Part 60 (1/2)

”I'm a woman. But I've never deliberately wallowed--as you seem to have done. Once or twice, perhaps--I was sort of weak, or perhaps hopeful. I thought it might be very beautiful--”

”You were seeking, as I was,” he said, suddenly gentle.

”And--it meant softness, being bowled over, loss of control and finally cynicism,” she said.

”No, no. Not finally cynicism, Marcella. Cynicism half-way along, if you like. But finally--anchoring.”

She looked at him, very slowly, all over: her hands were quite still on her blue print frock that smelt of fire: many and many a night and day of hard schooling and cold patience had gone to make them lie there so untremulous now. She reflected on that for a moment; she reflected that, in years to come, by enduring hardness, people would be able to school their hearts from beating the swift blood to a whirlpool, their lips from hungering for a kiss. She thought next of Aunt Janet, desiccated, uncaring, and knew that Aunt Janet's way of life was wrong because it s.h.i.+rked rather than faced things. Her long gaze had reached his beautiful eyes and stayed there; she seemed to see down into a thousand years, a thousand lives. She knew quite well that here was the place of dreams come true; here was the deliverer with whom she had thought to ride to battle, and he too had dreamed. He saw her armour. He did not see the c.h.i.n.ks in it. And he never should. And--he had said women had no inhibitions!

”It's hard,” she said, her eyes still resting on his, ”to keep your thoughts brave as well as your actions, isn't it?”

”What do you mean, Marcella?”

She was sitting motionless and white; he thought he had never seen a live thing so still, so impa.s.sive. As she watched his lips, and heard his voice speak her name, blazing floods of weakness were pouring over her.

”There are things one mustn't do,” she said slowly. ”But they would be most beautiful to think about, right deep down and quiet inside--like Mary had to hide and ponder in her heart the things the angel told her.

One mustn't. I mustn't even think about you--that way--”

”What? What do you mean?”

”Thoughts drag people down, down, don't they? Except for a minute or two I've thought clean and selfless about Louis. Always about you I've thought very s.h.i.+ningly. If I let go a minute the s.h.i.+ne of you will be out of my eyes. Do you see? Then I'll be like--like any of the other women! All soft corners and seduction. Just while you've been talking to me I've understood that I _want_ to be like that; that's why I've been so dead this last month since you went away. It seems a pity, doesn't it?”

He found that it was his turn to sit speechless, watching her.

”There, now I've told you,” she said, and lifted her hands and let them drop again hopelessly. ”And now I'm going back to Louis. You want my courage.... Oh G.o.d, you've got it!”

He still stared at her. Quick, understanding as he was, he had not quite understood yet. He only saw that she was still whiter, that the still hands were clenched.

”If we get any closer you'll see the c.h.i.n.ks in my armour. I suppose I'll see little dark patches in your s.h.i.+ne.... If you didn't think so well of me, I suppose I should just let Louis drop out--if I didn't think so well of you I'd give you the kisses and narcotics and seduction you're tired of.”

”Marcella, I don't care--if I thought--” he began, almost savagely.

”Oh, thoughts, thoughts! They're cruel! Here we both are, thinking so much better than we can do. No--no! We _can_ do it! Only--we can't do it happily. Some day, I think, s.h.i.+ning thinking and s.h.i.+ning doing will be hand in hand--”

She stood up slowly then, and turned away. He saw her going right out of his life. And it seemed to him just as it had seemed to her, that all he had ever done or had done to him had led up to that moment.

”Marcella,” he cried, and seized her hands again. ”I can't let you go.

Whatever you have, whatever you are, I want you.”

”I!” she cried. ”I! Always I! What do you and I and any of us matter, really? What does it matter if we do get smashed up like this if only we manage to keep our thoughts of each other clean and free from slinking things--fears, and greeds?”

”I can't _help_ thinking about you!” he cried.

”I know. I can't, either. That's why we've to be so careful _what_ we think. And it's going to be a hard, austere sort of thing for us both.

Once I saw you a beautiful thing with swift wings all torn off in a sticky mess. Now I see you very s.h.i.+ning--”

She looked at him with blinded eyes.