Part 27 (1/2)

Although the world was as yet far from being an open book for her, it was conceivable that Philip Rainham (even if one judged by appearances) had done nothing which need necessarily cast him beyond the pale of the unregenerate society of bachelordom. It never occurred to her that, so far as she herself was concerned, a renewal of the old relation was among possible things: if she had met Philip in public she would have made it clear to him that he was no longer on the same plane with her; that, from her point of view, he had practically ceased to exist.

It was only when she was alone, and pleasant, bitter memories of the old days recurred, that she owned to herself how hard it was to think of this intimacy as severed by a rule of moral conduct no less inexorable, and even more cruel, than death. And yet there were moments--and this was one of them--when her husband's bearing seemed more portentous, when the explanation she had found possible seemed no longer probable, and uncomfortable doubts as to the real meaning of his uneasiness a.s.sailed her mind.

A fragment of burning coal fell with a clatter into the grate: she welcomed the interruption, and for the moment abandoned her thoughts, only, however, to enter upon them again by a different path.

”I wonder why I don't hate him?” she asked herself, almost wistfully. (She was not now thinking of her husband.) ”I ought to hate him, I suppose, and to pity her. But I pity him, I think, and I hate--her.”

The fire still crackled cheerfully, and she began to feel its heat oppressive; she let her hands fall with a gesture half of contempt, half of despair, and then rose abruptly, and walked into the darkness of the larger room, from the unshuttered windows of which she could see the dark bulk of her husband's studio looming against the gray, smoke-coloured sky.

While she stood, leaning with something of a forward tilt of her gracile figure, upon the ledge of the low, square window, the side door of the studio opened, letting a flood of light out upon the lawn, and with absent eyes she saw that her husband's visitor was taking his leave. Presently the door closed; the broad rays which had shone coldly from the skylight of the building died out, so abruptly that the change seemed almost audible; and simultaneously she heard her husband's careless step in the long glazed pa.s.sage, half conservatory, half corridor, which led from her domain to his.

He came in, softly humming an air from a comic opera, and then paused, peering into the darkness for an instant before he distinguished his wife's shape in dusky relief against the pale square of window.

”Don't light the room!” she said quickly, as she saw him stretch his hand towards the little b.u.t.ton which controlled the electric light; ”we can talk in the dark.”

He stopped with his hand on the porcelain k.n.o.b, breaking off his ditty in the middle of a bar.

”By all means, if you like,” he said, ”though I should prefer to see you, you know.”

Then he dropped luxuriously into an easy-chair by the side of the fire, which continued to exhibit a comfortable, glowing redness.

But very soon Lightmark became aware of a certain weight of apprehension, which took from him the power to enjoy these material comforts; unattractive possibilities seemed to hover in the silent darkness, and his more subtile senses were roused, and brought to a state of quivering tension, which was almost insupportable. His wife moved, and he felt that she had directed her eyes towards him, though he could not see her; and he winced instinctively, seeking to be first to break the silence, but unable to find a timely word to say. The blow fell, and even while she spoke he felt a quick admiration for the instinct which had enabled him to antic.i.p.ate her thought.

”d.i.c.k,” she said quietly, without moving from her place by the window, ”have you seen _him_ since----?”

There was no need of names; he did not even notice the omission.

Could she see his face, he wondered, in the firelight?

”No!” he sighed, ”no!”

She came nearer to him, so near that he could hear her breathing, the touch of her fingers upon the back of a chair; and presently she spoke again:

”You think there was no excuse for him?”

”Ah--for excuse! She was pretty, you know!”

He got up, and stood facing her for a moment in the darkness, and then, while she appeared to consider, glanced at his watch, and made a suggestion of movement towards the door.

”Only a minute, d.i.c.k,” she said, in the same set voice. ”You will do me the justice to admit that I haven't alluded to this before. But I have been thinking--I can't help it--and I want to know----”

”To know?” he echoed impatiently.

”To know your position--our position; what you had to do with it all.”

”What is the good? What difference can it make?”

”It's the doubt,” she said--”the doubt. I thought you might like to explain.”

”To explain? Good Lord! what have I to explain? Is it not all settled, all clear? My dear child, let us be reasonable, let us forget; it's the only way.”