Antony Gray-Gardener Part 47

"Don't begin at all," said Antony hoa.r.s.ely, sternly almost.

"Ah, but I must. Think how I spoke to you. You--we had agreed that trust was the very foundation of friends.h.i.+p, and I destroyed the foundation at the outset."

"It was not likely you could understand," said Antony.

She caught her breath, a little quick intake.

"Would you say the same if it had been the other way about? Would _you_ have destroyed the foundation?"

Antony was silent.

"Would you?" she insisted.

"I--I hope not," he stammered.

"And yet you appear to think it reasonable that I should have done so."

He could not quite understand the tone of her words.

"I think it reasonable you did not understand," he declared. "How could you? n.o.body could have understood. It was the maddest, the most inconceivable situation."

"Possibly. Yet if the positions had been reversed, if it had been you who had failed to understand my actions, would you not still have trusted?"

"Yes," said Antony, conviction in the syllable. He did not think to ask her how it was that she understood now. The simple fact that she did understand swept aside, made trivial every other consideration.

"You mean that a man's trust holds good under any circ.u.mstances, whereas a woman's trust will obviously fail before the first difficulty?" she demanded.

"I did not mean that," cried Antony hotly.

"No?" she queried mockingly.

"It was not, on my part, a question of _trust_ alone," said Antony deliberately. He looked straight at her as he spoke the words.

The d.u.c.h.essa dropped her eyes. A crimson colour tinged her cheeks, crept upwards to her forehead.

There was a dead silence. Then----

"Will you help me to re-build the foundation?" asked the d.u.c.h.essa.

"It was never destroyed," said Antony.

"Mine was," she replied steadily. "Will you forgive me?"

"There can be no question of forgiveness," he replied hoa.r.s.ely.

Her face went to white.

"You refuse?"

"There is nothing to forgive," he said.

Again she drew a quick breath.

"There is," she said.

"I think not," he replied.

The d.u.c.h.essa looked towards the fire.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because," he replied slowly, "between you and me there can be no question of forgiveness. To forgive, one must acknowledge a wrong done to one. I acknowledge none."

She turned towards him.

"You cared so little, you felt none?"

"No," responded Antony, the words leaping to his lips, "I cared so much I felt none."

"Ah," she breathed, and stopped. "Then you will go back to the old footing?" she asked.

Antony's heart beat furiously.

"I cannot," he replied.

"Why?" she demanded, speaking very low.

Antony drew a deep breath.

"Because I love you," he said quietly.

Again there was a dead silence. At last Antony spoke quietly.

"Of course I have no right to tell you that," he said. "But you may as well know the whole truth now. It was because of that love that I agreed to this business. I had nothing to offer you. Here was my chance to obtain something. I had no notion then that you lived in this neighbourhood. When I found out, I was tempted to let you infer that there was a mystery, some possible explanation of my conduct. It would have been breaking my contract in the spirit, though not actually in the letter. Well, I didn't break it at all, and of course you did not understand. In order to keep my contract I had to deceive you, or at all events to allow you to believe an untruth. Naturally you scorned my deceit, as it appeared to you. It was that that mattered of course, not the social position. I understood that completely. Later, you offered me your friends.h.i.+p. You were ready to trust without understanding. I could not accept your trust. A friends.h.i.+p between us must have led others to suspect that I was not what I appeared to be. That was to be avoided. It had to be avoided. I hurt you then, knowing what I did." He stopped.

"I think you hurt yourself too," she suggested quietly.

The muscles in Antony's throat contracted.

"Come here," said the d.u.c.h.essa.

Antony crossed to the hearth. He stood looking down at her.

"Kneel down," said the d.u.c.h.essa.

Obediently he knelt.

"You are so blind," said the d.u.c.h.essa pathetically, "that you need to look very close to see things clearly. Look right into my eyes. Can't you see something there that will heal that hurt?"