Her words had taken O'Brien quite aback. Was it divination, instinct, that told her he had been friendly only in externals, and that he owed her no particular goodwill? Or was it that she did not at the time of the fatal occurrence wish any one to be near who knew much of her former life? Could it be that if he had been absent from the inquest some of the unpleasant events preceding her marriage would not have been so nakedly exposed by either her or Blake? Who could tell? Not he, certainly.
He looked from Mrs. Davenport to Alfred, and mentally pitied him.
"I cannot wonder," he thought, "at his falling in love with her. If I were in his shoes, I don't know what might happen to me. Fortunately I am safe."
He glanced gratefully at Madge.
She could not understand exactly what he meant by his eyes; but she knew they were not eyes of disapproval or dislike, and so she looked down because she would have liked to look up.
A general and desultory talk was going on. Alfred felt quite well already. Notwithstanding his feeble state, he felt the strength of ten men against all the world. He felt towards her a worshipful tenderness he could not describe--did not want to describe, only wanted to enjoy. When one is sailing in the sun over a summer bay, who wants to analyse the light, and hear of the solar spectrum? When one is at the opera, who cares about the number of vibrations it takes to produce a certain note? When one is in love, who cares to analyse the charm? Delight is not so plentiful in the world that we need pick it to pieces. Alfred would not try to find out why he was supremely happy in her presence. His happiness was enough for him. Others might say what they pleased of her. All he would say was "Let me be near her."
Of the two friends, O'Brien was the more robust by far. His nature was sturdy, almost aggressive. He had a hatred of what he called "tinkering his opinions." He could be as straightforward and downright as any other man alive. He could stick to his opinions, and had a contempt for consequences. In manner he was a trifle arrogant. It was this feeling of independence and self-assertion which made him feel but slightly attracted towards Mrs. Davenport, and which often repelled him from her.
"If she were my wife," he thought, "there would be two masters in the house, and it would end in my throwing her out of a window--an act which would no doubt import unpleasantness into our household. And yet if she thought well of wheedling me, she could. A man could never be her husband. Davenport was her owner. If ever she marries again, it will be a master or a slave. Poor Alfred would make a fine master for such an Amazon! But it's downright brutal of me to call her an Amazon. After all, it would be a very terrible thing to be loved by that woman. I think if I were married to her, I'd rather she hated me and mastered me, always provided it was not I who went through that window. When you find yourself continually thinking of a woman you are not in love with, it's a bad sign of the woman, as a rule."
Alfred had been of service to her--service however slight--on the evening of that terrible catastrophe. He had seen her aidless, alone, helpless, dismayed. Her voice that night struck the keynote of the music she had awakened in his heart. To those who did not know her well--to those who had not seen her in difficulty and despair, her outward seeming might be one of command and victory. But he had found her distracted with horror, had lent her aid, and seen her relieved by his own act. He had, in however humble a way, played the part of protector. He had seen the feminine, the dependant side of her nature revealed. She might be stately, commanding, self-sufficient, imperious to others. To him she would always be the woman who once leaned upon his manhood. Her beauty, her grace, her commanding stateliness might draw other admirers to her side; to him the child-like helplessness of her womanhood lent the charm which could never die or fade away, and brought him more close to her heart than if he had sat and worshipped at her feet for years. He had been the donor of little in her distress; he would be the donor of all he had or could command in the world for her protection and peace.
While the ladies and the two young men were chatting soberly together, Mr. Paulton came in. He was unfeignedly delighted to see Mrs. Davenport. He had never been easy in his mind since that day she left his roof in the depth of her misery. Although she had gone away of her own free will and of her own independent initiative, he was unable to rid himself of the feeling that he expelled this woman from his roof when she most needed friendship and protection. She had come out of the ordeal of the trial purified, if purification were necessary; and public opinion, of which he stood in great respect, not only held him justified in the countenance he had given her, but applauded him loudly for his bold, open-handed help to a lonely woman in a strange place.