The Limit Part 44

He knew that his confidence aroused enormous interest, and to him that was a great gratification. And so Harry drowned his sorrows in talk, as other men drown theirs in wine, or in sport, or in taking some violent step. He intoxicated and soothed himself with conversation.

But Harry was not an unpractical man--not one of those for whom words take place of actions--and he could face facts. Valentia was irrevocably lost to him. To attempt to regain Miss Walmer, although it might perhaps not be impossible, would make him ridiculous. The letter he had written at Romer's dictation had been too definite. He would give himself away hopelessly as a fortune-hunter if he tried to go back on that. Besides, he was absolutely sick of it all, and if he was more in love with Valentia than he had ever supposed himself to be because she no longer wanted him, he disliked the thought of Miss Walmer far more than he ever had before, because he was convinced she would forgive him and be devoted to him even now.

Van Buren had taken the knock, as he expressed it, using with relish the English slang phrase, with regard to Daphne, and he had made up his mind to return to New York. Under the circ.u.mstances he now had little difficulty in persuading Harry to come out with him right away. He undertook to provide for his friend's future, and that he should make a fortune in the Bank, and perhaps when this was agreed upon Van Buren had never been so happy. He was far more genuinely a man's man than was Harry. He regarded women from the point of view of the well-bred American--with deference, a sort of distant tenderness, a most chivalrous and gentle respect. He looked upon them as ornamental and as delightful adjuncts to life, like flowers in a ball-room, but not seriously as part of it. Nor, either, as mere toys. He placed women far more highly than Harry did; he thought everything should be done for them, given to them, that they had a right to any position they were able to hold, that they should be treated with reverence, consideration, liberality ... and even justice; but--he could do without them. Harry couldn't. And so they would always continue to fall in love with Harry, and to find Van Buren a little dull.

When Romer arrived at the Green Gate that afternoon he found Valentia sitting alone in the drawing-room. Her hands were clasped, she had a serious, anxious, thoughtful expression that he had never seen before.

He was surprised at the painful start it gave him to see her again, but he came in defying this sensation.

"Hallo!" he said, in what he meant to be a perfectly easy manner.

He glanced round the room.

"Where's Harry?"

"Harry's gone," said Valentia, in a low voice.

"Oh, has he?"

Romer walked to the window. He looked at her dress, a white dress that he liked, but did not meet her eyes. Then he said--

"Oh, he's gone. When is he coming back?"

"Never," she said.

Romer didn't answer, nor ask why.

After a minute he said--

"Where's Daphne?"

"Gone to stay with Mrs. Foster for a week."

"Oh! Who's coming down to-day?"

"n.o.body. I thought perhaps you wouldn't mind--being alone, I mean." She spoke without her usual fluency.

He stood staring out of the window into the quiet, damp garden. Then he turned slowly round and looked at her. He looked at her little feet in their little white laced shoes; at the slim, narrow line of the white dress; at the hands clasped in her lap....

And he felt a sudden pang of cruel, realistic jealousy. But he looked at her eyes and saw tears in them, and, pitying her, he crushed it down for ever.

The marvellous instinct with which women are usually credited seems too often to desert them on the only occasions when it would be of any real use. One would say it was there for trivialities only, since in a crisis they are usually dense, fatally doing the wrong thing. It is hardly too much to say that most domestic tragedies are caused by the feminine intuition of men and the want of it in women. Fortunately, Valentia's feeling of remorseful tenderness towards Romer enabled her to read him now. Of course she would have loved to cry, to explain at great length, to beg him to forgive her and have a reconciliation. But something told her that he could not have borne it; that the subject must never be touched; that she must spare him any reference to it--any scene.

So she said nothing.

And, during the curious silence, he gradually and slowly took in the soothing facts. He regained his sense of proportion, of perspective. He saw she was disillusioned about Harry; he felt that the infatuation was over; and, what was more, he realised, to his unutterable relief, that she was not going to talk about it. How he dreaded that terrible explicitness of women, their pa.s.sion for tidying up, their love of labels! He would not even have to hear it called a sealed subject, and he would not have to say anything at all.

He looked out of the window again, began to whistle in a slightly embarra.s.sed way, and then said casually--

"Let's come out, Val. The lawn wants mowing."

THE END