"You've killed a masterpiece," he said, "between you."
"Do you mean Hugh?" she said. "What had he to do with it?"
"He married you."
"My crime was committed before he married me."
"Exactly." She was aware of the queer, nervous, upward jerk of his
moustache, precluding the impermissible--"When you were in love with
him."
Her face darkened as she turned to him.
"Let's talk about Nina's book. George--there isn't anybody like her. And
I knew, I knew she'd do it."
"Did you know that she did it before she saw Prothero."
"I know."
"And that she's never written a line since?"
"When she does it will be immense. Because of him."
"Possibly. She hasn't married him."
"After all, George, if it comes to that, you're married too."
"Yes. But I married a woman who can't do me any harm."
"Could anybody."
She stood still there, on the terrace, fronting him with the scorn of
her question.
He did not answer her at first. His face changed and was silent as his
thought. As they paced up and down again he spoke.
"I don't mind, Jinny; if you're happy; if you're really content."
"You see that I am."
Her voice throbbed. He caught the pure, the virginal tremor, and knew it
for the vibration of her soul. It stirred in him a subtle, unaccountable
pang.
She paused, brooding.
"I shall be," she said, "even if I never do anything again."
"Nothing," he assured her, "can take from you the things you have done.
Look at Hambleby. He's enough. After all, Jinny, you might have died
young and just left us that. We ought to be glad that, as it is, we've
got so much of you."
"So much----"
Almost he could have said she sighed.
"Nothing can touch Hambleby or the genius that made him."
"George--do you think it'll ever come back to me?"
She stood still again. He was aware now, through her voice, of
something tense, something perturbed and tormented in her soul. He
rejoiced, for it was he who had stirred her; it was he who had made her
feel.
"Of course," he said, "it'll come back. If you choose--if you let it.
But you'll have to pay your price."
She was silent. They talked of other things. Presently the John
Brodricks, the Levines and Mrs. Heron came out into the garden and said
good-night, and Tanqueray followed them and went.
She found Hugh closeted with Henry in the library where invariably the
doctor lingered. Brodrick made a sign to his brother-in-law as she
entered.
"Well," he said, "you've had your talk."
"Oh yes, we've had it."
She lay back in her seat as if exhausted by hard physical exercise,
supporting the limp length of her arms on the sides of the chair.
The doctor, after a somewhat prolonged observation of her posture,
remarked that she should make a point of going to bed at ten.
Brodrick pleaded the Birthday of the Book. And at the memory of the
intolerable scene, and of Tanqueray's presence in it, her agony broke
out.
"Don't talk about it. I don't want ever to hear of it again."
"What's he been saying to you?" said Brodrick.
"He'd no need to say anything. Do you suppose I don't know? Can't you
see how awful it is for me?"
Brodrick raised the eyebrows of innocence amazed.
"It's as if I'd brought something deformed and horrible into the
world----"
The doctor leaned forward, more than ever attentive.
"And you _would_ go and drag it out, all of you, when I was sitting
there in shame and misery. And before George Tanqueray--How could you?"
"My dear Jinny----"
Brodrick was leaning forward too now, looking at her with affectionate
concern.
Her brother-in-law rose and held out his hand. He detained hers for an
appreciable moment, thoughtfully, professionally.
"I think," he said, "really, you'd better go to bed."
Outside in the hall she could hear him talking to Hugh.
"It's physical, it's physical," he said. "It won't do to upset her. You
must take great care."
The doctor's voice grew mysterious, then inaudible, and she heard Hugh
saying he supposed that it was so; and Henry murmured and mumbled
himself away. Outside their voices still retreated with their footsteps,
down the garden path, and out at the terrace gate. Hugh was seeing Henry
home.
When he came back he found Jane in the library, sitting up for him. She
was excited and a little flushed.
"So you've had _your_ talk, have you?" she said.
"Yes."
He came to her and put his hands on her forehead.
"Look here. You ought to have gone to bed."
She took his hand and drew him to her.
"Henry doesn't think I'm any good," she said.
"Henry's very fond of you."
She shook her head.
"To Henry I'm nothing but a highly interesting neurotic. He watches me
as if he were on the look-out for some abnormal manifestation, with that
delightful air he has of never being surprised at anything, as if he
could calculate the very moment."
"My dear----"
"I'm used to it. My people took me that way, too. Only they hadn't a
scientific turn of mind, like Henry. They didn't think it interesting;
and they haven't Henry's angelic patience and forbearance. I was the
only one of the family, don't you know, who wasn't quite sane; and
yet--so unlike Henry--they considered me rather more responsible than
any of them. I couldn't get off anything on the grounds of my insanity."
All the time, while thus tormenting him, she seemed profoundly occupied
with the hand she held, caressing it with swift, nervous, tender
touches.
"After all," she said, "I haven't turned out so badly; even from Henry's
point of view, have I?"