Pamela was alone and waiting for Dare when he presented himself at the
house on the following morning. She turned slowly when the door of the
room opened, and advanced to meet him with a look of inquiry and of
welcome in her eyes.
She looked better, he observed, than when he had last seen her; the
anxiety that had sharpened her features and shadowed her face with an
expression of dread had yielded to a new calm, which suggested a mind
braced and prepared to meet and accept whatever offered. Her composure
helped him enormously in quieting his nervousness, which before, and at
the moment of, his entry had been excessive. He took her extended hand
and held it.
"You bring me bad news?" she said, observing his grave face with a
watchful scrutiny, and speaking in that quiet, level voice that one uses
sometimes in discussing things too serious and strange for ordinary
emotion. "I felt it must be bad news when your telegram arrived...
You've seen him?"
"No," he answered.
He led her to the sofa near the French window on which he had sat with
her before when they had had their last interview. The memory of that
former occasion was present in his mind. It was possibly present in
Pamela's mind also; but the recollection caused no sense of
embarrassment. Her love for, and confidence in, him had swept all
feeling of constraint away. He seated himself beside her.
"I wrote to you," he said; "but I decided not to send the letter. I
felt it was best to come down and explain. Mr Arnott is in Pretoria.
I went there for the purpose of seeing him; but he is ill, and unable to
see any one. I had an interview with the doctor who is attending his
case. I thought you would wish to know exactly how matters are with
him."
He paused. Pamela was gazing at him with wide serious eyes. She showed
less surprise than he had expected. She appeared somehow prepared, and
extraordinarily calm. It made the telling easier. It was as though she
had passed the final stage of emotionalism, had come through all the
stresses of anguished uncertainty, of distressed and tormented doubt and
wounded love, and emerged calm-eyed and efficient, amazingly controlled,
and clear as to her judgment. She listened attentively without
interrupting him. When he paused, she said:
"You are not preparing me to hear that he is dead?"
"No," he answered. His feelings got the better of him, and he added
bluntly,--"I would to God I were! Life--all that is left of it for
him--isn't worth the having. And anyway, living or dead, he isn't
worthy of one thought of your compassion."
"Then he did go away with Blanche?" she said quietly.
"He followed her. He meant to marry her--means to marry her still, if
her statement is to be believed. I saw her in Bloemfontein. It was she
who told me of his illness."
"What is the matter with him?" she asked, her earnest eyes holding his,
questioning his, refusing, it occurred to him, to allow what he was
telling her to bias her ultimate judgment. She had accustomed herself
to ugly truths; she was not shocked or dismayed any longer, only anxious
to have her worst fears confirmed or disproved. She desired to hear the
whole truth, whatever it held of pain or humiliation. At least it could
hold no disillusion for her.
"He has had a stroke of paralysis, they tell me," Dare answered,
avoiding her eyes.
He was conscious of a sudden movement on her part, of a quick, inaudible
exclamation which was followed by a sharp indrawing of her breath. He
did not look at her; he felt, without seeing them, that there were tears
of pity and of horror shining in her eyes. He counted for something to
her still. She was sorry for the man. Dare felt unreasonably incensed.
"There is hope of a partial recovery," he continued dully, trying to
keep under the sudden sharp jealousy that gripped him as nothing he had
experienced in all their former talks had gripped and hurt. "He'll get
about again, they think... walk a little. His brain is affected--
slightly. That will never be quite clear again..."
He broke off abruptly, and turned to her in protesting surprise. She
was weeping. The tears were welling in her eyes and coursing down her
cheeks. Arnott ill--broken--touched the deepest springs of her
compassion. All the bitterness in her heart against the man who had so
cruelly wronged her melted into sorrow for him in his terrible
affliction. She no longer experienced any anger against him, only a
great pity,--pity for the miserable wreckage of his health, which stood,
it seemed to her, as a symbol of the wreckage of their love,--all the
promise and the strength and the beauty gone for evermore,--only the
dead ashes remaining in the furnace of life.
"Your tears are a big return for his cruelty to you," he said, trying
with ill success to hide the twinge of jealousy which caused him to
wince at sight of her grief. "Some people might consider his condition
a perfectly just retribution. You owe him nothing--not even pity."
"One doesn't only render what is due," she said, wiping her eyes slowly.
