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"Well"—her voice became harder—"it's this, if you want plain
speaking. Watch her in case she kills herself. She's thinking of it."
He went ashen pale again and said quietly, after a long pause:
"How do you know that?"
"Her letter."
"She mentioned it?"
"Yes."
"And that's what you've come to warn me about?"
"Yes. And to persuade you, if I could——"
"Why did you decide that a personal visit was necessary?"
"I shouldn't have cared to tell you all this by letter. And besides, a
letter wouldn't have been nearly as quick, would it? You see I only
received her letter this morning. After all, the matter's urgent enough.
One can easily be too late."
He said, with eyes fixed steadily upon her: "Clare, you are too
late. She drowned herself last night."
He expected she would cry or break down or do something
dramatic that he could at any rate endure. But instead of that, she
stared vacantly into the fast-deepening gloom of the coppice, stared
infinitely, terribly, without movement or sound. Horror tore nakedly
through her eyes like pain, though not a muscle of her face stirred
from that fearful, statuesque immobility. Moments passed. Far over
the intervening spaces came the faint chiming of the half-hour on the
town-hall clock, and fainter still, but ominous-sounding, the swirl of
the waves on the distant beach as the wind rose and freshened.
He could not bear that silence and that stillness of hers. It seemed
as though it would be eternal. And suddenly he saw that she was
really suffering, excruciatingly; and he could not bear it, because he
loved her. And then all his plans for torturing her, all his desires for
vengeance, all his schemes to make her suffer as he had suffered,
all the hate of her that he had manufactured in his heart—all was
suddenly gone, like worthless dust scoured by the gale. He
perceived that they were one in suffering as in guilt—fate's pathetic
flotsam, aching to cling together even in the last despairing drift.
He cried, agonisingly: "Clare! Clare! Oh, for God's sake, don't
stare at me like that, Clare! Oh, my darling, my dear darling, I'm sorry
—sorry—I'm dead with sorrow! Clare—Clare—be kind to me, Clare
—kinder than I have been to you or to Helen! ..."
VIII
She said, quietly: "I must get back in time for my train."
"No, no—not yet. Don't go. Don't leave me."
"I must."
"No—no——"
"You know I must. Don't you?"
He became calmer. It was as if she had willed him to become
calmer, as if some of the calmness of her was passing over to him.
"Clare," he said, eagerly, "Do you think I'm bad—am I—rotten-souled
—because of what's happened? Am I damned, do you think?"
She answered softly: "No. You're not. And you mustn't think you
are. Don't I love you? Would I love you if you were rotten? Would
you love me if I was?"
He replied, gritting his teeth: "I would love you if you were filth
itself."
"Ah, would you?" she answered, with wistful pathos in her voice.
"But I'm not like that. I love you for what I know you are, for what I
know you could be!"
"Could be? Could have been! But Clare, Clare—who's to blame?"
"So many things happen dreadfully in this world and nobody
knows who's to blame."
"But not this, Clare. We're to blame."
"We can be to blame without being—all that you said."
"Can we? Can we? There's another thing. If Helen had—had lived
—she would have had a baby in a few months' time...."
He paused, waiting for her reply, but none came. She went very
pale. At last she said, with strange unrestfulness: "What can I say?
What is there to say? ... Oh, don't let us go mad through thinking of
it! We have been wrong, but have we been as wrong as that? Hasn't
there been fate in it? Fate can do the awfullest things.... My dear,
dear man, we should go mad if we took all that load of guilt on
ourselves! It is too heavy for repentance.... Oh, you're not bad, not
inwardly. And neither am I. We've been instruments—puppets——"
"It's good to think so. But is it true?"
"Before God, I think it is.... Think of it all right from the
beginning.... Right from the night you met us both at Millstead.... It's
easy to blame fate for what we've done, but isn't it just as easy to
blame ourselves for the workings of fate?"
She added, uneasily: "I must go back. My train. Don't forget the
time."
"Can't you wait for the next?"
"Dear, you know I mustn't. How could I stay? Fate's finished with
us now. We've free-will.... Didn't I tell you we weren't bad? All that's
why I can't stay."
They began to walk back to the railway-station. A mist-like rain
was beginning to fall, and everything was swathed in grey
dampness. They talked together like two age-long friends, partners
in distress and suffering; he told her, carefully and undramatically,
the story of the night before.
She said to him, from the carriage-window just before the 3:18
steamed out: "I shan't see you again for ever such a long while. I
wish—I wish I could stay with you and help you. But I can't.... You
know why I can't, don't you?"
"Yes, I know why. We must be brave alone. We must learn, if we
can, to call ourselves good again."
"Yes.... Yes.... We must start life anew. No more mistakes. And
you must grow back again to what you used to be.... The next few
months will be terrible—maddening—for both of us. But I can bear
them. Do you think you can—without me? If I thought you couldn't"—
her voice took on a sudden wild passion—"if I thought you would
break down under the strain, if I thought the fight would crush and kill
you, I would stay with you from this moment, and never, never leave
you alone! I would—I would—if I thought there was no other way!"
He said, calmly and earnestly: "I can fight it, Clare. I shall not
break down. Trust me. And then—some day——"
She interrupted him hurriedly. "I am going abroad very soon. I
don't know for how long, but for a long while, certainly. And while I
am away I shall not write to you, and you must not write to me,
either. Then, when I come back ..."
He looked up into her eyes and smiled.
The guard was blowing his whistle.
"Be brave these next few months," she said again.
"I will," he answered. He added: "I shall go home."
"What? Home, Home to the millionaire soap-boiler?" (A touch of
the old half-mocking Clare.)
"Yes. It's my home. They've always been very good to me."
"Of course they have. I'm glad you've realised it."
Then the train began to move. "Good-bye!" she said, holding out
her hand.
"Good-bye!" he cried, taking it and clasping it quickly as he
walked along the platform with the train. "See you again," he added,
almost in a whisper.
She gave him such a smile, with tears streaming down her
cheeks, as he would never, never forget.
When he went out again into the station-yard the fine rain was
falling mercilessly. He felt miserable, sick with a new as well as an
old misery, but stirred by a hope that would never let him go.
Back then to the Beach Hotel, vowing and determining for the
future, facing in anticipation the ordeals of the dark days ahead,
summoning up courage and fortitude, bracing himself for terror and
conflict and desire.... And with it all hoping, hoping ... hoping
everlastingly.
THE END
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