Devil's Tor (16 page)

For long before she had ever begun to attract him by her sex, the same idea must unconsciously have furnished him with the subject for his portrait of her as the young Mary. That was five years ago. Even so far back, he meant, she must have struck him as being a girl who was not to wed whom she pleased, but the man alone who could give her what she required. The picture hadn't put happiness into her face; the look on it was of expectancy and dread, as well it might be. But it was the long persisting of the intuition, as evidenced by the date of that portrait, that served to prove the genuineness of its correspondence to a real character of Ingrid's. No mere fancy could have lasted those five years and more.

Not its endurance, however, but its psychological rank, mattered. And just because the insight belonged to the great general family of his artistic dumb recognitions, and beginnings of inspiration, and emotions at variance with present realities, and the indistinct rising and forming of new truths, he was not permitted to abandon it as a probable misreading of personal idiosyncrasies of no special importance, but on the contrary was compelled to pay it the high honour experience had long since taught him to pay to all these dim workings of his spirit. In his art they constituted the one thing of value, never disappointing him, though often surprising him by their metamorphosis; so in life, the identical groping and obscurity, and deep-down sense and certainty of having encountered the
real,
must needs give him the longest pause.

The hell was that he was debarred by decency from talking this thing out with Ingrid herself. He would surely pain and offend her thereby, and as surely she must attempt warmly to reassure him concerning her singleness of heart; and, unfortunately, it would not depend upon her sincerity, for her self-ignorance also must be allowed for. Thus it seemed that for an indefinite period they must go drifting hopelessly and helplessly on, while he, for his part, must confine himself to the churlish retardation of the steady natural swelling to sweetness and torment of their friendship. If he did speak, it would end all at a blow. He would weakly be persuaded that this his instinct, a thing belonging to the whole foundations of his manner of truth, was no more than a fantasy of his brain. And meanwhile his supposed cowardice must be appearing so inexplicable to her and her mother. His character as a man must be wholly misrepresenting itself.

Yet standing as he did for an advanced type of the twentieth century, the finest love of which has acquired compassion, protectiveness, sacrifice, delicacy of consideration, and suchlike virtues, as a more than equivalent exchange for the lost hunger and half devilish passion of past ages; also comprehending as he did how the violent native cravings of humanity, being frustrated, inevitably breed degeneration and vice; he could not indeed find the necessary iron within him peremptorily to cut the acquaintance as improper, but still would not adopt the easy alternative of suddenly releasing his pent will to prefer his suit. Suffering, he was sure, she was. Their bond, in spite of his long absences, already had the unbreakable strength of an invisible magic hair-cable. It was not in the least strange that he could summon no smile to his face, while he stood there looking up at her.

A very trifling accident that morning had already brought it about that his troubles were to end.

Never before in his life had he seen Ingrid's serious and anxious long, pale features appear so strong and lovely. From such beauty he knew he could not by sheer force of will alone wrench his existence, but only if it were for her own sake; and that must be shown. Especially he loved her for this unsmiling welcome, which displayed the terms they were on, raising the intimacy at a stroke, in the way of faultless taste, from the traditions of the world they both knew to the skies. And the extraordinary importance to her of his coming declared itself in the searching of her eyes, that now were
like
the skies. It declared itself still more essentially in her being at this window at all. She had never looked abroad for him on any other of his early morning arrivals.

It was out of his power to go on longer treating her so shamefully. He must speak to her—not now, but to-day. One couldn't foresee everything, and it was a bare possibility that she might throw another light on what was agonising him. So he planned a sudden. … But unless Ingrid had shown herself to him thus, the plan would not have been; and unless she had previously been handling Hugh's stone by her mother's window, she could not have seen him from it, to be in time to greet him. Neither afterwards guessed how precariously suspended on that slender thread of chance had been the closer intermingling of their two lives.

Peter found no word as yet to say, and therefore, pushing back the hair from her forehead, she addressed him again.

