“|I shan’t be gone long,” Johannah had said, when she left Madame
Dornaye and Will at tea in the garden; but time passed, and she did
not come back. Will, mounting through various stages and degrees of
nervousness, restlessness, anxiety, at last said, “What on earth can
be keeping her?” and Madame Dornaye replied, “That is precisely what
I am asking myself.” They waited a little longer, and then, “Shall
we go back to the house?” he suggested. But when they reached the
house they found the drawing-room empty, and—no trace of Johannah.
“She may be in her room. I’ll go and see,” said Madame Dornaye.
More time passed, and still no Johannah. Nor did Madame Dornaye return
to explain her absence.
Will walked about in a state of acute misery. What could it be? What
could have happened? What could this painter, this George Aymer,
this thorough-paced rascal with the beautiful face, this man of whom
Johannah, in days gone by, “had seen a great deal,” so that her
friends had feared “she might end by marrying him”—what could he
have called upon her for? What could have passed between them? Why
had she disappeared? Where was she now? Where was he? Where was Madame
Dornaye, who had gone to look for her? Could—could it possibly
be—that he—this man notorious for his corruption even in the
corruptest world of Paris—could it be that he was the man Johannah
meant when she had talked of the man she was in love with? And Will,
fatuous imbecile, had vainly allowed himself to imagine.... Oh, why
did she not come back? What could be keeping her away from him all this
time?... “I have had a hundred, I have had a hundred.” The phrase
echoed and echoed in his memory. She had said, “I have had a
hundred love affairs.” Oh, to be sure, in the next breath, she had
contradicted herself, she had said, “No, I haven’t.” But she had
added, “Everybody has had at least one.” So she had had at least
one. With this man, George Aymer? Madame Dornaye said she had broken
with him, ceased to see him. But—it was certain she had seen him
to-day. But—lovers’ quarrels are made up; lovers break with each
other, and then come together again, are reunited. Perhaps... Perhaps...
Oh, where was she? Why did she remain away in this mysterious fashion?
What could she be doing? What could she be doing?
The dressing-bell rang, and he went to dress for dinner.
“Anyhow, I shall see her now, I shall see her at dinner,” he kept
telling himself, as he dressed.
But when he came downstairs the drawing-room was still empty. He walked
backwards and forwards.
“We shall have to dine without our hostess,” Madame Dornaye said,
entering presently. “Jeanne has a bad headache, and will stay in her
room.” VII
Will left the house early the next morning, and went out into the
garden. The sun was shining, the dew sparkled on the grass, the air was
keen and sweet with the odours of the earth. A mile away the sea
glowed blue as larkspur; and overhead innumerable birds gaily piped and
twittered. But oh, the difference, the difference! His eyes could see no
colour, his ears could hear no music. His brain felt as if it had been
stretched and strained, like a thing of india-rubber; a lump ached in
his throat; his heart was sick with the suspense of waiting, with the
questionings, the fears, suspicions, that had beset it through the
night.
“Will!” Johannah’s voice called behind him.
He turned.
“Thank God!” The words came without conscious volition on his part.
“I thought I was never going to see you again.”
“I have been waiting for you,” said she.
She wore her garden-hat and her white frock; but her face was pale, and
her eyes looked dark and anxious.
He had taken her hand, and was clinging to it, pressing it, hard, so
hard that it must have hurt her, in the violence of his emotion.
“Oh, wait, Will, wait,” she said, trying to draw her hand away; and
her eyes filled with sudden tears.
He let go her hand, and looked into her tearful eyes, helpless,
speechless, longing to speak, unable, in the confusion of his thoughts
and feelings, to find a word.
“I must tell you something, Will. Come with me somewhere—where we
can be alone. I must tell you something.”
She moved off, away from the house, he keeping beside her. They passed
out of the garden, into the deep shade of the park.
“Do you remember,” she began, all at once, “do you remember what
I said yesterday, about my motto? That my motto was ’Be bold, be bold,
and everywhere be bold’.”
“Yes,” he said.
“I am going to be very bold indeed now, Will. I am going to tell you
something—something that will make you hate me perhaps—that will
make you despise me perhaps,” she faltered.
“You could not possibly tell me anything that could make me hate you
or despise you. But you must not tell me anything at all, unless it is
something you are perfectly sure you will be happier for having told
me,” he said.
“It is something I wish to tell you, something I must tell you,”
said she. Then after a little pause, “Oh, how shall I begin it?” But
before he could have spoken, “Do you think that a woman—do you
think that a girl, when she is very young, when she is very immature and
impressionable, and very impulsive, and ignorant, and when she is alone
in the world, without a father or mother—do you think that if she
makes some terrible mistake, if she is terribly deceived, if somebody
whom she believes to be good and noble and unhappy and misunderstood,
somebody whom she—whom she loves—do you think that if she makes some
terrible mistake—if she—if she—oh, my God!—if——-” She held
her breath for a second, then suddenly, “Can’t you understand what
I mean?” she broke down in a sort of wail, and hid her face in her
hands, and sobbed.
Will stood beside her, holding his arms out towards her. “Johannah!
Johannah!” was all he could say.
She dropped her hands, and looked at him with great painful eyes.
“Tell me—do you think that a woman can never be forgiven? Do you
think that she is soiled, degraded, changed utterly? Do you think that
when she—that when she did what she did—it was a sin, a crime, not
only a terrible mistake, and that her whole nature is changed? Most
people think so. They think that a mark has been left upon her, branded
upon her; that she can never, never be the same again. Do you think so,
Will? Oh, it is not true; I know it is not true. A woman can leave
that mistake, that terror, that horror—she can leave it behind her as
completely as she can leave any other dreadful thing. She can blot it
out of her life, like a nightmare. She isn’t changed—she remains the
same woman. She isn’t utterly changed, and soiled, and defiled. In her
own conscience, no matter what other people think, she knows, she knows
she isn’t. When she wakes up to find that the man she had believed in,
the man she had loved, when she wakes up to find that he isn’t in any
way what she had thought him, that he is base and evil and ignoble, and
when all her love for him dies in horror and misery—oh, do you think
that she must never, never, as long as she lives, hold up her head
again, never be happy again, never love any one again? Look at me, Will.
I am myself. I am what God made me. Do you think that I am utterly vile
because—because———” But her voice failed again, and her eyes
again filled with tears.
“Oh, Johannah, don’t ask me what I think of you. I could not tell
you what I think of you. You are as God made you. God never made—never
made any one else so splendid.”
And in a moment his arms were round her, and she was weeping her heart
out on his shoulder.