“She did not answer. He muttered, ‘Not that I care,’ and fell silent, because the fatuous self-confident chatter of the Fyne girls could be heard at the very gate. But they were not going to bed yet. They passed on. He waited a little in silence and immobility, then stamped his foot and lost control of himself. He growled at her in a savage passion. She felt certain that he was threatening her and calling her names. She was no stranger to abuse, as we know, but there seemed to be a particular kind of ferocity in this which was new to her. She began to tremble. The especially terrifying thing was that she could not make out the nature of these awful menaces and names. Not a word. Yet it was not the shrinking anguish of her other experiences of angry scenes. She made a mighty effort, though her knees were knocking together, and in an expiring voice demanded that he should let her go indoors. ‘Don’t stop me. It’s no use. It’s no use,’ she repeated faintly, feeling an invincible obstinacy rising within her, yet without anger against that raging man.
“He became articulate suddenly, and, without raising his voice, perfectly audible.
“ ‘No use! No use! You dare stand here and tell me that—you white-faced wisp, you wreath of mist, you little ghost of all the sorrow in the world. You dare! Haven’t I been looking at you? You are all eyes. What makes your cheeks always so white as if you had seen something … Don’t speak. I love it … No use! And you really think that I can now go to sea for a year or more, to the other side of the world somewhere, leaving you behind. Why! You would vanish … what little there is of you. Some rough wind will blow you away altogether. You have no holding ground on earth. Well, then trust yourself to me—to the sea—which is deep like your eyes.’
“She said: ‘Impossible.’ He kept quiet for a while, then asked in a totally changed tone, a tone of gloomy curiosity:
“ ‘You can’t stand me then? Is that it?’
“ ‘No,’ she said, more steady herself. ‘I am not thinking of you at all.’
“The inane voices of the Fyne girls were heard over the sombre fields calling to each other, thin and clear. He muttered: ‘You could try to. Unless you are thinking of somebody else.’
“ ‘Yes. I am thinking of somebody else, of someone who has nobody to think of him but me.’
“His shadowy form stepped out of her way, and suddenly leaned sideways against the wooden support of the porch. And as she stood still, surprised by this staggering movement, his voice spoke up in a tone quite strange to her.
“ ‘Go in then. Go out of my sight—I thought you said nobody could love you.’
“She was passing him when suddenly he struck her as so forlorn that she was inspired to say: ‘No one has ever loved me—not in that way—if that’s what you mean. Nobody would.’
“He detached himself brusquely from the post, and she did not shrink; but Mrs. Fyne and the girls were already at the gate.
“All he understood was that everything was not over yet. There was no time to lose; Mrs. Fyne and the girls had come in at the gate. He whispered ‘Wait’ with such authority (he was the son of Carleon Anthony, the domestic autocrat) that it did arrest her for a moment, long enough to hear him say that he could not be left like this to puzzle over her nonsense all night. She was to slip down again into the garden later on, as soon as she could do so without being heard. He would be there waiting for her till—till daylight. She didn’t think he could go to sleep, did she? And she had better come, or—he broke off on an unfinished threat.
“She vanished into the unlighted cottage just as Mrs. Fyne came up to the porch. Nervous, holding her breath in the darkness of the living-room, she heard her best friend say: ‘You ought to have joined us, Roderick.’ And then: ‘Have you seen Miss Smith anywhere?’
“Flora shuddered, expecting Anthony to break out into betraying imprecations on Miss Smith’s head, and cause a painful and humiliating explanation. She imagined him full of his mysterious ferocity. To her great surprise, Anthony’s voice sounded very much as usual, with perhaps a slight tinge of grimness. ‘Miss Smith! No. I’ve seen no Miss Smith.’
“Mrs. Fyne seemed satisfied—and not much concerned really.
“Flora, relieved, got clear away to her room upstairs, and shutting her door quietly, dropped into a chair. She was used to reproaches, abuse, to all sorts of wicked ill usage—short of actual beating on her body. Otherwise inexplicable angers had cut and slashed and trampled down her youth without mercy—and mainly, it appeared, because she was the financier de Barral’s daughter and also condemned to a degrading sort of poverty through the action of treacherous men who had turned upon her father in his hour of need. And she thought with the tenderest possible affection of that upright figure buttoned up in a long frock-coat, soft-voiced and having but little to say to his girl. She seemed to feel his hand closed round hers. On his flying visits to Brighton he would always walk hand in hand with her. People stared covertly at them; the band was playing; and there was the sea—the blue gaiety of the sea. They were quietly happy together … It was all over!
“An immense anguish of the present wrung
