Chapter 10: The Tale Which Was Told

They were silent. To her it seemed that the silence shrieked aloud. He looked at her with an expression on his face which she was destined never to forget--as if he were hard of hearing, or fancied that his senses played him a trick, or that she had indulged in some ill-timed jest.

“What did you say?”

“I said that I am a wife already.”

His look had become one of inquiry; as if desirous of learning if she were really in earnest. She felt her heart beating against her ribs, or seeming to--a habit of which it had been too fond of late. When it behaved like that it was only with an uncomfortable effort that she could keep a hold upon her consciousness; being fearful that it might slip away from her, in spite of all that she might be able to do. When he spoke again his tone had changed; as if he were puzzled. She had a sudden feeling that he was speaking to her as he might have spoken to a child.

“Do you know what you are saying? and do you mean what you say?”

“Of course I do.”

“But--pardon me--I don’t see the of course at all. Do you--seriously--wish me to understand that you’re--a married woman?”

“Whether you understand it or not, I am.”

“But you are scarcely more than a child. How old are you?”

“I am twenty-two.”

“And how long do you wish me to understand that you’ve been married?”

“Two years.”

“Two years? Then--you were married before you came here?”

“Of course.”

“Of course? But everyone here has always spoken to me of you as Miss Arnott.”

“That is because no one who knows me here knows that I am married.”

He put his arms down to his sides, and drew himself up still straighter, so that she had to look right up at him, and knit his brows, as if he found himself confronted by a problem which was incapable of solution.

“I believe that I am the least curious of men, I say it seriously; but it appears to me that this is a situation in which curiosity is justified. You made yourself known to me as Miss Arnott; as Miss Arnott there have previously been certain passages between us; as Miss Arnott you have permitted me to tell you that I love you; you have even admitted that you love me. It is only when I take it for granted--as I am entitled to do--that the mutual confession involves your becoming my wife, that you inform me--that you are already a married woman. Under the circumstances I think I have a right to ask for information at least on certain points; as, for instance, so that I may know how to address you--what is your husband’s name?”

“Robert Champion.”

“Robert Champion? Then--you are Mrs Champion?”

“I am.”

“Am I to take it that Mr Champion is alive?”

“So far as I know.”

“So far as you know? That does not suggest very intimate--or very recent knowledge. When did you hear from him last?”

“I saw him twelve months ago.”

“You saw him twelve months ago? That was not long before you came here. Why did he not accompany you when you came?”

“He couldn’t.”

“He couldn’t? Why?”

“He was in prison.”

“In--” He stopped, looked at her with, in his eyes, an altogether different expression; then, throwing his head back, seemed to be staring straight at the moon, as if he were endeavouring to read something which was written on her surface. Presently he spoke in an entirely altered tone of voice. “Now I understand, or, rather, now I begin to understand. It dawns on me that here is a position which will want some understanding.” As if seized with sudden restlessness he began to pace to and fro, keeping to the same piece of ground, of which he seemed to be making mental measurements; she meanwhile, watching him, silent, motionless, as if she were waiting for him to pronounce judgment. After a while he broke into speech, while he still continued pacing to and fro. “Now I begin to see daylight everywhere; the meaning of the things which puzzled me. Why you seemed to take no interest in anything; why you were so fond of solitude; why, in the middle of a conversation, one found that your thoughts had strayed. The life you were living in public was not the one you were living to yourself. It’s not nice to be like that. Poor child! And I have laughed at you, because I thought you were a character, and--you were. How many fools escape being kicked just at those moments when a kicking would do them good. It occurs to me, Mrs Champion--”