Part 2 Chapter 16

    In my recollections of that strange night there are wide gaps.

　　Trivial incidents come back to me with extraordinary vividness;while there are hours of which I can remember nothing. What I didor where I went I cannot recall. It seems to me, looking back,that I walked without a pause till morning; yet, when day came, Iwas still in the school grounds. Perhaps I walked, as a woundedanimal runs, in circles. I lost, I know, all count of time. Ibecame aware of the dawn as something that had happened suddenly,as if light had succeeded darkness in a flash. It had been night;I looked about me, and it was day--a steely, cheerless day, like aDecember evening. And I found that I was very cold, very tired,and very miserable.

　　My mind was like the morning, grey and overcast. Conscience may beexpelled, but, like Nature, it will return. Mine, which I had castfrom me, had crept back with the daylight. I had had my hour offreedom, and it was now for me to pay for it.

　　I paid in full. My thoughts tore me. I could see no way out.

　　Through the night the fever and exhilaration of that mad momenthad sustained me, but now the morning had come, when dreams mustyield to facts, and I had to face the future.

　　I sat on the stump of a tree, and buried my face in my hands. Imust have fallen asleep, for, when I raised my eyes again, the daywas brighter. Its cheerlessness had gone. The sky was blue, andbirds were singing.

　　It must have been about half an hour later that the firstbeginnings of a plan of action came to me. I could not trustmyself to reason out my position clearly and honestly in thisplace where Audrey's spell was over everything. The part of methat was struggling to be loyal to Cynthia was overwhelmed here.

　　London called to me. I could think there, face my positionquietly, and make up my mind.

　　I turned to walk to the station. I could not guess even remotelywhat time it was. The sun was shining through the trees, but inthe road outside the grounds there were no signs of workersbeginning the day.

　　It was half past five when I reached the station. A sleepy porterinformed me that there would be a train to London, a slow train,at six.

　　* * * * *I remained in London two days, and on the third went down to Sansteadto see Audrey for the last time. I had made my decision.

　　I found her on the drive, close by the gate. She turned at myfootstep on the gravel; and, as I saw her, I knew that the fightwhich I had thought over was only beginning.

　　I was shocked at her appearance. Her face was very pale, and therewere tired lines about her eyes.

　　I could not speak. Something choked me. Once again, as on thatnight in the stable-yard, the world and all that was in it seemedinfinitely remote.

　　It was she who broke the silence.

　　'Well, Peter,' she said listlessly.

　　We walked up the drive together.

　　'Have you been to London?'

　　'Yes. I came down this morning.' I paused. 'I went there tothink,' I said.

　　She nodded.

　　'I have been thinking, too.'

　　I stopped, and began to hollow out a groove in the wet gravel withmy heel. Words were not coming readily.

　　Suddenly she found speech. She spoke quickly, but her voice wasdull and lifeless.

　　'Let us forget what has happened, Peter. We were neither of usourselves. I was tired and frightened and disappointed. You weresorry for me just at the moment, and your nerves were strained,like mine. It was all nothing. Let us forget it.'

　　I shook my head.

　　'No,' I said. 'It was not that. I can't let you even pretend youthink that was all. I love you. I always have loved you, though Idid not know how much till you had gone away. After a time, Ithought I had got over it. But when I met you again down here, Iknew that I had not, and never should. I came back to say good-bye,but I shall always love you. It is my punishment for being the sortof man I was five years ago.'

　　'And mine for being the sort of woman I was five years ago.' Shelaughed bitterly. 'Woman! I was just a little fool, a sulky child.

　　My punishment is going to be worse than yours, Peter. You will notbe always thinking that you had the happiness of two lives in yourhands, and threw it away because you had not the sense to holdit.'

　　'It is just that that I shall always be thinking. What happenedfive years ago was my fault, Audrey, and nobody's but mine. Idon't think that, even when the loss of you hurt most, I everblamed you for going away. You had made me see myself as I was,and I knew that you had done the right thing. I was selfish,patronizing--I was insufferable. It was I who threw away ourhappiness. You put it in a sentence that first day here, when yousaid that I had been kind--sometimes--when I happened to think ofit. That summed me up. You have nothing to reproach yourself for.

　　I think we have not had the best of luck; but all the blame ismine.'

　　A flush came into her pale face.

　　'I remember saying that. I said it because I was afraid of myself.

　　I was shaken by meeting you again. I thought you must be hatingme--you had every reason to hate me, and you spoke as if youdid--and I did not want to show you what you were to me. It wasn'ttrue, Peter. Five years ago I may have thought it, but not now. Ihave grown to understand the realities by this time. I have beenthrough too much to have any false ideas left. I have had somechance to compare men, and I realize that they are not all kind,Peter, even sometimes, when they happen to think of it.'

　　'Audrey,' I said--I had never found myself able to ask thequestion before--'was--was--he--was Sheridan kind to you?'

　　She did not speak for a moment, and I thought she was resentingthe question.

　　'No!' she said abruptly.

　　She shot out the monosyllable with a force that startled andsilenced me. There was a whole history of unhappiness in the word.

　　'No,' she said again, after a pause, more gently this time. Iunderstood. She was speaking of a dead man.

　　'I can't talk about him,' she went on hurriedly. 'I expect most ofit was my fault. I was unhappy because he was not you, and he sawthat I was unhappy and hated me for it. We had nothing in common.

　　It was just a piece of sheer madness, our marriage. He swept meoff my feet. I never had a great deal of sense, and I lost it allthen. I was far happier when he had left me.'

