John changed his position a little, which, in the high strain of emotion at which they were, seemed to both of them like a sort of response; so that he was almost forced to add, ‘With you only?’ faintly. He did not intend to say it. It did not mean anything. It was a mere echo, as if the air caught the words. But it had not upon her this harmless effect. Her paleness, which nothing else had touched, flushed high at these words; she made a sudden movement as if she had received a blow.
‘With me only,’ she repeated, with mingled energy and irritation, as if he had suggested a doubt. ‘Who else?—do you mean to say? do you think——?’ These questions came from her hurriedly with something quite unlike her usual gravity and calm. Then she stopped with a panting hard-drawn breath, and added after a moment, in a tone almost of derision, ‘As you are so intent on setting yourself against me, perhaps you will tell me what, left to yourself, you would do.’
John could not quite tell what this change of tone meant. He was not used to the quick interchange of argument nor was he quick to note the significance of the inflections of a voice. He had never known controversy at all, until he had embarked upon this one, and the moment he withdrew from the unintentional force of silence, in which he had at first wrapped himself, his ignorance and defencelessness became apparent. He thought however that she was withdrawing from her position, and recognising some claim in him to know and judge for himself. He left the place where he had been standing, and came to the middle of the room, throwing himself into a chair on the other side of the table.
‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘that all this is mine now.’
‘What is yours?’
‘I mean: I suppose it is—all left to me? I could stay here, and—give no one any trouble.’
‘Left to you, my father’s house and all that he had! Is that what you mean? and you would stay here?’
‘I suppose so,’ said John. ‘I don’t know why. It seems natural, I thought it would always be mine. If I was wrong, I’m—I’m very sorry,’ he cried, giving a sudden bewildered glance round him, with a new and painful light of possibility breaking on his mind.
‘And you would stay here?’ she said. ‘And do—what? nothing? If you have your plans made——’
‘I have no plans made. I have not thought of anything. I supposed—that was how it could be.’ He looked at her for the first time with a bewildered appeal in his eyes. ‘If you knew what it was—to change all at once from being so—spoilt, perhaps, as you say, always understood, never found any fault with——’ in spite of himself his voice faltered, ‘to change from that to—to—— and being not very old, nor knowing very well: it makes a great difference,’ John said, feeling a sob swell upwards in his boyish throat, and breaking off that he might not betray himself. And he did not look at her again to see if there was in her any responsive feeling, but leaned his head upon his hands, shading his countenance from the light. And then there followed a moment of silence,—so silent, so long—with the clock ticking loudly through it with a sort of triumphant click-clack, as if that ceaseless measure were the master of all.