The Spoils of Poynton Part 13
"That can hardly have removed her impression that there are things I put you up to."
"It didn't," Owen replied with candor. "She said our relation, yours and mine, isn't innocent."
"What did she mean by that?"
"As you may suppose, I particularly inquired. Do you know what she had the cheek to tell me?" Owen asked. "She didn't better it much: she said she meant that it's excessively unnatural."
Fleda considered afresh. "Well, it is!" she brought out at last.
"Then, upon my honor, it's only you who make it so!" Her perversity was distinctly too much for him. "I mean you make it so by the way you keep me off."
"Have I kept you off to-day?" Fleda sadly shook her head, raising her arms a little and dropping them.
Her gesture of resignation gave him a pretext for catching at her hand, but before he could take it she had put it behind her. They had been seated together on Maggie's single sofa, and her movement brought her to her feet, while Owen, looking at her reproachfully, leaned back in discouragement. "What good does it do me to be here when I find you only a stone?"
She met his eyes with all the tenderness she had not yet uttered, and she had not known till this moment how great was the acc.u.mulation.
"Perhaps, after all," she risked, "there may be even in a stone still some little help for you."
Owen sat there a minute staring at her. "Ah, you're beautiful, more beautiful than any one," he broke out, "but I'll be hanged if I can ever understand you! On Tuesday, at your father's, you were beautiful--as beautiful, just before I left, as you are at this instant. But the next day, when I went back, I found it had apparently meant nothing; and now, again, that you let me come here and you shine at me like an angel, it doesn't bring you an inch nearer to saying what I want you to say." He remained a moment longer in the same position; then he jerked himself up. "What I want you to say is that you like me--what I want you to say is that you pity me." He sprang up and came to her. "What I want you to say is that you'll _save_ me!"
Fleda hesitated. "Why do you need saving, when you announced to me just now that you're a free man?"
He too hesitated, but he was not checked. "It's just for the reason that I'm free. Don't you know what I mean, Miss Vetch? I want you to marry me."
Fleda, at this, put out her hand in charity; she held his own, which quickly grasped it a moment, and if he had described her as shining at him it may be a.s.sumed that she shone all the more in her deep, still smile. "Let me hear a little more about your freedom first," she said.
"I gather that Mrs. Brigstock was not wholly satisfied with the way you disposed of her question."
"I dare say she wasn't. But the less she's satisfied the more I'm free."
"What bearing have _her_ feelings, pray?" Fleda asked.
"Why, Mona's much worse than her mother. She wants much more to give me up."
"Then why doesn't she do it?"
"She will, as soon as her mother gets home and tells her."
"Tells her what?" Fleda inquired.
"Why, that I'm in love with _you_!"
Fleda debated. "Are you so very sure she will?"
"Certainly I'm sure, with all the evidence I already have. That will finish her!" Owen declared.
This made his companion thoughtful again. "Can you take such pleasure in her being 'finished'--a poor girl you've once loved?"
Owen waited long enough to take in the question; then with a serenity startling even to her knowledge of his nature, "I don't think I can have _really_ loved her, you know," he replied.
Fleda broke into a laugh which gave him a surprise as visible as the emotion it testified to. "Then how am I to know that you 'really'
love--anybody else?"
"Oh, I'll show you that!" said Owen.
"I must take it on trust," the girl pursued. "And what if Mona doesn't give you up?" she added.
Owen was baffled but a few seconds; he had thought of everything. "Why, that's just where you come in."
"To save you? I see. You mean I must get rid of her for you." His blankness showed for a little that he felt the chill of her cold logic; but as she waited for his rejoinder she knew to which of them it cost most. He gasped a minute, and that gave her time to say: "You see, Mr.
Owen, how impossible it is to talk of such things yet!"
Like lightning he had grasped her arm. "You mean you _will_ talk of them?" Then as he began to take the flood of a.s.sent from her eyes: "You _will_ listen to me? Oh, you dear, you dear--when, when?"
"Ah, when it isn't mere misery!" The words had broken from her in a sudden loud cry, and what next happened was that the very sound of her pain upset her. She heard her own true note; she turned short away from him; in a moment she had burst into sobs; in another his arms were round her; the next she had let herself go so far that even Mrs. Gereth might have seen it. He clasped her, and she gave herself--she poured out her tears on his breast; something prisoned and pent throbbed and gushed; something deep and sweet surged up--something that came from far within and far off, that had begun with the sight of him in his indifference and had never had rest since then. The surrender was short, but the relief was long: she felt his lips upon her face and his arms tighten with his full divination. What she did, what she _had_ done, she scarcely knew: she only was aware, as she broke from him again, of what had taken place in his own quick breast. What had taken place was that, with the click of a spring, he saw. He had cleared the high wall at a bound; they were together without a veil. She had not a shred of a secret left; it was as if a whirlwind had come and gone, laying low the great false front that she had built up stone by stone. The strangest thing of all was the momentary sense of desolation.
