Part 35 (2/2)

”--You're not one-third English.”

”I've lived in countries where they knew how to manage women,”

Lawrence muttered.

”With a whip?”

”No.”

”What a pity!”

”No, the other method is more effective.”

”You terrify me,” her eyes were sparkling now like a diamond.

”Don't fling any more of those dark threats at me or I shall never marry you at all. Some day you'll be madly jealous of me like Major Clowes--you are like him: you could be just as brutal: and I'm not like Laura--and you'll lure me out of England and wreak a mysterious vengeance.”

”I wish we were out of England now.”

”So do I. Oh Lawrence, I'd sell my soul to go to Egypt!”

”Red-hot days and blue sands in the moonlight. Shall I take you there for our honeymoon?”

”Or Spain: or Sicily: or what about Majorea?-- Let's slip off alone in a nom de plume and an aeroplane to some place where no one ever goes, all roses and lemon thyme and honey-coloured cliffs and a bay of blue sea--”

”Should you like to be alone with me?”

”Yes ... why not?”

”Good!” said Hyde laughing. ”I see no reason if you don't.” He put his hand before his eyes, which were throbbing as though he had looked too long at a bright light. But Isabel pulled down his wrist. ”Don't do that. I like to watch your eyes. I allow no reserves, Lawrence. And isn't it rather too late to lock the door? I've seen you--”

”Isabel!” He freed himself and stood up. ”I beg your pardon, but you must not-- I can't stand--” His face was burning. Isabel had not realized--it is difficult for a young girl to realize, convinced of her own insignificance--how deeply his pride had been cut overnight, but she was under no delusion now. He was hot with shame and anger, and had to wait to fight them down before he could go on. ”Nineteen are you--or nine? I can't play with you today. Make allowance for me, dearest! I'm in a most difficult position. I've done incalculable mischief, and, to tell you the truth, I shouldn't have chosen to raise this subject again till I'm clear of it. Your people may very fairly object. My cousin is threatening a divorce action. He's mad: and no decent lawyer would take his case into court: but the fact remains that poor Laura has been turned out of doors, and for that I am, in myself-centred carelessness, to blame. You won't misunderstand me, will you, if I say that while this abominable business is hanging over me we can't be formally engaged? Val must be told--nothing would induce me to keep him in the dark for an hour. But for all that I shan't know how to face him.

What! ask him for you, and in the same breath tell him that Laura has been turned adrift because I've compromised her? If I were Val there'd be the devil and all to pay. In the meantime I must--I must be sure of you. But you change like the wind: last night you refused me, and to-day . . .” He walked over to the window and stood looking out into the garden, fighting down one of those tremendous storms of memory which swept over him from time to time and made the present seem absolutely one with the past.

”What's the matter?”

He turned, but his voice was thick. ”Last time I trusted a woman she betrayed me.”

”You're thinking of your wife.”

”I often think of her,” Hyde said savagely, ”and wonder if all women are tarred with the same brush.”

”Oh, that is brutal,” said Isabel, paling: ”but you're tired out.”

It was true, he was too tired to rest: heartsick and ashamed, painfully aware of the immense harm he had done and uncertain how to mend it. This sense of guilt was the more hara.s.sing because he was not in the habit of regretting his actions, good or bad: but now he could no longer fling off responsibility: it was riveted on him by all the other emotions which Wanhope had evoked, pity for Bernard, and affection for Laura, and humility before Val.

Among the lilacs a robin was singing his delicate and bold welcome to autumn, and over the window a branch of red roses nodded persistently and rhythmically in a draught of wind.

Lawrence stood looking out into the garden of which he saw nothing, and Isabel, watching him, felt tears coming into her own eyes, the tears of that unnerving pity which a woman feels for the man she loves, when she has never before seen him in defeat or depression. No wonder he thought her fickle! How could he read what was dark to her?

Isabel had not deliberately altered her mind in the night. She had lain down free and risen up bond, waking from sound sleep, the sleep of a child, to find that the silent inner Court of Appeal had reversed her verdict while she slept. Her first thought had been, ”I'm going to marry Lawrence!” For he needed her: that was what she had forgotten last night: by his parade of wealth he had defeated his own ends, but, her first anger over, she had realized that one should no more refuse a man for being rich, than accept him. Far other were the grounds on which that decision had to be made. It had been pity that carried Isabel away. Perhaps in any case she could not have held out for long.

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