They had halted in Bruges, and there their wounded had been taken into
the Convent wards to rest.
Charlotte and Sutton were sitting out, alone together on the flagged
terrace in the closed garden. The nuns had brought out the two chairs
again, and set again the little table, covered with the white cloth.
Again the silver mist was in the garden, but thinned now to the clearness
of still water.
They had been silent after the nuns had left them. Sutton's sad,
short-sighted eyes stared out at the garden without seeing it. He was
lost in melancholy. Presently he came to himself with a long sigh--
"Charlotte, what are we going to do now? Do you know?"
"_I_ know. I'm going into Mac's corps."
"So am I. That isn't what I meant."
For a moment she didn't stop to wonder what he did mean. She was too full
of what she was going to do.
"Is that wise? I don't altogether trust old Mac. He'll use you till you
drop. He'll wear you to the last shred of your nerves."
"I want to be used till I drop. I want to be worn. Besides, I know I'm
safe with Mac."
His cold, hard indifference made her feel safe. She wasn't really safe
with Billy. His goodness might disarm her any minute, his sadness might
conceivably move her to a tender weakness. But for McClane she would
never have any personal feeling, never any fiery affection, any exalted
devotion. Neither need she be afraid of any profound betrayal. Small
betrayals perhaps, superficial disasters to her vanity, while his egoism
rode over it in triumph. He didn't want affection or anything fiery,
anything that John had had. He would leave her in her hardness; he would
never ask anything but hard, steel-cold loyalty and a willingness to
share his risks.
"What else can I do? I should have come out if John hadn't. Of course I
was glad we could go together, but you mustn't suppose I only went
because of him."
"I don't. I only thought perhaps you wouldn't want to stay on now
he's dead."
"More than ever now he's dead. Even if I didn't want to stay I should
have to now. To make up."
"For what?"
"For what he did. All those awful things. And for what he didn't do. His
dreams. I've got to do what he dreamed. But more than anything I must pay
his debt to Belgium. To all those wounded men."
"You're not responsible for his debts, Charlotte."
"No? Sometimes I feel as if I were. As if he and I were tied up
together. I could get away from him when he was alive. But now he's dead
he's got me."
"It doesn't make him different."
"It makes _me_ different. I tell you, I can't get away from him. And I
want to. I want to cut myself loose; and this is the way."
"Isn't it the way to tie yourself tighter?"
"No. Not when it's _done_, Billy."
"I can see a much better way.... If you married me."
She turned to him, astonished and a little anxious, as though she thought
something odd and dangerous had happened to him.
"Oh, Billy, I--I couldn't do that.... What made you think of it?"
"I've been thinking of it all the time."
"All the time?"
"Well, most of the time, anyhow. But I've loved you all the time. You
know I loved you. That was why I stuck to Conway. I couldn't leave you to
him. I wouldn't even leave you to McClane."
"I didn't know."
"I should have thought it was pretty, obvious."
"It wasn't. I'd have tried to stop it if I'd known."
"You couldn't have stopped it."
"I'm sorry."
"What about?"
"That. It isn't any good. It really isn't."
"Why isn't it? I know I'm rather a queer chap. And I've got an
ugly face--"
"I love your _face_...."
She loved it, with its composure and its candour, its slightly flattened
features, laid back; its little surprised moustache, its short-sighted
eyes and its sadness.
"It's the dearest face. But--"
"I suppose," he said, "it sounds a bit startling and sudden. But if you'd
been bottling it up as long as I have--Why, I loved you the first time I
saw you. On the boat.... So you see, it's you. It isn't just anything
you've done."
"If you knew what I _have_ done, my dear. If you only knew. You wouldn't
want to marry me."
She would have to tell him. That would put him off. That would stop
him. If she had loved him she would have had to tell him, as she had
told John.
"I'm going to tell you...."
* * * * *
She wondered whether he had really listened. A queer smile played
about his mouth. He looked as if he had been thinking of something
else all the time.
"What are you smiling at?"
"Your supposing that that would make any difference."
"Doesn't it?"
"Not a bit. Not a little bit.... Besides I knew it."
"Who--who told you?"
"The only other person who knew about it, I suppose--Conway."
"He betrayed me?"
"He betrayed you. Is there any vile thing he didn't do?"
And it was as it had been before. The nuns came out again, bringing the
great cups of hot black coffee, coming and going gently. Only this time
she couldn't drink.
"It's awful of us," she said, "to talk about him this way when
he's dead."
"He isn't dead as long as he makes you feel like that. As long as he
keeps you from me."