And then I crashed over the precipice towards whose edge I had been blindly going. I had said for the hundredth time, "But you know you love me," when with a sob she abandoned all reserve, and, flinging her arms round my neck, implored me to take her. Then, as I caught my breath, she quickly said, as if frightened that she had gone too far, "But I cannot marry you."
I looked down into those beautiful eyes, and for the first time I understood. For perhaps ten seconds I battled for my soul and the purity of our love; then, tearing my sight from those eyes which would lure an archangel to destruction, I was once more master of my body. As my resolution grew, I hated her for doing this thing that had wrecked in an instant the hopes of months, the ideals on which I had begun to build afresh my life.
She felt the change, and left me.
As she went out by the door she gave me one last look, a look in which love struggled with shame, a look which no man has ever earned the right to receive from any woman.
But I was as a statue of marble, dazed by this calamity.
As the door closed upon her, I started forward—it was too late.
Had she waited another instant—but there, I write of what has happened and not what might have been.
I did not sleep that night, until the dawn began to separate each fir tree from the black mass of the forest. Twice in the night, with shame I confess it, I opened my door and looked down the little passage–way; and twice I closed the door and threw myself upon my bed in an agony of torment. It was ten o'clock when a knock at the door aroused me, and the sunlight through the window–pane was tracing patterns on the floor.
There was a note on the breakfast table, but before I opened it I knew that, save for Babette, I was alone in the house.
The note was brief, unaddressed and unsigned. I have it here before me; I have meant to tear it up but I cannot. It is a weakness to keep it, but I have lost so much in the last few days, that I will not grudge myself some small relic of what has been. The note says:
"I am leaving for Bruges at half–past eight, when the car was ordered to fetch us back. I go alone. Babette will give you breakfast. The car will return for you at eleven o'clock. I rely on your honour in that you will not observe where you have been. Come to me when you want me—till then, farewell."
It was as she said, and I honourably acceded to her request. This afternoon just before lunch I arrived in Bruges, and since tea–time I have tried to write down what has happened since I left the day before yesterday. Oh! how could she do it, how can it be possible that she is a woman like that? I could have sworn that she was not like this—and yet how can I account for her life with the Colonel? There must be some reason, but in Heaven's name, what?
Meanwhile I am to go to her when I want her! And that will be when I can give her my name. But oh! Zoe, I want you now, so badly, oh! so badly!
* * * * *
I saw her once to–day in the gardens, walking by herself.
* * * * *
I have told Max's secretary that I want to get to sea; to be here in Bruges and not to see her is more than I can bear.
I sail at dawn to–morrow. Shall I see her? No, it is best not.
A frightful noise over the New Year celebrations to–night. Champagne flowing like water in the Mess. I feel the year 1917 opens badly for me.
Weissman also went to sea again for a short trip in the Channel, and has not reported for five days. Perhaps he has despised the Dover Barrage once too often. If this is so, it is a great loss to the service: he was a man of iron resolution in underwater attack.
I feel I ought to despise Zoe, but I can't. I love her too much; after all, am I not perhaps encasing myself in the robe of a Pharisee?
She offered me all she had, save only the one thing I asked, without which I will take nothing. I cannot reconcile her behaviour with her character; why can't she trust me? why can't she be frank with me? I will not believe she is that sort.
I feel I cannot go out again without a sign—I may not return, and I will not leave her, perhaps for ever, with this bitterness between us.
* * * * *
At sea in U.C.47 again. Alten as surly as ever.
