Part 69 (1/2)
”Do you think it possible to love someone who inspires you at moments with unreasoning dread?”
”No; candidly I don't.”
”I think there can be attraction in repulsion.”
”I should be very sorry for myself if I yielded to such an attraction.”
”Why?”
”Because I think it would probably lead to disaster.”
”How soberly you speak!” said Miss Van Tuyn, almost with an air of distaste.
After a moment of silence she added:
”I don't believe an Englishman has the power to lose his head.”
Craven sat a little nearer to her.
”Would you like to see me lose mine?” he asked.
”I don't say that. But I should like you to be able to.”
”And you? You are an American girl. Don't you pride yourself on your coolness, your self-control, your power to deal with any situation? If Englishmen are sober minded, what about American women? Do _they_ lose their heads easily?”
”No. That's why--”
She stopped abruptly.
”What is it you want to say to me? What are you trying to say?”
”Nothing!” she answered.
And her voice sounded almost sulky.
The bar of lemon light over the sea narrowed. Clouds, with gold tinted edges, were encroaching upon it. The tide had turned, and, because they knew it, the voice of the sea sounded louder to them. Already they could imagine those sands by night, could imagine their bleak desolation, could almost feel the cold thrill of their loneliness.
Craven stretched out his hand and took one of hers and held it.
”Why do you do that?” she said. ”You don't care for me really.”
He pressed her hand. He wanted to kiss her at that moment. His youth, the game they had played together, this isolation and nearness, the oncoming night--they all seemed to be working together, pus.h.i.+ng him towards her mysteriously. But just at that moment on the sands close to them two dark figures appeared, a fisherman in his Sunday best walking with his girl. They did not see Miss Van Tuyn and Craven on the sandbank. With their arms spread round each other's waists, and slightly lurching in the wind, they walked slowly on, sinking at each step a little in the sand. Their red faces looked bovine in the twilight.
Almost mechanically Craven's fingers loosened on Miss Van Tuyn's hand.
She, too, was chilled by this vision of Sunday love, and her hand came away from his.
”They are having their Sunday out,” she said, with a slight, cold laugh.
”And we have had ours!”
And she got up and shook the sand grains from her rough skirt.