THE LIVING
This winter the Newthorpes spent abroad. Mr. Newthorpe was in very
doubtful health when he went to Ullswater, just before Egremont's
return to England, and by the end of the autumn his condition was such
as to cause a renewal of Annabel's former fears. On a quick decision,
they departed for Cannes, and remained there till early in the
following April.
'There's a sort of absurdity,' Mr. Newthorpe remarked, 'in living when
you can think of nothing but how you're to save your life. Better have
done with it, I think. It strikes me as an impiety, too, to go playing
at hide-and-seek with the gods.'
They came back to Eastbourne, which, on the whole, seemed to suit the
invalid during these summer months. He did little now but muse over a
few favourite books and listen to his daughter's conversation.
Comparatively a young man, his energies were spent, his life was behind
him. To Annabel it was infinitely sorrowful to have observed this rapid
process of decay. She could not be persuaded that the failure of his
powers was anything more than temporary. But her father lost no
opportunity of warning her that she deceived herself. He had his
reasons for doing so.
His temper was perfect: his outlook on the world remained that of a
genial pessimist, a type of man common enough in our day. He seemed to
find a pleasure in urbanely mocking at his own futility.
'I am the sort of man,' he once said, 'of whom Tourgueneff would make
an admirable study. There's tragedy in me, if you have the eyes to see
it. I don't think any one can help feeling kindly towards me. I don't
think any one can altogether despise me. Yet my life is a mere
inefficacy.'
'You have had much enjoyment in your life, father,' Annabel replied,
'and enjoyment of the purest kind. In our age of the world I think that
must be a sufficient content.'
'Why, there you've hit it, Bell. 'Tis the age. There's somebody else I
know who had better take warning by me. But I think he has done.'
They were talking thus as they sat alone in one of the places of
shelter on the Parade. Other people had departed on the serious
business of dining; but the evening was beautiful, and these two were
tempted to remain and watch the sea.
'You mean Mr. Egremont,' Annabel said.
'Yes. I wonder very much what he will be at my age. He won't be
anything particular, of course.'
'No, I don't suppose he will do anything remarkable,' the girl assented
impartially.
'Yet he might have done,' recommenced her father, with some annoyance,
as if his remark had not elicited the answer he looked for. 'This
mill-work of his I consider mere discipline. I should have thought two
years of it enough; three certainly ought to be. A fourth, and he will
never do anything else.'
'What else should he do?'
Mr. Newthorpe laughed a little.
'There's only one thing for such a fellow to do nowadays. Let him write
something.'
'Write?' Annabel mused. 'Yes, I suppose there is nothing else. Yet he
happens to have sufficient means.'
'Do you mean it for an epigram? Well, it will pass. True, there's the
hardship of his position. There's nothing for him to do but to write,
yet he is handicapped by his money. I should have done something worth
the doing, if I had had to write for bread and cheese. Let him show
that he has something in him, in spite of the fact that he has never
gone without his dinner. Yes, but that would prove him an extraordinary
man, and we agree that he is nothing of the kind.'
'Haven't you ever felt a sort of uneasy shame when you have heard of
another acquaintance taking up the pen?'
'Of course I have. I've felt the same when I've heard of someone being
born.'
'Suppose I announced to you that I was writing a novel?'
'I am a philosopher, Bell.'
'Precisely. It would be disagreeable to me if I heard that Mr. Egremont
was writing a novel. If he published anything very good, it wouldn't
trouble one so much after the event. I don't see why he should write. I
think he'd better continue to give half his day to something practical,
and the other half to the pleasures of a man of culture. It will
preserve his balance.'
'Bella mia, you are greatly disillusioned for a young girl.'
'I don't feel that the term is applicable to me. I am disillusioned,
father, because I am getting reasonably old.'
'You live too much alone.'
'I prefer it.'
Mr. Newthorpe seemed to be turning over a thought.
'I suppose,' he said at length, with a glance at his daughter, 'that
what you have just said explains our friend's return to his oil-cloth.'
'Not entirely, I think.'
'H'm. You sent him about his business, however.
Annabel looked straight before her at the sea; her lips barely smiled.
'You are mistaken. He gave me no right to do so.'
'Oh? Then I have been on a wrong tack.'
'Shall we walk homewards?'
Towards the end of August, Mr. and Mrs. Dalmaine were at Eastbourne for
a few days. Paula spent one hour with her cousin in private, no more.
