Part 95

“And I want to close it and leave it at that. You see, dear, what else is there to do?”

She turned her white face to me. “All I know of love, all I have ever dreamt or learnt of love I have packed into these days for you. You think we might live together and go on loving. No! For you I will have no vain repetitions. You have had the best and all of me. Would you have us, after this, meet again in London or Paris or somewhere, scuffle to some wretched dressmaker’s, meet in a cabinet particulier?”

“No,” I said. “I want you to marry me. I want you to play the game of life with me as an honest woman should. Come and live with me. Be my wife and squaw. Bear me children.”

I looked at her white, drawn face, and it seemed to me I might carry her yet. I spluttered for words.

“My God! Beatrice!” I cried; “but this is cowardice and folly! Are you afraid of life? You of all people! What does it matter what has been or what we were? Here we are with the world before us! Start clean and new with me. We’ll fight it through! I’m not such a simple lover that I’ll not tell you plainly when you go wrong, and fight our difference out with you. It’s the one thing I want, the one thing I need—to have you, and more of you and more! This love-making—it’s love-making. It’s just a part of us, an incident—”

She shook her head and stopped me abruptly. “It’s all,” she said.

“All!” I protested.

“I’m wiser than you. Wiser beyond words.” She turned her eyes to me and they shone with tears.

“I wouldn’t have you say anything—but what you’re saying,” she said. “But it’s nonsense, dear. You know it’s nonsense as you say it.”

I tried to keep up the heroic note, but she would not listen to it.

“It’s no good,” she cried almost petulantly. “This little world has made us what we are. Don’t you see—don’t you see what I am? I can make love. I can make love and be loved, prettily. Dear, don’t blame me. I have given you all I have. If I had anything more—I have gone through it all over and over again—thought it out. This morning my head aches, my eyes ache.

“The light has gone out of me and I am a sick and tired woman. But I’m talking wisdom—bitter wisdom. I couldn’t be any sort of helper to you, any sort of wife, any sort of mother. I’m spoilt.

“I’m spoilt by this rich idle way of living, until every habit is wrong, every taste wrong. The world is wrong. People can be ruined by wealth just as much as by poverty. Do you think I wouldn’t face life with you if I could, if I wasn’t absolutely certain I should be down and dragging in the first half-mile of the journey? Here I am—damned! Damned! But I won’t damn you. You know what I am! You know. You are too clear and simple not to know the truth. You try to romance and hector, but you know the truth. I am a little cad—sold and done. I’m—. My dear, you think I’ve been misbehaving, but all these days I’ve been on my best behaviour.... You don’t understand, because you’re a man.

“A woman, when she’s spoilt, is spoilt. She’s dirty in grain. She’s done.”

She walked on weeping.

“You’re a fool to want me,” she said. “You’re a fool to want me—for my sake just as much as yours. We’ve done all we can. It’s just romancing—”

She dashed the tears from her eyes and turned upon me. “Don’t you understand?” she challenged. “Don’t you know?”

We faced one another in silence for a moment.

“Yes,” I said, “I know.”

For a long time we spoke never a word, but walked on together, slowly and sorrowfully, reluctant to turn about towards our parting. When at last we did, she broke silence again.

“I’ve had you,” she said.

“Heaven and hell,” I said, “can’t alter that.”

“I’ve wanted—” she went on. “I’ve talked to you in the nights and made up speeches. Now when I want to make them I’m tongue-tied. But to me it’s just as if the moments we have had lasted for ever. Moods and states come and go. To-day my light is out...”

To this day I cannot determine whether she said or whether I imagined she said “chloral.” Perhaps a half-conscious diagnosis flashed it on my brain. Perhaps I am the victim of some perverse imaginative freak of memory, some hinted possibility that scratched and seared. There the word stands in my memory, as if it were written in fire.

We came to the door of Lady Osprey’s garden at last, and it was beginning to drizzle.

She held out her hands and I took them.

“Yours,” she said, in a weary unimpassioned voice; “all that I had—such as it was. Will you forget?”

“Never,” I answered.