The Literary Sense

"My husband was a beast," she said calmly. "He betrayed me, he beat me, he had every vile quality a man can have. No, I'll be just to him: he was always good tempered when he was drunk. But when he was sober he used to beat me and pinch me – "

"But – but you could have got a separation, a divorce," he gasped.

"A separation wouldn't have freed me – really. And the Church doesn't believe in divorce," she said demurely. "I did, however, and I left him, and instructed a solicitor. But the brute went mad before I could get free from him; and now, I suppose, I'm tied for life to a mad dog."

"Good God!" said the Reverend Christopher.

"I thought it all out – oh, many, many nights! – and I made up my mind that I would go out and enjoy myself. I never had a good time when I was a girl. And another thing I decided – quite definitely – that if ever I fell in love I would – I should have the right to – I mean that I wouldn't let a horrible, degraded brute of a lunatic stand between me and the man I loved. And I was quite sure that I was right."

"And do you still think this?" he asked in a low voice.

"Ah," she said, "you've changed everything! I don't think the same about anything as I used to do. I think those two years with him must have made me nearly as mad as he is. And then I was so young! I am only twenty-three now, you know – and it did seem hard never to have had any fun. I did want so much to be happy."

She had not intended to speak like this, but even as she spoke she saw that this truth-telling far outshone the lamp of lies she had trimmed ready.

"You will be happy," he said; "there are better things in the world than – "

"Yes," she said; "oh, yes!"

Betty did nothing by halves. She had kept a barrier between her and him till she had excited him to break it down. The barrier once broken, she let it lie where he had thrown it, and became, all at once, in the most natural, matter-of-fact, guileless way, his friend.

She consulted him about everything. Let him call when he would, she always received him. She surrounded him with the dainty feminine spider webs from which his life, almost monastic till now, had been quite free. She imported a knitting aunt, so that he should not take fright at long tête-à-têtes. The knitting aunt was deafish and blindish, and did not walk much in the rose garden. Betty knew a good deal about roses, and she taught the Reverend Christopher all she knew. She knew a little of the hearts of men, and she gently pushed him on the road to forgiveness from that half of the parish whom his first enthusiastic denunciations had offended. She rounded his angles. She turned a wayward ascetic into a fairly good parish priest. And he talked to her of ideals and honour and the service of God and the work of the world. And she listened, and her beauty spoke to him so softly that he did not know that he heard.

One day after long silence she turned quickly and met his eyes. After that she ceased to spin webs, for she saw. Yet she was as blind as he, though she did not know it any more than he did.

At last he saw, in his turn, and the flash of the illumination nearly blinded him.

It was late evening: Betty was nailing up a trailing rose, and he was standing by the ladder holding the nails and the snippets of scarlet cloth. The ladder slipped, and he caught her in his arms. As soon as she had assured him that she was not hurt, he said good night and left her.

Betty went indoors and cried. "What a pity!" she said. "Oh, what a pity! Now he'll be frightened, and it's all over. He'll never come again."

But the next evening he came, and when they had walked through the rose garden and had come to the sun-dial he stopped and spoke —

"I've been thinking of nothing else since I saw you. When I caught you last night. Forgive me if I'm a fool – but when I held you – don't be angry – but it seemed to me that you loved me – "

"Nothing of the sort," said Betty very angrily.

"Then I must be mad," he said; "the way you caught my neck with your arm, and your face was against mine, and your hair crushed up against my ear. Oh, Betty, if you don't love me, what shall I do? For I can't live without you."

Betty had won.

"But – even if I had loved you – I'm married," she urged softly.

"Yes – do you suppose I've forgotten that? But you remember what you said – about being really free, and not being bound to that beast. I see that you were right – right, right. It's the rest of the world that's wrong. Oh, my dear – I can't live without you. Couldn't you love me? Let's go away – right away together. No one will love you as I do. No one knows you as I do – how good and strong and brave and unselfish you are. Oh, try to love me a little!"

Betty had leaned her elbows on the sun-dial, and her chin on her hands.

"But you used to think …" she began.