"That would make life too hard. Could you expect me to hear unmoved
what you have just told me? I thought I had schooled myself to bear
anything; but this is too awful. I would rather have heard that he was
well and happy--with her."
"She is going to him," he said, bluntly.
"Going to him? ... Now?" Pamela's tone expressed wonder. "You mean,
she loves him sufficiently to marry him--ill--like that?"
"I mean," he returned, watching her narrowly, "that she loves herself
sufficiently to put up with his condition on account of his wealth. She
admitted that almost in as many words. It's as much as he has any right
to expect."
"Oh! no," she said quickly. "He is giving her more than that."
She was silent for a moment, looking thoughtfully beyond him towards the
garden which showed through the aperture of the long window, a fair and
peaceful background, in striking contrast to the tension within the room
and the unquiet of her mind. Dare's gaze never left her face. He was
watching her continually, trying to gauge her intention from his study
of her expression. The slow tears still fell at intervals; but they
became fewer, and she wiped them mechanically with a small drenched
handkerchief, making no effort at concealment from him. It seemed as if
in her preoccupation she was scarcely conscious of his presence.
"It's a sordid story," he said. "I am sorry to have to distress you
with it; but you had to know... It closes everything, you see,--puts a
finish to your part in his life. He has flung aside his
responsibilities deliberately. A man like that, devoid of all moral
sense, cannot be influenced. I doubt you would accomplish anything, if
you went to him."
"At least, I must make the effort," she said slowly. She turned to him,
a look of sad entreaty in her eyes, as though she would appeal to him to
help, instead of making things more difficult for her. "Don't try to
dissuade me," she pleaded earnestly. "Don't fail me. I am relying so
much on your help."
"But," he urged gently, "don't you realise how impossible this thing has
become? Think, even if you succeeded in persuading him to return--which
I doubt strongly you could succeed in doing--what would your life be
like with him,--half-imbecile, helpless, an invalid always? ... It's
too horrible to contemplate."
She shuddered at the picture of Arnott which he drew, and hid her white
face in her hands and said nothing.
"It's not as though you owe him anything," he insisted. "It's not as
though you love him any longer, or can even give him what he wants--that
girl, however little she brings him, can give him more than you. You
are for defeating happiness all round, you see. It's not worth it. I
understand your reason for wishing to do this, but I can't feel it
justifies it in any sense."
He put an arm about her and drew her to him and held her close.
"Cut it, Pamela," he said. "I'll take you home to England. We'll be
married quietly over there--or in Europe somewhere. It will be better
for the children in the long run, dear, believe me. I can't get
reconciled anyhow to the idea of giving you up. You belong to me. I've
a right to you. I have loved you always, from the day I saw you first
at that tournament so many years ago. Arnott robbed me of you then. I
can't let him step in a second time and take you from me... Believe me,
Pamela, I wouldn't try to stand between you and what you consider to be
a duty if I saw any possible chance of happiness in it for you at all,--
if even I could feel that the result might justify the sacrifice. It
won't. It will be just death in life for you both. And it's going to
be pretty hard on me too. I could put up with that, if it spelt
happiness for you; but it doesn't. Pamela, is it worth it? cheating
ourselves for a principle that isn't going to work any solid good for
any one?"
He drew her head to his shoulder, and gathered her closer in his arms
and kissed her, keeping his face pressed to the tear-wet cheek, feeling
the trembling of her body lying passive in his arms, and the little
choking sobs which escaped her as she wept in his embrace. Would she
yield, he wondered? Had she not in surrendering to his caresses partly
yielded already?
"It is asking too much of human nature to expect us to give up
everything," he said. "I want you. I am lonely without you. It isn't
a case of making love,--a phase of feverish emotions. I love you
honestly, earnestly. I want you day after day. I want your
companionship. I want you to fill my life, as I shall hope to fill
yours. I want you at my side--always. Pamela, my dearest, you are not
going to snatch my hope away from me for no more solid reason than the
fulfilment of an imaginary duty which is going to benefit no one?
Life--without you--is empty for me."