The two had drifted further apart than ever. But in that one hour Paula
had matter enough for talk. There had been a General Election during
the summer, and Mr. Dalmaine had victoriously retained his seat for
Vauxhall. His wife could speak of nothing else.
'What I would have given if you could have seen me canvassing, Bell!
Now I've found the one thing that I can do really well. I wish
Parliaments were annual!'
'My dear Paula, what has made you so misanthropic?'
'I don't understand. You know I never do understand your clever
remarks, Bell; please speak quite simply, will you? Oh, but the
canvassing! Of course I didn't get on with people's wives as well as
with people themselves; women never do, you know. You should have heard
me arguing questions with working men and shopkeepers! Mr. Dalmaine
once told me I'd better keep out of politics, as I only made a bungle
of it; but I've learnt a great deal since then. He admits now that I
really do understand the main questions. Of course it's all his
teaching. He puts things so clearly, you know. I suppose there's no one
in the House who makes such clear speeches as he does.'
'The result of your work was very satisfactory.'
'Wasn't it! Fifteen hundred majority! Then we drove all about the
borough, and I had to bow nicely to people who waved their hats and
shouted. It was a new sensation; I think I never enjoyed anything so
much in my life. He is enormously popular, my husband. And everybody
says he is doing an enormous lot of good. You know, Bell, it was a mere
chance that he isn't in the Ministry! His name was mentioned; we know
it for a fact. There's no doubt whatever he'll be in next time, if the
Liberal Government keeps up. It is so annoying that Parliaments
generally last so long! Think what that will be, when he is a Minister!
I shouldn't wonder if you come to see me some day in Downing Street,
Bell.'
'I should be afraid, Paula.'
'Nonsense! Your husband will bring you. Don't you think Mr. Dalmaine's
looking remarkably well? I'm so sorry I haven't got my little boy here
for you to see. We've decided that _he's_ to be Prime Minister! I hope
you read Mr. Dalmaine's speeches, Bell?'
'Frequently.'
'That's good of you! He's thinking of publishing a volume of those that
deal with factory legislation. You should have heard what they said
about him, at the election time!'
Paula was still charming, but it must be confessed a trifle vulgarised.
Formerly she had not been vulgar at all; at present one discerned
unmistakably the influence of her husband, and of the world in which
she lived. In person, she showed the matron somewhat prematurely; one
saw that in another ten years she would be portly; her round fair face
would become too round and too pinky. Mentally, she was at length
formed, and to Mr. Dalmaine was due the credit of having formed her.
This gentleman did his kinsfolk the honour of calling upon them. He had
grown a little stouter; he bore himself with conscious dignity; you saw
that he had not much time, nor much attention, to bestow upon
unpolitical people. He was suave and abrupt by turns; he used his hands
freely in conversing. Mr. Newthorpe smiled much during the interview
with him, and, a few hours later, when alone with Annabel, he suddenly
exclaimed:
'What an ignorant pretentious numskull that fellow is!'
'Of whom do you speak?'
'Why, of Dalmaine, of course.'
'My dear father!--A philanthropist! One of the forces of the time!'
Mr. Newthorpe leaned back and laughed.
'Perfectly true,' he said presently. 'Whence we may arrive at certain
conclusions with regard to mankind at large and our time in particular.
That poor pretty girl! It's too bad.'
'She is happy.'
'True again. And it would be foolish to wish her miserable. Bell, let
us join hands and go to the old ferryman's boat together.'
'It would cost me no pang, father. Still we will walk a little longer
on the sea-shore.'
And whilst this conversation was going on, Mr. and Mrs. Dalmaine sat
after dinner on the balcony of their hotel, talking occasionally.
Dalmaine smoked a cigar: his eyes betrayed the pleasures of digestion
and thought on high matters of State.
He said all at once:
'By-the-by, Lady Wigger is at the Queen's Hotel, I see. You will call
to-morrow.'
'Lady Wigger? But really I don't think I can, dear,' Paula replied,
timidly.
'Why not?'
'Why, you know she was so shockingly rude to me at the Huntleys' ball.
You said it was abominable, yourself.'
'So it was, but you'd better call.'
'I'd much rather not.'
Dalmaine looked at her with Olympian surprise.
'But, my dear,' he said with suave firmness, 'I said that you had
better call. The people must not be neglected; they will be useful. Do
you understand me?'
'Yes, love.'
Paula was quiet for a few moments, then talked as brightly as ever....
