“What are you frightened of, boy? Tell me what you’re frightened of. I’m your wife, boy. I won’t hurt you.”
Suddenly, she felt his arms round her; his lips at her ear. Clinging to her, straining her to him, he spoke: fiercely, as men speak in fight:—
“You mustn’t love a coward, Pat. God knows I want you. God knows I mustn’t take you. . . . I am a coward. Do you know what that means? . . . I’ll tell you. . . . Everything frightens me. . . . I am afraid to go out alone. . . . I am afraid for the children, for you, for myself. . . . I am afraid of life. . . . I am afraid to go on living. . . . And I haven’t got the pluck to kill myself. . . . Dear Christ, I haven’t even got the pluck to kill myself. . . .”
He began to cry, clinging to her, straining her to him: cruel dry sobs, deep down in the throat. She could not move; she could not see him. Her breasts were two burning torments; her body burned as with fire.
“Peter”—would he hear her? O God! would he hear her?—“I don’t care if you’re a coward. I don’t care about anything. Only make love to me. Make love to me, boy, or I shall die. . . .”
§ 5
All that night, he lay in her arms; sleepless. All that night she lay listening to him, listening to the horrors in his brain. In the darkness, he told her of dark things, things hidden from sheltered women. For he had walked many nights with Fear, none aiding; till Fear had bitten deep into his soul. . . .
All that night she lay listening to these things, unafraid, glorying that he should tell her of them, pitying him, loving him, persuading him. . . .
But when at last, promise given, he fell asleep on her naked breast; when at last dawn peeped at her through the chinks of the window-curtains; Fear came to Patricia—and with Fear, Fear’s kinswoman, self-reproach.
Would he hate her when he awoke? Would he retract the promise given? Had she robbed him of honour, lost him his lonely battle for self-respect? Had her thoughts been all of him? Had she given herself all selflessly?