§ 11
Afterwards he became less conversational.
“Leave the things,” he commanded. “Mrs. Tebbutt will see to them when she gets back.”
“All right,” she agreed. “Now we’re going for a walk, eh?”
“I’ve got heaps of work——” he began.
“Not on Christmas Day,” she urged.
“Oh, that makes no difference.”
“Besides, you said you weren’t going to do any more work, in any case.”
“No—but—I thought of dropping in at the Trants.”
Impossible to describe the fierce stab of jealousy that passed through her. It changed her mood completely.
“Mr. Verreker,” she said, with emotion, “after a fortnight of not seeing me, can’t you spare me one evening?”
“Of course if you’ve anything particular to say to me—any help you want—of course—I——”
“Not that! That’s not the point. Mayn’t I never come to you except when I’ve something definite I want to ask you for? Aren’t we friends?”
“Certainly.”
“Then why can’t you come out with me when I ask you to?”
“Oh yes, I will, but——”
“You’re the only friend I have. Don’t you know that?”
“I’m sorry to hear it. I am bound to say it is to some extent your own fault that you have not more.”
They were standing in front of the fire. At this last remark she moved till her face was a few inches from his. Her eyes were flashing with anger, yet dim with tears like a mirror breathed upon: her hands were clenched and quivering as if she were thinking to strike him. All her body, every limb and muscle of her, was vibrant with passion.
“Mr. Verreker,” she cried, “why do you keep saying things that hurt me? Am I nothing to you at all? Don’t you care one tiny scrap for what I feel? Oh, I know I’m very imperfect—I daresay I’m all wrong, to your way of thinking, but have you ever lifted a finger to make me different? Have you ever cared whether I was different or not?”
“I have helped you always as much as I have been able,” he replied, with dignity.
“Then why do you treat me as you do? Why do you despise me? You do despise me! I know you do. Why do you feel that you ought to control yourself just because you have a desire to come and see me?”
“Not because I despise you. I despise nobody. Who am I to——”
“There you are again! Do you think I’m not clever enough to see the sly way you wriggle off the point? I’m not as clever as you, maybe, but I am clever enough to be hurt by what you say! The only way you can truthfully say you don’t despise me is by saying you don’t despise anybody! Do you really think I am dull enough not to see that? Oh, Mr. Verreker, what have I done? What have I done?”
“You are being foolish, Miss Weston.... You have——”
“Miss Weston now, eh? Something else. Do you think I don’t notice these things? Do you know the last time you ever called me Cathie? I don’t suppose you remember, but I do: it was on May 19th last. Over six months ago.”
“This is childish,” he muttered scornfully, and his lips curled in contempt. He turned away from her and began walking about the room.
“Childish, is it?—Is it childish to be hurt at little things that show you’re going down—in the—estimation of people you—you—whom you like?”
“I have given you no valid indication that you have gone down in my estimation.”
“Do you deny that I have?”
“It is a matter I do not care to discuss.... At any rate you have grossly exaggerated the whole affair....”
“What I want to know is, why are you disappointed with me? Why have you left me alone this last fortnight?”
“I have already told you that I wanted to see you very intensely.”
“Why?”
“I can think of no satisfactory reason.”
“What do you mean by ‘satisfactory’?”
“I mean what I say. I can think of no reason satisfactory to me—that satisfies me.”
“And aren’t there any reasons at all why a normal person might wish to see me’?”
“Arguing is quite useless if you accept as a hypothesis that I am a normal person.”
“Aren’t there any reasons at all, then, why you might want to come and see me?”
“Possibly there are.”
“Couldn’t you think of any?”
“No, I could not.”
She became fiercely passionate again.
“Mr. Verreker,” she said, “I’ll tell you one thing for your own good, and for the good of everybody you meet who gets to know you well. You ought to be more kind. You ought to consider other people’s feelings. You ought not to say things that hurt. You ought to put yourself on the level of people who feel. Do you know you have hurt me more than ever I have been hurt before?”
She was crying now. She leaned on the back of a chair and bent her head on her hands. There was something very wildly tragic in her attitude.
And he was profoundly stirred. He had not believed her capable of such passionate outburst. For a moment he stood perfectly still, viewing her from that part of the room to which his pacings up and down had chanced to lead him at the moment. Then he slowly approached her cowering form. She was sobbing violently. He put his hand lightly on her shoulder and drew it away immediately. The spectacle of her grief made him curiously embarrassed. He seemed afraid to touch her.
“Cathie,” he spoke gruffly.
She made no sign of answer. But the sobbing stopped, and in a moment she raised her head. She stood upright, with her head flung backwards and her face turned to his. She was not beautiful, but passion had given her face a spiritual sublimity. Tears were still in her eyes and down her cheeks; her eyes, dim and blurred, were shining like the sun through the edges of April clouds. And all about her head and face and shoulders her hair was flung in gorgeous disarray. Red as flame it was, and passionate as the whole look and poise of her.
He bent to her very simply and kissed her on the forehead. There was no hungry eagerness about his movement, yet the very simplicity of it seemed to indicate terrific restraint. She stood perfectly still, as if hypnotized.
“Now,” he said quietly, “you and I are friends again, aren’t we?”
She nodded. There was the grating of a key in the lock of the front door. They both waited in silence. Then there were footsteps in the hall.
“Mrs. Tebbutt!” he called. He was tremendously, inexpressibly relieved at her arrival.
Mrs. Tebbutt, discreet as always, opened the door and entered.
“You might come and clear these things away, will you?” he said, in a perfectly ordinary tone.
“Very good, sir.”
The spell was broken.
Catherine did not stay long after that. Conversation between them was difficult because it was carefully commonplace. Mrs. Tebbutt kept coming in and out. And when Catherine left, his handshake at the gate was just normally cordial, neither more nor less so than usual....