"And I came back," she exclaimed in a stifled voice; "you know everything.""I am glad of it--for your sake," he said with impressive gravity. He listened to himself with solemn emotion. It seemed to him that something inexpressibly momentous was in progress within the room, that every word and every gesture had the importance of events preordained from the beginning of all things, and summing up in their finality the whole purpose of creation.
"For your sake," he repeated.
Her shoulders shook as though she had been sobbing, and he forgot himself in the contemplation of her hair. Suddenly he gave a start, as if waking up, and asked very gently and not much above a whisper--"Have you been meeting him often?"
"Never!" she cried into the palms of her hands.
This answer seemed for a moment to take from him the power of speech.
His lips moved for some time before any sound came.
"You preferred to make love here--under my very nose," he said, furiously. He calmed down instantly, and felt regretfully uneasy, as though he had let himself down in her estimation by that outburst.
She rose, and with her hand on the back of the chair confronted him with eyes that were perfectly dry now. There was a red spot on each of her cheeks.
"When I made up my mind to go to him--I wrote," she said.
"But you didn't go to him," he took up in the same tone. "How far did you go? What made you come back?""I didn't know myself," she murmured. Nothing of her moved but her lips. He fixed her sternly.
"Did he expect this? Was he waiting for you?" he asked.
She answered him by an almost imperceptible nod, and he continued to look at her for a good while without making a sound. Then, at last--"And I suppose he is waiting yet?" he asked, quickly.
Again she seemed to nod at him. For some reason he felt he must know the time. He consulted his watch gloomily. Half-past seven.
"Is he?" he muttered, putting the watch in his pocket. He looked up at her, and, as if suddenly overcome by a sense of sinister fun, gave a short, harsh laugh, directly repressed.
"No! It's the most unheard! . . ." he mumbled while she stood before him biting her lower lip, as if plunged in deep thought. He laughed again in one low burst that was as spiteful as an imprecation. He did not know why he felt such an overpowering and sudden distaste for the facts of existence--for facts in general--such an immense disgust at the thought of all the many days already lived through. He was wearied. Thinking seemed a labour beyond his strength. He said--"You deceived me--now you make a fool of him . . . It's awful! Why?""I deceived myself!" she exclaimed.
"Oh! Nonsense!" he said, impatiently.
"I am ready to go if you wish it," she went on, quickly. "It was due to you--to be told--to know. No! I could not!" she cried, and stood still wringing her hands stealthily.
"I am glad you repented before it was too late," he said in a dull tone and looking at his boots. "I am glad . . . some spark of better feeling," he muttered, as if to himself. He lifted up his head after a moment of brooding silence. "I am glad to see that there is some sense of decency left in you," he added a little louder. Looking at her he appeared to hesitate, as if estimating the possible consequences of what he wished to say, and at last blurted out--"After all, I loved you. . . ."
"I did not know," she whispered.
"Good God!" he cried. "Why do you imagine I married you?"The indelicacy of his obtuseness angered her.
"Ah--why?" she said through her teeth.
He appeared overcome with horror, and watched her lips intently as though in fear.
"I imagined many things," she said, slowly, and paused. He watched, holding his breath. At last she went on musingly, as if thinking aloud, "I tried to understand. I tried honestly. . . . Why? . . . To do the usual thing--I suppose. . . . To please yourself."He walked away smartly, and when he came back, close to her, he had a flushed face.
"You seemed pretty well pleased, too--at the time," he hissed, with scathing fury. "I needn't ask whether you loved me.""I know now I was perfectly incapable of such a thing," she said, calmly, "If I had, perhaps you would not have married me.""It's very clear I would not have done it if I had known you--as Iknow you now."
He seemed to see himself proposing to her--ages ago. They were strolling up the slope of a lawn. Groups of people were scattered in sunshine. The shadows of leafy boughs lay still on the short grass.
