XXXVII
Anna and Darrow, the next day, sat alone in a compartment of the Paristrain.
Anna, when they entered it, had put herself in the farthest cornerand placed her bag on the adjoining seat. She had decided suddenly toaccompany Darrow to Paris, had even persuaded him to wait for a latertrain in order that they might travel together. She had an intenselonging to be with him, an almost morbid terror of losing sight of himfor a moment: when he jumped out of the train and ran back along theplatform to buy a newspaper for her she felt as though she should neversee him again, and shivered with the cold misery of her last journeyto Paris, when she had thought herself parted from him forever. Yet shewanted to keep him at a distance, on the other side of the compartment,and as the train moved out of the station she drew from her bag theletters she had thrust in it as she left the house, and began to glanceover them so that her lowered lids should hide her eyes from him.
She was his now, his for life: there could never again be any questionof sacrificing herself to Effie's welfare, or to any other abstractconception of duty. Effie of course would not suffer; Anna would pay forher bliss as a wife by redoubled devotion as a mother. Her scrupleswere not overcome; but for the time their voices were drowned in thetumultuous rumour of her happiness.
As she opened her letters she was conscious that Darrow's gaze was fixedon her, and gradually it drew her eyes upward, and she drank deep of thepassionate tenderness in his. Then the blood rose to her face and shefelt again the desire to shield herself. She turned back to her lettersand her glance lit on an envelope inscribed in Owen's hand.
Her heart began to beat oppressively: she was in a mood when thesimplest things seemed ominous. What could Owen have to say to her? Onlythe first page was covered, and it contained simply the announcementthat, in the company of a young compatriot who was studying at the BeauxArts, he had planned to leave for Spain the following evening.
"He hasn't seen her, then!" was Anna's instant thought; and her feelingwas a strange compound of humiliation and relief. The girl had kept herword, lived up to the line of conduct she had set herself; and Annahad failed in the same attempt. She did not reproach herself withher failure; but she would have been happier if there had been lessdiscrepancy between her words to Sophy Viner and the act which hadfollowed them. It irritated her obscurely that the girl should have beenso much surer of her power to carry out her purpose...
Anna looked up and saw that Darrow's eyes were on the newspaper. Heseemed calm and secure, almost indifferent to her presence. "Will itbecome a matter of course to him so soon?" she wondered with a twinge ofjealousy. She sat motionless, her eyes fixed on him, trying to make himfeel the attraction of her gaze as she felt his. It surprised and shamedher to detect a new element in her love for him: a sort of suspicioustyrannical tenderness that seemed to deprive it of all serenity. Finallyhe looked up, his smile enveloped her, and she felt herself his in everyfibre, his so completely and inseparably that she saw the vanity ofimagining any other fate for herself.
To give herself a countenance she held out Owen's letter. He took it andglanced down the page, his face grown grave. She waited nervously tillhe looked up.
"That's a good plan; the best thing that could happen," he said, a justperceptible shade of constraint in his tone.
"Oh, yes," she hastily assented. She was aware of a faint current ofrelief silently circulating between them. They were both glad that Owenwas going, that for a while he would be out of their way; and it seemedto her horrible that so much of the stuff of their happiness should bemade of such unavowed feelings...
"I shall see him this evening," she said, wishing Darrow to feel thatshe was not afraid of meeting her step-son.
"Yes, of course; perhaps he might dine with you."
The words struck her as strangely obtuse. Darrow was to meet hisAmbassador at the station on the latter's arrival, and would in allprobability have to spend the evening with him, and Anna knew he hadbeen concerned at the thought of having to leave her alone. But howcould he speak in that careless tone of her dining with Owen? Shelowered her voice to say: "I'm afraid he's desperately unhappy."
He answered, with a tinge of impatience: "It's much the best thing thathe should travel."
"Yes--but don't you feel..." She broke off. She knew how he dislikedthese idle returns on the irrevocable, and her fear of doing or sayingwhat he disliked was tinged by a new instinct of subserviency againstwhich her pride revolted. She thought to herself: "He will see thechange, and grow indifferent to me as he did to HER..." and for a momentit seemed to her that she was reliving the experience of Sophy Viner.
Darrow made no attempt to learn the end of her unfinished sentence. Hehanded back Owen's letter and returned to his newspaper; and when helooked up from it a few minutes later it was with a clear brow and asmile that irresistibly drew her back to happier thoughts.
The train was just entering a station, and a moment later theircompartment was invaded by a commonplace couple preoccupied withthe bestowal of bulging packages. Anna, at their approach, felt thepossessive pride of the woman in love when strangers are between herselfand the man she loves. She asked Darrow to open the window, to place herbag in the net, to roll her rug into a cushion for her feet; and whilehe was thus busied with her she was conscious of a new devotion in histone, in his way of bending over her and meeting her eyes. He went backto his seat, and they looked at each other like lovers smiling at ahappy secret.