"Ah, all the while you _cared_?" Owen read the truth with a wonder so great that it was visibly almost a sadness, a terror caused by his sudden perception of where the impossibility was not. That made it all perhaps elsewhere.
"I cared, I cared, I cared!" Fleda moaned it as defiantly as if she were confessing a misdeed. "How couldn't I care? But you mustn't, you must never, never ask! It isn't for us to talk about!" she insisted. "Don't speak of it, don't speak!"
It was easy indeed not to speak when the difficulty was to find words.
He clasped his hands before her as he might have clasped them at an altar; his pressed palms shook together while he held his breath and while she stilled herself in the effort to come round again to the real and the right. He helped this effort, soothing her into a seat with a touch as light as if she had really been something sacred. She sank into a chair and he dropped before her on his knees; she fell back with closed eyes and he buried his face in her lap. There was no way to thank her but this act of prostration, which lasted, in silence, till she laid consenting hands on him, touched his head and stroked it, held it in her tenderness till he acknowledged his long density. He made the avowal seem only his--made her, when she rose again, raise him at last, softly, as if from the abas.e.m.e.nt of shame. If in each other's eyes now, however, they saw the truth, this truth, to Fleda, looked harder even than before--all the harder that when, at the very moment she recognized it, he murmured to her ecstatically, in fresh possession of her hands, which he drew up to his breast, holding them tight there with both his own: "I'm saved, I'm saved,--I _am_! I'm ready for anything. I have your word. Come!" he cried, as if from the sight of a response slower than he needed, and in the tone he so often had of a great boy at a great game.
She had once more disengaged herself, with the private vow that he shouldn't yet touch her again. It was all too horribly soon--her sense of this was rapidly surging back. "We mustn't talk, we mustn't talk; we must _wait_!" she intensely insisted. "I don't know what you mean by your freedom; I don't see it, I don't feel it. Where is it yet, where, your freedom? If it's real there's plenty of time, and if it isn't there's more than enough. I hate myself," she protested, "for having anything to say about her: it's like waiting for dead men's shoes! What business is it of mine what she does? She has her own trouble and her own plan. It's too hideous to watch her and count on her!"
Owen's face, at this, showed a reviving dread, the fear of some darksome process of her mind. "If you speak for yourself I can understand, but why is it hideous for _me_?"
"Oh, I mean for myself!" Fleda said impatiently.
"_I_ watch her, _I_ count on her: how can I do anything else? If I count on her to let me definitely know how we stand, I do nothing in life but what she herself has led straight up to. I never thought of asking you to 'get rid of her' for me, and I never would have spoken to you if I hadn't held that I _am_ rid of her, that she has backed out of the whole thing. Didn't she do so from the moment she began to put it off? I had already applied for the license; the very invitations were half addressed. Who but she, all of a sudden, demanded an unnatural wait? It was none of _my_ doing; I had never dreamed of anything but coming up to the scratch." Owen grew more and more lucid, and more confident of the effect of his lucidity. "She called it 'taking a stand,' to see what mother would do. I told her mother would do what I would make her do; and to that she replied that she would like to see me make her first. I said I would arrange that everything should be all right, and she said she really preferred to arrange it herself. It was a flat refusal to trust me in the smallest degree. Why then had she pretended so tremendously to care for me? And of course, at present," said Owen, "she trusts me, if possible, still less."
Fleda paid this statement the homage of a minute's muteness. "As to that, naturally, she has reason."
"Why on earth has she reason?" Then, as his companion, moving away, simply threw up her hands, "I never looked at you--not to call looking--till she had regularly driven me to it," he went on. "I know what I'm about. I do a.s.sure you I'm all right!"
"You're not all right--you're all wrong!" Fleda cried in despair. "You mustn't stay here, you mustn't!" she repeated with clear decision. "You make me say dreadful things, and I feel as if I made _you_ say them."
But before he could reply she took it up in another tone. "Why in the world, if everything had changed, didn't you break off?"
"I?--" The inquiry seemed to have moved him to stupefaction. "Can you ask me that question when I only wanted to please you? Didn't you seem to show me, in your wonderful way, that that was exactly how? I didn't break off just on purpose to leave it to _her_. I didn't break off so that there shouldn't be a thing to be said against me."
The instant after her challenge Fleda had faced him again in self-reproof. "There _isn't_ a thing to be said against you, and I don't know what nonsense you make me talk! You _have_ pleased me, and you've been right and good, and it's the only comfort, and you must go.
Everything must come from Mona, and if it doesn't come we've said entirely too much. You must leave me alone--forever."
"Forever?" Owen gasped.
"I mean unless everything is different."
"Everything _is_ different--when I _know_!"
Fleda winced at what he knew; she made a wild gesture which seemed to whirl it out of the room. The mere allusion was like another embrace.