the world. Yet even if that were so, must he lose Harriet? Could he not keep her with a lie? But, great gods, now she had this power, he could not lie to her. Nay, at this very moment, she must know that he was debating whether or not he might successfully lie to her!
Looking from side to side in his distress, he noticed that they were at that instant passing the door in the wall, and he most heartily wished he might wring her hand in perfunctory farewell and dash for it, leaving for ever this garden that had become accursed. But he had left his hat and stick on the sofa; and it was a presentation stick. The trouble of getting it must be accomplished first.
“I will fetch them for you,” said Harriet, and started towards the door.
He said, “Let me!” But over her shoulder she gave him a smile that was not unkind, and yet was proud enough to forbid him to persist. No, indeed, he could not thrust himself again into the rooms he had desecrated. He watched the pale figure pass through the settling twilight, and perceived that she was carrying herself with the straightness of those who feel themselves utterly bowed down; and he covered his face with his hands.
When he could bear to bring them down again she was standing in front of him, his hat and stick dark against the pallor of her gown. She laughed tenderly, as if she had found him playing a game familiar to them both, and murmured, “My love, you must go now.” To judge from her bearing all might have been well between them.
“My love, I must go now,” he echoed hoarsely. They looked long at one another. It struck him that they were exchanging glances of more agonised sincerity, more desperately truthful reference to their mutual regard, than they would have shared had they been parting as true lovers. Could not something be done with all this honesty, with all this acute sense of each other’s being? “Oh, Harriet!” he cried. “Can we not—? May we not—?”
She grew very still. Her head drooped, so that through the more than dusk he could not see her face at all. A bird sped across the sky above them, croaking some monstrous tale of avian disaster, but she did not look up at it. A freshet of wind stirred her skirts, but she did not smooth them. It might have been that she had died on her feet and was being upheld in air by friendly sprits till one came who had loved her most, and had the right to lay her on her bier. And indeed, as Arnold Condorex well knew, she was telling him that, so far as being his loving mistress was concerned, she was dead.
“Ah, well!” he sighed. “So must it be!” He put out his hand and took hers, and raised it towards his lips, and said solemnly, seeking her eyes through the darkness: “May God bless you and keep you wherever you may go, for being so kind to me this day.”
She answered him in his own words: “May God bless you and keep you, wherever you may go, for being so kind to me this day,” and raised her mouth to his.
They were as a Greek vase, he the sturdy vessel, she the scroll of ornament wound round him. But that vase was shattered an instant after its making, when he broke away from her inquisitorially, to know if, when the music changed in the damnable club beyond the wrought-iron gates, he had wondered whether he danced well enough to acquit himself to the pleasure of the Privy Councillor’s plain daughter or should take lessons. Had he not wondered that? It seemed as if he had not, for her face was smooth as junket in its bowl. He had not thought it then, but, by God, he was about to think it now! He cried out, “I must leave this place!” and turned blindly towards the door in the wall. It did not in the least assuage him that she sped beside him, guiding his blindness, finding the latch for him. For he felt his intention to rise in the world like lead in his bosom, and he knew she must know it was there, and must know that if he stayed another instant he would be snarling at her in his soul,
Looking from side to side in his distress, he noticed that they were at that instant passing the door in the wall, and he most heartily wished he might wring her hand in perfunctory farewell and dash for it, leaving for ever this garden that had become accursed. But he had left his hat and stick on the sofa; and it was a presentation stick. The trouble of getting it must be accomplished first.
“I will fetch them for you,” said Harriet, and started towards the door.
He said, “Let me!” But over her shoulder she gave him a smile that was not unkind, and yet was proud enough to forbid him to persist. No, indeed, he could not thrust himself again into the rooms he had desecrated. He watched the pale figure pass through the settling twilight, and perceived that she was carrying herself with the straightness of those who feel themselves utterly bowed down; and he covered his face with his hands.
When he could bear to bring them down again she was standing in front of him, his hat and stick dark against the pallor of her gown. She laughed tenderly, as if she had found him playing a game familiar to them both, and murmured, “My love, you must go now.” To judge from her bearing all might have been well between them.
“My love, I must go now,” he echoed hoarsely. They looked long at one another. It struck him that they were exchanging glances of more agonised sincerity, more desperately truthful reference to their mutual regard, than they would have shared had they been parting as true lovers. Could not something be done with all this honesty, with all this acute sense of each other’s being? “Oh, Harriet!” he cried. “Can we not—? May we not—?”
She grew very still. Her head drooped, so that through the more than dusk he could not see her face at all. A bird sped across the sky above them, croaking some monstrous tale of avian disaster, but she did not look up at it. A freshet of wind stirred her skirts, but she did not smooth them. It might have been that she had died on her feet and was being upheld in air by friendly sprits till one came who had loved her most, and had the right to lay her on her bier. And indeed, as Arnold Condorex well knew, she was telling him that, so far as being his loving mistress was concerned, she was dead.
“Ah, well!” he sighed. “So must it be!” He put out his hand and took hers, and raised it towards his lips, and said solemnly, seeking her eyes through the darkness: “May God bless you and keep you wherever you may go, for being so kind to me this day.”
She answered him in his own words: “May God bless you and keep you, wherever you may go, for being so kind to me this day,” and raised her mouth to his.
They were as a Greek vase, he the sturdy vessel, she the scroll of ornament wound round him. But that vase was shattered an instant after its making, when he broke away from her inquisitorially, to know if, when the music changed in the damnable club beyond the wrought-iron gates, he had wondered whether he danced well enough to acquit himself to the pleasure of the Privy Councillor’s plain daughter or should take lessons. Had he not wondered that? It seemed as if he had not, for her face was smooth as junket in its bowl. He had not thought it then, but, by God, he was about to think it now! He cried out, “I must leave this place!” and turned blindly towards the door in the wall. It did not in the least assuage him that she sped beside him, guiding his blindness, finding the latch for him. For he felt his intention to rise in the world like lead in his bosom, and he knew she must know it was there, and must know that if he stayed another instant he would be snarling at her in his soul,
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