“Very nearly,” she said with the accent of pent-up sincerity, and even relieved because she was able to say something which she felt was true. For the last few days she had felt herself several times near that madness which is but an intolerable lucidity of apprehension.
The clear voices of Mrs. Fyne and the girls were coming nearer, sounding affected in the peace of the passion-laden earth. He began storming at her hastily.
“Nonsense! Nobody can . . . Indeed! Pah! You’ll have to be shown that somebody can. I can. Nobody . . . ” He made a contemptuous hissing noise. “More likely you can’t. They have done something to you. Something’s crushed your pluck. You can’t face a man—that’s what it is. What made you like this? Where do you come from? You have been put upon. The scoundrels—whoever they are, men or women, seem to have robbed you of your very name. You say you are not Miss Smith. Who are you, then?”
She did not answer. He muttered, “Not that I care,” and fell silent, because the fatuous self-confident chatter of the Fyne girls could be heard at the very gate. But they were not going to bed yet. They passed on. He waited a little in silence and immobility, then stamped his foot and lost control of himself. He growled at her in a savage passion. She felt certain that he was threatening her and calling her names. She was no stranger to abuse, as we know, but there seemed to be a particular kind of ferocity in this which was new to her. She began to tremble. The especially terrifying thing was that she could not make out the nature of these awful menaces and names. Not a word. Yet it was not the shrinking anguish of her other experiences of angry scenes. She made a mighty effort, though her knees were knocking together, and in an expiring voice demanded that he should let her go indoors. “Don’t stop me. It’s no use. It’s no use,” she repeated faintly, feeling an invincible obstinacy rising within her, yet without anger against that raging man.
He became articulate suddenly, and, without raising his voice, perfectly audible.
“No use! No use! You dare stand here and tell me that—you white-faced wisp, you wreath of mist, you little ghost of all the sorrow in the world. You dare! Haven’t I been looking at you? You are all eyes. What makes your cheeks always so white as if you had seen something . . . Don’t speak. I love it . . . No use! And you really think that I can now go to sea for a year or more, to the other side of the world somewhere, leaving you behind. Why! You would vanish . . . what little there is of you. Some rough wind will blow you away altogether. You have no holding ground on earth. Well, then trust yourself to me—to the sea—which is deep like your eyes.”
She said: “Impossible.” He kept quiet for a while, then asked in a totally changed tone, a tone of gloomy curiosity:
“You can’t stand me then? Is that it?”
“No,” she said, more steady herself. “I am not thinking of you at all.”
The inane voices of the Fyne girls were heard over the sombre fields calling to each other, thin and clear. He muttered: “You could try to. Unless you are thinking of somebody else.”