Anna, before going back to Givre, had suggested Owen's moving into herapartment, but he had preferred to remain at the hotel to which he hadsent his luggage, and on arriving in Paris she decided to drive there atonce. She was impatient to have the meeting over, and glad that Darrowwas obliged to leave her at the station in order to look up a colleagueat the Embassy. She dreaded his seeing Owen again, and yet dared nottell him so, and to ensure his remaining away she mentioned an urgentengagement with her dress-maker and a long list of commissions to beexecuted for Madame de Chantelle.
"I shall see you to-morrow morning," she said; but he replied with asmile that he would certainly find time to come to her for a moment onhis way back from meeting the Ambassador; and when he had put her in acab he leaned through the window to press his lips to hers.
She blushed like a girl, thinking, half vexed, half happy: "Yesterday hewould not have done it..." and a dozen scarcely definable differencesin his look and manner seemed all at once to be summed up in the boyishact. "After all, I'm engaged to him," she reflected, and then smiledat the absurdity of the word. The next instant, with a pang ofself-reproach, she remembered Sophy Viner's cry: "I knew all the whilehe didn't care..." "Poor thing, oh poor thing!" Anna murmured...
At Owen's hotel she waited in a tremor while the porter went in searchof him. Word was presently brought back that he was in his room andbegged her to come up, and as she crossed the hall she caught sight ofhis portmanteaux lying on the floor, already labelled for departure.
Owen sat at a table writing, his back to the door; and when he stood upthe window was behind him, so that, in the rainy afternoon light, hisfeatures were barely discernible.
"Dearest--so you're really off?" she said, hesitating a moment on thethreshold.
He pushed a chair forward, and they sat down, each waiting for theother to speak. Finally she put some random question about histravelling-companion, a slow shy meditative youth whom he had once ortwice brought down to Givre. She reflected that it was natural he shouldhave given this uncommunicative comrade the preference over his livelieracquaintances, and aloud she said: "I'm so glad Fred Rempson can go withyou."
Owen answered in the same tone, and for a few minutes their talk draggeditself on over a dry waste of common-places. Anna noticed that, thoughready enough to impart his own plans, Owen studiously abstained fromputting any questions about hers. It was evident from his allusions thathe meant to be away for some time, and he presently asked her if shewould give instructions about packing and sending after him some winterclothes he
had left at Givre. This gave her the opportunity to say thatshe expected to go back within a day or two and would attend to thematter as soon as she returned. She added: "I came up this morning withGeorge, who is going on to London to-morrow," intending, by the useof Darrow's Christian name, to give Owen the chance to speak of hermarriage. But he made no comment, and she continued to hear the namesounding on unfamiliarly between them.
The room was almost dark, and she finally stood up and glanced about forthe light-switch, saying: "I can't see you, dear."
"Oh, don't--I hate the light!" Owen exclaimed, catching her by the wristand pushing her back into her seat. He gave a nervous laugh and added:"I'm half-blind with neuralgia. I suppose it's this beastly rain."
"Yes; it will do you good to get down to Spain."
She asked if he had the remedies the doctor had given him for a previousattack, and on his replying that he didn't know what he'd done with thestuff, she sprang up, offering to go to the chemist's. It was arelief to have something to do for him, and she knew from his "Oh,thanks--would you?" that it was a relief to him to have a pretext fornot detaining her. His natural impulse would have been to declare thathe didn't want any drugs, and would be all right in no time; and hisacquiescence showed her how profoundly he felt the uselessness of theirtrying to prolong their talk. His face was now no more than a white blurin the dusk, but she felt its indistinctness as a veil drawn over achingintensities of expression. "He knows...he knows..." she said toherself, and wondered whether the truth had been revealed to him by somecorroborative fact or by the sheer force of divination.
He had risen also, and was clearly waiting for her to go, and she turnedto the door, saying: "I'll be back in a moment."
"Oh, don't come up again, please!" He paused, embarrassed. "I mean--Imay not be here. I've got to go and pick up Rempson, and see about somefinal things with him." She stopped on the threshold with a sinkingheart. He meant this to be their leave-taking, then--and he had noteven asked her when she was to be married, or spoken of seeing her againbefore she set out for the other side of the world.
"Owen!" she cried, and turned back.
He stood mutely before her in the dimness.
"You haven't told me how long you're to be gone."
"How long? Oh, you see...that's rather vague...I hate definite dates,you know..."
He paused and she saw he did not mean to help her out. She tried to say:"You'll be here for my wedding?" but could not bring the words to herlips. Instead she murmured: "In six weeks I shall be going too..." andhe rejoined, as if he had expected the announcement and prepared hisanswer: "Oh, by that time, very likely..."
"At any rate, I won't say good-bye," she stammered, feeling the tearsbeneath her veil.
"No, no; rather not!" he declared; but he made no movement, and she wentup and threw her arms about him. "You'll write me, won't you?"
"Of course, of course----"
Her hands slipped down into his, and for a minute they held each otherdumbly in the darkness; then he gave a vague laugh and said: "It'sreally time to light up." He pressed the electric button with one handwhile with the other he opened the door; and she passed out withoutdaring to turn back, lest the light on his face should show her what shefeared to see.
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