But at these words, and at the picture they raised, a great cry burst from her, “Oh, no, Stephen. No! no!—you mustn’t.”
And she seized the lapels of his coat and shook him fiercely in the intensity of her feeling, the human, passionate, protective feeling of a wife for her own man—careless what evil he may have done if somehow he may be made safe for her.
And Stephen was startled. He had not expected this. He said, stupidly, “But John—what about John?—don’t you want me—don’t you—?”
“No, Stephen, no—at least—” and she stopped, thinking now of John, trying conscientiously to realize what was owed to him. Then she went on, in a broken torrent of pleading, “No, Stephen, it’s gone on so long now—a little more won’t matter to him—surely, Stephen—and nobody really thinks he did it—nobody, Stephen. It’s only people like Mrs. Vincent, Mrs. Ambrose was saying so only yesterday—and it would mean—it would mean—what would it mean, Stephen—Stephen, tell me?” But as she imagined what this would mean to Stephen she stood shuddering before him, her big eyes staring piteously at him.
“It would mean—O God, Margery, I don’t know—” and he turned away.
So for a long time she pleaded with him, in groping, inarticulate half-sentences. She never reproached him, never asked him how he had come to do a foul murder. She did not want to know that, she did not want to think of what it was right for him to do—that was too dangerous. All that mattered was this danger—a danger that could be avoided if she could only persuade him. And Stephen listened in a kind of stupor, listened miserably to the old excuses and arguments, and half-truths with which he had so often in secret convinced himself. But somehow, as Margery put them with all the prejudice of her passionate fears, they did not convince him. They stood out horribly in their nakedness. And though he was touched and amazed by the strength of her forgiveness and her love in the face of this knowledge, he wished almost that she had not forgiven him, had urged him with curses to go out and do his duty. No, he did not wish that, really. But he did wish she would leave him alone now, leave him to think. He must think.
His eye fell on the manuscript lying on the floor, and he began to wonder what it was in the poem that had told her, and how much it had told. She had said nothing of that. He interrupted her: “How—how did you guess?” He jerked his head at the paper.
She told him. And as she went again through that terrible process in her mind, that other thought returned, that idle notion about the wooing in the castle, which she had flung away from her.
She said, faltering and slow, her lips trembling, “Stephen—there’s nothing else in it … is there? … I ought to have guessed?—Stephen, you do love me—don’t you?” She stepped uncertainly towards him, and then with a loud cry, “Darling, I do!” he caught her to him. And she knew that it was true.
XVI
In the morning he went out as usual to feed the seagulls before breakfast, as if nothing had happened or was likely to happen. He was pleased as usual to see from the window that they were waiting for him, patient dots of grey and white, drifting on the near water. The sun broke thinly through the haze, and the birds circled in a chattering crowd against the gold. And he had as usual the sense of personal satisfaction when they caught in the air, with marvellous judgment and grace, the pieces of old bread he flung out over the water, and was disappointed as usual when they missed it, and the bread fell into the river, though even then it was delightful to see with how much delicacy they skimmed over, and plucked it from the surface as they flew, as if it were a point of honour not to settle or pause or wet their red feet, tucked back beneath them.
And he had breakfast as usual with Margery and chattering Joan, and as usual afterwards went out with Joan to feed the rabbits, and again enjoyed the mysterious and universal pleasure of giving food to animals and watching them eat. He noted as usual the peculiar habits and foibles of the rabbit Henry and the rabbit Maud, and the common follies of all of them—how they all persisted, as usual, in crowding impossibly round the same cabbage leaf, jostling and thrusting and eating with the maximum discomfort, with urgent anxiety and petulant stamping because there were too many of them, while all around there lay large wet cabbage leaves, inviting and neglected. He listened as usual to little Joan’s insane interminable questions, and answered them as usual as intelligently as he could. And he puffed as usual at the perfect pipe of after-breakfast, and swept as usual the dead leaves from the path. But all these things he did with the exquisite melancholy enjoyment of a schoolboy, knowing that he does them for the last time on the last day of his holidays at home.
And he had decided nothing. Margery, too, moved as usual through the busy routine of after-breakfast, “ordering” food for herself and Stephen and the children and the servants, and promising Cook to get some lard and “speaking to” Mary about the drawing-room carpet, and arranging for the dining-room to be “done out” tomorrow, and conferring with Nurse and telephoning for some fish. She did these things in a kind of dream, hating them more than usual, and now and then she looked out of the window, and wondered what Stephen was doing, and what he was thinking.
