Part 15 (1/2)

”Call it so if you wish.”

He really did not care what she thought of him; plainly showed that. The indifference roused her; she tried again. Spoke with forced quietness--standing a little way from him--her voice full of contempt:

”There is a man bearing your name in the High Street: a blacksmith. I could understand such behaviour on his part. But--a--gentleman!”

Her satisfaction came then: she had hurt. A deep flush streamed over his face, then faded altogether away, except for two red streaks.

”Am I not behaving as one?”

Keenly sensitive to her rebuke, he spoke half-apologetically. The bitterness of the incident was making him more himself. Brought home to him, forcefully, the irony of things.

”Pray pardon me.” He rose and stepped towards her. ”Will you allow me to see you home?”

”Don't touch me!”

There seemed an absolute fire burning in her eyes, so intense was her scorn. She could not have shrunk from him, or found him more repellent, had he been a leper. Her eyes seemed to scorch him.

He knew himself to be in the right; knew it perfectly well; beyond the shadow of a doubt. But standing before that searing indignation, it was he who appeared to be in the wrong, even to himself--his inmost self.

Such treatment hurt. Thought of the gross unfairness of it too was positively stinging. He who was suffering--the victim--to be put in the wrong! To be arraigned by the victimiser!

His blood, his forehead, seemed to be burning hot, the while he was conscious of cold s.h.i.+vers running through him. Was this--he despised himself as he questioned--carrying out his intention? Was he plucking up his love by the roots?

It was weakness--he labelled it so--weakness on his part that her words, her presence, had still such power to move him. He would be strong--strong and just. But he realized the hardness of the task he set himself. It was man's work; he would prove himself worthy of it.

She did not deign him another word; the wound to her pride was too severe for that. Her blue eyes blazed, as perhaps only blue eyes can.

She would have given worlds for tears to soften their burning heat, but no tears came. Without another glance at him she turned and walked away--a.s.sumed an every-day gait; he should not think she was excited.

He did not attempt to stop her. Why should he? It was better so. Better that the sharp severing blow had been struck then than later: clean cuts heal quickest. He would let her get well on her way home before he moved. She must not think he was trying to follow.

Standing on the edge of the wall he looked out to sea. The water wore an appearance of invitation: that dangerous aspect which has proved irresistibly attractive to so many. Right out too, it looked so--so--so away from everything.

The tide was receding; was going out and away--to the Great Beyond. He knew that if he chose he could go with it. It would be so easy an act, if he stepped off the rocks further down--into the water that was always deep.

Then he pulled himself up with a jerk. Pride came to the rescue. Was he to cave in, go under, just because of a woman? What a fool he was! What an unmitigated, arrant fool! Was there a woman in the world--the whole world--worth caring so much for? No. Not one!

But his heart contradicted. He remembered that anxious look on her face, the loving att.i.tude, the feel of her arms as they rested on his breast, his shoulders. His, too, was the remembrance of the warmth of the sweet human breath; her eyes that had looked into his. Then he looked out to sea again; mentally out to the Great Beyond. Asked himself the old, old question: Was life worth living?

Bathos saved the situation. He remembered that a character in one of his stories had asked the same question: Was life worth living? The comic doctor had replied that it depended--depended on the liver!

He walked home.

CHAPTER XIII

FEVERISH SYMPTOMS

Masters did not leave Wivernsea. The obstinacy of his character came into play there; he had come down for a month, and he stopped.

He had come for a purpose too--business purpose--had his book to finish.

Was a trifling incident, the accident common to men's lives, to disturb the current of his life? To turn him from his prearranged plan in the smallest degree? Perish the thought!