"I am so glad to see you, Peter! I suppose you have been travelling through the night and have made the
détour
, to declare your arrival, as usual?"

His silence and gravity had begun to appear unnatural to her, although she dared not recognise them in distinct thought. Increasingly during the last twelve months, the dread was frequent with her that one day in the near future their parting would be altogether. He would meet some girl in town, or get tired of their dullness down here, or make Continental plans—she neither knew nor seemed to care how it would be; it would be the fact itself that would rob her of—what? He had never said that there was anything between them. He had a perfect moral right to close down the Belhill studio if he pleased. He might be hesitating to announce it even at this minute. The moment would be cynically appropriate, for she felt that on no former visit of his would she have taken it so much to heart. A dark
something
, not yet a conception, was in her mind, that she particularly needed since yesterday to cling to every particle of the warmth and love in her life, if she would escape this great shadow... hanging over her. … And still the shadow was centred and had its doorway in her vision on Devil's Tor; and that mighty dead one had been supremely beautiful—supremely good. … She hoped that Peter was to announce no disaster, but talk to her of sane London matters, and his egoisms, and his eternal warfare with democracy in art.

He, however, was afterwards to talk of something else, and till then of nothing, or as little as he might in securing that interview without alarming her. He returned a preoccupied affirmative answer to her two or three questions in one. By the absent wandering of his eye past her, and the unfriendly dry carelessness of his tone, she became still more chilled. She would not lose her courage for that.

She told him of the earthquake only a few minutes since. His raised eyebrows responded that it was intelligence for him. "When was this?" he asked.

"Just now, Peter."

"I saw some hedge sparrows rather agitated."

She went on to relate her adventure on the Tor with Hugh the evening before, and its consequence of the injury to her ankle. She concealed from him her supernatural overtaking, which could only puzzle him. She felt that, delicate instrument of sensation though he was, even above the vast majority of others, he was somehow too rudely constructed ever to have the least communication with a different existence, that should be the source of ultra-sensations in men and women. He was none the less dear to her because he should be lower and coarser-fibred in this one respect.

He seized upon her accident to try to rid himself at a blow of the sense of personal inferiority in her presence that had quietly settled upon him.

"It seems to have been a pretty mad affair!" he opined, through a cloud of cigarette smoke. "I hope it doesn't mean you are laid up?"

"No, I can get about the house."

"I shall begin to believe you need someone to look after you. Who is this cousin of yours who treats girls in such a prehistoric style?"

Ingrid had not yet referred to a tomb, and was impressed by the coincidence of his adjective. Was it another omen and presage? She
knew that
something was advancing upon her. … Or was it merely the sick seizing by her mind of any word that could be twisted? Yes, it was just a meaningless coincidence.

"It was Devil's Tor that treated us both in prehistoric style. The stack, being blown down, has opened what we think a Stone Age staircase to below. Hugh should be on his way back from there again at this minute. He has gone to investigate. … I am sorry, Peter. It's Hugh Drapier, and by choice of career, he is a great Central Asian traveller."

"And may be showing off to smaller mortals, as I see it! Has he been staying with you long? You never mentioned him in your last."

"He's been here a week."

"How very nice for you," returned Peter, without enthusiasm. He flicked away the stub of his cigarette. He had better fix up that talk for later, and be off. … "It's notable, though, that none of you has ever named his name before in my presence; whereas in general, these family shining lights are rather insisted upon. Why the reticence?"

"He is hardly ever in England, and we had almost forgotten his existence."

He met her eye. "Well, I must get along to breakfast. But I may see you during the day? You have nothing on?"

"Won't you lunch with us, Peter?"

"I have to settle in. I'll look in to tea, if I may."

