Her spirit was
utterly broken. No worse could happen to her now. But through all
her misery, she could still think first of him. That tentative
drawing away, the hand stretching out for the door, she knew the
meaning of that; she saw that he had had enough--enough of her weeping,
enough of her despair. Just as when, watching the fight, she had
struggled against her weakness lest it should spoil his pleasure,
so now she fought down the hysteria of her mind to give him ease.
Very wearily she crossed the room and stood beside him, forcing back
tears with lips that were trembling and contorted. It was no show
of bravado, no spurious bravery, aping self-respect, taking it well,
as the phrase has it. She was not brave. She felt a coward to all
of life that offered. Her heart was that of a derelict--numbed, inert,
no spirit left in it--just lifting its head with sluggish weariness
above the body of the waves. But simply out of love for him she could
not bear to see him annoyed by her suffering.
"You needn't hurry to go," she said finely; "I shan't make a fool
of myself--the way you think. I shan't be a drag on you--I promise
you that. And if you're going to-morrow, wouldn't you stop just a
little while and talk?"
At any other moment the simplicity of that would have touched him;
but the affection that Devenish had seen to be tiring had been
snapped--a thread in a flame--when he had found her watching his
actions, dogging his footsteps.
Pages:
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421