He flushed at the quiet contempt in her voice, which roused all the combative manhood in him: “You think that Mary doesn’t love me, but you’re wrong.”
“Very well then, prove that I’m wrong!” she told him.
They stared at each other in bitter hostility for a moment, then Stephen said more gently: “You don’t mean to insult me by what you propose, but I won’t consent to your going, Martin. You think that I can’t hold the woman I love against you, because you’ve got an advantage over me and over the whole of my kind. I accept that challenge—I must accept it if I’m to remain at all worthy of Mary.”
He bowed his head: “It must be as you wish.” Then he suddenly began to talk rather quickly: “Stephen, listen, I hate what I’m going to say, but by God, it’s got to be said to you somehow! You’re courageous and fine and you mean to make good, but life with you is spiritually murdering Mary. Can’t you see it? Can’t you realize that she needs all the things that it’s not in your power to give her? Children, protection, friends whom she can respect and who’ll respect her—don’t you realize this, Stephen? A few may survive such relationships as yours, but Mary Llewellyn won’t be among them. She’s not strong enough to fight the whole world, to stand up against persecution and insult; it will drive her down, it’s begun to already—already she’s been forced to turn to people like Wanda. I know what I’m saying, I’ve seen the thing—the bars, the drinking, the pitiful defiance, the horrible, useless wastage of lives—well, I tell you it’s spiritual murder for Mary. I’d have gone away because you’re my friend, but before I went I’d have said all this to you; I’d have begged and implored you to set Mary free if you love her. I’d have gone on my knees to you, Stephen …”
He paused, and she heard herself saying quite calmly: “You don’t understand, I have faith in my writing, great faith; some day I shall climb to the top and that will compel the world to accept me for what I am. It’s a matter of time, but I mean to succeed for Mary’s sake.”
“God pity you!” he suddenly blurted out. “Your triumph, if it comes, will come too late for Mary.”
She stared at him aghast: “How dare you!” she stammered, “How dare you try to undermine my courage! You call yourself my friend and you say things like that …”
“It’s your courage that I appeal to,” he answered. He began to speak very quietly again: “Stephen, if I stay I’m going to fight you. Do you understand? We’ll fight this thing out until one of us has to admit that he’s beaten. I’ll do all in my power to take Mary from you—all that’s honourable, that is—for I mean to play straight, because whatever you may think I’m your friend, only, you see—I love Mary Llewellyn.”
And now she struck back. She said rather slowly, watching his sensitive face as she did so: “You seem to have thought it all out very well, but then of course, our friendship has given you time …”
He flinched and she smiled, knowing how she could wound: “Perhaps,” she went on, “you’ll tell me your plans. Supposing you win, do I give the wedding? Is Mary to marry you from my house, or would that be a grave social disadvantage? And supposing she should want to leave me quite soon for love of you—where would you take her, Martin? To your aunt’s for respectability’s sake?”
“Don’t, Stephen!”
“But why not? I’ve a right to know because, you see, I also love Mary, I also consider her reputation. Yes, I think on the whole we’ll discuss your plans.”
“She’d always be welcome at my aunt’s,” he said firmly.
“And you’ll take her there if she runs away to you? One never knows what may happen, does one? You say that she cares for you already …”
His eyes hardened: “If Mary will have me, Stephen, I shall take her first to my aunt’s house in Passy.”
“And then?” she mocked.
“I shall marry her from there.”
“And then?”
“I shall take her back to my home.”
“To Canada—I see—a safe distance of course.”
He held out his hand: “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t! It’s so horrible somehow—be merciful, Stephen.”
She laughed bitterly: “Why should I be merciful to you? Isn’t it enough that I accept your challenge, that I offer you the freedom of my house, that I don’t turn you out and forbid you to come here? Come by all means, whenever you like. You may even repeat our conversation to Mary; I shall not do so, but don’t let that stop you if you think you may possibly gain some advantage.”
He shook his head: “No, I shan’t repeat it.”
“Oh, well, that must be as you think best. I propose to behave as though nothing had happened—and now I must get along with my work.”
He hesitated: “Won’t you shake hands?”
“Of course,” she smiled; “aren’t you my very good friend? But you know, you really must leave me now, Martin.”
III
After he had gone she lit a cigarette; the action was purely automatic. She felt strangely excited yet strangely numb—a most curious synthesis of sensations; then she suddenly felt deathly sick and giddy. Going up to her bedroom she bathed her face, sat down on the bed and tried to think, conscious that her mind was completely blank. She was thinking of nothing—not even of Mary.
LV
I
A bitter and most curious warfare it was that must now be waged between Martin and Stephen, but secretly waged, lest because of them the creature they loved should be brought to suffer; not the least strange aspect being that
