After a moment's pause he said: 'You say everything's changed. In a way
it is. I look at things differently--I regard them differently. When
you've been up against it, and seen life and death pretty close, you
realise what utter rot it is to live so much for the world.'
Edith stared. 'But ... doesn't it make you feel all the more the
importance of principle--goodness and religion, and all that sort of
thing? I expected it would, with you.'
'Frankly, no; it doesn't. Now, let us look at the situation quietly.'
After an agitated pause he went on:
'As far as I make out, you're sacrificing yourself to Bruce. When he ran
away with that girl, and begged you to divorce him, you could have done
it. You cared for me. Everything would have been right, even before the
world. No-one would have blamed you. Yet you wouldn't.'
'But that _wasn't_ for the world, Aylmer; you don't understand. It was
for myself. Something in me, which I can't help. I felt Bruce needed me
and would go wrong without me--'
'Why should you care? Did he consider you?'
'That isn't the point, dear boy. I felt as if he was my son, so to
speak--a sort of feeling of responsibility.'
'Yes, quite. It was quixotic rubbish. That's my opinion. There!'
Edith said nothing, remembering he was still ill.
'Well,' he went on, 'now, he _hasn't_ run away from you. He's stayed
with you for three years; utterly incapable of appreciating you, as I
know he is, bothering you to death.'
'Oh, Aylmer!'
'Don't I know him? You're wasting and frittering yourself away for
nothing.'
'The children--'
'Don't you think I'd have looked after the children better than he?'
'Yes, I do, Aylmer. But he _is_ their father. They may keep him
straight.'
'I consider you're utterly wasted,' he said. 'Well! He's stuck to you,
apparently, for these last three years (as far as you know), and now I'm
going to ask you something entirely different, for the last time. When I
was dying, or thought I was, things showed themselves clearly enough, I
can tell you. And I made up my mind if I lived to see you, to say this.
Leave Bruce, with me!'
She stared at him.
'In six weeks, when he's tired of telling his friends at the club about
it, he'll make up his mind, I suppose, if you insist, or even without,
to divorce you. But do you suppose he'll keep the children? No, my dear
of course he won't. You'll never have to leave them. I would never ask
you that. Now listen!' He put his hand over hers, not caressingly, but
to keep her quiet. 'He'll want to marry again, won't he?'
'Very likely,' she answered.
'Probably already he's in love with that woman What's-her-name--Madame
Frabelle--who's staying with you.'
Edith gave a little laugh.
'Perhaps he's in love with her already,' continued Aylmer.
'Quite impossible!' said Edith calmly.
'She's a very good sort. She's not a fool, like the girl. She'd look
after Bruce very well.'
'So she would,' answered Edith.
'Bruce will adore her, be under her thumb, and keep perfectly
'straight', as you call it--as straight as he ever would. Won't he?'
She was silent.
'You'll get the children then, don't you see?'
'Yes. With a bad reputation, with a cloud on my life, to bring up
Dilly!'
He sighed impatiently, and said: 'You see, you don't see things as they
really are, even now. How could you ever possibly hurt Dilly? You're
only thinking of what the world says, now.
'Hear me out,' he went on. 'Is this the only country? After the war,
won't everything be different? Thank goodness, I'm well provided for.
You needn't take a farthing. Leave even your own income to Bruce if you
like. You know I've five thousand a year now, Edith?'
'I didn't know it. But that has nothing on earth to do with it,' she
answered.
'Bosh! It has a great deal to do with it. I can afford to bring your
children up as well as Teddy, my boy. We can marry. And in a year or two
no one would think any more about it.'
'You bewilder me,' said Edith.
'I want to. Think it over. Don't be weak. I'm sorry, dear, to ask you to
take the blame on your side. It's unfair; but after all, perhaps, it's
straighter than waiting for an opportunity (which you could easily get
in time) of finding Bruce in the wrong.'
Her face expressed intense determination and disagreement with his
views.
'Don't answer me,' he said, 'think--'
'My dear boy, you must let me answer you. Will you listen to me?'
'Go on, Edith. I'll always listen to you.'
'You don't realise it, but you're not well,' she said.
He gave an impatient gesture.
'How like a woman! As soon as I talk sense you say I'm not well. A
broken leg doesn't affect the brain, remember.'
'No, Aylmer; I don't mean that. But you've been thinking this over till
you've lost your bearings, your sense of proportion....'
'Rot! I've just got it! That's what you mean. It comes to this, my dear
girl'--he spoke gently. 'Of course, if you don't care for me, my
suggestion would be perfectly mad. Perhaps you don't. Probably you
regard our romance as a pretty little story to look back on.'
'No, I don't, unless--'
'I won't ask you straight out,' he said. 'I don't suppose you know
yourself. But, if you care for me, as I do for you'--he spoke
steadily--'you'll do as I ask.'
