She made no answer, and in the stillness the throb of the water underneath them sounded like the beat of a tormented heart.
“Isabel—” Wrayford murmured. He bent over to kiss her. “Isabel! I can’t stand it! listen—”
“No; no. I’ve thought of everything. There’s the boy—the boy’s fond of him. He’s not a bad father.”
“Except in the trifling matter of ruining his son.”
“And there’s his poor old mother. He’s a good son, at any rate; he’d never hurt her. And I know her. If I left him, she’d never take a penny of my money. What she has of her own is not enough to live on; and how could he provide for her? If I put him out of doors, I should be putting his mother out too.”
“You could arrange that—there are always ways.”
“Not for her! She’s proud. And then she believes in him. Lots of people believe in him, you know. It would kill her if she ever found out.”
Wrayford made an impatient movement. “It will kill you if you stay with him to prevent her finding out.”
She laid her other hand on his. “Not while I have you.”
“Have me? In this way?”
“In any way.”
“My poor girl—poor child!”
“Unless you grow tired—unless your patience gives out.”
He was silent, and she went on insistently: “Don’t you suppose I’ve thought of that too—foreseen it?”
“Well—and then?” he exclaimed.
“I’ve accepted that too.”
He dropped her hands with a despairing gesture. “Then, indeed, I waste my breath!”
She made no answer, and for a time they sat silent again, a little between them. At length he asked: “You’re not crying?”
“No.”
“I can’t see your face, it’s grown so dark.”
“Yes. The storm must be coming.” She made a motion as if to rise.
He drew close and put his arm about her. “Don’t leave me yet. You know I must go tomorrow.” He broke off with a laugh. “I’m to break the news to you tomorrow morning, by the way; I’m to take you out in the motorlaunch and break it to you.” He dropped her hands and stood up. “Good God! How can I go and leave you here with him?”
“You’ve done it often.”
“Yes; but each time it’s more damnable. And then I’ve always had a hope—”
She rose also. “Give it up! Give it up!”
“You’ve none, then, yourself?”
She was silent, drawing the folds of her cloak about her.
“None—none?” he insisted.
He had to bend his head to hear her answer. “Only one!”
“What, my dearest? What?”
“Don’t touch me! That he may die!”
They drew apart again, hearing each other’s quick breathing through the darkness.
“You wish that too?” he said.
“I wish it always—every day, every hour, every moment!” She paused, and then let the words break from her. “You’d better know it; you’d better know the worst of me. I’m not the saint you suppose; the duty I do is poisoned by the thoughts I think. Day by day, hour by hour, I wish him dead. When he goes out I pray for something to happen; when he comes back I say to myself: ‘Are you here again?’ When I hear of people being killed in accidents, I think: ‘Why wasn’t he there?’ When I read the death-notices in the paper I say: ‘So-and-so was just his age.’ When I see him taking such care of his health and his diet—as he does, you know, except when he gets reckless and begins to drink too much—when I see him exercising and resting, and eating only certain things, and weighing himself, and feeling his muscles, and boasting that he hasn’t gained a pound, I think of the men who die from overwork, or who throw their lives away for some great object, and I say to myself: ‘What can kill a man who thinks only of himself?’ And night after night I keep myself from going to sleep for fear I may dream that he’s dead. When I dream that, and wake and find him there it’s worse than ever—”
She broke off with a sob, and the loud lapping of the water under the floor was like the beat of a rebellious heart.
“There, you know the truth!” she said.
He answered after a pause: “People do die.”
“Do they?” She laughed. “Yes—in happy marriages!”
They were silent again, and Isabel turned, feeling her way toward the door. As she did so, the profound stillness was broken by the sound of a man’s voice trolling out unsteadily the refrain of a musichall song.
The two in the boathouse darted toward each other with a simultaneous movement, clutching hands as they met.
“He’s coming!” Isabel said.
Wrayford disengaged his hands.
“He may only be out for a turn before he goes to bed. Wait a minute. I’ll see.” He felt his way to the bench, scrambled up on it, and stretching his body forward managed to bring his eyes in line with the opening above the door.
“It’s as black as pitch. I can’t see anything.”
The refrain rang out nearer.
“Wait! I saw something twinkle. There it is again. It’s his cigar. It’s coming this way—down the path.”
There was a long rattle of thunder through the stillness.
“It’s the storm!” Isabel whispered. “He’s coming to see about the launch.”
Wrayford dropped noiselessly from the bench and she caught him by the arm.
“Isn’t there time to get up the path and slip under the shrubbery?”
“No, he’s in the path now. He’ll be here in two minutes. He’ll find us.”
He felt her hand tighten on his arm.
“You must go in the skiff, then. It’s the only way.”
“And let him find you? And hear my oars? Listen—there’s something I must say.”
She flung her arms about him and pressed her face to his.
“Isabel, just now I didn’t tell you everything. He’s ruined his mother—taken
