iv
By the time they reached South Kensington station the rain had ceased. Big clouds were passing overhead at high speed, and the wind remained fierce. Somehow it appeared to Patricia that when one had looked upwards and seen the clouds, and behind them that lighter darkness the sky, all that stood upon the surface of the earth was dwarfed. The people, the lamps, the trees, the houses, were all shrunk to insignificance, as the pain and bewilderment of poor humans must seem to those steady eyes of pity, the stars. She could not see any stars, but the gusts of wind made for the impression of great spaces, and presently the few trees by the side of the road, and the dark houses which lay beyond, took on the air of a mysterious wood. She felt that she and Harry were wandering alone in a wood at night, beneath the stars, listening to the endless torment of the anguished leaves; and all her love of beauty made her heart soft, so that she was moved beyond tears, and wished only to rest her head and prolong the ecstatic moment.
But she could not speak to Harry. She could have taken his hand and walked onward in silence; but that was impossible, because this vision that she had was unsubstantial, and Harry, whose laughter was so delightful, would not understand anything that was so intangible, so unrelated to his normal life. She was conscious in him of a thick stream of emotion, of the power of serious preoccupation with sensual things, amounting to obsession; and sometimes she had that same thickness of emotion when she was with him or longing for him, but never with obsession;—always with a shyness, a flying away, as of some will o' the wisp. But she more often had only a light playing of fancy, which made love a beautiful game; and now she had only a childish desire for happiness and mystical beauty. This her instinct told her was not shared. If Harry laughed, it was because there were whole realms of which he knew nothing. She had a swift certainty; there was no poetry in his nature. He was all the time absorbed in the tangible. Oh! What treason! She would not allow such thoughts. They were wicked, unjust, treacherous.... How the wind thrust and blustered among the trees! She could feel it upon her face and in her hair, and in her eyes. Harry said:
"Your friend Amy Roberts has been making a fool of herself."
Patricia, withdrawn from her wonderings by so incongruous a speech, could hardly understand him for a moment. Amy ... Amy.... It was an instant before she could bring herself to recognition.
"Oh." At last, vaguely, Patricia groped for his meaning. "What's she been doing?"
"It seems she ran into Felix Brow somewhere, and taxed him with saying she couldn't paint. Of course, poor Felix muffed the thing. Or perhaps, after all, he didn't. He said he didn't know she painted at all. Yes, I expect that wasn't so much of a muff as I thought it was at first. Damned insulting," Harry laughed appreciatively, thinking the speech over to himself before he continued: "He begged her not to betray him. That made Amy angry. Somebody had told her he'd said she painted with a besom. She'd prefer even that to being ignored. After all, she's no good as an artist. She's too stupid. And she makes these ridiculous scenes. There's some itch in her that makes her precipitate a row."
"I think she's conceited."
"Of course she is. Did you ever know a fool who wasn't? But she's worse, because she quarrels with people who mean kindly by her."
"I know." Rather despairingly, Patricia shook her head. "Did Felix really say that?"
"My dear! Poor old Felix wouldn't say anything so dull. After all, he is a wit. He'd say something worth saying, and worth repeating, or he wouldn't open his mouth."
"These witty things, though. Are they really said?"
Patricia's cynicism was too much for Harry. He laughed, looking down at her with an almost proprietary air of delight.
"I've heard a few of them. They're not always spontaneous, of course. But it's so absurd of Amy to quarrel with a man like Felix. It can only do her harm. He will say something about her now. I mean, he's a man to stand in with, not quarrel with."
Patricia was struck by this point.
"Do you really think that?" she asked. "That one ought to 'stand in' with people."
"Of course!" Harry's tone was severe.
"You think it's right? You do it yourself?" Patricia's tone was sad. She could not see his face; but then neither could he see hers. For Patricia the question was of vital importance. Yet Harry was not conscious of the meaning of her question.
"You've got to do everything in this world," he assured her confidently.
"How base!" Patricia's protest was so low that it escaped Harry. "But surely, Harry, if you're any good...."
"All the more reason. Of course, it doesn't matter in Amy's case...."
"I must go and see her."
Patricia spoke mechanically. She was not thinking of Amy. She was thinking of Harry, and of herself.
"She'll probably tell you about Felix—with embellishments of her own. A few of the withering replies she's thought of since. I will say that for Amy: she improves her speeches a lot in revision." He laughed with some dryness.
"Harry!" protested Patricia. "I believe you're spiteful!"
"As a nun!" he agreed. "Didn't you know?"
