Part 28 (2/2)

Warrisden looked at her and his heart filled with pity for the great trouble which had overwhelmed her. She stood by his side with the sunlight playing upon her face and her hair--a girl brilliant with life, ripe to turn its possibilities into facts; and she shrank from the ordeal, so hardly had she been hit! She was by nature fearless, yet was she desperately afraid.

”Will nothing make you touch the gate and try?” he asked gently. And then, quietly as he spoke, the greatness of his longing made itself heard. ”My dear, my dear,” he said, ”will nothing make you take your risks?”

The words struck sharply upon her memories. She turned her eyes to him.

”It is strange that you should use those words,” she said. ”For there is one thing which might make me take my risks. The return of the man who used them to you in the North Sea.”

”Tony Stretton?” exclaimed Warrisden.

”Yes. He is still away. It is said that he is on a long shooting expedition somewhere in Central Africa, and out of reach. But that is not the truth. We do not know where he is, or when he will come back.”

”Shall I try to find him again?” said Warrisden. ”This time I might succeed in bringing him home.”

Pamela shook her head.

”No,” she answered. ”I think I know why he stays away. And there would be only one way of persuading him to return. Well--that means I must not use, unless things have come to an extremity.”

The one means of persuasion was the truth. If she sent for Tony Stretton again she must explain what that saying of hers spoken so long ago had meant. She must write why he should not have left his wife. She must relate the sordid story, which rendered his return imperative, That she was prepared to do, if all else failed, in the last resort, but not till then.

”But the extremity has not been reached,” she continued, ”and I hope it never will. I hope Tony Stretton will come back soon of his own accord. That would be the best thing which could happen, ever so much the best.” She did not blame Tony for his absence, for she understood the motive which caused it. In a way, she was inclined to approve of it in itself, just as a motive, that is to say. It was the character of Millie Stretton and his ignorance of it which made his experiment so hazardous. Complete confidence in his wife's honour, indeed, was to her thinking, and rightly, an essential part of his motive. She wished him to return of his own accord and keep that confidence.

”There is not the same necessity,” she continued, choosing her words, ”that he should return immediately, as there was when I sent you out to the North Sea; but it is possible that the necessity might recur.”

For she knew that, though Callon was far away in Chili, letters came from him to Millie. Only lately a careless remark of Millie's with reference to that State had a.s.sured her of this. And if the letters still came, though Callon had been away a year, it followed that they were answered.

”In that case you would send for me?” said Warrisden.

”Yes. I should rely on you.”

And Warrisden answered quietly, ”Thank you.”

He asked no questions. He seemed to understand that Pamela must use him, and, while using him, not fail of loyalty to her s.e.x. A feeling of self-reproach suddenly troubled Pamela. She had never told him that she had used another's help and not his. She wondered whether it was quite fair not to tell him. But she kept silent. After all, she thought, the news would only hurt him; and Mr. Mudge's help had been help which he could not have given. She went back to the matter of their relations.h.i.+p to one another.

”So you understand what I think,” she said. ”I am afraid. I look for signs. I cannot help doing that. I have set my heart on keeping a promise which I made to Tony Stretton. If he returns, whether of his own accord or by my persuasion, and things go well--why, then”--and she turned her face from him and said, looking steadily in front of her--”why, then, perhaps.”

As she spoke her face changed wonderfully. The mere utterance of the word aloud conjured up dreams. A wistful smile made her lips beautiful, her eyes grew dim. Just for a moment she gave those dreams their way. She looked across the garden through a mist, seeing nothing of the trees or the coloured flowers, but gazing into a vision of other and golden days--of days perhaps to come. Warrisden stood at her side, and did not speak. But something of those dreams he guessed, her face had grown so young.

She shook her dreams from her in a few moments.

”So you see, at present,” she resumed, ”marriage is impossible. It will always be impossible to me unless I can bring--everything, not merely companions.h.i.+p, not merely liking; out the ever so much more which there is. I cannot contemplate it at all under any other conditions”--and now she looked at her companion--”and I believe it is the same with you.”

”Yes,” Warrisden replied, ”I ask for everything.”

He had his convictions, and since there was complete confidence between these two, he spoke them now.

”It is unsafe, of course, to generalise on the subject of women. But I do think this: If a man asks little from a woman, she will give him even less than he asks, and she will give it grudgingly, sparingly; counting what she gives. And that little, to my mind, is worth rather less than nothing. Better have no ties than weak ones. If, on the other hand, a man asks a great deal, and continually asks it, why, the woman may get bored, and he may get nothing. In which case he is no worse off than he was before. But if, on the other hand, the woman does give in return----”

”Well?” asked Pamela.

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