Outside, he walked a few steps, then stood looking back at the windows of the hall through some trees, the shadows of whose trunks, in the light of a street lamp, were spilled out along the ground like the splines of a fan.A church clock struck eleven.
For hours yet she would be there, going round and round in the arms of Youth! Try as he might he could never recapture for himself the look that Oliver's face had worn--the look that was the symbol of so much more than he himself could give her.Why had she come into his life--to her undoing, and his own? And the bizarre thought came to him: If she were dead should I really care? Should I not be almost glad? If she were dead her witchery would be dead, and Icould stand up straight again and look people in the face! What was this power that played with men, darted into them, twisted their hearts to rags; this power that had looked through her eyes when she put her fan, with his flowers, to her lips?
The thrumming of the music ceased; he walked away.
It must have been nearly twelve when he reached home.Now, once more, would begin the gruesome process of deception--flinching of soul, and brazening of visage.It would be better when the whole thievish business was irretrievably begun and ordered in its secret courses!
There was no light in the drawing-room, save just the glow of the fire.If only Sylvia might have gone to bed! Then he saw her, sitting motionless out there by the uncurtained window.
He went over to her, and began his hateful formula:
"I'm afraid you've been lonely.I had to stay rather late.A dull evening." And, since she did not move or answer, but just sat there very still and white, he forced himself to go close, bend down to her, touch her cheek; even to kneel beside her.She looked round then; her face was quiet enough, but her eyes were strangely eager.With a pitiful little smile she broke out:
"Oh, Mark! What is it--what is it? Anything is better than this!"Perhaps it was the smile, perhaps her voice or eyes--but something gave way in Lennan.Secrecy, precaution went by the board.Bowing his head against her breast, he poured it all out, while they clung, clutched together in the half dark like two frightened children.Only when he had finished did he realize that if she had pushed him away, refused to let him touch her, it would have been far less piteous, far easier to bear, than her wan face and her hands clutching him, and her words: "I never thought--you and I--oh! Mark--you and I--" The trust in their life together, in himself, that those words revealed! Yet, not greater than he had had--still had! She could not understand--he had known that she could never understand; it was why he had fought so for secrecy, all through.She was taking it as if she had lost everything; and in his mind she had lost nothing.This passion, this craving for Youth and Life, this madness--call it what one would--was something quite apart, not touching his love and need of her.If she would only believe that! Over and over he repeated it; over and over again perceived that she could not take it in.The only thing she saw was that his love had gone from her to another--though that was not true! Suddenly she broke out of his arms, pushing him from her, and cried: "That girl--hateful, horrible, false!" Never had he seen her look like this, with flaming spots in her white cheeks, soft lips and chin distorted, blue eyes flaming, breast heaving, as if each breath were drawn from lungs that received no air.And then, as quickly, the fire went out of her; she sank down on the sofa; covering her face with her arms, rocking to and fro.She did not cry, but a little moan came from her now and then.And each one of those sounds was to Lennan like the cry of something he was murdering.At last he went and sat down on the sofa by her and said:
"Sylvia! Sylvia! Don't! oh! don't!" And she was silent, ceasing to rock herself; letting him smooth and stroke her.But her face she kept hidden, and only once she spoke, so low that he could hardly hear: "I can't--I won't keep you from her." And with the awful feeling that no words could reach or soothe the wound in that tender heart, he could only go on stroking and kissing her hands.
It was atrocious--horrible--this that he had done! God knew that he had not sought it--the thing had come on him.Surely even in her misery she could see that! Deep down beneath his grief and self-hatred, he knew, what neither she nor anyone else could know--that he could not have prevented this feeling, which went back to days before he ever saw the girl--that no man could have stopped that feeling in himself.This craving and roving was as much part of him as his eyes and hands, as overwhelming and natural a longing as his hunger for work, or his need of the peace that Sylvia gave, and alone could give him.That was the tragedy--it was all sunk and rooted in the very nature of a man.Since the girl had come into their lives he was no more unfaithful to his wife in thought than he had been before.If only she could look into him, see him exactly as he was, as, without part or lot in the process, he had been made--then she would understand, and even might not suffer;but she could not, and he could never make it plain.And solemnly, desperately, with a weary feeling of the futility of words, he went on trying: Could she not see? It was all a thing outside him--a craving, a chase after beauty and life, after his own youth! At that word she looked at him:
"And do you think I don't want my youth back?"He stopped.
For a woman to feel that her beauty--the brightness of her hair and eyes, the grace and suppleness of her limbs--were slipping from her and from the man she loved! Was there anything more bitter?--or any more sacred duty than not to add to that bitterness, not to push her with suffering into old age, but to help keep the star of her faith in her charm intact!
Man and woman--they both wanted youth again; she, that she might give it all to him; he, because it would help him towards something--new! Just that world of difference!
He got up, and said:
