Part 23 (1/2)

He thought, ”Now what on earth is this leading up to?” During the weeks of his separation from Mabel, thinking often of Nona, he had caused himself to think from her to Mabel. His reasoning and reasonable habit of mind had made him, finding extraordinary rest in thought of Nona, accuse himself for finding none in thought of Mabel. She was his wife; he never could get away from the poignancy of that phrase. His wife--his responsibility towards her--the old thought, eight years old, of all she had given up in exchanging her own life for his life--and what was she getting? He set himself, on their reunion, always to remember the advantage he had over her: that he _could_ reason out her att.i.tude towards things; that she could not,--neither his att.i.tude nor, what was more, her own.

Now. What was this leading up to? ”She did it bringing in your bicycle.”

Puzzling sometimes over pa.s.sages with Mabel that with mysterious and surprising suddenness had plunged into scenes, he had whimsically envisaged how he had been, as it were, led blindfolded to the edge of a precipice, and then, _whizz!_ sent flying over on to the angry crags below.

Bantering protest sometimes averted the disaster. ”Well, come now, Mabel, that's not my fault. That was your idea, making Low Jinks come out and meet me every evening as if the old bike was a foam-flecked steed. Wasn't it now?”

”Yes, but not in the dark.”

Mysterious manoeuvring! But he felt he was approaching the edge. ”In the dark?”

”Yes, not in the dark. What I mean is, I really cannot imagine why you must keep up your riding all through the winter. It was different when there was no other way. Now the railway is running I simply cannot imagine why you don't use it.”

”Well, that's easy--because I like the ride.”

”You can't possibly like riding back on these pitch dark nights, cold and often wet. That's absurd.”

”Well, I like it a jolly sight better than fugging up in those carriages with all that ga.s.sing crowd of Garden Home fussers.”

And immediately, _whizz!_ he went over the edge.

”That's just it!” Mabel said. And he thought, ”Ah!”

”That's just it. And of course you laugh. Why you can't be friendly with people like other men, I never can imagine. There're heaps of the nicest people up at the Garden Home, but from the first you've set yourself against them. Why you never like to make friends like other people!”

He did not answer.

They were at dinner. She made an elaborate business of reaching for the salt. ”If you ask me, it's because you don't think they're good enough for you.”

He thought, ”That's to rouse me. I'm dashed if I'm going to be roused.”

He thought, ”It's getting the devil, this. There's never a subject we start but we work up to something like this. We work on one another like acid on acid. In a minute she'll have another go at it, and then I shall fly off, and then there we'll be. It's my fault. She doesn't think out these things like I do. She just says what comes into her head, whereas I know perfectly well where we're driving to, so I'm really responsible.

I rile her. I either rile her by saying something in trying not to fly off, or else I let myself go, and off I fly, and we're at it. Acid on acid. It's getting the devil, this. But I'm dashed if I'll fly off. It's up to me.”

He tried in his mind for some matter that would change the subject.

Extraordinary how hard it was to find a new topic when some other infernal thing hung in the air. It was like, in a nightmare, trying with leaden limbs to crawl away from danger.

And then she began:

She resumed precisely at the point where she had left off. While his mind had journeyed in review all around and about the relations between them, her mind had remained c.u.mbrously at the thought of her last words.

There, he told himself, was the whole difference between them. He was intellectually infinitely more agile (he did not put it higher than that) than she. She could not get away from things as he could. They remained in her mind and rankled there. To get impatient with her, to proceed from impatience to loss of temper, was flatly as cruel as to permit impatience and anger with one bedridden and therefore unable to join in robust exercises. He thought, ”I'll not do it.”

She said, actually repeating her last words, ”Yes, if you ask me, it's because you don't think they're good enough for you. As it happens, there're all sorts of particularly nice men up there, only you never take the trouble to know them. And clever--the only thing you pretend to judge by; though what you can find clever in Mr. Fargus or those Perches goodness only knows. There're all sorts of Societies and Circles and Meetings up there that I should have thought were just what would have attracted you. But, no. You prefer that pottering Mr. Fargus with his childish riddles and even that young Perch without spirit enough to go half a yard without that everlasting old mother of his--”

It was longer and fiercer than he had expected. He intercepted. ”I say, Mabel, what's the point of all this, exactly?”

”The point is that it makes it rather hard for me, the way you go on.

I've made many, many friends up at the Garden Home. Do you suppose it doesn't seem funny to them that my husband is never to be seen, never comes near the place, never meets their husbands? Of course they must think it funny. I know I feel it very awkward.”