"Oh! my dear!" she sobbed. She lifted her face to his and kissed his
lips. "I want to do as you wish. I want to take the easy course; but
the other is the right course. It isn't just happiness that is at
stake. It is neither love for him, nor any sense of obligation to him,
that makes me desire to marry the father of my children... It's just
the knowledge of what is due to them. They count first. They have to
be considered. Do you think I don't realise," she added passionately,
withdrawing herself from his arms, "that I shall hate my life with
him,--that--God forgive me I--I shall possibly hate him? ... hate him
more every year, until even pity for him dies beneath the strain of
constant weariness, daily resentment. What you offer tempts me sorely.
It's just dragging me to pieces to refuse you. Life with you would be a
good and happy thing. I want it, and I can't have it. But it is
denying you which hurts more than denying myself. My dear!--my dear! I
wish you didn't care so much. What can I do? ... What can I say?"
"You can do," he answered, looking at her steadily, "what I ask you to
do, and leave the future of the children more safely in my hands than in
their father's. His example can be no possible guide for them. His
influence in the home will tend neither towards their happiness nor
their good. At most, you can give them his name--they have a right to
that, as it is. Think, Pamela... Isn't your idea of what is right for
them merely a morbid fancy? Let the man go. You've lost your hold on
him. Leave him to finish the muddle he has made of his life in his own
way. He has proved himself incapable of faithfulness. It isn't decent
that you should continue to live with him. I show you a way out,--take
it. Put yourself unreservedly in my hands."
"That's shirking," she said. "I've always shirked."
"What else is there for you to do?" he asked. "You can't straighten a
muddle which is none of your making. There's a duty you owe to
yourself,--you're overlooking that Shake yourself free of this life
which is hurtful to you in every sense, and give me the right to protect
you, to act and think for you. I can't countenance what you think of
doing. I'm going to use my utmost effort to dissuade you. See here,"
he said. He took a note-book from his pocket, and wrote the address of
the Pretoria Home upon a page which he tore out and handed to her.
"Write to the doctor there, and ask him to give you all particulars of
Arnott's case. He will possibly tell you more than he told me."
"His condition makes no difference," she answered, reading the address
he handed to her before putting the paper away. "Ill or well, it
doesn't affect the main point."
"I know," he said. "But you ought to ascertain what you can before
taking any decisive step. Then, if you wish to see him, I will take you
there."
At this suggestion, which she had not before considered, she glanced at
him in quick dismay.
"I don't think--I could go to him," she said, hesitating nervously.
"I... He must come home."
"That, of course," Dare answered, infinitely relieved, "is as you wish."
The possibility of Arnott consenting to return occurred to him as very
unlikely.
"You've got to face the chance of his refusal," he added abruptly. He
leaned towards her. "If he refuses, Pamela?--He may, you know."
She turned to him and laid a hand impulsively upon his arm.
"Don't tempt me to hope he will do that," she said. "Be strong for both
of us... I want you to be strong."
He took her face in his hands and held it for a moment looking deeply
into her eyes.
"Aren't you demanding rather much of me," he asked, "to insist that I
should aid you in my own defeat? I'm only human, Pamela."
She answered nothing, but placing her hands on his wrists, she pulled
his hands from her face and carried them to her lips. At this
unexpected act on her part Dare coloured awkwardly. The next moment he
had seized her in his arms and covered her face with kisses. As
abruptly as he had seized her, he released her and stood up. He pulled
himself together with an effort, and walked as far as the window, where
he paused for a second or so, and then turned and came slowly bade, and
stood above her, looking down into the sweet, upturned face.
"When I came to you this morning," he said, "I had only one purpose,--to
win you,--to make you see that the only thing that really matters is our
love for one another. I feel that still. It's the only thing that
counts with me. But I'm not going to worry you any more. You've got to
follow your conscience in this. I think you're wrong... time may prove
you wrong. If it does, or if you fail in this, I count on you to let me
know. I shall always be at hand--waiting. You'll summon me, Pamela,
when the time comes?"
"Yes," she whispered.
She gazed into the strong face above her, sad now, and rather stern; and
the thought of all that she was losing in sending him out of her life
gripped her heart like icy fingers closing about the happiness of life.
And while she sat there, and he stood over her, gravely silent, the gay
sound of childish laughter broke upon the stillness, followed by the
quick patter of little feet along the stoep. Dare looked round.
"Well, at any rate," he said, "you've got them."
The bitterness in his voice did not escape her. She understood what he
was feeling, and, rising, she went to him and placed a hand gently on
his arm.
"The best thing that life has given me is your love," she said. "There
is no sting of bitterness in that at all."