IV
Margaret knew in an instant for what purpose he was come. As he crossed the room and placed himself on the hearthrug she knew that the crisis she had so long expected was upon her at last. Though he spoke of a dozen trivial things of which he had spoken many times before, there was no doubt in her mind that this speech was but preparative to attack. There was a stiffness in his pose like that of an actor who is ill at ease. His feet were apart; his body was inclined slightly towards her; his hands were behind his back. She found that, despite herself, she acted and thought defensively—and in the bottom of her heart was a feeling that even her defence must ultimately prove of no avail.
She heard him telling her calmly that he loved her and wished to marry her. Then she heard him giving reasons, outlining the future, speaking at last as if she had given her consent. His eyes were fixed on her and held her; but, with an effort that was a physical shock, she broke free of his gaze. At least he should not assume consent. She would not be edged by this slow process into compliance. She would say something—anything to break the intolerable evenness of his speech. She let go of the back of the chair by which she had been standing.
“No.... Wait, Nick.... I——”
He waited not an instant, knowing that he must give her no opportunity to recover herself or to reorganize her defence. He put his arms outside hers, and swept her to him. Mind and body, she seemed enveloped, borne down. The strength, the impetus of him overwhelmed her as flames and smoke, bursting suddenly forth, overwhelm the opener of a door in a burning house. She was too sick and faint to do more than force her head a little backwards, and, catching sight of the black and white notes of the piano, attach to them the strange significance which belongs to things far, far distant from us—the significance that the cool frosty stars possess in the mind of one who perceives them from the window of a room in which fire has trapped him. In the same second Ordith was aware that her body, become limp, reposed almost its whole weight on his arms.
And she heard him urging her with words that seemed to grow more and more musical until at last she was listening pleasurably to them. His nearness, his strength, his tenderness even—for where there was no struggle there seemed now no kind of brutality—were becoming sweet to her—just as the snow becomes warm and comforting to the wanderer who, sunk by the roadside, is about to cross the line of sleep and death beyond which is no waking, no resisting, no troubling any more. It was so good to yield, so easy to say the one word he was demanding with murmured reiteration.
But she did not say it. She knew she must hold out, as the lier in the snow knows he must keep awake. “Keep awake!” The words themselves seemed part of a dream. She tried to put up her hands to thrust him away, but the impulse led to no more than a faint movement of her fingers. Then, as she opened her lips and no sound came his kisses fell on her mouth and throat, and her poor little struggle flickered out. She had said no word, but the thought came to her, as of a thing accomplished, “That’s over.... Of course ... I knew.... His wife—his wife. Always.” Whereupon the consciousness that he was still holding her reasserted itself and filled her with sudden horror and fear.
Then miraculously—for she remembered nothing of the movement that released her—she found herself standing clear of Ordith. He had let her go. In the open doorway, upon which Ordith’s eyes were turned, stood Hugh, an amazed, embarrassed Hugh, who was saying, “Heavens! I’m sorry. I didn’t know ...” and hastily shutting the door.
For the first time Ordith was at a loss.
“Well?” he said.
She sank down in a chair.
“Please go away.”
At his least movement towards her she sprang up, white and trembling, but calm of voice.
“No.... I can’t bear it.... And please never come back—never.”
“But you said——”
“I said nothing.”
“No—not said, but——”
“Oh!” she exclaimed quickly; “I may have been wrong outwardly. But don’t blame me for having deceived you. You were never deceived.”
He smiled at her as at a child momentarily in a foolish mood, and went out of the room. On the stairs he met Hugh.
“I’m awfully sorry, sir. I had no idea.”
Ordith laughed. “Nothing,” he said, “nothing at all.... By the way, there’s nothing official—no definite engagement as yet, so don’t go and worry her about it. Better act as if you hadn’t seen, unless she speaks to you of it.... You weren’t meant to see.”
So Hugh was bound. Ordith went on his way to report to Mr. Fane-Herbert the development of the campaign. Together they considered the position and reassembled their forces after the not unexpected reverse.
“The difficulty,” said Ordith, “is that she forbade me to see her again. Having regard to the standard of honour by which we live, that’s something of a tail-twister.”
“You will, of course, continue to come to my house on my business. The rest follows in time.”
Ordith turned the pages of a magazine. “The sad thing is that in five minutes or less she would have consented.”
“You’re a queer fellow, Ordith. But there, I suppose you are in love with her; I’m sure I hope so. Five minutes or five months, what does it matter? Obviously she doesn’t know her own mind. I’ll talk to her this evening.”
Ordith, his head bent over an illustration, looked up under his eyebrows. The most amazing trait in Fane-Herbert’s character was his complacency. There he stood, unruffled, speaking of Margaret as of a baby who had been naughty but who would in time learn to distinguish between right and wrong.
“I’ll talk to her this evening.”
“Oh well,” Ordith thought in excuse for himself, “she’s got to live either with you or with me.”