It was then between one and two.I felt that I could go home now without any risk of meeting Margaret.It had been the thought of returning to Margaret that had sent me wandering that night.It is one of the ugliest facts I recall about that time of crisis, the intense aversion I felt for Margaret.No sense of her goodness, her injury and nobility, and the enormous generosity of her forgiveness, sufficed to mitigate that.I hope now that in this book I am able to give something of her silvery splendour, but all through this crisis I felt nothing of that.There was a triumphant kindliness about her that I found intolerable.She meant to be so kind to me, to offer unstinted consolation, to meet my needs, to supply just all she imagined Isabel had given me.
When I left Tarvrille's, I felt I could anticipate exactly how she would meet my homecoming.She would be perplexed by my crumpled shirt front, on which I had spilt some drops of wine; she would overlook that by an effort, explain it sentimentally, resolve it should make no difference to her.She would want to know who had been present, what we had talked about, show the alertest interest in whatever it was--it didn't matter what....No, I couldn't face her.
So I did not reach my study until two o'clock.
There, I remember, stood the new and very beautiful old silver candlesticks that she had set there two days since to please me--the foolish kindliness of it! But in her search for expression, Margaret heaped presents upon me.She had fitted these candlesticks with electric lights, and I must, I suppose, have lit them to write my note to Isabel."Give me a word--the world aches without you,"was all I scrawled, though I fully meant that she should come to me.
I knew, though I ought not to have known, that now she had left her flat, she was with the Balfes--she was to have been married from the Balfes--and I sent my letter there.And I went out into the silent square and posted the note forthwith, because I knew quite clearly that if I left it until morning I should never post it at all.
3
I had a curious revulsion of feeling that morning of our meeting.
(Of all places for such a clandestine encounter she had chosen the bridge opposite Buckingham Palace.) Overnight I had been full of self pity, and eager for the comfort of Isabel's presence.But the ill-written scrawl in which she had replied had been full of the suggestion of her own weakness and misery.And when I saw her, my own selfish sorrows were altogether swept away by a wave of pitiful tenderness.Something had happened to her that I did not understand.She was manifestly ill.She came towards me wearily, she who had always borne herself so bravely; her shoulders seemed bent, and her eyes were tired, and her face white and drawn.All my life has been a narrow self-centred life; no brothers, no sisters or children or weak things had ever yet made any intimate appeal to me, and suddenly--I verily believe for the first time in my life!--Ifelt a great passion of protective ownership; I felt that here was something that I could die to shelter, something that meant more than joy or pride or splendid ambitions or splendid creation to me, a new kind of hold upon me, a new power in the world.Some sealed fountain was opened in my breast.I knew that I could love Isabel broken, Isabel beaten, Isabel ugly and in pain, more than I could love any sweet or delightful or glorious thing in life.I didn't care any more for anything in the world but Isabel, and that Ishould protect her.I trembled as I came near her, and could scarcely speak to her for the emotion that filled me....
"I had your letter," I said.
"I had yours."
"Where can we talk?"
I remember my lame sentences."We'll have a boat.That's best here."I took her to the little boat-house, and there we hired a boat, and I rowed in silence under the bridge and into the shade of a tree.
The square grey stone masses of the Foreign Office loomed through the twigs, I remember, and a little space of grass separated us from the pathway and the scrutiny of passers-by.And there we talked.
"I had to write to you," I said.
"I had to come."
"When are you to be married?"
"Thursday week."
"Well?" I said."But--can we?"
She leant forward and scrutinised my face with eyes wide open.
"What do you mean?" she said at last in a whisper.
"Can we stand it? After all?"
I looked at her white face."Can you?" I said.
She whispered."Your career?"
Then suddenly her face was contorted,--she wept silently, exactly as a child tormented beyond endurance might suddenly weep....
"Oh! I don't care," I cried, "now.I don't care.Damn the whole system of things! Damn all this patching of the irrevocable! Iwant to take care of you, Isabel! and have you with me.""I can't stand it," she blubbered.
"You needn't stand it.I thought it was best for you....Ithought indeed it was best for you.I thought even you wanted it like that.""Couldn't I live alone--as I meant to do?""No," I said, "you couldn't.You're not strong enough.I've thought of that; I've got to shelter you.""And I want you," I went on."I'm not strong enough--I can't stand life without you."She stopped weeping, she made a great effort to control herself, and looked at me steadfastly for a moment."I was going to kill myself," she whispered."I was going to kill myself quietly--somehow.I meant to wait a bit and have an accident.I thought--you didn't understand.You were a man, and couldn't understand....""People can't do as we thought we could do," I said."We've gone too far together.""Yes," she said, and I stared into her eyes.
"The horror of it," she whispered."The horror of being handed over.It's just only begun to dawn upon me, seeing him now as I do.
