“It’s of no importance whether we speak of a man in the village or not,” she said, turning away and hunching her shoulders.
They went back to sit by the fire, a bulk of hostility unspoken between them. Calladine felt peevish; his indolent, graceful, vaguely amorous morning had been spoilt; and spoilt by what? by the presence of Lovel. “You’ve never yet shaken off that lean rogue,” he broke out once, sudden and querulous after a spell of silence. They both sat staring into the fire, separate as they could be. They had not previously spoken of Lovel, not directly, not insistently; only to range round him with that nagging, niggling hesitation that seemed to pull at Calladine. But now his presence blocked every other road of conversation; he got in the way, he was near, he could not be got rid of. Almost, he was in the room.
Calladine looked at Clare; fair and slight, delicate even, but so unafraid. A touch, and she was instantly up and all-daring. She kindled at a spark. What was it that she and Lovel had in common? the same apparent frailty of body, the same flame of spirit,—Calladine had all the lyricism to clothe his perceptions with words. He had apprehended Lovel; on the rare occasion when he had seen him, he had apprehended him fully, to his own disquietude. And he apprehended Clare and their resemblance, with pain and resentment. They were two fine and vulnerable things, he thought; vulnerable and brave. But he thought it with only half of his brain, the lyrical, romantic half; with the other half he was peevish and irritated.
If only they were not so silent; Clare had never faltered or complained. Only she had wanted to go out; she had looked out of the window with a kind of homesickness. He was always catching her eyes at their straying, and being made aware how far removed she was from himself. But this, again, had been with half of his brain; with the other half he had known that she was his wife and that he had got her under his roof. And he had not allowed his lyrical self to call her a prisoner.
What if she were to escape? He would be without persuasion or authority.
“You stay with me out of apathy,” he cried. “If once your fancy changed, you would be gone.”
Clare, who had not been thinking of him, turned a mild glance of slight attention on him. He was glaring at her, frightened and angry.
“Yes,” he continued, “I don’t hold you; you’re kind to me, and you indulge my game of pretence. But you’re not really here. You’re indulgent to me as if I were a child,—‘yes, dear, very nice,’ between your own, grown-up preoccupations. But you ought to remember that I am your husband,” he said.
“When have I forgotten it?”
He sulked. It was true she had not forgotten it. He had no reproaches against her; she had been patient, gentle.