XXXIV
When she woke the next morning she felt a great lightness of heart. Sherecalled her last awakening at Givre, three days before, when it hadseemed as though all her life had gone down in darkness. Now Darrowwas once more under the same roof with her, and once more his nearnesssufficed to make the looming horror drop away. She could almost havesmiled at her scruples of the night before: as she looked back on themthey seemed to belong to the old ignorant timorous time when she hadfeared to look life in the face, and had been blind to the mysteries andcontradictions of the human heart because her own had not been revealedto her. Darrow had said: "You were made to feel everything"; and to feelwas surely better than to judge.
When she came downstairs he was already in the oak-room with Effie andMadame de Chantelle, and the sense of reassurance which his presencegave her was merged in the relief of not being able to speak of what wasbetween them. But there it was, inevitably, and whenever they looked ateach other they saw it. In her dread of giving it a more tangible shapeshe tried to devise means of keeping the little girl with her, and,when the latter had been called away by the nurse, found an excuse forfollowing Madame de Chantelle upstairs to the purple sitting-room. Buta confidential talk with Madame de Chantelle implied the detaileddiscussion of plans of which Anna could hardly yet bear to consider thevaguest outline: the date of her marriage, the relative advantages ofsailing from London or Lisbon, the possibility of hiring a habitablehouse at their new post; and, when these problems were exhausted, theapplication of the same method to the subject of Owen's future.
His grandmother, having no suspicion of the real reason of Sophy Viner'sdeparture, had thought it "extremely suitable" of the young girl towithdraw to the shelter of her old friends' roof in the hour of bridalpreparation. This maidenly retreat had in fact impressed Madame deChantelle so favourably that she was disposed for the first time to talkover Owen's projects; and as every human event translated itself for herinto terms of social and domestic detail, Anna had perforce to travelthe same round again. She felt a momentary relief when Darrow presentlyjoined them; but his coming served only to draw the conversation back tothe question of their own future, and Anna felt a new pang as she heardhim calmly and lucidly discussing it. Did such self-possession implyindifference or insincerity? In that problem her mind perpetuallyrevolved; and she dreaded the one answer as much as the other.
She was resolved to keep on her course as though nothing had happened:to marry Darrow and never let the consciousness of the past intrudeitself between them; but she was beginning to feel that the only way ofattaining to this state of detachment from the irreparable was once forall to turn back with him to its contemplation. As soon as this desirehad germinated it became so strong in her that she regretted havingpromised Effie to take her out for the afternoon. But she could thinkof no pretext for disappointing the little girl, and soon after luncheonthe three set forth in the motor to show Darrow a chateau famous in theannals of the region. During their excursion Anna found it impossible toguess from his demeanour if Effie's presence between them was as muchof a strain to his composure as to hers. He remained imperturbablygood-humoured and appreciative while they went the round of themonument, and she remarked only that when he thought himself unnoticedhis face grew grave and his answers came less promptly.
On the way back, two or three miles from Givre, she suddenly proposedthat they should walk home through the forest which skirted that side ofthe park. Darrow acquiesced, and they got out and sent Effie on in themotor. Their way led through a bit of sober French woodland, flat as afaded tapestry, but with gleams of live emerald lingering here and thereamong its browns and ochres. The luminous grey air gave vividness to itsdying colours, and veiled the distant glimpses of the landscape in softuncertainty. In such a solitude Anna had fancied it would be easier tospeak; but as she walked beside Darrow over the deep soundless flooringof brown moss the words on her lips took flight again. It seemedimpossible to break the spell of quiet joy which his presence laid onher, and when he began to talk of the place they had just visited sheanswered his questions and then waited for what he should say next...No,decidedly she could not speak; she no longer even knew what she hadmeant to say...
The same experience repeated itself several times that day and thenext. When she and Darrow were apart she exhausted herself in appeal andinterrogation, she formulated with a fervent lucidity every point inher imaginary argument. But as soon as she was alone with him somethingdeeper than reason and subtler than shyness laid its benumbing touchupon her, and the desire to speak became merely a dim disquietude,through which his looks, his words, his touch, reached her as througha mist of bodily pain. Yet this inertia was torn by wild flashes ofresistance, and when they were apart she began to prepare again what shemeant to say to him.
She knew he could not be with her without being aware of this innerturmoil, and she hoped he would break the spell by some releasing word.But she presently understood that he recognized the futility of words,and was resolutely bent on holding her to her own purpose of behavingas if nothing had happened. Once more she inwardly accused him ofinsensibility, and her imagination was beset by tormenting visions ofhis past...Had such things happened to him before? If the episode hadbeen an isolated accident--"a moment of folly and madness", as he hadcalled it--she could understand, or at least begin to understand (forat a certain point her imagination always turned back); but if it werea mere link in a chain of similar experiments, the thought of itdishonoured her whole past...
