Part 23 (1/2)

It occurred to my cousin, he says, that he would touch her hand in a sympathetic manner, and then it occurred to him that he wouldn't. Her words rang in his thoughts for a s.p.a.ce, and then he said somewhat tardily, ”He may still be all those things.”

”I suppose he may,” she said slowly and without colour. The weeping moment had pa.s.sed.

”What is she?” she changed abruptly. ”What is this being, who has come between him and all the realities of life? What is there about her--?

And why should I have to compete with her, because he--because he doesn't know his own mind?”

”For a man,” said Melville, ”to know his own mind is--to have exhausted one of the chief interests in life. After that--! A cultivated extinct volcano--if ever it was a volcano.”

He reflected egotistically for a s.p.a.ce. Then with a secret start he came back to consider her.

”What is there,” she said, with that deliberate attempt at clearness which was one of her antipathetic qualities for Melville--”what is there that she has, that she offers, that _I_----?”

Melville winced at this deliberate proposal of appalling comparisons.

All the catlike quality in his soul came to his aid. He began to edge away, and walk obliquely and generally to s.h.i.+rk the issue. ”My dear Miss Glendower,” he said, and tried to make that seem an adequate reply.

”What _is_ the difference?” she insisted.

”There are impalpable things,” waived Melville. ”They are above reason and beyond describing.”

”But you,” she urged, ”you take an att.i.tude, you must have an impression. Why don't you-- Don't you see, Mr. Melville, this is very”--her voice caught for a moment--”very vital for me. It isn't kind of you, if you have impressions-- I'm sorry, Mr. Melville, if I seem to be trying to get too much from you. I--I want to know.”

It came into Melville's head for a moment that this girl had something in her, perhaps, that was just a little beyond his former judgments.

”I must admit, I have a sort of impression,” he said.

”You are a man; you know him; you know all sorts of things--all sorts of ways of looking at things, I don't know. If you could go so far--as to be frank.”

”Well,” said Melville and stopped.

She hung over him as it were, as a tense silence.

”There _is_ a difference,” he admitted, and still went unhelped.

”How can I put it? I think in certain ways you contrast with her, in a way that makes things easier for her. He has--I know the thing sounds like cant, only you know, _he_ doesn't plead it in defence--he has a temperament, to which she sometimes appeals more than you do.”

”Yes, I know, but how?”

”Well----”

”Tell me.”

”You are austere. You are restrained. Life--for a man like Chatteris--is schooling. He has something--something perhaps more worth having than most of us have--but I think at times--it makes life harder for him than it is for a lot of us. Life comes at him, with limitations and regulations. He knows his duty well enough. And you-- You mustn't mind what I say too much, Miss Glendower--I may be wrong.”

”Go on,” she said, ”go on.”

”You are too much--the agent general of his duty.”

”But surely!--what else----?”