Now she was sure that he was purposely being cold. And because they had parted warm friends, and his occasional letters to her since had been cheerful and spontaneous, it could only signify that he had suddenly bad news to communicate, and was feeling ashamed of it. But why need he feel ashamed to hurt her in this way? It was to make her greedy and appropriative, which was unworthy of him. She had never wished to retain him against his will. She could not copy his manner, and so still answered him with the ancient calm simplicity that, unknown to herself, he always aesthetically admired more than the most vivacious or coolly cynical address of other women.

"We shall be alone. You won't mind meeting Hugh, will you? In spite of your insinuations, Peter, he is really the modestest man in the world in speaking of his own achievements. He is red-haired, and hardly good-looking, but very pondering. His father was Scotch."

"I want to see you actually alone, Ingrid... say, an hour before tea. Can that be managed?"

Again he was looking at her, but this time with a quick, nearly professional glance, as if to ascertain independently of her answer how his words were received. He caught the downbent gaze—stern, startled, troubled, inquiring, all together. Then he realised that she could only be attaching one meaning to his proposition, and yet, just because she was a woman, must feign ignorance. So already he had blundered badly.

Ingrid, however, believed that out of the courtesy of his nature he wished to acquaint her in this delicate way with his intention of closing the studio and their friendship. She honoured him for the considerateness; a blunter and more selfish man would probably have wanted to get it over at once, but so far-reaching a decision—for her, she knew not for him—at least deserved a special interview. She replied:

"Yes, I can be ready for you at three o'clock, if it is important."

"I think it important. There are some things I want to say that may very much concern both of us, but it isn't quite simple. So will you just not worry about it till then?"

"I must worry a little, I suppose. But I do know you wouldn't put such a formal request to me without a good reason, so I must bear any suspense."

"It's something that has been engaging me a good bit lately. I expect I've said too much or too little, and you are going to worry. May I speak more freely, by way of prelude only?"

"Surely we know each other by now, Peter!"

"I hope so. I hope so. … Then I am to have it out with you on the subject of our future relations—or would you say emphatically at once that there is to be no development of the present?"

Ingrid's face took on a tinge of added colour, but her voice remained as steady as before, though it was lower.

"Should we discuss this here, Peter?"

"I'm only trying to sketch out a reassurance for you, to tide you over the morning. It has to do with our future relations, but won't necessarily amount to the iniquity of a proposal."

"I ask only one question," said Ingrid. "Are you going away from us? The rest doesn't matter."

"But that matters?"

"I want you not to go away."

"Is that all you want?"

"Please, Peter! ..."

"Forgive me—I know it isn't permissible till this afternoon. Well then, no; I've no present intention of giving up the cottage. I should be very sorry permanently to turn my back on purity, sincerity and unstimulated happiness. Almost the only thing to induce me to it would be the direct command from you."

"Nothing else matters," repeated Ingrid, while she felt that sudden relief arising from the removal of her long fears; and yet it was leaving some curious doubt and darkness behind. Perhaps it was that his words announced that their old was to give place to a new, and the moment for a new relation was inopportune. She hoped he would not to-day ask her to marry him. She could not prevent his doing so. … They had shared so many things, and were certainly the nearest of all to each other. There would be the fewest terrors for a girl in such a marriage. But yesterday that
spirit
had altered something in her life for her, and she needed time for the settling down in her soul of this strangeness.

Even five minutes ago, it seemed to her, her thoughts had been different. Then she had been welcoming his sanity, but now he was in danger of exclusion. Indeed, it was not what he had to say to her, but what she must not confess to him, that signified. A marriage—two as one; and a great sacredness—one alone, a second forbidden. The states were as irreconcilable as odd and even. … If he asked her, he would innocently be bringing a great mystification on himself, for she would have to postpone her answer, but she had never up to now tried to conceal her regard for him. He would even have the right to accuse her of dishonesty. But he had just said he was not to ask her, but only to speak of their future relations. What that could mean, she did not know. Perhaps he was to state a hypothetical case—if something or other happened, would she marry him? It would certainly make the postponing answer easier to frame. …