Chapter XVII: Lying to Cecil
He was bewildered. He had nothing to say. He was not even angry, butstood, with a glass of whiskey between his hands, trying to think whathad led her to such a conclusion.
She had chosen the moment before bed, when, in accordance with theirbourgeois habit, she always dispensed drinks to the men. Freddy and Mr.Floyd were sure to retire with their glasses, while Cecil invariablylingered, sipping at his while she locked up the sideboard.
"I am very sorry about it," she said; "I have carefully thought thingsover. We are too different. I must ask you to release me, and try toforget that there ever was such a foolish girl."
It was a suitable speech, but she was more angry than sorry, and hervoice showed it.
"Different--how--how--"
"I haven't had a really good education, for one thing," she continued,still on her knees by the sideboard. "My Italian trip came too late, andI am forgetting all that I learnt there. I shall never be able to talkto your friends, or behave as a wife of yours should."
"I don't understand you. You aren't like yourself. You're tired, Lucy."
"Tired!" she retorted, kindling at once. "That is exactly like you. Youalways think women don't mean what they say."
"Well, you sound tired, as if something has worried you."
"What if I do? It doesn't prevent me from realizing the truth. I can'tmarry you, and you will thank me for saying so some day."
"You had that bad headache yesterday--All right"--for she had exclaimedindignantly: "I see it's much more than headaches. But give me amoment's time." He closed his eyes. "You must excuse me if I say stupidthings, but my brain has gone to pieces. Part of it lives three minutesback, when I was sure that you loved me, and the other part--I find itdifficult--I am likely to say the wrong thing."
It struck her that he was not behaving so badly, and her irritationincreased. She again desired a struggle, not a discussion. To bring onthe crisis, she said:
"There are days when one sees clearly, and this is one of them. Thingsmust come to a breaking-point some time, and it happens to be to-day. Ifyou want to know, quite a little thing decided me to speak to you--whenyou wouldn't play tennis with Freddy."
"I never do play tennis," said Cecil, painfully bewildered; "I nevercould play. I don't understand a word you say."
"You can play well enough to make up a four. I thought it abominablyselfish of you."
"No, I can't--well, never mind the tennis. Why couldn't you--couldn'tyou have warned me if you felt anything wrong? You talked of our weddingat lunch--at least, you let me talk."
"I knew you wouldn't understand," said Lucy quite crossly. "I might haveknown there would have been these dreadful explanations. Of course,it isn't the tennis--that was only the last straw to all I have beenfeeling for weeks. Surely it was better not to speak until I feltcertain." She developed this position. "Often before I have wondered ifI was fitted for your wife--for instance, in London; and are you fittedto be my husband? I don't think so. You don't like Freddy, nor mymother. There was always a lot against our engagement, Cecil, but allour relations seemed pleased, and we met so often, and it was no goodmentioning it until--well, until all things came to a point. They haveto-day. I see clearly. I must speak. That's all."
"I cannot think you were right," said Cecil gently. "I cannot tellwhy, but though all that you say sounds true, I feel that you are nottreating me fairly. It's all too horrible."
"What's the good of a scene?"
"No good. But surely I have a right to hear a little more."
He put down his glass and opened the window. From where she knelt,jangling her keys, she could see a slit of darkness, and, peering intoit, as if it would tell him that "little more," his long, thoughtfulface.
"Don't open the window; and you'd better draw the curtain, too; Freddyor any one might be outside." He obeyed. "I really think we had bettergo to bed, if you don't mind. I shall only say things that will make meunhappy afterwards. As you say it is all too horrible, and it is no goodtalking."
But to Cecil, now that he was about to lose her, she seemed each momentmore desirable. He looked at her, instead of through her, for the firsttime since they were engaged. From a Leonardo she had become a livingwoman, with mysteries and forces of her own, with qualities that eveneluded art. His brain recovered from the shock, and, in a burst ofgenuine devotion, he cried: "But I love you, and I did think you lovedme!"
"I did not," she said. "I thought I did at first. I am sorry, and oughtto have refused you this last time, too."
He began to walk up and down the room, and she grew more and more vexedat his dignified behaviour. She had counted on his being petty. It wouldhave made things easier for her. By a cruel irony she was drawing outall that was finest in his disposition.
"You don't love me, evidently. I dare say you are right not to. But itwould hurt a little less if I knew why."
"Because"--a phrase came to her, and she accepted it--"you're the sortwho can't know any one intimately."
A horrified look came into his eyes.
