"You needn"t be afraid to talk about it," she said. "And you needn"t lie to me. I know it"s a tragedy."
He had never lied to her. It was not in him to fashion for her any tender lie.
"It"s worse than a tragedy. It"s a sin, Jinny. And that"s what I would have saved you from. Other people can sin and not suffer. You can"t.
There"s your tragedy."
She raised her head.
"There shall be no more tragedies."
He went on as if he had not heard her. "It wouldn"t have mattered if it had been bad all through. But neither you nor I, Jinny, have ever written, probably we never shall write, anything to compare with the beginning of that book. My G.o.d! To think that there were only six months--six months--between that beginning and that end."
She smiled, saying to herself, "Only six months. Yes. But what months!"
"You"ve killed a masterpiece," he said, "between you."
"Do you mean Hugh?" she said. "What had he to do with it?"
"He married you."
"My crime was committed before he married me."
"Exactly." She was aware of the queer, nervous, upward jerk of his moustache, precluding the impermissible--"When you were in love with him."
Her face darkened as she turned to him.
"Let"s talk about Nina"s book. George--there isn"t anybody like her. And I knew, I knew she"d do it."
"Did you know that she did it before she saw Prothero."
"I know."
"And that she"s never written a line since?"
"When she does it will be immense. Because of him."
"Possibly. She hasn"t married him."
"After all, George, if it comes to that, you"re married too."
"Yes. But I married a woman who can"t do me any harm."
"Could anybody."
She stood still there, on the terrace, fronting him with the scorn of her question.
He did not answer her at first. His face changed and was silent as his thought. As they paced up and down again he spoke.
"I don"t mind, Jinny; if you"re happy; if you"re really content."
"You see that I am."
Her voice throbbed. He caught the pure, the virginal tremor, and knew it for the vibration of her soul. It stirred in him a subtle, unaccountable pang.
She paused, brooding.
"I shall be," she said, "even if I never do anything again."
"Nothing," he a.s.sured her, "can take from you the things you have done.
Look at Hambleby. He"s enough. After all, Jinny, you might have died young and just left us that. We ought to be glad that, as it is, we"ve got so much of you."
"So much----"
Almost he could have said she sighed.
"Nothing can touch Hambleby or the genius that made him."
"George--do you think it"ll ever come back to me?"
She stood still again. He was aware now, through her voice, of something tense, something perturbed and tormented in her soul. He rejoiced, for it was he who had stirred her; it was he who had made her feel.
"Of course," he said, "it"ll come back. If you choose--if you let it.
But you"ll have to pay your price."
She was silent. They talked of other things. Presently the John Brodricks, the Levines and Mrs. Heron came out into the garden and said good-night, and Tanqueray followed them and went.
She found Hugh closeted with Henry in the library where invariably the doctor lingered. Brodrick made a sign to his brother-in-law as she entered.
"Well," he said, "you"ve had your talk."
"Oh yes, we"ve had it."
She lay back in her seat as if exhausted by hard physical exercise, supporting the limp length of her arms on the sides of the chair.
The doctor, after a somewhat prolonged observation of her posture, remarked that she should make a point of going to bed at ten.
Brodrick pleaded the Birthday of the Book. And at the memory of the intolerable scene, and of Tanqueray"s presence in it, her agony broke out.
"Don"t talk about it. I don"t want ever to hear of it again."
"What"s he been saying to you?" said Brodrick.
"He"d no need to say anything. Do you suppose I don"t know? Can"t you see how awful it is for me?"
Brodrick raised the eyebrows of innocence amazed.
"It"s as if I"d brought something deformed and horrible into the world----"
The doctor leaned forward, more than ever attentive.