“It’s just two years since Eric died. You think I’m not in love with him and never was. Well, I’m not now, but I was once; and the whole of my heart went into it, George. Do men ever realize that women can be in love with them and yet know all the time that it’s a mistake? When he left me, Eric thought I’d been taking all his love for my own selfish, greedy enjoyment. I hadn’t. I took it because I couldn’t help myself; but I always knew it would be a mistake for us to marry. We were too much alike, too highly-strung. If you can imagine two great musicians marrying . . . If only I’d been strong enough to refuse his love! I couldn’t help myself . . . It was wrong of me, by any standard, to do what I did at Croxton. If I’d told you at the time . . .”
“I should have thought nothing of it, I hope.”
Barbara laughed mirthlessly and crossed to my chair, where she seated herself on the arm.
“That’s what I feared,” she whispered. “I knew I was wrong, I knew it would have been hell for us all if Eric had agreed, I’d had the worst rebuff that can come to a woman, I was still in love with him. All that, you’d have said, was nothing. A perfect Oakleighism! . . . Yet I wish now I had told you. Eric’s letter must have been a cruel shock.”
Her hand stole timidly to mine; and I raised it to my lips:
“That’s all over now; but, Babs, I did not spend twelve days wondering whether you would run away with any one else. What hurt was that you’d pretended to love me when you didn’t.”
“And that’s what you’ve been urging me to do for the last two years.”
Silence fell between us. Then I said:
“I’ve been hoping that you could love me without pretending. I forgot those twelve days the moment I set eyes on you.”
“Yes. You were as much in love with me as I was with Eric. But love didn’t give you much understanding, dear. For two years you’ve been waiting for me to confess that I did something very wrong: you’d then be able to commit another Oakleighism by forgiving me. You’ve been waiting for me to say I’ve outgrown my love for Eric, so that you could tell me—Oakleigh-fashion—that you’d always known time would cure all things. Well, I was wrong; and I have outgrown my love. Does it help you to know that? The difficulty is, George, that I don’t want to be forgiven. I’m not a child, I’m not an unsuccessful attempt to be a man; I’m a woman.”