The Limit Part 43

Harry would never make her cry again.

Everything would go on as before. And _he_ had never said a word that it would be painful for them both to remember. There was nothing uncomfortable between them. He felt she would grow tired of Harry of her own accord, and would then return to him, Romer, with no disagreeable recollection of scenes, nor of their having said horrible things to one another. Yes, he had been quite right. Yet she did not seem to him so near as she used to be. He was not angry with her.... No, of course not.

He was not jealous. Perhaps she seemed more remote, more distant, because he felt a certain coldness, and--yes--the coldness was there because he was a little hurt perhaps.... And then he tried to go to sleep again. But instantly his insane vision came back, and he got up and walked round the room and tried to banish it.... At last he really went to sleep, and awoke trembling with horror. He had had a horrible dream. He dreamt that Harry was writing a letter, and that he had taken the dagger from the wall of the studio and killed him. This was simply horrible.

Then he began to realise the reason. It was subconscious jealousy. Then he saw that he had set himself a task too big for him, and that he could not endure to see Harry with Valentia now. It would be impossible to bear it. He would have to tell him to go. He had mistaken his own feelings. What he had heard on the verandah, what he had imagined, could never be obliterated. Indeed, he saw clearly that if he tried to endure it he would break down. The effort would lead to madness.--It was impossible.... He had sent Harry back to her! He had actually sent him; it was unbearable.

He would go back the next day, take Harry aside, and tell him that he had found he couldn't bear it, and that on some pretext he must go away.

He would tell him that he had reached the limit of his endurance and could bear no more. He would never speak of it to Valentia. Valentia would be sad--but that could not be helped. He knew, now, that he could not endure the sight of Harry again.

Having made this resolution, he became much calmer. But the dream recurred each time he went to sleep until, in dread of it, he resolved to sleep no more. His nerves felt shattered.

And then, he began to count the minutes till he could be back at the Green Gate. To see Valentia again and to banish Harry for ever! And all the obvious, human feelings that he thought he was free from had come back. He broke down; bitter tears of self-pity, of sentiment, and of heartbroken humiliation fell from his eyes. He remembered their engagement and their honeymoon, and then the eternal and everlasting amusing cousin; Harry, and his sickening good looks and ceaseless chatter. No more of it, by heaven! It would be something worth having lived for to have no more of the brilliant Harry. He saw now that he had always been subconsciously jealous of him--that he had always loathed and hated him. And rightly, by instinct; for not only had he done the most unpardonable injury one friend can do to another, without a scruple and without a hesitation, but he had shown the same baseness to her. He made her unhappy. He made her cry. He wanted to marry for money and come back again, treacherous to every one--hard, heartless, selfish, vulgar in mind and in att.i.tude to life. Romer hated him.

Well! Romer would tell him that very day that he had changed his mind and that he was to go anywhere--anyhow--only to go. Neither he nor Valentia should ever see him again.

Valentia seemed a long way off. She seemed remote and distant. That was because he was still hurt and angry. When Harry had once gone, perhaps she would seem near again.

CHAPTER x.x.xVI

RECONCILIATION

Romer had made one mistake in his calculations. He had forgotten that Harry was a talker. He fully believed that the young man would go back and get all possible credit from Valentia for breaking off the engagement, and would adhere to the very letter of their strange agreement. This, indeed, Harry fully intended to do. When he first went back he told her, to her immense joy and satisfaction, merely that he had broken it off. But when some people who had come to dinner had gone away and she and Harry could be alone, the habit of confidential gossip, the habit, especially, of impressing and surprising her, and, above all, the inability to keep to himself anything so amazing, was too strong for him.

Picturesquely, vividly, and quite amusingly Harry told her every word of the story; first exacting a solemn promise not to repeat it.

"Isn't he _impayable_? Isn't he a marvel? No, Valentia, don't look so grave, or I shall think you've lost your sense of humour."

"But do you believe he really thinks----"

"He doesn't think," said Harry, stopping her. "He won't think. You're faultless in his eyes. He would never allow himself to imagine you anything else. Valentia, this is a wonderful situation--you don't appreciate it! It's unheard of! He particularly wished that everything should go on as before."

He took her hand. She immediately took it away and drew back coldly.

"A wonderful situation! Do you think Van Buren will enjoy it?" she asked satirically.

"Van Buren! What on earth do you mean, Val? Do you suppose for a minute that I'd talk about it?"

"I know you will. You couldn't resist it. It's _impayable_ you say....

