At last she forced herself upstairs. It seemed a long, long way — a wearisome pilgrimage. Once she fancied that Matthew was calling to her. How thankful she was that he did not appear. She lay on her bed, shivering with cold, for a long time. Then she fell into a heavy, uncomfortable sleep.
She was rather ill for a few days, not delirious, but feverish and strange. A strange sense of inappropriateness haunted her like a persistent ache. She ought to have died that night in the rain. Why had she not died? She seemed to have suffered an unnatural partial death. Her spirit was dead. Why did her body still linger in life?
She was dead, and yet she was alive. Her body held her to life, in spite of herself. There was all the time a sense of falsity, of unreality. Why did her body persist in living? She had come to the end of everything. There was no object left in life. It was only decent that she should die. But her boay nailed her to life, nailing her down.
There would be no child. She was glad of that. She was glad that Matthew had not known about the child, that no one had known. It would be a secret now, for ever. A secret shame at the bottom of her heart. She tried to push the secret down, deeper, deeper, within herself. She wanted to hide it even from herself.
Then suddenly she thought of Catherine. In a vivid flash she realized that Catherine could now come to her. Catherine could come and deliver her from the nightmare and from Matthew. Her spirit stirred in its death-trance. She began to come back to personal life. But for some time she did nothing. There was a period of waiting — a strange waiting for life to swing back. She could not find herself at first.
Then she wrote out a cable and sent one of the servants with it to the station. She said nothing to Matthew, to anyone. She waited a few days in a state of passive suspense. She was not anxious or excited. Only she waited with all her being. It was the final crisis of her existence. If Catherine came, she would live. If not, let this be the end. At last it seemed that a decision was being made for her, outside her. She was almost at peace in her profound waiting, her sense of approaching finality. She had touched bottom at last.
One evening a cable arrived from Catherine: ‘I am coming on the next boat.’ The old flame sprang up again in her. Her life was not finished then. It went on. Hope came back to her a little, like an old warmth renewed. It was good that the nightmare had not destroyed her. A glow of warmth and vitality went through her blood.
She must tell Matthew about the cable. She wondered vaguely how he would react. But she did not trouble about his attitude. She was not interested. He did not affect her any more. Since she had conquered him, since she had bested him in the struggle for dominance, he seemed obliterated. The recognition of her victory killed the cocksureness in him. He had no more power over her, she knew she had subdued him to her for ever, her victory was final and complete. And he himself seemed aware of this. He knew he would never be able to touch her again. He did not really want to touch her. She had taken the heart out of him in her victory. He succumbed to her.
There was no reality in their relationship one to another. Matthew came into Anna’s room, where she was in bed ill. He was stiff and obliterated. He did not look at her. He could not bear to look at her cold, enigmatic, indifferent face. He had no assurance, no support. He never looked at Anna, if he could help it, while he talked to her. She was a horror and a humiliation to him. He was afraid of her. He wanted to run away and hide himself from the horror and the humiliating slight of her victorious disregard. He felt that she had humiliated him for ever. He was strangely effaced before her.
They talked civilly, quietly, to one another, about ordinary affairs, as two strangers might speak. They were like two strangers who were obliged temporarily to live in the same house. And all the time he wanted to hide himself from her.
Calmly, without misgiving or anxiety, she told him that Catherine was coming. His heart went small and painful at the realization of her contempt for him. He knew he counted for less than nothing.
‘I am not enough for you, then,’ he said, in a childish, querulous voice, resentful.
She looked at him across the room, studying him. He stood stiffly, his shoulders set square, the light behind his dark, round, inhuman head. She saw him. She saw him so distinctly that he was almost pitiful to her. She wanted to like him, to be friends with him. But she could not. Insensitive, blank, meaningless, there he stood like a queer effigy of himself. ‘A queer fish.’ It was so fatally true.
‘It’s the loneliness,’ she said. ‘I can’t stand being so much alone.’ She wanted to let him down lightly.
‘You haven’t done with me?’ he asked at length, turning his head. ‘Because this girl comes you haven’t finished with me? It won’t make any difference?’ His pride was broken; she had conquered him, but he clung to the wraith of his complacency. It was pathetic.
‘No,’ she answered, lying to him. She was sorry for him. She wanted to say more. But she knew that everything was finished. What was the good of talking? And her own hope was stirring warmly, beautifully within her. She had her own thoughts to attend to.