"I don't mean exactly that. But you will question me, though I beg younot to, and I must say something. It is that, more or less. When wewere only acquaintances, you let me be myself, but now you're alwaysprotecting me." Her voice swelled. "I won't be protected. I will choosefor myself what is ladylike and right. To shield me is an insult. Can'tI be trusted to face the truth but I must get it second-hand throughyou? A woman's place! You despise my mother--I know you do--becauseshe's conventional and bothers over puddings; but, oh goodness!"--sherose to her feet--"conventional, Cecil, you're that, for you mayunderstand beautiful things, but you don't know how to use them; and youwrap yourself up in art and books and music, and would try to wrap upme. I won't be stifled, not by the most glorious music, for people aremore glorious, and you hide them from me. That's why I break off myengagement. You were all right as long as you kept to things, but whenyou came to people--" She stopped.
There was a pause. Then Cecil said with great emotion:
"It is true."
"True on the whole," she corrected, full of some vague shame.
"True, every word. It is a revelation. It is--I."
"Anyhow, those are my reasons for not being your wife."
He repeated: "'The sort that can know no one intimately.' It is true. Ifell to pieces the very first day we were engaged. I behaved like a cadto Beebe and to your brother. You are even greater than I thought." Shewithdrew a step. "I'm not going to worry you. You are far too good tome. I shall never forget your insight; and, dear, I only blame you forthis: you might have warned me in the early stages, before you feltyou wouldn't marry me, and so have given me a chance to improve. I havenever known you till this evening. I have just used you as a peg formy silly notions of what a woman should be. But this evening you are adifferent person: new thoughts--even a new voice--"
"What do you mean by a new voice?" she asked, seized with incontrollableanger.
"I mean that a new person seems speaking through you," said he.
Then she lost her balance. She cried: "If you think I am in love withsomeone else, you are very much mistaken."
"Of course I don't think that. You are not that kind, Lucy."
"Oh, yes, you do think it. It's your old idea, the idea that has keptEurope back--I mean the idea that women are always thinking of men. Ifa girl breaks off her engagement, everyone says: 'Oh, she had someone else in her mind; she hopes to get someone else.' It's disgusting,brutal! As if a girl can't break it off for the sake of freedom."
He answered reverently: "I may have said that in the past. I shall neversay it again. You have taught me better."
She began to redden, and pretended to examine the windows again. "Ofcourse, there is no question of 'someone else' in this, no 'jilting' orany such nauseous stupidity. I beg your pardon most humbly if my wordssuggested that there was. I only meant that there was a force in youthat I hadn't known of up till now."
"All right, Cecil, tha
t will do. Don't apologize to me. It was mymistake."
"It is a question between ideals, yours and mine--pure abstract ideals,and yours are the nobler. I was bound up in the old vicious notions,and all the time you were splendid and new." His voice broke. "I mustactually thank you for what you have done--for showing me what I reallyam. Solemnly, I thank you for showing me a true woman. Will you shakehands?"
"Of course I will," said Lucy, twisting up her other hand in thecurtains. "Good-night, Cecil. Good-bye. That's all right. I'm sorryabout it. Thank you very much for your gentleness."
"Let me light your candle, shall I?"
They went into the hall.
"Thank you. Good-night again. God bless you, Lucy!"
"Good-bye, Cecil."
She watched him steal up-stairs, while the shadows from three banisterspassed over her face like the beat of wings. On the landing he pausedstrong in his renunciation, and gave her a look of memorable beauty. Forall his culture, Cecil was an ascetic at heart, and nothing in his lovebecame him like the leaving of it.
She could never marry. In the tumult of her soul, that stood firm. Cecilbelieved in her; she must some day believe in herself. She must be oneof the women whom she had praised so eloquently, who care for libertyand not for men; she must forget that George loved her, that George hadbeen thinking through her and gained her this honourable release, thatGeorge had gone away into--what was it?--the darkness.
She put out the lamp.
It did not do to think, nor, for the matter of that, to feel. She gave uptrying to understand herself, and joined the vast armies of the benighted, whofollow neither the heart nor the brain, and march to their destiny bycatch-words. The armies are full of pleasant and pious folk. But theyhave yielded to the only enemy that matters--the enemy within. They havesinned against passion and truth, and vain will be their strife aftervirtue. As the years pass, they are censured. Their pleasantry andtheir piety show cracks, their wit becomes cynicism, their unselfishnesshypocrisy; they feel and produce discomfort wherever they go. They havesinned against Eros and against Pallas Athene, and not by any heavenlyintervention, but by the ordinary course of nature, those allied deitieswill be avenged.
Lucy entered this army when she pretended to George that she did notlove him, and pretended to Cecil that she loved no one. The nightreceived her, as it had received Miss Bartlett thirty years before.