She listened to me coldly, almost as if her mind were occupied with other things. I grew more passionate, I think, striving to make her understand my emotion; and yet she seemed almost indifferent to what I said. At last I stopped, chilled by this aloofness which I did not understand. In my wildest imaginings I had never thought of this dénouement of the situation. I think I must have grown cold myself: for though I can recall nothing of my previous words, the rest of the scene is graven on my mind. For some moments after I had ceased, she remained silent; then at length she spoke, with an accent in her voice which I had never heard before. I remember that she had taken off one glove and stood twisting it in her hands while she talked.
“I got you to stop the car here because I have something to ask you, something of tremendous importance to me. Forgive me if I put it first and don’t answer you immediately. I’m … I’m very grateful for all you have said. But this thing comes before everything; and you must let me ask you about it before we come to … to our own affairs.”
A pang of apprehension shot through me. What could she be driving at which was of greater importance than our future?
“As I was going over my papers today,” she went on, “I came across one which seemed to have been missorted. It didn’t belong to my section. I glanced at it casually; and then I read it. Have you any idea what it referred to?”
“No.”
“It said things I could hardly grasp. Even now I think it must be a mistake. I can’t believe it was a real document. It must have been a hoax or something like that. And yet, it had the usual serial numbers on it: B. 53. X. 15.”
My throat was dry, but I managed to pull myself together and make a sound like “Well?” She came close to me and looked me straight in the eyes—so like Nordenholt’s gaze in some ways—and I tried to bring my features into a mask.
“Is it true that everyone outside the Area has been left to die? Is it true that there has been a deliberate plot to starve all the men, all the women, even the little children in the country? Tell me that, and tell me at once. Don’t wait to wrap it up in fine phrases. Tell me the truth now.”
I stood before her, silent.
“So it is true; and you knew it! You acquiesced in it. You even helped in it; I can see it in your face. You cur!”
Still I could not find my voice. This was a different scene from that I had thought of only ten short minutes before. It was not that I felt anything myself, except a sort of dull comprehension that my dreams were shattered; but the sight of the pain in her face moved me more than I could express in words. I wanted to help her. I wanted to justify the plan Nordenholt had made. And yet something kept me tongue-tied. I could find no phrase to open my explanations. The outpouring of speech which I had found so easy only a few seconds earlier now seemed dried up. I merely watched her, saying nothing. For a time she struggled with herself, trying to master her feelings. All this time her face had been set; not a tear had come to her eyelashes.
“I have a right to know who planned this,” she continued, after a pause. “Do you know what I thought at first? I suspected Uncle Stanley. I even suspected him. But I don’t, now. I know him too well. I didn’t even question him about it. I didn’t want to worry him until I had found out whether it was true or not. But it is true. Who planned it? Answer me!”
There was no concealment possible. Once she had the clue, she would discover everything almost immediately. Not even delay was to be gained by a lie. And with her clear eyes upon me, I could not have lied even had I wished to do so. She might never be mine; but I was hers to do as she wished. For a moment I hesitated, turning over in my mind the idea of referring her to Nordenholt himself; but I abandoned that almost instantaneously. The shock would be greater if it came from him; better let me bear the brunt.
“Your uncle planned it. I helped him.”
“Uncle Stanley! You don’t expect me to believe that? It shows how little you know of us both if you think. …”
Her voice became tinged with doubt, and tears, too, came into it. The evidence was too clear. Only Nordenholt could have carried out such a gigantic scheme. And possibly she read the truth in my face as well. For a moment she seemed frozen, a rigid and silent statue. All the flush had left her cheeks and above the softness of her furs her features seemed as though carved in marble. When she spoke again, she seemed to be trying to convince herself.
“Did Uncle Stanley suggest it? I can’t believe it. It’s impossible. He couldn’t do a thing like that. You don’t know him. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. I know he couldn’t.”
Even in that moment of tension, I could not help reflecting how little a woman can know of a man’s mind. Half our mental processes are shut off from them, as probably half of theirs are closed books to us. The great barrier of sex divides us; and our outlook upon the world can never be the same. This girl had been in close communion with Nordenholt through most
