'You sit there as if you were unhappy.'
'I thought you were asleep,' he said.
'I was lying down right enough, but I never closed my eyes.'
'The rest would have done you good after our walk. Didn't you try?'
'I was lying down, I tell you, but sleep I couldn't.'
'And you made no sound! What want of sincerity. Or did you want to be alone for a time?'
'I—alone?' she murmured.
He noticed her eyeing the book, and got up to put it back in the bookcase. When he turned round, he saw that she had dropped into the chair—it was the one she always used—and looked as if her strength had suddenly gone from her, leaving her only her youth, which seemed very pathetic, very much at his mercy. He moved quickly towards the chair.
'Tired, are you? It's my fault, taking you up so high and keeping you out so long. Such a windless day, too!'
She watched his concern, her pose languid, her eyes raised to him, but as unreadable as ever. He avoided looking into them for that very reason. He forgot himself in the contemplation of those passive arms, of these defenceless lips, and—yes, one had to go back to them—of these wide-open eyes. Something wild in their grey stare made him think of sea-birds in the cold murkiness of high latitudes. He started when she spoke, all the charm of physical intimacy revealed suddenly in that voice.
'You should try to love me!' she said.
He made a movement of astonishment.
'Try,' he muttered. 'But it seems to me—' He broke off, saying to himself that if he loved her, he had never told her so in so many words. Simple words! They died on his lips. 'What makes you say that?' he asked.
She lowered her eyelids and turned her head a little.
'I have done nothing,' she said in a low voice. 'It's you who have been good, helpful, and tender to me. Perhaps you love me for that—just for that; or perhaps you love me for company, and because—well! But sometimes it seems to me that you can never love me for myself, only for myself, as people do love each other when it is to be for ever.' Her head drooped. 'Forever,' she breathed out again; then, still more faintly, she added an entreating: 'Do try!'
These last words went straight to his heart—the sound of them more than the sense. He did not know what to say, either from want of practice in dealing with women or simply from his innate honesty of thought. All his defences were broken now. Life had him fairly by the throat. But he managed a smile, though she was not looking at him; yes, he did manage it—the well-known Heyst smile of playful courtesy, so familiar to all sorts and conditions of men in the islands.
'My dear Lena,' he said, 'it looks as if you were trying to pick a very unnecessary quarrel with me—of all people!'
She made no movement. With his elbows spread out he was twisting the ends of his long moustaches, very masculine and perplexed, enveloped in the atmosphere of femininity as in a cloud, suspecting pitfalls, and as if afraid to move.
'I must admit, though,' he added, 'that there is no one else; and I suppose a certain amount of quarrelling is necessary for existence in this world.'
That girl, seated in her chair in graceful quietude, was to him like a script in an unknown language, or even more simply mysterious, like any writing to the illiterate. As far as women went he was altogether uninstructed and he had not the gift of intuition which is fostered in the days of youth by dreams and visions, exercises of the heart fitting it for the encounters of a world, in which love itself rests as much on antagonism as on attraction. His mental attitude was that of a man looking this way and that on a piece of writing which he is unable to decipher, but which may be big with some revelation. He didn't know what to say. All he found to add was:
'I don't even understand what I have done or left undone to distress you like this.'
He stopped, struck afresh by the physical and moral sense of the imperfections of their relations—a sense which made him desire her constant nearness, before his eyes, under his hand, and which, when she was out of his sight, made her so vague, so elusive and illusory, a promise that could not be embraced and held.
'No! I don't see clearly what you mean. Is your mind turned towards the future?' he interpellated her with marked playfulness, because he was ashamed to let such a word pass his lips. But all his cherished negations were falling off him one by one.
'Because if it is so there is nothing easier than to dismiss it. In our future, as in what people call the other life, there is nothing to be frightened of.'
She raised her eyes to him; and if nature had formed them to express anything else but blank candour he would have learned how terrified she was by his talk and the fact that her sinking heart loved him more desperately than ever. He smiled at her.
'Dismiss all thought of it,' he insisted. 'Surely you don't suspect after what I have heard from you, that I am anxious to return to mankind. I! I! murder my poor Morrison! It's possible that I may be really capable of that which they say I have done. The point is that I haven't done it. But it is an unpleasant subject to me. I ought to be ashamed to confess it—but it is! Let us forget it. There's that in you, Lena, which can console me for worse things, for uglier passages. And if we forget, there are no voices here to remind us.'
She had raised her head before he paused.
'Nothing can break in on us here,' he went on and, as if there had been an appeal or a provocation in her upward glance, he bent down and took her under the arms, raising her straight out of the chair into a sudden and close embrace. Her alacrity to respond, which made her seem as light as a feather, warmed his heart at that moment more than closer caresses had done before. He had not expected that ready impulse towards himself which had been dormant in her passive attitude. He had just felt the clasp of her arms round his neck, when, with a slight exclamation—'He's here!'—she disengaged herself and bolted, away into her room.
CHAPTER
