"I'm going to leave you now," I said. "Sleeping's much better for you
than talking, and I'm afraid I've got rather a faculty for getting on
your nerves."
Her lower lip at once fell and trembled with nervous contrition.
"I didn't mean to be rude, but I do feel so _ill_! And you _do_ all hate
me! To bring me _here_!"
She gave a single breathless sob, and tears began to well into her eyes
and trickle down her cheeks. I pulled a chair to the bedside and took
her hand.
"The older I get," I said, "the greater disparity I find between the
theory and practice of hating. Theoretically I hate no end of a lot of
people, but, if I had the power of venting my hatred on them, I don't
see myself using it much. As a matter of fact, I had a talk with George
the other night about you; I said that the madcap life here was
fantastically impossible, that your husband had himself to blame more
than any other man for driving you out of the house----"
"That wasn't why I left him," she interrupted quickly.
"You didn't leave him because you thought he was unfaithful to you."
"I _know_ he was. I had proofs."
"Supplied by Grayle?" I hazarded. She looked at me steadily without
answering. "Well, when you've time, I should re-examine those proofs in
the light of your general knowledge of your husband. If you're
interested in my opinion of you"--her eyes lit up eagerly--"you'd sooner
be insulted than ignored, wouldn't you?"--expectancy gave way to
affected anger--"Well, I don't hate you, but you were a little fool to
marry such a man; your instinct, your knowledge of life, your knowledge
of him ought to have made it impossible. Having married him and
considering his affliction, I blame you for not effacing yourself,
obliterating your own individuality to stay with him. After that----" I
dropped her hand and strolled to the window. "You were young, entitled
to make your own life; it's not easy to justify, but it seems to follow
almost naturally from the premisses. It happens to have turned out a
failure, but no one can hate you for an error of judgement, particularly
when you've shewn that your instinct about men is unreliable; you shewed
it with O'Rane, I believe you shewed it before ... and fortunately
pulled up before it was too late. I feel this so strongly that I told
O'Rane it would be a tragedy, if you ever tried to come back to him;
there'd be a second catastrophe worse than the first.... I'm afraid he's
too much in love with you to use his imagination."
She pressed the palms of both hands against her eyes.
"I can't stay here," she exclaimed irrelevantly. "I've no right to turn
David out."
"You needn't worry about _that_. He's given you the right, and you're
turning him out for less than a week. For the matter of that----"
Her face grew suddenly set and her eyes scornful. "I suppose in spite of
all the fine words this is all a trick to try and _force_ me back here?"
"I've not the least doubt that O'Rane hopes you'll return to him," I
told her frankly; "he probably will, even when he knows what's the
matter with you,--no, he doesn't know even that at present;--but he's
living in a fool's paradise."
With another of her quick facial regroupings--which is the only phrase I
can find to indicate the shortening of a line here, its lengthening
there, the droop or lift of the corners of her mouth, the dilatation of
a pupil, the sudden gleam which turned her brown eyes almost golden, the
tilt of the nose or the sudden birth of a dimple--she was smiling with
her old demure self-confidence.
"I'm vain enough to think I can make almost any man want to live with
me," she said, darting a glance from beneath lowered eyelashes.
"Come, that's more like yourself!" I laughed.
Thereupon the smiles and coquetry vanished as though I had struck her in
the face. Yes, I had always hated her, always disapproved of her,
regarded her as a flirt, taken everyone's side against her. There was no
good in her, was there? Nothing ever to be said in her defense?... She
lashed herself from one fury to another for ten minutes, only stopping
from exhaustion and discouragement at my failure to answer.
"_I_ could make him love me!" she panted in conclusion. "I shouldn't
even need to make him, he's in love with me now. But _I_ could make him
happy. You think I can't. You think I can't! You _know_ you think I
can't!"
I laid my hand on hers; she slapped at it petulantly, but without any
great desire to hurt, I fancied.
"Mrs. O'Rane----"
"Why don't you call me Sonia?" she interrupted with complete detachment
from all that we had been discussing. "Everyone does. I suppose you
prefer to keep--at a distance!"
And then I did a thing which still surprises me. I got up and sat on the
edge of her bed. (There was a spring-mattress which I largely capsized,
so that she was thrown half on her side.) I put one arm round her
shoulders, drew her to me and kissed her on the forehead and both
cheeks. I remember thinking at the time what an amazing thing it was to
do, and the thought was confused with a knowledge that her face was dry
and burning. She put her arms on my shoulders and returned the kiss;
quite dispassionately I noticed that her lips were crumpled and dry as
brown paper.
"Don't you think you're really rather a silly baby, Sonia?" I said. "If
you could remember the times we've met, I should tell you frankly that
for half of them I wanted to go away and keep at the farthest possible
distance. For the other half----"
Her eyes brightened in anticipation of a compliment.
"Well?"
"It doesn't matter now. Why won't you believe that everyone here wants
to help you?"
"Because I don't see why they should. I didn't expect it, I don't ask
for it; I made up my mind at the time...."
She choked and drew herself closer to me, sobbing quietly but
inconsolably until I felt her arms relaxing and laid her back on the
pillows, a pathetically disfigured and moist piece of something that was
above all wonderfully youthful.
"If you'll promise not to cry, I'll stay and talk to you," I said.
"Otherwise----" I must have made some unconscious movement, for she
clutched at my sleeve. "Do you promise? Well, I'm only a man...."
She pulled herself suddenly upright.
"Where's David?" she demanded.
"At Loring House, I believe,--only a man, as I was saying, but I can
tell you that you'll wear yourself out, if you go on like this. You've
got a great grievance against all of us, you say we hate you and despise
you; wouldn't it be fairer _not_ to say that till we've given you some
better cause than you've had at present?"
Her teeth snapped like the cracking of a nut. Then the corners of her
mouth drooped, and she began to cry again.
"If you _would_ hit me!" Her head fell back until I could see only a
quivering throat and the under side of her chin. "My God! what I've been
through! No one knows! No one can _ever_ know!"