The Crown of Life Part 40

"It was. I had not understood that before."

"His relief may have been as much on your account as his own."

"I can't feel that," replied Irene. "If it were true, he could have made me feel it. There would have been something--if only a word--in the letter he wrote me about the death. I didn't expect him to talk to me about the hateful things that were going on; I _did_ hope that he would give me some a.s.surance of his indifference to their effect on people's minds. Yet no; that is not quite true. Even then, I had got past hoping it. Already I understood him too well."

"Strange! All this new light came after your engagement?"

Irene bent her head again, for her cheeks were warm. In a flash of intellect, she wondered that a man so deep in the science of life should be so at a loss before elementary facts of emotional experience.

She could only answer by saying nothing.

Dr. Derwent murmured his next words.

"I, too, have a share in the blame of all this."

"You, father?"

"I knew the man better than you did or could. I shirked a difficult duty. But one reason why I did so, was that I felt in doubt as to your mind. The fact that you were my daughter did not alter the fact that you were a woman, and I could not have any a.s.surance that I understood you. If there had been a question of his life, his intellectual powers, his views--I would have said freely just what I thought. But there was no need; no objection rose on that score; you saw the man, from that point of view, much as I did--only with a little more sympathy. In other respects, I trusted to what we call women's instinct, women's perceptiveness. To me, he did not seem your natural mate; but then I saw with man's eyes; I was afraid of meddling obtusely."

"Don't reproach yourself, father. The knowledge I have gained could only have come to me in one way."

"Of course he will turn to me, in appeal against you."

"If so, it will be one more proof how rightly I am acting."

The Doctor smiled, all but laughed.

"Considering how very decent a fellow he is, your mood seems severe, Irene. Well, you have made up your mind. It's an affair of no small gravity, and we must get through it as best we can. I have no doubt whatever it's worse for you than for anyone else concerned."

"It is so bad for me, father, that, when I have gone through it, I shall be at the end of my strength. I shall run away from the after consequences."

"What do you mean?"

"I shall accept Mrs. Horisoff's invitation and go to Paris. It is deserting you, but----"

Dr. Derwent wore a doubtful look; he pondered, and began to pace the floor.

"We must think about that."

Though her own mind was quite made up, Irene did not see fit to say more at this juncture. She rose. Her father continued moving hither and thither, his hands behind his back, seemingly oblivious of her presence. To him, the trouble seemed only just beginning, and he was not at all sure what the end would be.

"Jacks will come this evening, I suppose?" he threw out, as Irene approached the door.

"Perhaps this afternoon."

He looked at her with sympathy, with apprehension. Irene endeavouring to smile in reply, pa.s.sed from his view.

Olga had gone out, merely saying that she wished to see a friend, and that she might not be back to luncheon. She did not return. Father and daughter were alone together at the meal. Contrary to Irene's expectation, the Doctor had become almost cheerful; he made one or two quiet jokes in the old way, of course on any subject but that which filled their minds, and his behaviour was marked with an unusual gentleness. Irene was so moved by grateful feeling, that now and then she could not trust her voice.

"Let me remind you," he said, observing her lack of appet.i.te, "that an ill-nourished brain can't be depended upon for sanity of argument."

"It aches a little," she replied quietly.

"I was afraid so. What if you rest to-day, and let me postpone for you that interview----?"

The suggestion was dreadful; she put it quickly aside. She hoped with all her strength that Arnold Jacks would have received the letter already, and that he would come to see her this afternoon. To pa.s.s another night with her suspense would be a strain scarce endurable.

Fog still hung about the streets, shifting, changing its density, but never allowing a glimpse of sky. Alone in the drawing-room Irene longed for the end of so-called day, that she might shut out that spirit-crushing blotch of bare trees and ugly houses. She thought of a sudden, how much harder we make life than it need be, by dwelling amid scenes that disgust, in air that lowers vitality. There fell on her a mood of marvelling at the aims and the satisfactions of mankind. This hideous oblong, known as Bryanston Square--how did it come to seem a desirable place of abode? Nay, how was it for a moment tolerable to reasoning men and women? This whole London now gasping in foul vapours that half obscured, half emphasised its inexpressible monstrosity, its inconceivable abominations--by what blighting of eye and soul did a nation come to accept it as their world-shown pride, their supreme City? She was lost in a truth-perceiving dream. Habit and a.s.sociation dropped away; things declared themselves in their actuality; her mind whirled under the sense of human folly, helplessness, endurance.

"Irene----"

A cry escaped her; she started at the sound of her name as if terrified. Arnold Jacks had entered the room, and drawn near to her, whilst she was deep in reverie.

"I am sorry to have alarmed you," he added, smiling tolerantly.

With embarra.s.sment which was almost shame--for she despised womanish nervousness--Irene turned towards the fireplace, where chairs invited them.

"Let us sit down and talk," she said, in a softened voice. "I am so grateful to you for coming at once."

CHAPTER XXVII

His manner was that to which she had grown accustomed, or differed so little from it that, in ordinary circ.u.mstances, she would have remarked no peculiarity. He might have seemed, perhaps, a trifle less matter-of-fact than usual, slightly more disposed to ironic playfulness. At ease in the soft chair, his legs extended, with feet crossed, he observed Irene from under humorously bent brows; watched her steadily, until he saw that she could bear it no longer. Then he spoke.

"I thought we should get through without it."

"Without what?"

"This little reaction. It comes into the ordinary prognosis, I believe; but we seemed safe. Yet I can't say I'm sorry. It's better no doubt, to get this over before marriage."

Irene flushed, and for a moment strung herself to the att.i.tude of offended pride. But it pa.s.sed. She smiled to his smile, and, playing with the ta.s.sel of her chair, responded in a serious undertone.

"I hoped my letter could not possibly be misunderstood."

"I understand it perfectly. I am here to talk it over from your own standpoint."

Again he frowned jocosely. His elbows on the chair-arms, he tapped together the points of his fingers, exhibiting nails which were all that they should have been. Out of regard for the Derwents' mourning, he wore a tie of black satin, and his clothes were of dark-grey, a rough material which combined the effects of finish and of carelessness--note of the well-dressed Englishman.

"We cannot talk it over," rejoined Irene. "I have nothing to say--except that I take blame and shame to myself, and that I entreat your forgiveness."

Under his steady eye, his good-humoured, watchful mastery, she was growing restive.

"I was in doubt whether to come to-day," said Jacks, in a reflective tone. "I thought at first of sending a note, and postponing our meeting. I understood so perfectly the state of mind in which you wrote--the natural result of most painful events. The fact is, I am guilty of bad taste in seeming to treat it lightly; you have suffered very much, and won't be yourself for some days. But, after all, it isn't as if one had to do with the ordinary girl. To speak frankly I thought it was the kindest thing to come--so I came."

Nothing Arnold had ever said to her had so appealed to Irene's respect as this last sentence. It had the ring of entire sincerity; it was quite simply spoken; it soothed her nerves.

"Thank you," she answered with a grateful look. "You did right. I could not have borne it--if you had just written and put it off. Indeed, I could not have borne it."