"Ah – but I know better now. You've taught me everything. Only I never knew it till last night when I touched you. It was like a spark to a bonfire that I've been piling up ever since I've known you. You've taught me what life is, and love. Love can't be wrong. It's only wrong when it's stealing. We shouldn't be robbing anybody. We should both work better – happiness makes people work – I see that now. I should have to give up parish work – but there's plenty of good work wants doing. Why, I've nearly finished that book of mine. I've worked at it night after night – with the thought of you hidden behind the work. If you were my wife, what work I could do! Oh, Betty, if you only loved me!"

She lifted her face and looked at him gravely. He flung his arm round her shoulders and turned her face up to his. She was passive to his kisses. At last she kissed him, once, and drew herself from his arms.

"Come," she said.

She led him to the garden seat in the nut-avenue.

"Now," she said, when he had taken his place beside her, "I'm going to tell you the whole truth. I was very angry with you when you came to me that first day. You were quite right. That boy had been holding my hand: what's more, he had been kissing it. It amused me, and if it hurt him I didn't care. Then you came. And you said things. And then you said you weren't afraid of me or my weapons. It was a challenge. And I determined to make you love me. It was all planned, the helping in your work – and keeping out of your way at first was to make you wish to see me. And, you see, I succeeded. You did love me."

"I do," he said. He caught her hand and held it fiercely. "I deserved it all. I was a brute to you."

"I meant you to love me – and you did love me. I lied to you in almost everything – at first."

"About that man – was that a lie?" he asked fiercely.

"No," she laughed drearily. "That was true enough. You see, it was more effective than any lie I could have invented. No lie could have added a single horror to that story! And so I've won – as I swore I would!"

"Is that all," he said, "all the truth?"

"It's all there's any need for," she said.

"I want it all. I want to know where I am – whether I really was mad last night. Betty – in spite of all your truth I can't believe one thing. I can't believe that you don't love me."

"Man's vanity," she began, with a flippant laugh.

"Don't!" he said harshly. "How dare you try to play with me? Man's vanity! But it's your honour! I know you love me. If you didn't you would be – "

"How do you know I'm not?"

"Silence," he said. "If you can't speak the truth hold your tongue and let me speak it. I love you – and you love me – and we are going to be happy."

"I will speak the truth," said Betty, giving him her other hand. "You love me – and I love you, and we are going to be miserable. Yes – I will speak. Dear, I can't do it. Not even for you. I used to think I thought I could. I was bitter. I think I wanted to be revenged on life and God and everything. I thought I didn't believe in God, but I wanted to spite Him all the same. But when you came – after that day in the porch – when you came and talked to me about all the good and beautiful things – why, then I knew that I really did believe in them, and I began to love you because you had believed them all the time, and because… And I didn't try to make you love me – after that day in the porch – at least, not very much – oh, I do want to speak the truth! I used to try so not to try. I – I did want you to love me, though; I didn't want you to love anyone else. I wanted you to love me just enough to make you happy, and not enough to make you miserable. And so long as you didn't know you loved me it was all right: and when you caught me last night I knew that you would know, and it would be all over. You made up your mind to teach me that there are better things in the world than love – truth and honour and – and – things like that. And you've taught it me. It was a duel, and you've won."

"And you meant to teach me that love is stronger than anything in the world. And you have won too."

"Yes," she said, "we've both won. That's the worst of it – or the best."

"What is to become of us?" he said. "Oh, my dear – what are we to do? Do you forgive me? If you are right, I must be wrong – but I can't see anything now except that I want you so."

"I'm glad you loved me enough to be silly," she said; "but, oh, my dear, how glad I am that I love you too much to let you."

"But what are we to do?"

"Do? Nothing. Don't you see we've taught each other everything we know. We've given each other everything we can give. Isn't it good to love like this – even if this has to be all?"

"It's all very difficult," he said; "but everything shall be as you choose, only somehow I think it's worse for me than for you. I loved you before – and now I adore you. I seem to have made a saint of you – but you've made me a man."

One wishes with all one's heart that that lunatic would die. The situation is, one would say – impossible. Yet the lovers do not find it so. They work together, and parish scandal has almost ceased to patter about their names. There is a subtle pleasure for both in the ceremonious courtesy with which ever since that day they treat each other. It contrasts so splendidly with the living flame upon each heart-altar. So far the mutual passion has improved the character of each. All the same, one wishes that the lunatic would die – for she is not so much of a saint as he thinks her, and he is more of a man than she knows.