One day close upon the end of September, Mrs. Ormonde had to pay a
visit to the little village of West Dean, which is some four miles
distant from Eastbourne, inland and westward. Business of a domestic
nature took her thither; she wished to visit a cottage for the purpose
of seeing a girl whom she thought of engaging as a servant. The day was
very beautiful; she asked the Newthorpes to accompany her on the drive.
Mr. Newthorpe preferred to remain at home; Annabel accepted the
invitation.
The road was uphill, until the level of the Downs was reached; then it
went winding along, with fair stretches of scenery on either hand,
between fields fragrant of Autumn, overhead the broad soft purple sky.
First East Dean was passed, a few rustic houses nestling, as the name
implies, in its gentle hollow. After that, another gradual ascent, and
presently the carriage paused at a point of the road immediately above
the village to which they were going.
The desire to stop was simultaneous in Mrs. Ormonde and her companion;
their eyes rested on as sweet a bit of landscape as can be found in
England, one of those scenes which are typical of the Southern
countries. It was a broad valley, at the lowest point of which lay West
Dean. The hamlet consists of very few houses, all so compactly grouped
about the old church that from this distance it seemed as if the hand
could cover them. The roofs were overgrown with lichen, yellow on
slate, red on tiles. In the farmyards were haystacks with yellow
conical coverings of thatch. And around all closed dense masses of
chestnut foliage, the green just touched with gold. The little group of
houses had mellowed with age; their guarded peacefulness was soothing
to the eye and the spirit. Along the stretch of the hollow the land was
parcelled into meadows and tilth of varied hue. Here was a great patch
of warm grey soil, where horses were drawing the harrow; yonder the
same work was being done by sleek black oxen. Where there was pasture,
its chalky-brown colour told of the nature of the earth which produced
it. A vast oblong running right athwart the far side of the valley had
just been strewn with loam; it was the darkest purple. The bright
yellow of the 'kelk' spread in several directions; and here and there
rose thin wreaths of white smoke, where a pile of uprooted couch-grass
was burning; the scent was borne hither by a breeze that could be
scarcely felt.
The clock of the old church struck four.
'A kindness, Mrs. Ormonde!' said Annabel. 'Let me stay here whilst you
drive down into the village. I don't wish to see the people there just
now. To sit here and look down on that picture will do me good.'
'By all means. But I dare say I shall be half an hour. It will take ten
minutes to drive down.'
'Never mind. I shall sit here on the bank, and enjoy myself.'
Now it happened that on this same September day a young man left
Brighton and started to walk eastward along the coast. He had come into
Brighton from London the evening before, having to pay a visit to the
family of an acquaintance of his who had recently died in Pennsylvania,
and who, when dying, had asked him to perform this office on his return
to England. He was no stranger to Brighton; he knew that, if one is
obliged to visit the place, it is well to be there under cover of the
night and to depart as speedily as possible from amid its vulgar
hideousness. So, not later than eight on the following morning, he had
left the abomination behind him, and was approaching Rottingdean.
His destination was Eastbourne; the thought of going thither on foot
came to him as he glanced at a map of the coast whilst at breakfast.
The weather was perfect, and the walk would be full of interest.
One would have said that he had a mind very free from care. For the
most part he stepped on at a good round pace, observing well; sometimes
he paused, as if merely to enjoy the air. He was in excellent health;
he smiled readily.
At Rottingdean he lingered for awhile. A soft mist hung all around; sky
and sea were of a delicate blurred blue-grey, the former mottled in
places. The sun was not visible, but its light lay in one long gleaming
line out on the level water; beyond, all was vapour-veiled. There were
no breakers; now and then a larger ripple than usual splashed on the
beach, and that was the only sound the sea gave. It was full tide; the
water at the foot of the cliffs was of a wonderful green, pellucid,
delicate, through which the chalk was visible, with dark masses of weed
here and there. Swallows in great numbers flew about the edge, and
thistle-down floated everywhere. From the fields came a tinkle of
sheep-bells.
The pedestrian sighed when he rose to continue his progress. It was
noticeable that, as he went on, he lost something of his cheerfulness
of manner; probably the early rising and the first taste of exercise
had had their effect upon him, and now he was returning to his more
wonted self. The autumn air, the sun-stained mist, the silent sea,
would naturally incline to pensiveness one who knew that mood.
The air was unimaginably calm; the thistle-down gave proof that only
the faintest breath was stirring. On the Downs beyond Rottingdean lay
two or three bird-catchers, prone as they watched the semicircle of
call-birds in cages, and held their hand on the string which closed the
nets. The young man spoke a few words with one of these, curious about
his craft.
