She pretended to be angry, but in her heart she adored him when he was magnificent and arbitrary.
III
“It isn’t really a lie,” said Edith. “I really do go to the French class.”
“It’s too near a lie to suit me,” said Hardy bluntly. “I’m sick of this hole-and-corner business. It’s—can’t you see for yourself that it’s degrading to both of us? Edith, can’t we be honest about this? Let me go and see your aunt, and tell her the whole thing. If she makes a row, I dare say I can live through it.”
“I dare say you could,” Edith answered briefly.
They were coming near to one of the gates of Central Park. Their walk together was almost at an end—a walk which only a few weeks ago would have been a delight almost unsupportable, a thing to lie awake at night remembering, to think of all through a busy day. Now that rapture, that glamour, was gone. With all their love, their hope, their blind tenderness for each other, they were bitter at heart.
It was a wild, bright October evening. The moon seemed rocking in the fitful clouds, the wind sprang like a kitten along the paths after the dry leaves, the bare trees creaked stiff and resistant. All the world was in motion, restless, hurried. All things were free—except themselves. It was intolerable to Hardy, an affront to his fine young pride in himself, his magnificent assurance. It was petty, base, shameful!
“Edith!” he said suddenly. “I won’t go on like this!”
She stopped short in the middle of the path.
“I’m tired of hearing that,” she replied, in a queer, unsteady voice. “You’re always saying that—always blaming me; and you know we’ve got to go on like this—or not go on at all!”