and gold. . . . It is difficult to express these things."
The particulars of her engagement were very clear in her memory.
heard him to the end, then spoke in a restrained undertone.
"You ask me to be engaged to you, Mr. Manning," she began.
"I want to lay all my life at your feet."
passion for you. I am sure. Nothing at all."
He was silent for some moments.
"Perhaps that is only sleeping," he said. "How can you know?"
"I think--perhaps I am rather a cold-blooded person."
She stopped. He remained listening attentively.
"You have been very kind to me," she said.
"I would give my life for you."
being. She twanged the catgut under her fingers.
give so little in return."
"You know, Mr. Manning, I do not really want to marry."
"But I am judge of that," said Manning.
"Would you wait for me?"
Manning was silent for a space. "As my lady wills."
"Would you let me go on studying for a time?"
"I think, Mr. Manning . . . I do not know. It is so difficult.
"Yes. And I am grateful to you. . . ."
handsome and strong. Her gratitude swelled within her.
"You are too good for me," she said in a low voice.
"It isn't fair. . . ."
For some seconds he had remained quite still.
human being absolutely happy is any satisfaction to you--"
He held out his hands, and she also stood up.
arms and pressed her to him, and kissed her unresisting face.
"Forgive me," he said. "But I am at singing-pitch."
She had a moment of sheer panic at the thing she had done. "Mr.
it if that shows. You only mean a secret for a little time?"
"Just for a little time," she said; "yes. . . ."
definite qualifications upon that covenanted secrecy.
and suppressions and extensive reserves. . .
that forty pounds. . . .
actress his whim had chosen to play a passive part. . . .
But did many women get anything better?
had happened would be like tarring figures upon a water-color.
that she could never tell Manning about Ramage--never.
forty pounds! . . .
exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments.
woman conceals herself from a man perforce! . . .
She thought of Capes. She could not help thinking of Capes.
alter his views upon friendship. . . .
herself gesticulated in the twilight background of her mind.
She turned her eyes to Manning.
a little on one side as he looked at her.
"I wish you would use my Christian name," he said.
She attended to that, and then dismissed it as unimportant.
might be that she had to confess. His smile faded.
tone. "I told you I did not love you."
"But there is something more."
"I--I am sorry-- I didn't explain. These things are difficult.
They remained looking at each other for three or four seconds.
a man shot. There was a long silence between them.
magnificent tragedy by his pose.
not tell me this before?"
"I didn't know-- I thought I might be able to control myself."
"I don't think I ought to control myself."
"And I have been dreaming and thinking--"
"I am frightfully sorry. . . ."
understand. This--this shatters a world!"
He went on with intense urgency.
looked closely into her face.
She twisted her fingers tightly. "It isn't a joke," she said.
thought of it. Of you, I mean. . . ."
desolation. "My God!" he said again. . . .
this at all. . . . I tell you--never mind the bill. Keep it!
said, to "get the hang of it all."
this. But about his unknown rival he was acutely curious.
He made her tell him the core of the difficulty.
"But you thought you could forget him."
it's fate. Fate! You are so frank so splendid!
apologized, "because I'm a little stunned."
Ann Veronica had a vicious moment. "I wish he had," she said.
chance to win her from a hopeless and consuming passion.
on at a girls' boarding-school."
man in me wishes that. . . .
"I suppose I should let go if I had.
"You know," he went on, "this doesn't seem to me to end anything.
believe in you. Trust you."
remained obscure just exactly where the trust came in.
truth. "No," she answered, reluctantly.
"Very well," said Manning. "Then I don't take this as final.
He became darkly prophetic. He thrust out a rhetorical hand.
and hid him. Ann Veronica sat back with a sigh of relief.
the compromising life. She was honest again.
complicated by his romantic importunity.
by the open window, and not even pretending to be doing anything.
at the sight of her, and he came toward her.
"So am I. . . . Lassitude?"
"Nor I," said Ann Veronica.
"That's rather a fine sort of holiday!"
He made no answer for three or four seconds.
I could bolt for it. . . . Silly, isn't it? Undisciplined."
"It's the stir of spring," he said.
of her breath: "It's a bother and disturbance, but you see--"
nothing but her preconceived words. Her voice was weak and flat.
He never helped her by a sound.
his eyes for a moment, and could not interpret their expression.
They struck her as cold and indifferent.
time. But she felt his lax figure become rigid.
At last his voice came to release her tension.
he asked, "Who is the man?"
her face with her hands.
"Can't you SEE how things are?" she said.
but the affair of the ring--of the unexpected ring--puzzled me.
perhaps I might walk with you to your railway station."
at last, "is that this is very sudden."
"It's been coming on since first I came into the laboratory."
"What do you want?" he asked, bluntly.
theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression.