He came down upon Newhaven, and halted in the town for refreshment;
then, having loitered a little to look at the shipping, he climbed the
opposite side of the valley, and made his way as far as Seaford. Thence
another climb, and a bend inland, for the next indentation of the coast
was Cuckmere Haven, and the water could only be crossed at some
distance from the sea. The country through which the Cuckmere flowed
had a melancholy picturesqueness. It was a great reach of level
meadows, very marshy, with red-brown rushes growing in every ditch, and
low trees in places, their trunks wrapped in bright yellow lichen; nor
only their trunks, but the very smallest of their twigs was so clad.
All over the flats were cows pasturing, black cows, contrasting with
flocks of white sheep, which were gathered together, bleating. The
coarse grass was sun-scorched; the slope of the Downs on either side
showed the customary chalky green. The mist had now all but dispersed,
yet there was still only blurred sunshine. Rooks hovered beneath the
sky, heavily, lazily, and uttered their long caws.
The Cuckmere was crossed, and another ascent began. The sea was now
hidden; the road would run inland, cutting off the great angle made by
Beachy Head. The pedestrian had made notes of his track; he knew that
he was now approaching a village called West Dean. He had lingered by
the Cuckmere; now he braced himself. And he came in sight of West Dean
as the church clock struck four.
He wished now to make speed to Eastbourne, but the loveliness of the
hollow above which the road ran perforce checked him; he paced forward
very slowly, his eyes bent upon the hamlet. Something moved, near to
him. He looked round. A lady was standing in the road, and, of all
strange things, a lady of whom at that moment he was thinking.
'By what inconceivable chance does this happen, Miss Newthorpe?' he
said, taking her offered hand.
'Surely the question would come with even more force from me,' Annabel
made answer. 'You might have presumed me to be in England, Mr.
Egremont; I, on the other hand, certainly imagined that you were beyond
the Atlantic.'
'I have been in England a day or two.'
'But here? Looking down upon West Dean?'
'I have walked from Brighton--one of the most delightful walks I ever
took.'
'A long one, surely. I am waiting for Mrs. Ormonde. She is with the
carriage below. I chose to wait here, to feast my eyes.'
Both turned again to the picture. The two did not sort ill together.
Annabel was very womanly, of fair, thoughtful countenance, and she
stood with no less grace, though maturer, than by the ripples of
Ullswater, four years ago. She had the visage of a woman whose
intellect is highly trained, a face sensitive to every note of the
soul's music, yet impressed with the sober consciousness which comes of
self-study and experience. A woman, one would have said, who could act
as nobly as she could speak, yet who would prefer both to live and to
express herself in a minor key. And Egremont was not unlike her in some
essential points. The turn for irony was more pronounced on his
features, yet he had the eyes of an idealist. He, too, would choose
restraint in preference to outbreak of emotion: he too could be
forcible if occasion of sufficient pressure lay upon him. And the
probability remained, that both one and the other would choose a path
of life where there was small risk of their stronger faculties being
demanded.
They talked of the landscape, of that exclusively, until Mrs. Ormonde's
carriage was seen reascending the hill. Then they became silent, and
stood so as their common friend drew near. Her astonishment was not
slight, but she gave it only momentary expression, then passed on to
general talk.
'I always regard you as reasonably emancipated, Annabel,' she said,
'but none the less I felt a certain surprise in noticing you intimately
conversing with a chance wayfarer. Mr. Egremont, be good enough to seat
yourself opposite to us.'
They drove back to Eastbourne. All conversed on the way with as much
ease as if they had this afternoon set forth in company from The
Chestnuts.
'This is what, at school, we used to call a 'lift,'' said Egremont.
'A welcome one, too, I should think,' Mrs. Ormonde replied. 'But you
always calculated distances by 'walks,' I remember, when others measure
by the carriage or the railway. Annabel, you too are an excellent
walker; you have often brought me to extremities in the lakes, though I
wouldn't confess it. And pray, Mr. Egremont, for whom was your visit
intended? Shall I put you down at Mr. Newthorpe's door, or had you my
humble house in view?'
'It is natural to me to count upon The Chestnuts as a place of rest, at
all events,' Walter replied. 'I should not have ventured to disturb Mr.
Newthorpe this evening.'
'We will wait at the door, Mrs. Ormonde,' put in Annabel. 'Father will
come out as he always does.'
Accordingly the carriage was stopped at the Newthorpes' house, and, as
Annabel had predicted, her father sauntered forth.
