. I shan't mind a bit." And she watched his face that had lost its trouble.
"Do you really mean that?"
"Yes; really!"
"Then you do see that it's nothing, never has been anything--compared with you--never!"
He had accepted her crucifixion. A black wave surged into her heart.
"It would be so difficult and awkward for you to give up that intimacy. It would hurt your cousin so."She saw the relief deepen in his face and suddenly laughed. He got up from his knees and stared at her.
"Oh, Gyp, for God's sake don't begin again!"
But she went on laughing; then, with a sob, turned away and buried her face in her hands. To all his prayers and kisses she answered nothing, and breaking away from him, she rushed toward the door. Awild thought possessed her. Why go on? If she were dead, it would be all right for him, quiet--peaceful, quiet--for them all! But he had thrown himself in the way.
"Gyp, for heaven's sake! I'll give her up--of course I'll give her up. Do--do--be reasonable! I don't care a finger-snap for her compared with you!"And presently there came another of those lulls that both were beginning to know were mere pauses of exhaustion. They were priceless all the same, for the heart cannot go on feeling at that rate.
It was Sunday morning, the church-bells ringing, no wind, a lull in the sou'westerly gale--one of those calms that fall in the night and last, as a rule, twelve or fifteen hours, and the garden all strewn with leaves of every hue, from green spotted with yellow to deep copper.
Summerhay was afraid; he kept with her all the morning, making all sorts of little things to do in her company. But he gradually lost his fear, she seemed so calm now, and his was a nature that bore trouble badly, ever impatient to shake it off. And then, after lunch, the spirit-storm beat up again, with a swiftness that showed once more how deceptive were those lulls, how fearfully deep and lasting the wound. He had simply asked her whether he should try to match something for her when he went up, to-morrow. She was silent a moment, then answered:
"Oh, no, thanks; you'll have other things to do; people to see!"The tone of her voice, the expression on her face showed him, with a fresh force of revelation, what paralysis had fallen on his life.
If he could not reconvince her of his love, he would be in perpetual fear--that he might come back and find her gone, fear that she might even do something terrible to herself. He looked at her with a sort of horror, and, without a word, went out of the room. The feeling that he must hit his head against something was on him once more, and once more he sought to get rid of it by tramping up and down. Great God! Such a little thing, such fearful consequences! All her balance, her sanity almost, destroyed. Was what he had done so very dreadful? He could not help Diana loving him!
In the night, Gyp had said: "You are cruel. Do you think there is any man in the world that I wouldn't hate the sight of if I knew that to see him gave you a moment's pain?" It was true--he felt it was true. But one couldn't hate a girl simply because she loved you; at least he couldn't--not even to save Gyp pain. That was not reasonable, not possible. But did that difference between a man and a woman necessarily mean that Gyp loved him so much more than he loved her? Could she not see things in proportion? See that a man might want, did want, other friendships, even passing moments of passion, and yet could love her just the same? She thought him cruel, called him cruel--what for? Because he had kissed a girl who had kissed him; because he liked talking to her, and--yes, might even lose his head with her. But cruel! He was not! Gyp would always be first with him. He must MAKE her see--but how?