'I might love you quite as much, and yet not do it.'
'I know it's a big thing. It's a sacrifice, in a way. But don't you see,
Edith, that if you still like me, your present life is a long, slow
sacrifice to convention, or (as you say) to a morbid sense of
responsibility?'
She looked away with a startled expression.
'Well, do you love me?' he said rather impatiently, but yet with his old
charm of tenderness and sincerity. 'I have never changed. As you know,
after the operation, when they thought I was practically done in--it may
seem a bit mad, but I was really more sane than I have ever been--I told
Dulcie Clay all about it.'
She stopped him. 'I know you did, my dear, and I don't blame you a bit.
She's absolutely loyal. But now, listen. Has nothing occurred to you
about her?'
'Nothing, except that I'm hoping to get rid of her as soon as possible.'
'She's madly in love with you, Aylmer.'
He looked contemptuous.
'She's a dear girl,' said Edith. 'I feel quite fond of her.'
'Really, I don't see how she comes in. You are perverse, Edith!'
'I'm not perverse. I see things.'
'She's never shown the slightest sign of it,' said Aylmer. 'I think it's
your imagination. But even if it's not, it isn't my business,
nor yours.'
'I think it is, a little.'
'If you talk like that, I'll send her away today.'
'Oh, Aylmer! how ungrateful of you to say such a thing! She's been an
angel.'
He spoke wearily. 'I don't want _angels_! I want _you_!' He suddenly
leant forward and took her hands.
She laughed nervously. 'What a compliment.'
Then she disengaged herself and stood up.
Aylmer sighed. 'Now you're going to say, Ought you to talk so much? What
is your temperature? Oh, women _are_ irritating, even the nicest,
confound them!'
Edith was unable to help laughing.
'I'm afraid I _was_ going to say something like that.'
'Now, are you going to say you won't answer me for fear it will excite
me?'
'Don't talk nonsense,' said Edith. '_I_ take you seriously enough. Don't
worry!'
He looked delighted.
'Thank heaven! Most women treat a wounded man as if he were a sick child
or a lunatic. It's the greatest rot. I'm nearly well.'
Edith looked round for his tonic, but stopped herself.
'Are you going now?' he asked.
'No, Aylmer. I thought of stopping a few minutes, if you don't mind.'
'Shall we talk of something else,' said Aylmer satirically, 'to divert
my thoughts? Hasn't it been lovely weather lately?'
She smiled and sat down again.
'Would you like to know how soon the war will be over?' he went on.
'Oddly enough, I really don't know!'
'Are you going back when you've recovered?' she asked abruptly.
'Of course I'm going back; and I want to go back with your promise.'
Then he looked a little conscience-stricken. 'Dear Edith, I don't want
to rush you. Forgive me.'
They both sat in dead silence for five minutes. He was looking at the
black velvet toque on the fair hair, over the soft eyes. She was staring
across at the cherry-coloured carnations in the pewter vase on the
mantelpiece.
As has been said, they often exchanged ideas without words.
He remarked, as she glanced at a book: 'Yes, I have read _A Life of
Slavery_. Have you? Do you think it good?'
'Splendid,' Edith answered; 'it's a labour of hate.'
He laughed.
'Quite true. One can't call it a labour of love, though it was written
to please the writer--not the public.'
'I wonder you could read it,' said Edith, 'after what you've been
through.'
'It took my thoughts off life,' he said.
'Why? Isn't it life?'
'Of course it is. Literary life.'
Edith looked at the clock.
'When am I going to see you again?' he asked in a rather exhausted
voice.
'Whenever you like. What about taking you out for a drive next week?'
'Right.'
'I'll think over what you said,' said Edith casually as she stood up.
'What a funny little speech. You're _impayable_! Oh, you are a jolly
girl!'
'"Jolly" girl,' repeated Edith, not apparently pleased. 'I'm
thirty-five, with a boy at school and a growing girl of seven!'
'You think too much of the almanac. I'm forty-one, with a son at the
front.'
'How on earth did you get your commissions?'
'In the usual way. Teddy and I told lies. He said he was eighteen and I
said I was thirty-nine.'
'I see. Of course.'
He rang the bell.
'Will you write to me, dear Edith?'
'No. I'll come and see you, Aylmer.'
'Are you going to bring Archie, Bruce, or Madame Frabelle?'
'Neither.'
'Do leave Madame Frabelle at home.'
'Though you don't like her, you might pronounce her name right! She's
such a clever woman.'
'She's an utter fool,' said Aylmer.
'Same thing, very often,' said Edith. 'Don't worry. Good-bye.'
She went away, leaving him perfectly happy and very hungry.
* * * * *
Hardly had she gone when Miss Clay came in and brought him some beef-tea
on a tray.