"I suppose you know I like you tremendously?" he pursued.
"You told me that in the Zoological Gardens."
"I"--he seemed to have a difficulty with the word--"I love you.
because it puts us on a footing. . . ."
They went on for a time without another word.
"But don't you know about me?" he said at last.
have made love to you long ago."
There came a silence again.
"I don't care," said Ann Veronica.
"But if you knew anything of that--"
"I did. It doesn't matter."
of their situation. "Why on earth did you TELL me?" he cried.
"I couldn't help it. It was an impulse. I HAD to."
"But it changes things. I thought you understood."
don't care! I'm glad I did. I'm glad I did."
is?--to come to me and talk to me like this!"
"I've told you," he said.
They walked side by side for a time.
meeting of ours is a breach of a good rule."
day. This is something above all rules."
voice exasperated him. "Oh, damn!" he said.
"No!" he said aloud at last.
manifest. You know, I've done no work at all this afternoon.
be great and intimate friends."
"We are," said Ann Veronica.
"You've interested me enormously. . . ."
us be friends--as near and close as friends can be."
Ann Veronica gave him a pallid profile.
"What is the good of pretending?" she said.
think I don't know the meaning of love?"
Capes made no answer for a time.
mixture of beast and uncle. I feel like a fraudulent trustee.
"I don't see that you could help--"
"I ought to have--all the same.
"Very little. It doesn't seem to matter. Does it?"
"I think it does. Profoundly."
"It prevents our marrying. It forbids--all sorts of things."
"It can't prevent our loving."
loving a fiercely abstract thing."
"You are separated from your wife?"
"Yes, but do you know how?"
separated from my wife. But she doesn't and won't divorce me.
"Poor old ring!" said Ann Veronica.
you. I wanted it badly."
"Tell me about yourself," said Ann Veronica.
co-respondent. You understand that term?"
things. Did you really doubt if I knew?"
"No. But I don't suppose you can understand."
"I don't see why I shouldn't."
life takes advantage of youth. You don't understand."
Morality, or something of that sort. . . . It wasn't."
Morality, or the Higher Truth, or any of those things."
you are, is apt to ennoble--or explain away."
"I've had a biological training. I'm a hard young woman."
want you to be clear what you're really and truly up to, anyhow."
"I don't mind knowing," said Ann Veronica.
and I don't think she quite loved me back in the same way."
He paused for a time. Ann Veronica said nothing.
"These are the sort of things that aren't supposed to happen.
people ignore them until they find themselves up against them.
me, I suppose. . . . We married, and for a time we were happy.
She was fine and tender. I worshipped her and subdued myself."
about? It's no good if you don't."
Higher Nature or our Lower?"
hesitated. "Flesh and flowers are all alike to me."
the wife of a friend, a woman eight years older than myself. . .
stupid, furtive business that began between us. Like stealing.
thieves. We WERE thieves. . . . We LIKED each other well enough.
divorced her. How do you like the story?"
logic in these things. It was."
"Poor you!" said Ann Veronica.
"My wife refused absolutely to have anything more to do with me.
you know, I am a vicious man. That's --that's my private life.
write. Lots of us are like that. But, you see, I'm smirched.
clear eyes of yours, as valiant as an angel. . . ."
makes you human. Makes you real."
it over. It's all outside the world of your experience."
They were going up the slope into Waterloo Station.
"Nothing," said Ann Veronica, with a radiant face.
They came upon a platform, and stood before her compartment.
against himself, in a voice that was forced and insincere.
friend. I had never dreamed of such a friend as you."
troubled eyes. Hadn't they settled that already?
"I want you as a friend," he persisted, almost as if he disputed something.
in the reasonable certainty that he would come to her.
"Well, you have thought it over?" he said, sitting down beside her.
"I've been thinking of you all night," she answered.
"I don't care a rap for all these things."
He said nothing for a space.
you. . . . You've got me. I'm like a creature just wakened up.
your forehead. I believe I have always been in love with you.
Always. Before ever I knew you."
He stood up abruptly and went to the window.
"We have," he said, "to be the utmost friends."
He gripped the window-sill behind him.
moment. "Is that plain?" she asked.
wouldn't fence like this with you.
you're living at home. It means . . . just furtive meetings."
"I don't care how we meet," she said.
"It will spoil your life."
different from all the world for me. You can think all round me.
better than you do. Think--think of that engagement!"
She stood up before him, smiling faintly.
"I think we've exhausted this discussion," she said.
"This isn't furtive," said Ann Veronica.
distances beyond the ribbon of the river.
"I will do whatever you want," said Ann Veronica.
"My first love was all blundering," said Capes.
to tear at you with hot, rough hands."
know exactly what I am doing. I give myself to you."
"God send you may never repent it!" cried Capes.