'Ah, how do you do, Egremont?' he said, after a scarcely appreciable
hesitation, giving his hand with perfect self-possession. 'Turned up on
the road, have you?'
The ladies laughed. Annabel left the carriage, and the other two drove
on to The Chestnuts.
Egremont dined and spent the evening with Mrs. Ormonde. Their
conversation was long and intimate, yet it was some time before
reference was made to the subject both had most distinctly in mind.
'I went to see Grail as soon as I got to London,' Egremont said at
length.
'I am glad of that. But how did you know where to find him?'
'They gave me his address at the old house. He seems comfortably lodged
with his friend Ackroyd. Mrs. Ackroyd opened the door to me; of course
I didn't know her, and she wouldn't know me; Grail told me who it was
afterwards. I could recall no likeness to her sister.'
'There is very little. The poor girl is in calm water at last, I hope.
She was to have been married on Midsummer Day, and, the night before,
Mrs. Grail died; so they put it off. And what of Mr. Grail?'
'He behaved admirably to me; he did not let me feel for a moment that I
excited any trouble in his memory.'
'But does his life seem bitter to him--his employment, I mean?'
'I can't think he finds it so. He spoke very frankly, and assured me
that he has all the leisure time he cared to use. He says he is not so
eager after knowledge as formerly; it is enough for him to read the
books he likes. I went with the intention of asking him to let me be of
some use, if I could. But it was a delicate matter, in any case, and I
found that he understood me without plain speech: he conveyed his
answer distinctly enough. No, I sincerely think that he has reached
that point of resignation at which a man dreads to be disturbed. He
spoke with emotion of Mrs. Ackroyd; she is invaluable to him, I saw.'
'She is a true-hearted woman.'
Egremont let a minute pass, then said:
'You will show me the portrait?'
'Certainly. It hangs in my bedroom; I will fetch it.'
She went and returned quickly, carrying a red crayon drawing framed in
plain oak. In the corner was a well-known signature, that of one of the
few living artists to whom one would appeal with confidence for the
execution of a task such as this, a man whom success has not
vulgarised, and who is still of opinion that the true artist will
oftener find his inspiration in a London garret than amid the banality
of the plutocrat's drawing-room. The work was of course masterly in
execution; it was no less admirable as a portrait. In those few lines
of chalk, Thyrza lived. He had divined the secret of the girl's soul,
that gift of passionate imagination which in her early years sunk her
in hour-long reverie, and later burned her life away. The mood embodied
was one so characteristic of Thyrza that one marvelled at the insight
which had evoked it from a dead face; she was not happy, she was net
downcast; her eyes _saw_ something, something which stirred her being,
something for which she yearned, passionately, yet with knowledge that
it was for ever forbidden to her. A face of infinite pathos, which drew
tears to the eyes, yet was unutterably sweet to gaze upon.
Holding the picture, Egremont turned to his companion, and said in a
subdued voice,
'This was Thyrza?'
'Her very self.'
'He knew her story?'
'The bare facts, of course without names, without details. He would
take nothing for the original drawing--Lydia has it--and nothing for
this copy which he made me. He said I had done him a great kindness.'
'Oh, if one could be a man like that!'
The words answered to his thoughts, yet implied something more than
their plain meaning. They uttered more than one regret, more than one
aspiration.
'Let me take it, Walter.'
'One moment!--This was Thyrza?'
'Let me take it.'
'Tell me--has Miss Newthorpe seen it?'
'Yes.'
Mrs. Ormonde bore the picture away. In a few minutes Egremont took his
leave, and went to the hotel to which he had sent his travelling-bag
from Brighton. It was long before he slept. He was thinking of a night
a little more than a year ago, when he had walked by the shore and held
debate with himself....
On the following evening, shortly before sunset, Annabel and he walked
on the short dry grass of the Down that rises to Beachy Head. There had
been another day of supreme tranquillity, of blurred sunshine, of
soothing autumnal warmth. And this was the crowning hour. The mist had
drifted from the land and the sea; as the two continued their ascent,
the view became lovelier. They regarded it, but spoke of other things.
'I have no wish to go back to America,' Egremont was saying, 'but, if I
do, I shall very likely settle there for good. I don't think I am
ideally adapted to a pursuit of that kind, but habit makes it quite
tolerable.'
'What should you do if you remained in England?' Annabel asked, her
voice implying no more than friendly interest.
