Part 49 (1/2)
”Because it shows--it shows--And it isn't true. Do you suppose I don't know what's been going on inside you? I was blind to myself, my dear, but I saw through you.”
”Saw through me?” She thought again of Ralph.
”Through and through.”
”I didn't know I was so transparent. But I don't see that it matters much if you did.”
He smiled at her delicious naivete.
”No. Nothing matters. Nothing matters, Barbara, except our caring. At least we're wise enough to know that.”
”I shouldn't have thought,” she said, ”it would take much wisdom.”
”More than you think, my child; more than you think. You've only got to be wise for yourself. I've got to be wise for both of us.”
She thought: ”Heavy parent. That comes of being adopted.”
”When it comes to the point,” she said, ”one can only be wise for oneself.”
”I'm glad you see that. It makes it much easier for me.”
”It does. You mustn't think you're responsible for me just because you've adopted me.”
”Don't talk to me about adoption! When you know perfectly well what I did it for.”
”Why--what _did_ you do it for?”
”To make things safe for us. To keep f.a.n.n.y from knowing. To keep myself from knowing, Barbara. To keep you.... But it's too late to camouflage it. We know where we stand now.”
”I don't think _I_ do.”
”You do. You do.”
Mr. Waddington tossed his cigarette into the fire with a pa.s.sionate gesture of abandonment. He came to her. She saw his coming. She saw it chiefly as the approach of a canary yellow waistcoat. She fixed her attention on the waistcoat as if it were the centre of her own mental equilibrium.
There was a bend in the waistcoat. Mr. Waddington was stooping over her with his face peering into hers. She sat motionless, held under his face by curiosity and fear. The whole phenomenon seemed to her incredible.
Too incredible as yet to call for protest. It was as if it were not happening; as if she were merely waiting to see it happen before she cried out. Yet she was frightened.
This state lasted for one instant. The next she was in his arms. His mouth, thrust out under the big, rough moustache, was running over her face, like--like--while she pressed her hands hard against the canary yellow waistcoat, pus.h.i.+ng him off, her mind disengaged itself from the struggle and reported--like a vacuum cleaner. That was it. Vacuum cleaner.
He gave back. There was no evil violence in him, and she got on her feet.
”How could you?” she cried. ”How could you be such a perfect pig?”
”_Don't_ say that to me, Barbara. Even in fun.... You know you love me.”
”I don't. I don't.”
”You do. You know you do. You know you want me to take you in my arms.
Why be so cruel to yourself?”