"People may--will--talk. Let them. Their hateful chatter will not
affect us. Helen--dearest--"
She broke in, and put up her hand.
"No, no, stop, please! We have not got so far as `dearest.' Suppose we
see where we are. Up to this point you have only assured me of my own
feelings. What of your own?"
"You know them, you must know them."
"Excuse me, no. When last we discussed them I gathered that they were
somewhat topsy-turvy, and you agreed with me that there had been a
mistake. Now it seems there has been another, and you must own that it
becomes perplexing."
He made an impatient gesture.
"Don't play with me, Helen, for I can't bear it. You're the only woman
I ever cared for. There! Isn't that enough?"
With a movement so sudden as to startle him, she sprang to her feet,
standing with her head thrown back, and the moonlight whitening her
face.
"No," she exclaimed passionately, "it is not! Do you know that all your
life, and all your love--such as it is!--has hinged only upon what _you_
feel, what _you_ want? You have measured everything, balanced
everything, chosen everything by that and that alone. But what of us?
I sometimes wonder whether you ever cast one thought at the poor puppets
you set up, and whose hearts you demand. You want the flattery of their
love; you have it and tire of it. Enough! Toss it on one side, it is
over and done with--"
He interrupted her with real amazement. "You can say this--Helen, you?
Over! Why am I here to-night?"
"Oh," she said with scorn, "because I have slipped out of your hold, and
have suddenly become valuable. While you believed you had only to raise
your finger to bring me back--at Thornbury, for instance--I was nothing,
nothing! But now, now that unexpectedly the power seemed slipping from
you, you could not endure the loss. It was the same with that girl.
Your vanity, your worst self, was piqued by her indifference, her
reluctance; you set yourself to win her, and when you had succeeded, she
began to weary you. That was why I warned her. You believe, and she
believes, that it was jealousy, but you are wrong--both of you. It was
pity, profoundest pity, and a wish to spare her something of--what I had
felt myself."
Against her will her voice trembled over these last words, and Fenwick
caught the change.
"Say what hard things you like," he cried triumphantly, "you love me
still!"
Her voice, still not quite under control, sounded curiously dull.
"No," she said. "You are mistaken. I do not."
"Deny it," he broke in, with a short laugh, "deny it as you please, it
is true. Come, Helen, you have had your say; I don't know why you have
turned yourself into her advocate, but I'm ready to admit I haven't
treated Claudia well. In spite of your hard hitting, can't you see that
it was you who drove me to distraction? Suppose it had been too late."
"It is," she said quietly.
"You're not engaged!"
"I have been engaged a week."
"To that man?"
"To Mr Pelham."
He was silent, and she heard his hard breathing. When he spoke his
voice was hoarse.
"Well, you can't marry him."
"Why not?"
"Why?" He laughed gratingly. "Women are inexplicable, but isn't there
still some sort of necessity to pretend that a little more than money is
wanted for a husband?"
"You are right," said Miss Arbuthnot slowly. "Fortunately for me I need
not pretend. I am going to marry Mr Pelham because--I love him."
There was a silence which lasted for what seemed to her an interminable
time. Fenwick broke it with an effort.
"We had better go back," he said. They walked across the moonlit grass,
white flowers stood out starlike in the beds, and the band was playing
very softly an air out of _Hansel and Grethel_. Suddenly he exclaimed,
"You might have spared me this!"
"How?"
"You might have let me know I had no chance."
"Why did you take it for granted that you had?" Miss Arbuthnot retorted
coldly.
"Oh, why?" He flung the question back at her, and strode moodily on.
But at the door he turned once more. "Do you really intend to marry
him?"
"The wedding-day is fixed."
"Absurd!" he cried roughly.