And because of that distinctly ominous calm, Angela was scared, so she blustered a little: “Of course I don’t! I resent such questions; I won’t allow them even from you, Stephen. God knows where you get your fantastic ideas! Have you been discussing me with that girl Violet? If you have, I think it’s simply outrageous! She’s quite the most evil-minded prig in the county. It was not very gentlemanly of you, my dear, to discuss my affairs with our neighbours, was it?”
“I refused to discuss you with Violet Antrim,” Stephen told her, still speaking quite calmly. But she clung to her point: “Was it all a mistake? Is there no one between us except your husband? Angela, look at me—I will have the truth.”
For answer Angela kissed her.
Stephen’s strong but unhappy arms went round her, and suddenly stretching out her hand, she switched off the little lamp on the table, so that the room was lit only by firelight. They could not see each other’s faces very clearly any more, because there was only firelight. And Stephen spoke such words as a lover will speak when his heart is burdened to breaking; when his doubts must bow down and be swept away before the unruly flood of his passion. There in that shadowy, firelit room, she spoke such words as lovers have spoken ever since the divine, sweet madness of God flung the thought of love into Creation.
But Angela suddenly pushed her away: “Don’t, don’t—I can’t bear it—it’s too much, Stephen. It hurts me—I can’t bear this thing—for you. It’s all wrong, I’m not worth it, anyhow it’s all wrong. Stephen, it’s making me—can’t you understand? It’s too much—” She could not, she dared not explain. “If you were a man—” She stopped abruptly, and burst into uncontrollable weeping.
And somehow this weeping was different from any that had gone before, so that Stephen trembled. There was something frightened and desolate about it; it was like the sobbing of a terrified child. The girl forgot her own desolation in her pity and the need that she felt to comfort. More strongly than ever before she felt the need to protect this woman, and to comfort.
She said, grown suddenly passionless and gentle: “Tell me—try to tell me what’s wrong, beloved. Don’t be afraid of making me angry—we love each other, and that’s all that matters. Try to tell me what’s wrong, and then let me help you; only don’t cry like this—I can’t endure it.”
But Angela hid her face in her hands: “No, no, it’s nothing; I’m only so tired. It’s been a fearful strain these last months. I’m just a weak, human creature, Stephen—sometimes I think we’ve been worse than mad. I must have been mad to have allowed you to love me like this—one day you’ll despise and hate me. It’s my fault, but I was so terribly lonely that I let you come into my life, and now—oh, I can’t explain, you wouldn’t understand; how could you understand, Stephen?”
And so strangely complex is poor human nature, that Angela really believed in her feelings. At that moment of sudden fear and remorse, remembering those guilty weeks in Scotland, she believed that she felt compassion and regret for this creature who loved her, and whose ardent loving had paved the way for another. In her weakness she could not part from the girl, not yet—there was something so strong about her. She seemed to combine the strength of a man with the gentler and more subtle strength of a woman. And thinking of the crude young animal Roger, with his brusque, rather brutal appeal to the senses, she was filled with a kind of regretful shame, and she hated herself for what she had done, and for what she well knew she would do again, because of that urge to passion.
Feeling humble, she groped for the girl’s kind hand; then she tried to speak lightly: “Would you always forgive this very miserable sinner, Stephen?”
Stephen said, not apprehending her meaning, “If our love is a sin, then heaven must be full of such tender and selfless sinning as ours.”
They sat down close together. They were weary unto death, and Angela whispered: “Put your arms around me again—but gently, because I’m so tired. You’re a kind lover, Stephen—some times I think you’re almost too kind.”
And Stephen answered: “It’s not kindness that makes me unwilling to force you—I can’t conceive of that sort of love.”
Angela Crossby was silent.
But now she was longing for the subtle easement of confession, so dear to the soul of woman. Her self-pity was augmented by her sense of wrongdoing—she was thoroughly unstrung, almost ill with self-pity—so that lacking the courage to confess the present, she let her thoughts dwell on the past. Stephen had always forborne to question, and therefore that past had never been discussed, but now Angela felt a great need to discuss it. She did not analyse her feelings; she only knew that she longed intensely to humble herself, to plead for compassion, to wring from the queer, strong, sensitive being who loved her, some hope of ultimate forgiveness. At that moment, as she lay there in Stephen’s arms, the girl assumed an enormous importance. It was strange, but the very fact of betrayal appeared to have strengthened her will to hold her, and Angela stirred, so that Stephen said softly:
“Lie still—I thought you were fast asleep.”
And Angela answered: “No, I’m not asleep, dearest, I’ve been thinking. There are some things I ought to tell you. You’ve never asked me about my past life—why haven’t you, Stephen?”
“Because,” said Stephen, “I knew that some day you’d tell me.”
Then Angela began at the very beginning. She described a Colonial home in Virginia. A grave, grey house, with a columned entrance, and a garden that looked down on deep, running water, and that water had rather a beautiful name—it was called the Potomac River. Up the side of the house grew magnolia blossoms, and many
