Again she was silent, not through the wish to avoid speaking, but from sheer inability to find anything more to say.
Suddenly he lifted his miserable eyes, and looked at her for a second. “You’ve been through hell,” he said.
“Yes. I’m there still.” She stopped, and then, drawn by the pity in his tone, once more felt herself slipping down the inevitable slope of confession. “It’s not only that hell—there’s another. I want to tell you everything now. It was not only for fear of Anne’s suffering that I couldn’t speak; it was because I couldn’t bear the thought of what she would think of me if I did. It was so sweet being her mother—I couldn’t bear to give it up. And the triumph of your all thinking she’d done right to bring me back—I couldn’t give that up either, because I knew how much it counted in her feeling for me. Somehow, it turned me once more into the person I was meant to be—or thought I was meant to be. That’s all. I’m glad I’ve told you.... Only you mustn’t let it hurt you; not for long....”
After she had ended he continued to sit without moving; she had the impression that he had not heard what she had said. His attention, his receptive capacity, were still engrossed by the stark fact of her confession: her image and Chris Fenno’s were slowly burning themselves into his shrinking vision. To assist at the process was like peeping into a torture-chamber, and for the moment she lost the sense of her own misery in the helpless contemplation of his. Sterile pain, if ever there was—
At last she crossed over to where he sat, and laid a touch on his shoulder.
“Fred—you mustn’t let this hurt you. It has done me good to tell you ... it has helped. Your being so sorry has helped. And now it’s all over ... it’s ended....”
He did not change his attitude or even look up again. She still doubted if he heard her. After a minute or two she withdrew her hand and moved away. The strain had been too great; she had imposed on him more than he could bear. She saw that clearly now: she said to herself that their talk was over, that they were already leagues apart. Her sentimental experience had shown her how often two people still in the act of exchanging tender or violent words are in reality at the opposite ends of the earth, and she reflected, ironically, how much success in human affairs depends on the power to detect such displacements. She herself had no such successes to her credit; hers was at best the doubtful gift of discerning, perhaps more quickly than most people, why she failed. But to all such shades of suffering her friend was impervious: he was taking his ordeal in bulk.
She sat down and waited. Curiously enough, she was less unhappy than for a long time past. His pain and his pity were perhaps what she had most needed from him: the centre of her wretchedness seemed the point at which they were meant to meet. If only she could have put it in words simple enough to reach him—but to thank him for what he was suffering would have seemed like mockery; and she could only wait and say to herself that perhaps before long he would go.
After a while he lifted his head and slowly got to his feet. For a moment he seemed to waver; then he crossed the space between them, and stood before her. She rose too, and held out her hand; but he did not appear to notice the gesture, though his eyes were now intensely fixed on her.
“The time will come,” he said, “when all this will seem very far off from both of us. That’s all I want to think of now.”