Again Patricia shrank into herself. They were nearing her home now, and the road was very dark, and Harry's nearness gave her a sense of happiness and security. And yet she was neither happy nor secure. It seemed as though the stormy evening had reawakened all her sensitiveness. No, she was not happy. Intermingled with her own mood was the strange jumble of problems which had been raised by their talk and the memories it evoked. Now she wanted to leave him, now to stay—and at each turn she was exasperated anew at her own waywardness. The shallowness of Harry's conviction that one ought to cultivate those who might be useful hurt her (as similar remarks had done several times before). She remembered several of her distastes for things he had said. She remembered, too, their talk over dinner on the subject of growing up; and it made her shiver. And yet she continued to walk by Harry's side, feeling in his proximity the same joy, the same warm affection as she had done all the evening. It surprised her to know that one's love for a person could fluctuate so, and so persist; that it could come and go almost as if with breathing. She was undecided. Did she perhaps not love him at all? It was as though some reality greater than inclination, or else some very strong illusion, was always interrupting her love and making it ineffective. He was the only man she had ever wanted to kiss her, the only man to whom she could physically have yielded herself; and yet....
She fell into a series of fresh ponderings, about Amy and Jack Penton, about Harry and Amy, about Harry and Rhoda, Harry and Bella, about Harry's spitefulness; and with each variation of the theme it became less and less possible to disclose the nature of her thoughts to Harry. How could one love a person, and yet sometimes dislike what they said, and resent what they did, and hate what they thought? And yet, as her heart told her, he was the man she loved, so beautiful, so strong, so much her true love. What were thoughts and speeches compared with that instinctive certainty? She was torn. It was a puzzle to Patricia that this hesitation should arise. She was unhappy under her happiness.
Suddenly she became aware that they were outside her home, and that the house was dark, and that Harry had spoken to her without receiving a reply.
"Hey!" he cried sharply, to attract her attention.
Patricia, startled, looked up at him as if she were dreaming. The little hushing wind in the slim and bare branches of small trees was accompanied by the pattering drops of a fresh shower. Cold splashes touched her cheeks. She could see Harry standing like a giant above her, could feel the radiance of his strength and beauty and love for her. She was deeply moved. Harry, amused and laughing at her abstracted silence, put his arm round her. As if naturally, but in reality because she was only half-attentive, Patricia stopped, standing there within his arm. She was quite happy, quite at ease, but dreaming.
"What is it?" she asked, in a very hushed way, hardly to be heard.
"Only that you're a darling!" Harry stooped and kissed her, holding her tightly but gently within his arm, and with his free hand raising her hand to his lips. She felt his rough cheek against her own, his warm lips, and against her hair the brim of his hat. How strange that for a moment, held so firmly, Patricia felt nothing at all except that it was delicious to be there, delicious to be so encircled, so loved. Harry kissed her a second time, but not her averted mouth. She felt his lips encroaching, his hold more urgent. Patricia's heart beat faster. So she might yield herself to love. He would kiss her lips, and she would kiss him, and then for ever—for ever.... She was half-yielding. She was yielding. Faster and faster ran her heart, and the wind and rain and darkness were blotted out in this sweet stupor. And then some electrical revolt shocked her into resistance.
"No!" she said, very quietly, and sought to disengage herself.
"Kiss me!" demanded Harry. "My dearest!"
"No!" said Patricia, again. But she was not really unwilling or afraid. She was happy and at ease and full of almost luxurious reassurance. And at the same time she was inexorable. When Harry would have kept her and again would have kissed her he was unable to do so. Her body seemed to be steel, her will greater than his impetuousness. In the struggle between domination and the instinct for liberty this new strength of Patricia's was in no way to be gainsaid. She continued, despite his effort, unquestionably to belong to herself. The impulse to submit was vanquished by something yet more insistent.
"Patricia!" commanded Harry. He was warm, was masterful. Such a tone had never hitherto failed him, and was now both ardent and sincere. Patricia was quite aware of the physical agitation which he thus expressed. He was bent upon victory, forcing the issue. And with each fleeting second his will strengthened her own. Harry was urgent. Patricia's nerve was steadied. He followed her, determined, very nearly irresistible.
"No. I'm not sure that I want you to." Her tone was cold and without feeling; but her eyes were shining and her heart was full.
"My dear, you can't...."
She held his hand, and pressed it, all the time evading his renewed embrace. The wind came sweeping along the street, and around them was blackness and silence. Moved and troubled, but as one in a dream, Patricia freed herself, made no answer to his entreaty, and left him listening to the sound of a closing door, and feeling the smart tingle of raindrops upon his face and the backs of his bare hands.