"If you will talk such madness, I can't help it," she said, with shortened breath.
"Yes—you'll come!" he said, nodding. "What have you to do with Ashe, Kitty, any longer? You and he are already divided. You have tried life together and what have you made of it? You're not fit for this mincing, tripping London life—nor am I? And as for morals—- I'll tell you a strange thing, Kitty." He bent forward and grasped her hands with a force which hurt—from which she could not release herself. "I believe—yes, by God, I believe!—that I am a better man than I was before I started on this adventure. It's been like drinking at last at the very source of life—living, not talking about it. One bitter night last February, for instance, I helped a man—one of the insurgents—who had taken to the mountains with his wife and children—to carry his wife, a dying woman, over a mountain-pass to the only place where she could possibly get help and shelter. We carried her on a litter, six men taking turns. The cold and the fatigue were such that I shudder now when I think of it. Yet at the end I seemed to myself a man reborn. I was happier than I had ever been in my life. Some mystic virtue had flowed into me. Among those men and women, instead of being the selfish beast I've been all these years, I can forget myself. Death seems nothing—brotherhood—liberty!—everything! And yet—"
His face relaxed, became ironical, reflective. But he held the hands close, his grasp of them hidden by the folds of fur which hung about her.
"And yet—I can say to you without a qualm—put this marriage which has already come to naught behind you—and come with me! Ashe cramps you. He blames you—you blame yourself. What reality has all that? It makes you miserable—it wastes life. I accept your nature—I don't ask you to be anything else than yourself—your wild, vain, adorable self! Ashe asks you to put restraint on yourself—to make painful efforts—to be good for his sake—the sake of something outside. I say—come and look at the elemental things—death and battle—hatred, solitude, love. They'll sweep us out of ourselves!—no need to strive and cry for it—into the great current of the world's being—bring us close to the forces at the root of things—the forces which create—and destroy. Dip your heart in that stream, Kitty, and feel it grow in your breast. Take a nurse's dress—put your hand in mine—and come! I can't promise you luxuries or ease. You've had enough of those. Come and open another door in the House of Life! Take starving women and hunted children into your arms—- feel with them—weep with them—look with them into the face of death! Make friends with nature—with rocks, forests, torrents—with night and dawn, which you've never seen, Kitty! They'll love you—they'll support you—the rough people—and the dark forests. They'll draw nature's glamour round you—they'll pour her balm into your soul. And I shall be with you—beside you!—your guardian—your lover—your lover, Kitty—till death do us part."
He looked at her with the smile which was his only but sufficient beauty; the violent, exciting words flowed in her ear, amid the sound of rising waves and the distant talk of the fishermen. His hand crushed hers; his mad, imploring eyes repelled and constrained her. The wild hungers and curiosities of her being rushed to meet him; she heard the echo of her own words to Ashe: "More life—more life!—even though it lead to pain—and agony—and tears!"
Then she wrenched herself away—suddenly, contemptuously.
"Of course, that's all nonsense—romantic nonsense. You've perhaps forgotten that I am one of the women who don't stir without their maid."
Cliffe's expression changed. He thrust his hands into his pockets.
"Oh, well, if you must have a maid," he said, dryly, "that settles it. A maid would be the deuce. And yet—I think I could find you a Bosnian girl—strong and faithful—"
Their eyes met—his already full of a kind of ownership, tender, confident, humorous even—hers alive with passionate anger and resistance.