‘So I was right,’ he said to her.
She turned her eyes slowly to look at him. She felt absent, not exactly preoccupied, but far off. She could not quite make him out. It was as if he spoke in a foreign language.
‘How — right?’ she asked him, vaguely.
‘I said you would not need to write for your living. You see, it was not necessary.’
She noticed the same precise way of speaking, the same apparently affected intonation that had irritated her on the previous occasion. She winced as the young man’s careful, supercilious tones assailed her, making her feel foolish and confused.
‘Was I not right?’ he insisted, his bright eyes shining.
She felt out of her depth for the moment.
‘Yes,’ she assented mechanically.
She wanted to go her way. But Drummond’s firm, purposeful bulk was still in front of her, as it might be a barrier. He was moving his hands. She did not look at him. She stood looking aside, and feeling embarrassed and shamed.
At length, out of nothing, he said to her surprisingly:
‘I should like to give you a present.’
‘Why should you?’ she asked.
She was startled. Without understanding, she felt foolish before him. He seemed to condescend towards her. But his manner was warm enough. She did not want to take anything from him.
‘Is it necessary to find pretexts for giving a present?’ he asked, smiling.
No, she supposed not. But she did not want his gift. Yet she did not seem able to refuse. It was something that had to be thrust upon her, whether she would or no.
‘What shall I give you?’ he persisted.
His voice sounded so superior, it sent a sharp irritation through her. Yet she could not altogether refuse him.
‘Give me that book, if you must give me something,’ she cried irritably, indicating the book he carried.
He glanced at it sharply, as if astonished.
‘This? But it’s only an old thing — of no value — of no special interest —’ He seemed rather disconcerted.
‘I won’t take anything else,’ said Anna firmly. She felt that she had got the upper hand all at once.
He held out the book reluctantly to her. Without examining it, she tucked it away with her bag under her arm. She seemed to have won. He did not know what to do.
‘A very inadequate wedding present,’ he said finally, darting his bright eyes.
‘I don’t like wedding presents,’ she said. ‘Why must you give me anything?’
He looked at her, and heard her cold tones, which sounded rather rude. And he knew that she had got the better of him in some way.
‘Have I annoyed you?’ he asked, in a falsely-humble voice.
‘No,’ she said, in the same cold, hostile tone. ‘But I must go now. Good-bye.’
He was angry. Her rudeness twitched at his pride.
‘Good-bye,’ he said, looking her in the face, opposing her departure.
But she was already on the move. He stood stock still, barring her way. She made a little detour to avoid him, and passed on. With her bag and the book under her arm, she began to recede from him. He watched her walk down the street.
She did not look at the book till she was in the train. It was a life of Luther, not very interesting. She intended to leave it in the carriage. But when, from the midst of the printed page, there suddenly sprang out at her these words: ‘Here I stand; I can no other,’ a great enlightenment came to her, a sudden illumination. In a moment, everything was made plain to her. She felt instantly that she understood the meaning of life — as far as it concerned her. Amazing to see clearly for the first time. Now everything was explained. How simple it was for her to realize that she herself was the centre of her own universe. How easy and simple to face life from the single basis of her own undeniable individuality. She was what she was: herself. No need for compromise or apology or modification or defence.
Again she went to the Kensington hotel. But this time she sent a telegram to Matthew. She no longer dreaded the meeting with him. She sat down quietly to await his arrival. She felt strengthened, securely in charge of her own fate. The momentary illumination would fade, of course; but she would never be quite the same again. She had achieved some new emancipation.
She waited calmly for Matthew. She was curious to see how he would behave. Some days still remained before they were due to sail. How would he propose to occupy them? One thing she knew, without very much feeling, and that was, she would never go back to River House.
At about four o’clock Matthew arrived. Anna was in her bedroom, sewing a button on a glove. She called to him to come in. She looked at him curiously. He was like an effigy. He stood with the curious blank stiffness which always astonished her. As if he were waiting to be set in motion. He wore his navy-blue suit. She could not bring herself to see him as a man. He was an effigy, an automaton, a cunning imitation of a human being.
He saw her sitting across the room, a pale girl with her hands pale on her lap, and between them the limp leather glove and the needle flashing in and out. He was very nervous. He waited for her to give him a lead.
She smiled at him, with an expressionless face, as she pulled the needle up at the end of the thread.
‘Why did you go away?’ he asked her, simply, as if it were a commonplace question.
She thrust the needle into the soft leather glove and laid it aside. She was glad he was quiet.
‘I didn’t like being at River House,’ she said, and her clear, indifferent, introspective eyes rested on him for a moment with faint interest, and then fell away, inattentive.
His heart went hot with grief and humiliation. A shameful bitterness rose up in him at her neglect. He could not even make her notice him.
‘You might have told me — you might have let me know where you were. I’ve been worried to death.’ His voice was hot and querulous.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. But he could tell she didn’t care in the least. She didn’t attempt to make the words sound sincere.
He heard her indifferent voice. And his pride was painfully, coldly debased. Yet he could do nothing. He could not gain her attention. He could not even break out in one of his black, raging explosions against her. Even the incontinent spirit of his anger was cowed, for the moment, by her indifference. Only for the moment, of course. Temporarily, she had shamed him. But within he was hot and violent against her. His violence was suppressed, it could not come up to the surface: it was no match for her coldness as yet. Outwardly he was neat and obliterated. He was like a dumb person, a mute, who could not answer or argue or plead or threaten. But his ultimate will never wavered. His will was set fast to possess her.
Anna remained at the hotel alone. When she told Matthew that she did not intend to return to River House, he seemed submissive. He did not oppose her in any way, or try to force his wishes upon her. He went about stiffly, making his arrangements, as if nothing had happened. He seemed wooden and dazed, as though she had stunned him.
He left her in London, and went back to River House alone, to make his arrangements there. He would not be long away, however. His unsatisfied will was all the time yearning to her. He could not bear to leave her alone.
Meanwhile, Anna stayed quietly at her hotel. She had no desire to see anybody, or to go anywhere in particular. It was as if she had used up all her energy. In herself she was content. She seemed to have found the key to her own personality. But she had no energy left.
Time passed in a sort of dream. She lived from moment to moment, the life of trivial things, quiet, vague, uneventful, with no thought of what was to come.