　　'Left you?'

　　'He deserted me almost directly we reached America.' She laughed.

　　'I told you I had grown to understand the realities. I beganthen.'

　　I was horrified. For the first time I realized vividly all thatshe had gone through. When she had spoken to me before of herstruggles that evening over the study fire, I had supposed thatthey had begun only after her husband's death, and that her lifewith him had in some measure trained her for the fight. That sheshould have been pitched into the arena, a mere child, with noexperience of life, appalled me. And, as she spoke, there came tome the knowledge that now I could never do what I had come to do.

　　I could not give her up. She needed me. I tried not to think ofCynthia.

　　I took her hand.

　　'Audrey,' I said, 'I came here to say good-bye. I can't. I wantyou. Nothing matters except you. I won't give you up.'

　　'It's too late,' she said, with a little catch in her voice. 'Youare engaged to Mrs Ford.'

　　'I am engaged, but not to Mrs Ford. I am engaged to someone youhave never met--Cynthia Drassilis.'

　　She pulled her hand away quickly, wide-eyed, and for some momentswas silent.

　　'Do you love her?' she asked at last.

　　'No.'

　　'Does she love you?'

　　Cynthia's letter rose before my eyes, that letter that could havehad no meaning, but one.

　　'I am afraid she does,' I said.

　　She looked at me steadily. Her face was very pale.

　　'You must marry her, Peter.'

　　I shook my head.

　　'You must. She believes in you.'

　　'I can't. I want you. And you need me. Can you deny that you needme?'

　　'No.'

　　She said it quite simply, without emotion. I moved towards her,thrilling, but she stepped back.

　　'She needs you too,' she said.

　　A dull despair was creeping over me. I was weighed down by apremonition of failure. I had fought my conscience, my sense ofduty and honour, and crushed them. She was raising them up againstme once more. My self-control broke down.

　　'Audrey,' I cried, 'for God's sake can't you see what you'redoing? We have been given a second chance. Our happiness is inyour hands again, and you are throwing it away. Why should we makeourselves wretched for the whole of our lives? What does anythingelse matter except that we love each other? Why should we letanything stand in our way? I won't give you up.'

　　She did not answer. Her eyes were fixed on the ground. Hope beganto revive in me, telling me that I had persuaded her. But when shelooked up it was with the same steady gaze, and my heart sankagain.

　　'Peter,' she said, 'I want to tell you something. It will make youunderstand, I think. I haven't been honest, Peter. I have notfought fairly. All these weeks, ever since we met, I have beentrying to steal you. It's the only word. I have tried every littlemiserable trick I could think of to steal you from the girl youhad promised to marry. And she wasn't here to fight for herself. Ididn't think of her. I was wrapped up in my own selfishness. Andthen, after that night, when you had gone away, I thought it allout. I had a sort of awakening. I saw the part I had been playing.

　　Even then I tried to persuade myself that I had done somethingrather fine. I thought, you see, at that time that you wereinfatuated with Mrs Ford--and I know Mrs Ford. If she is capableof loving any man, she loves Mr Ford, though they are divorced. Iknew she would only make you unhappy. I told myself I was savingyou. Then you told me it was not Mrs Ford, but this girl. Thataltered everything. Don't you see that I can't let you give her upnow? You would despise me. I shouldn't feel clean. I should feelas if I had stabbed her in the back.'

　　I forced a laugh. It rang hollow against the barrier thatseparated us. In my heart I knew that this barrier was not to belaughed away.

　　'Can't you see, Peter? You must see.'

　　'I certainly don't. I think you're overstrained, and that you havelet your imagination run away with you. I--'

　　She interrupted me.

　　'Do you remember that evening in the study?' she asked abruptly.

　　'We had been talking. I had been telling you how I had livedduring those five years.'

　　'I remember.'

　　'Every word I spoke was spoken with an object--calculated.... Yes,even the pauses. I tried to make _them_ tell, too. I knewyou, you see, Peter. I knew you through and through, because Iloved you, and I knew the effect those tales would have on you.

　　Oh, they were all true. I was honest as far as that goes. But theyhad the mean motive at the back of them. I was playing on yourfeelings. I knew how kind you were, how you would pity me. I setmyself to create an image which would stay in your mind and killthe memory of the other girl; the image of a poor, ill-treatedlittle creature who should work through to your heart by way ofyour compassion. I knew you, Peter, I knew you. And then I did ameaner thing still. I pretended to stumble in the dark. I meantyou to catch me and hold me, and you did. And ...'

　　Her voice broke off.

　　'I'm glad I have told you,' she said. 'It makes it a littlebetter. You understand now how I feel, don't you?'

　　She held out her hand.

　　'Good-bye.'

　　'I am not going to give you up,' I said doggedly.

　　'Good-bye,' she said again. Her voice was a whisper.

　　I took her hand and began to draw her towards me.

　　'It is not good-bye. There is no one else in the world but you,and I am not going to give you up.'

　　'Peter!' she struggled feebly. 'Oh, let me go.'

　　I drew her nearer.

　　'I won't let you go,' I said.

　　But, as I spoke, there came the sound of automobile wheels on thegravel. A large red car was coming up the drive. I droppedAudrey's hand, and she stepped back and was lost in the shrubbery.

　　The car slowed down and stopped beside me. There were two women inthe tonneau. One, who was dark and handsome, I did not know. Theother was Mrs Drassilis.