'I might say that I don't know, but it wouldn't be true. I know well
enough I should live the life of a student, and of a man who looks on
contemporary things with an artistic interest, though he lacks the
artistic power to use his observations. In time I should marry. I
should have pleasure in my house, should make it as beautiful as might
be, should gather a very few friends about me. I should not become
morbid; the danger of that is over. Every opportunity I saw of helping
those less fortunate than myself I should gladly seize; it is not
impossible that I might seek opportunities, that I might found some
institution--of quite commonplace aims, be assured. For instance, I
should like to see other Homes like Mrs. Ormonde's; many women could
conduct them, if the means were supplied. And so on.'
'Yes, that is all very reasonable. It lies with yourself to decide
whether you might not have a breezier existence in America.'
'True. But not with myself to decide whether I remain here or go back
again. I ask you to help me in determining that.'
Annabel stood as one who reflects gravely yet collectedly. Egremont
fixed his eyes upon her, until she looked at him then his gaze
questioned silently.
'Let us understand each other,' said Annabel. 'Do you say this because
of anything that has been in the past?'
'Not _because_ of it; in continuance of it.'
'Yet we are both very different from what we were when that happened.'
'Both, I think. I do not speak now as I did then, yet the wish I have
is far more real.'
They were more than half-way up the ascent; it was after sunset, and
the mood of the season was changing.
The plain of Pevensey lay like a vision of fairyland, the colouring
indescribably delicate, unreal; bands of dark green alternated with the
palest and most translucent emeralds. The long stretch of the coast was
a faint outline, yet so clear that every tongue of sand, every smallest
headland was distinguishable. The sky that rested on the eastern
semicircle of horizon was rather neutral tint than blue, and in it hung
long clouds of the colour of faded daffodils. A glance overhead gave
the reason of this wondrous effect of light; there, and away to the
west, brooded a vast black storm-cloud, ragged at the edge, yet seeming
motionless; the western sea was very night, its gloom intensified by
one slip of silver shimmer, wherein a sail was revealed. The hillside
immediately in front of those who stood here was so deeply shadowed
that its contrast threw the vision of unearthly light into distance
immeasurable. A wind was rising, but, though its low whistling sound
was very audible, it seemed to be in the upper air; here scarcely a
breath was felt.
Annabel said:
'Have you seen Thyrza's portrait?
'Yes.'
She raised her eyes; they were sad, compassionate, yet smiled.
'She could not have lived. But you are conscious now of what that face
means?'
'I know nothing of her history from the day when I last saw her, except
the mere outward circumstances.'
'Nor do I. But I saw her once, here, and I have seen her portrait. The
crisis of your life was there. There was your one great opportunity,
and you let it pass. She could not have lived; but that is no matter.
You were tried, Mr. Egremont, and found Wanting.'
'Her love for me did not continue. It was already too late at the end
of those two years.
'Was it?'
'What secret knowledge have you?'
'None whatever, as you mean it. But it was not too late.'
They were silent. And as they stood thus the sky was again transformed.
A steady yet soft wind from the northwest was propelling the great
black cloud seaward, over to France; it moved in a solid mass, its
ragged edges little by little broken off, its bulk detached from the
night which lay behind it. And in the sky which it disclosed rose as it
were a pale dawn, the restored twilight. Thereamid glimmered the
pole-star.
Eastward on the coast, at the far end of Pevensey Bay, the lights of
Hastings began to twinkle; out at sea was visible a single gleam,
appearing and disappearing, the lightship on the Sovereign Shoals.
Annabel continued speaking:
'We have both missed something, something that will never again he
offered us. When you asked me to be your wife, four years ago at
Ullswater, I did not love you. I admired you; I liked you; it would
have been very possible to me to marry you. But I had my ideal of love,
and I hoped to give my husband something more than I felt for you at
that time. A year after, I loved you. I suffered when you were
suffering. I was envious of the love you gave to another woman, and I
said to myself that the moment I hoped for had come only in vain. Since
then I have changed more than I changed in those twelve months. I am
not in love with you now; I can talk of these things without a flutter
of the pulse. Is it not true?'
She held her hand to him, baring the wrist. Egremont retained the hand
in both his own.
'I can tell you, you see,' she went on, 'what I know to be the truth,
that you missed the great opportunity of your life when you abandoned
Thyrza. Her love would have made of you what mine never could, even
though she herself had been taken from you very soon. I can tell you
the mere truth, you see. Dare you still ask for me?'
'I don't ask, Annabel. I have your hand and I keep it.'
'You may. I don't think I should ever give it to any other man.'
The night was thickening about them.
'Shall we go up to the Head?' Egremont asked.
'No higher.'
She said it with a significant look, and he understood her.