Through the stillness of the pause which followed, the bray of a motor-horn sounded far down the drive.Instantly she turned, with a last white look at him, and fled from the room and up the stairs.He stood motionless, benumbed by the shock of her last words.She was afraid, then--afraid of him--sick with fear of him! The discovery beat him down to a lower depth...
The motor-horn sounded again, close at hand, and he turned and went up to his room.His letter-writing was a sufficient pretext for not immediately joining the party about the tea-table, and he wanted to be alone and try to put a little order into his tumultuous thinking.
Upstairs, the room held out the intimate welcome of its lamp and fire.Everything in it exhaled the same sense of peace and stability which, two evenings before, had lulled him to complacent meditation.His armchair again invited him from the hearth, but he was too agitated to sit still, and with sunk head and hands clasped behind his back he began to wander up and down the room.
His five minutes with Sophy Viner had flashed strange lights into the shadowy corners of his consciousness.The girl's absolute candour, her hard ardent honesty, was for the moment the vividest point in his thoughts.He wondered anew, as he had wondered before, at the way in which the harsh discipline of life had stripped her of false sentiment without laying the least touch on her pride.When they had parted, five months before, she had quietly but decidedly rejected all his offers of help, even to the suggestion of his trying to further her theatrical aims: she had made it clear that she wished their brief alliance to leave no trace on their lives save that of its own smiling memory.But now that they were unexpectedly confronted in a situation which seemed, to her terrified fancy, to put her at his mercy, her first impulse was to defend her right to the place she had won, and to learn as quickly as possible if he meant to dispute it.While he had pictured her as shrinking away from him in a tremor of self-effacement she had watched his movements, made sure of her opportunity, and come straight down to "have it out" with him.He was so struck by the frankness and energy of the proceeding that for a moment he lost sight of the view of his own character implied in it.
"Poor thing...poor thing!" he could only go on saying; and with the repetition of the words the picture of himself as she must see him pitiably took shape again.
He understood then, for the first time, how vague, in comparison with hers, had been his own vision of the part he had played in the brief episode of their relation.The incident had left in him a sense of exasperation and self-contempt, but that, as he now perceived, was chiefly, if not altogether, as it bore on his preconceived ideal of his attitude toward another woman.He had fallen below his own standard of sentimental loyalty, and if he thought of Sophy Viner it was mainly as the chance instrument of his lapse.
These considerations were not agreeable to his pride, but they were forced on him by the example of her valiant common-sense.If he had cut a sorry figure in the business, he owed it to her not to close his eyes to the fact any longer...
But when he opened them, what did he see? The situation, detestable at best, would yet have been relatively ****** if protecting Sophy Viner had been the only duty involved in it.The fact that that duty was paramount did not do away with the contingent obligations.It was Darrow's instinct, in difficult moments, to go straight to the bottom of the difficulty; but he had never before had to take so dark a dive as this, and for the minute he shivered on the brink...Well, his first duty, at any rate, was to the girl:
he must let her see that he meant to fulfill it to the last jot, and then try to find out how to square the fulfillment with the other problems already in his path...
XVI
In the oak room he found Mrs.Leath, her mother-in-law and Effie.The group, as he came toward it down the long drawing-rooms, composed itself prettily about the tea-table.
The lamps and the fire crossed their gleams on silver and porcelain, on the bright haze of Effie's hair and on the whiteness of Anna's forehead, as she leaned back in her chair behind the tea-urn.
She did not move at Darrow's approach, but lifted to him a deep gaze of peace and confidence.The look seemed to throw about him the spell of a divine security: he felt the joy of a convalescent suddenly waking to find the sunlight on his face.
Madame de Chantelle, across her knitting, discoursed of their afternoon's excursion, with occasional pauses induced by the hypnotic effect of the fresh air; and Effie, kneeling, on the hearth, softly but insistently sought to implant in her terrier's mind some notion of the relation between a vertical attitude and sugar.
Darrow took a chair behind the little girl, so that he might look across at her mother.It was almost a necessity for him, at the moment, to let his eyes rest on Anna's face, and to meet, now and then, the proud shyness of her gaze.
Madame de Chantelle presently enquired what had become of Owen, and a moment later the window behind her opened, and her grandson, gun in hand, came in from the terrace.As he stood there in the lamp-light, with dead leaves and bits of bramble clinging to his mud-spattered clothes, the scent of the night about him and its chill on his pale bright face, he really had the look of a young faun strayed in from the forest.