Effie, in the interregnum between governesses, had been given leave todine downstairs; and Anna, on the evening of Darrow's return, kept thelittle girl with her till long after the nurse had signalled fromthe drawing-room door. When at length she had been carried off, Annaproposed a game of cards, and after this diversion had drawn to itslanguid close she said good-night to Darrow and followed Madame deChantelle upstairs. But Madame de Chantelle never sat up late, and thesecond evening, with the amiably implied intention of leaving Anna andDarrow to themselves, she took an earlier leave of them than usual.
Anna sat silent, listening to her small stiff steps as they minced downthe hall and died out in the distance. Madame de Chantelle had brokenher wooden embroidery frame, and Darrow, having offered to repair it,had drawn his chair up to a table that held a lamp. Anna watched himas he sat with bent head and knitted brows, trying to fit togetherthe disjoined pieces. The sight of him, so tranquilly absorbed inthis trifling business, seemed to give to the quiet room a perfume ofintimacy, to fill it with a sense of sweet familiar habit; and it cameover her again that she knew nothing of the inner thoughts of this manwho was sitting by her as a husband might. The lamplight fell on hiswhite forehead, on the healthy brown of his cheek, the backs of his thinsunburnt hands. As she watched the hands her sense of them became asvivid as a touch, and she said to herself: "That other woman has satand watched him as I am doing. She has known him as I have never knownhim...Perhaps he is thinking of that now. Or perhaps he has forgottenit all as completely as I have forgotten everything that happened to mebefore he came..."
He looked young, active, stored with strength and energy; not the manfor vain repinings or long memories. She wondered what she had to holdor satisfy him. He loved her now; she had no doubt of that; but howcould she hope to keep him? They were so nearly of an age that alreadyshe felt herself his senior. As yet the difference was not visible;outwardly at least they were matched; but ill-health or unhappinesswould soon do away with this equality. She thought with a pang ofbitterness: "He won't grow any older because he doesn't feel things; andbecause he doesn't, I SHALL..."
And when she ceased to please him, what then? Had he the tradition offaith to the spoken vow, or the deeper piety of the unspoken dedication?What was his theory, what his inner conviction in such matters? But whatdid she care for his convictions or his theories? No doubt he loved hernow, and believed he would always go on loving her, and was persuadedthat, if he ceased to, his loyalty would be proof against the ch
ange.What she wanted to know was not what he thought about it in advance, butwhat would impel or restrain him at the crucial hour. She put no faithin her own arts: she was too sure of having none! And if some beneficentenchanter had bestowed them on her, she knew now that she would haverejected the gift. She could hardly conceive of wanting the kind of lovethat was a state one could be cozened into...
Darrow, putting away the frame, walked across the room and sat downbeside her; and she felt he had something special to say.
"They're sure to send for me in a day or two now," he began.
She made no answer, and he continued: "You'll tell me before I go whatday I'm to come back and get you?"
It was the first time since his return to Givre that he had made anydirect allusion to the date of their marriage; and instead of answeringhim she broke out: "There's something I've been wanting you to know. Theother day in Paris I saw Miss Viner."
She saw him flush with the intensity of his surprise.
"You sent for her?"
"No; she heard from Adelaide that I was in Paris and she came. She camebecause she wanted to urge me to marry you. I thought you ought to knowwhat she had done."
Darrow stood up. "I'm glad you've told me." He spoke with a visibleeffort at composure. Her eyes followed him as he moved away.
"Is that all?" he asked after an interval.
"It seems to me a great deal."
"It's what she'd already asked me." His voice showed her how deeply hewas moved, and a throb of jealousy shot through her.
"Oh, it was for your sake, I know!" He made no answer, and she added:"She's been exceedingly generous...Why shouldn't we speak of it?"
She had lowered her head, but through her dropped lids she seemed to bewatching the crowded scene of his face.
"I've not shrunk from speaking of it."
"Speaking of her, then, I mean. It seems to me that if I could talk toyou about her I should know better----"
She broke off, confused, and he questioned: "What is it you want to knowbetter?"
The colour rose to her forehead. How could she tell him what shescarcely dared own to herself? There was nothing she did not want toknow, no fold or cranny of his secret that her awakened imagination didnot strain to penetrate; but she could not expose Sophy Viner tothe base fingerings of a retrospective jealousy, nor Darrow to thetemptation of belittling her in the effort to better his own case. Thegirl had been magnificent, and the only worthy return that Anna couldmake was to take Darrow from her without a question if she took him atall...
She lifted her eyes to his face. "I think I only wanted to speak hername. It's not right that we should seem so afraid of it. If I werereally afraid of it I should have to give you up," she said.
He bent over her and caught her to him. "Ah, you can't give me up now!"he exclaimed.
She suffered him to hold her fast without speaking; but the old dreadwas between them again, and it was on her lips to cry out: "How can Ihelp it, when I AM so afraid?"
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