She put her hand in his to be squeezed.
to be as if we were no more than friends."
"Why should it matter?" he said.
And then, as she answered nothing, "Seeing that we are lovers."
moment to kiss her finger-tips. He did not speak for a moment.
"I say!" he said, without any movement. "Let's go."
began to beat very rapidly.
live together--until we can marry. Dare you?"
you prepared to do it?"
She stared before her, trying to keep back a rush of tears.
Capes kept obstinately stiff, and spoke between his teeth.
"There's endless reasons, no doubt, why we shouldn't," he said.
them it will smirch us forever. . . . You DO understand?"
"Who cares for most people?" she said, not looking at him.
"I do. It means social isolation--struggle."
have you is all important. Nothing else weighs against it.
"You'll get them," he said. "This means a plunge."
see--you were a student. We shall have--hardly any money."
"And as for your people?"
swamps them. They don't count, and I don't care."
Capes suddenly abandoned his attitude of meditative restraint.
Veronica! This turns life into a glorious adventure!"
"Ah!" she cried in triumph.
sneaking desire for the writing-trade. That is what I must do.
very like another. . . . Latterly I've been doing things. . . .
day-dream. For a time I must do journalism and work hard. . . .
an end to flummery--and go!"
"Go!" said Ann Veronica, clenching her hands.
clean up everything tidy," said Capes. . . .
head very much about her relations with these sympathizers.
"I MUST speak to you," he said. "I can't keep away from you."
had lost something of its ruddy freshness.
other--she did not catch what--he was damned if he could stand.
her debt to him was a triviality now.
as much to him. She repeated this breathlessly.
"I was glad you did not send it back again," he said.
to send it back altogether," she said.
toward her with an affectation of great deliberation.
"I want to speak to you about a little thing, Vee," said Mr.
eyes upon him, wondering what it might be that impended.
"You were talking to that fellow Ramage to-day--in the Avenue.
Walking to the station with him."
"He came and talked to me."
talk to him," he said, very firmly.
ought to?" she asked, very submissively.
intimacy to spring up between you and a man of that type."
"Suppose he comes and talks to me?"
it. She-- She can snub him."
Ann Veronica picked a cornflower.
man, in fact. A dissipated, loose-living man."
know you objected to him, daddy."
"Strongly," said Mr. Stanley, "very strongly."
"I go in and talk to Constance sometimes."
"We were great friends at school."
always go on into later life. It's--it's a social difference."
"I like Constance very much."
me--one has to square one's self with the world. You don't know.
don't want things to happen."
Ann Veronica made no answer.
immense recognition of her ripening years. She glanced at him.
"No; but I don't think I shall see them."
Suppose she were to add, "I am going away!"
evidently pleased that Ann Veronica's heart smote her.
said. "I think you are getting to understand me better."
goodness!" said that retreating aspect, "that's said and over.
his microtome without bothering about her in the least.
"But what can one do?" asked Ann Veronica.
heard him whistling, poor man!
the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek.
for seven years, and then he died."
Ann Veronica made a sympathetic little murmur.
got a living. He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family."
end of a meditation. "What he had was altogether insufficient."
comfortable, rather refined face with a penetrating curiosity.
said. "May I sit beside you?"
It came to Ann Veronica that life was wonderful beyond measure.
the ten on the Jack."
seemed to them they had lived together twenty years.
whole world had changed--the very light of it had changed.
boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside.
stepping once more across the threshold of heaven.
was the thought of her father.
they did," he said, "but they don't."
want to tell every one. I want to boast myself."
them. At last--I told a story."
"You didn't tell them our position?"
"I implied we had married."
"They'll find out. They'll know."
"Possibly--bit by bit. . . . But it was hopelessly hard to put.
registry perhaps. . . ."
Capes let his oar smack on the water.
"Do you mind very much?"
"But it makes me feel inhuman," he added.
"And me. . . ."
"It's the perpetual trouble," he said, "of parent and child.
They can't help seeing things in the way they do. Nor can we.
coaches and Gretna Green. It's a sort of home-leaving instinct."
He followed up a line of thought.
hated him. I suppose that shocks one's ideas. . . . It's true.
exactly what prevents the development of an easy friendship.
might be if people faced facts! Understanding! Understanding!
our time comes, we shall be any wiser?"
wrong," he said. "And yet I do it without compunction."
"I never felt so absolutely right," said Ann Veronica.
individuality means anything it means breaking bounds--adventure.
Will you be moral and your species, or immoral and yourself?
unless you are fundamentally immoral."
earth will persuade me we're not two rather disreputable persons.
left your home you had no idea that _I_ was the hidden impulse.
story?--and what we are doing?"
"I shouldn't mind," said Ann Veronica.
afresh.' What would you tell her?"