The Captives [110]
beneath that the steady firm beat of his heart. They walked closely together, his thigh pressed against hers, and once and again her hair brushed his cheek. She was so shy that, until they were through the gates of the park, she did not speak. Then she said:
"I was so afraid that Caroline would not give you the note."
"Oh, she gave it me all right." He pressed her arm closer to him. "But I expect that she read it first."
"Oh, is she like that?"
"Yes, she's like that . . ."
There was another pause; they turned down the path to the right towards the trees that were black lumps of velvet against the purple sky. There were no stars, and it was liquidly dark as though they ploughed through water. Maggie felt suffocated with heat and persecuted by a strange weariness; she was suddenly so tired that it was all that she could do to walk.
"I'm tired . . ." she murmured--"expecting you--afraid that you wouldn't come."
"I believe that I would have come," he answered quite fiercely, "even if I hadn't had the note--I was determined to see you to-night some way. But you know, Maggie, it had better be for the last time . . ."
"No," she said, whispering, "it's the first time."
"Let's sit down here," he said. "We're alone all right."
There was no seat near them. The trees made a cave of black above them, and in front of them the grass swept like a grey beach into mist. There was no sound save a distant whirr like the hum of a top that died to a whisper and then was lashed by some infuriated god to activity again.
They sat close together on the bench. She felt his arm move out as though he would embrace her, then suddenly he drew back.
"No," he said, "until we've talked this out we've got to be like strangers. We can't go on, you know, Maggie, and it's no use your saying we can."
She pressed her hands tightly together. "I can convince him better," she thought to herself, "if I'm very quiet and matter-of-fact." So, speaking very calmly and not looking at him, she went on:
"But, Martin, you promised last time that it would depend on me . . . You said that if I didn't mind your being married and was willing to take risks that we would go on together. Well, I've thought all about it and I know that I'd rather be miserable with you than happy with any one else. But then I shouldn't be miserable. You seem to think you could make me miserable just as soon as you like. But that depends on myself. If I don't want to be miserable nobody can make me be." She paused. He moved a little closer and suddenly took her hand.
She drew it away and went on:
"Don't think I'm inexperienced about this, Martin. You say I know nothing about men. Perhaps I don't. But I know myself. I know what I want, and I can look after myself. However badly you treated me, it would be you that I was with all the time."
"No, no, Maggie," he answered, speaking rapidly and as though he were fiercely protesting against some one. "It isn't that at all. You say you know yourself--but then I know myself. It isn't only that I'm a rotten fellow. It is that I seem to bring a curse on every one I'm fond of. I love my father, and I've come back and made him miserable. It's always like that. And if I made you miserable it would be the worst thing I ever did . . . I don't even know whether I love you. If I do it's different from any love I've ever had. Other women I'd be mad about. I'd go for them whatever happened and got them somehow, and I wouldn't care a bit whether they were happy or no. But I feel about you almost as though you were a man--not sensually at all, but that safe steady security that you feel for a man sometimes . . . You're so restful to be with. I feel now as though you were the one person in the world who could turn me into a decent human being. I feel as though we were just meant to move along together; but then some other woman would come like a fire and off I'd go . . . Then I'd hate myself worse than ever and be really finished."
Maggie looked at him.
"You don't love me then, Martin?" she asked.
"Yes I do," he
"I was so afraid that Caroline would not give you the note."
"Oh, she gave it me all right." He pressed her arm closer to him. "But I expect that she read it first."
"Oh, is she like that?"
"Yes, she's like that . . ."
There was another pause; they turned down the path to the right towards the trees that were black lumps of velvet against the purple sky. There were no stars, and it was liquidly dark as though they ploughed through water. Maggie felt suffocated with heat and persecuted by a strange weariness; she was suddenly so tired that it was all that she could do to walk.
"I'm tired . . ." she murmured--"expecting you--afraid that you wouldn't come."
"I believe that I would have come," he answered quite fiercely, "even if I hadn't had the note--I was determined to see you to-night some way. But you know, Maggie, it had better be for the last time . . ."
"No," she said, whispering, "it's the first time."
"Let's sit down here," he said. "We're alone all right."
There was no seat near them. The trees made a cave of black above them, and in front of them the grass swept like a grey beach into mist. There was no sound save a distant whirr like the hum of a top that died to a whisper and then was lashed by some infuriated god to activity again.
They sat close together on the bench. She felt his arm move out as though he would embrace her, then suddenly he drew back.
"No," he said, "until we've talked this out we've got to be like strangers. We can't go on, you know, Maggie, and it's no use your saying we can."
She pressed her hands tightly together. "I can convince him better," she thought to herself, "if I'm very quiet and matter-of-fact." So, speaking very calmly and not looking at him, she went on:
"But, Martin, you promised last time that it would depend on me . . . You said that if I didn't mind your being married and was willing to take risks that we would go on together. Well, I've thought all about it and I know that I'd rather be miserable with you than happy with any one else. But then I shouldn't be miserable. You seem to think you could make me miserable just as soon as you like. But that depends on myself. If I don't want to be miserable nobody can make me be." She paused. He moved a little closer and suddenly took her hand.
She drew it away and went on:
"Don't think I'm inexperienced about this, Martin. You say I know nothing about men. Perhaps I don't. But I know myself. I know what I want, and I can look after myself. However badly you treated me, it would be you that I was with all the time."
"No, no, Maggie," he answered, speaking rapidly and as though he were fiercely protesting against some one. "It isn't that at all. You say you know yourself--but then I know myself. It isn't only that I'm a rotten fellow. It is that I seem to bring a curse on every one I'm fond of. I love my father, and I've come back and made him miserable. It's always like that. And if I made you miserable it would be the worst thing I ever did . . . I don't even know whether I love you. If I do it's different from any love I've ever had. Other women I'd be mad about. I'd go for them whatever happened and got them somehow, and I wouldn't care a bit whether they were happy or no. But I feel about you almost as though you were a man--not sensually at all, but that safe steady security that you feel for a man sometimes . . . You're so restful to be with. I feel now as though you were the one person in the world who could turn me into a decent human being. I feel as though we were just meant to move along together; but then some other woman would come like a fire and off I'd go . . . Then I'd hate myself worse than ever and be really finished."
Maggie looked at him.
"You don't love me then, Martin?" she asked.
"Yes I do," he