Isabel Clarendon, Vol. II (of II). George Gissing
be met rationally, and—well, put an end to. Had we been at liberty to marry, I should certainly have asked you to be my wife; as there was no possibility of that, we adopted the wisest alternative, and agreed not to meet again. I cannot tell you how I admired your behaviour; so few girls are capable of talking in a calm and reasonable spirit of difficulties such as these. Any one watching us would have thought we were discussing some affair of the most every-day kind. As I say, you were simply admirable. It grieves me to see you breaking down so after all; it is not of a piece with the rest of your behaviour; it makes a flaw in what dramatists call the situation. Don’t you agree with me? Have I said anything but the truth?”
Rhoda listened, with her eyes fixed despairingly on the ground; her hands holding the edge of the sofa gave her the appearance of one shrinking back from a precipice. When he had finished his statement, she faced him for the first time.
“What would you have thought if I had gone at once and married somebody else?”
“I should have heartily wished you every happiness.”
“Should you have thought I did right?” she asked with persistence, clinging still to the edge of the sofa.
“On the whole, perhaps not.”
“You mean,” she said, not without bitterness, a fresh tear stealing to her cheek, “that you believe in my feeling for you, and wish me to understand that yours for me hadn’t the same seriousness?”
“No, I didn’t mean that. You must remember that I am not defending this step of mine, only showing you that I have not violated any compact between us. We were both left free, that’s all.”
“Then you don’t care for her!” the girl exclaimed, with mingled satisfaction and reproof.
Lacour threw one leg over the other, and bent the paper-knife on his knee.
“You must remember,” he said, “that marriages spring from many other motives besides personal inclination. I have told you that I don’t defend myself. I’m afraid I mustn’t say more than that.”
Rhoda let her eyes wander; agitation was again getting hold upon her.
“You mean that I have no right to question you. I know I haven’t, but—it all seems so impossible,” she burst forth. “How can you tell me in such a voice that you are doing what you know isn’t right? When father told me this morning I didn’t know about that will; he only explained, because there was no use in keeping it secret any longer, and of course he knew nothing of—of the way it would come upon me.”
“Ah, you know about the will? I am very glad of that; it makes our explanation easier.”
She fixed her eyes upon him; they were only sad at first, but expanded into a despairing amazement.
“How can you speak so to me?” she asked in a low and shaken voice.
Lacour threw away the paper-cutter, and once more stood up.
“How am I to speak, Rhoda? Should you prefer to have me tell you lies? Why couldn’t you accept the fact, and, knowing all the details, draw your own conclusion? You were at liberty to hold me in contempt, or to pity me, as you thought fit; you were even at liberty to interfere to spoil my marriage if you liked–”
“You think me capable of that? No wonder you part from me so easily. I thought you knew me better.”
She put her hands over her face and let her tears have way.
“Rhoda,” he exclaimed nervously, “there are two things I can’t bear—a woman angry and a woman crying; but of the two I’d rather have the anger. You are upsetting me dreadfully. I had ever so much rather you told me in plain, knock-down words just what you think of me. If you distress yourself in that way I shall do something absurd, something we shall both of us be sorry for. Really, it was a horrible mistake to come here; why should we have to go through a scene of this kind? You are giving me—and yourself—the most needless pain.”
She rose and sought the door with blinded eyes, as if to go from him at once. Lacour took a step or two towards her, and only with difficulty checked himself.
“Rhoda!” he exclaimed, “you cannot go out in that way. Sit down; do as I tell you!”
She turned, and, seeing his face, threw herself on her knees before him.
“Vincent, have pity on me! You can’t, you won’t, do this! I will kneel at your feet till you promise me to break it off. I can’t bear it! Vincent, I can’t bear it! It will drive me mad if you are married. I can’t live; I shall kill myself! You don’t know what my life has been since we ceased to meet; I couldn’t have lived if I hadn’t had a sort of hope that—oh, I know it’s all my own fault; I said and did things I never should have done; you are blameless. But you cannot marry another woman when you—I mean, not at once, not so soon! It isn’t three months, not three months, since you said you liked me better than any one else you had ever met. Can’t you be sorry for me a little? Look at me—I haven’t even the pride a woman ought to have; I am on my knees to you. Put it off a little while; let me see if I can get to bear it!”
She had caught and held the hand with which he had endeavoured to raise her. The man was in desperate straits; his face was a picture of passionate torment, the veins at his temple blue and swollen, his lips dry and quivering. With an effort of all his strength he raised her bodily, and almost flung her upon the sofa, where she lay with half-closed eyes, pallid, semi-conscious.
“Lie there till you are quiet,” he said with a brutality which was the result of his inner struggle, and not at all an utterance of his real self, “and then go home. I am going out.”
He went into an inner room, and reappeared in a moment equipped for walking. Rhoda had risen, and was before him at the door, standing with her face turned from him.
“Wait till I have been gone a minute,” she said. “Forgive me; I will never come again.”
“Where are you going?” he inquired abruptly.
“Home.”
A sudden, violent double-knock at the door made them both start.
“It’s only the postman,” Lacour explained. The interruption had been of good effect, relieving the overcharged atmosphere.
“Listen to me for one moment before you go,” he continued. “You must see perfectly well that you ask what is impossible. Mistake or not, right or wrong, I cannot undo what I have done; we must consider other people as well as ourselves. For all that, we are not going to part in an unfriendly way. I am sensitive; I could not be at my ease; I think you owe it to me to restore our relations to their former reasonable state.”
“I will try,” came from the girl in a whisper.
“But I must have your promise. You will go home to your father and sister, and will live as you have been doing.”
“Do you know how that has been?” she murmured.
“In future it must be different,” he urged vehemently. “Cannot you see that by being unhappy you reproach me?”
“I do not reproach you, but I cannot help my unhappiness.”
“But you must help it,” he cried half-angrily. “I will not have that laid to my account. You must overcome all such weakness. The feeling you profess for me is unreal if you are not capable of so small an effort on my behalf. Surely you see that?”
“I will try.”
“Good. And now how are you going home? By train? No, I shall not let you go by train; you are not fit. Come to the foot of the stairs, and I will get you a cab. Nonsense, you need not drive as far as the house. Why will you irritate me by such resistance? The fog? It is as good as gone; it was quite light in the other room. Please go before me down the stairs, and stop at the bottom. Now that is a good girl.”
She held her hand to say good-bye, saying: “It is for the last time.”
“No, but for a long time. You are a brave girl, and I shall think very kindly of you.”
He