Oh, but it was mean of you to tell me!"

"Mean!" cried Harry indignantly. "Why, it was very generous! I might easily have pleased you very much more by saying I broke it off quite of my own accord."

"That wasn't why you told me. You wanted me to laugh at Romer and think him ridiculous."

"I don't at all. I was in the ridiculous position. Be a woman of the world, Val. Don't talk bos.h.!.+ We shall soon forget it happened."

"I shall never forget," she answered. "And things _can't_ go on as they were, because I think he's behaved magnificently, because I think he's heroic. And if I didn't appreciate the way he spared me I should be....

Why, don't you realise what it must have been for him, Harry, to hear every word we said? And yet he didn't try to make me suffer for it!"

"He complained that _I_ made you cry!" said Harry with a ghost of a smile.

"Look here, Harry, it's no good. I see I was right about Romer from the first. I married him because I thought there was something remarkable--something finer than other people about him. And I was right."

"If you talk like that, I shall know you're in love with him," said Harry tauntingly and angrily. "_I_ was a fool to tell you. You're just upset, my dear," he added, "at the idea of his knowing of the whole thing. By to-morrow, when he comes back, everything will have calmed down."

"I want to be left alone," said Valentia.

Harry was annoyed, for he himself was not just now in the mood for reverie, and even in the smallest things he disliked giving up his own wishes.

"Oh, very well," he said ungraciously; "perhaps it's a pity I wrote the letter."

"Perhaps it is," she answered as she went away and shut the door.

Harry sat up late, swearing at his own indiscretion and the unaccountability of women. But he was not prepared for what followed.

The next morning, as he was dressing, a note was given to him. It said--

"Dear Harry,

"After what you told me yesterday, I feel I never wish to see you again. This is not anger; but it's incurable. I can't account for it, but it is there. How you could have been so stupid as to think I could remain with both you and Romer in the house with this knowledge between us, I simply can't understand. How could I help contrasting his generosity with your self-interested selfishness? I am not angry any more about Miss Walmer. I'm quite indifferent. If you married her to-morrow it would give me no pain. The only kind thing you can do for me now, and the one thing I implore, is to go away on any pretext you like and without seeing me again. To put it perfectly plainly, Harry, I have changed entirely since last night.

I see everything differently. Everything _is_ different. Forgive me, but I don't wish to see you any more. "VALENTIA.

"P.S.--I will send your photographs and other things to the studio.

I should like you to burn mine, but do not send them back. I don't want to look at anything that reminds me of you. Do not be angry--I can't help it. I am so unhappy.

V.

"If you don't go I know I shall be seriously ill."

After reading this letter Harry was probably about a thousand times more in love with Valentia than he had ever been in his life. Indeed, he felt that he had never cared for her before. He pretended even to himself to laugh at it, and walked up and down his room, saying to himself: "What a couple! What a woman! What a man! They're unique. No, they're too wonderful!"

But he didn't succeed in deceiving himself. He _knew_ that letter was final. He did not give it up at once. He wrote her three letters. The first, one of indignant reproach: "_You never really cared for me_," and so forth, which she did not answer; the second, witty and trivial, with allusions to mountains and molehills and tragedy queens; the third, desperately imploring her to see him once before he went away. To the third one she sent a reply, simply saying--

"Please, please go as soon as possible."

After all his emotion and pa.s.sionate correspondence it was by this time only about half-past ten. Harry packed, dressed, and went off to the station, mad with rage. He left no word for Romer at all. He felt he had better leave all that to the wife. He had lost her absolutely and for ever--and Miss Walmer too.

In prompt response to his wire Van Buren met him at the station.

And what a wonderful consolation it was to tell him all about it!

Certainly no man ever had a better audience; no one more impressed, shocked, delighted, horrified, amused, grieved, pleased and sympathetic ever listened to a confidence. For Van Buren it was as good as a _cause celebre_, a musical comedy, a _feuilleton_ in the _Daily Mail_ and a series of snapshots from the homes of the upper cla.s.ses--all in one.

Never in his life had he heard anything so intensely English. The story gave him the acute, objective, artistic joy that one takes in the best literature, an intellectual pleasure that is usually more or less mingled with the merely spiteful satisfaction that we are accused of taking in the misfortunes of our best friends. And how well Harry told it!

His style was perfect. It was brilliancy, charm, humour, and pathos; he laughed at himself, and yet made himself an object of real sympathy, without losing either his dignity or his dash.