THE NEW MACHIAVELLI

3

I had a curious revulsion of feeling that morning of our meeting.

(Of all places for such a clandestine encounter she had chosen the

bridge opposite Buckingham Palace.) Overnight I had been full of

selfpity, and eager for the comfort of Isabel's presence. But the

ill-written scrawl in which she had replied had been full of the

suggestion of her own weakness and misery. And when I saw her, my

own selfishsorrows were altogether swept away by a wave of pitiful

tenderness. Something had happened to her that I did not

understand. She was manifestly ill. She came towards me wearily,

she who had always borne herself so bravely; her shoulders seemed

bent, and her eyes were tired, and her face white and drawn. All my

life has been a narrow self-centred life; no brothers, no sisters or

children or weak things had ever yet made any intimate appeal to me,

and suddenly-I verily believe for the first time in my life!-I

felt a great passion of protective ownership; I felt that here was

something that I could die to shelter, something that meant more

than joy or pride or splendid ambitions or splendid creation to me,

a new kind of hold upon me, a new power in the world. Some sealed

fountain was opened in my breast. I knew that I could love Isabel

broken, Isabel beaten, Isabel ugly and in pain, more than I could

love any sweet or delightful or glorious thing in life. I didn't

care any more for anything in the world but Isabel, and that I

should protect her. I trembled as I came near her, and could

scarcely speak to her for the emotion that filled me…

"I had your letter," I said.

"I had yours."

"Where can we talk?"

I remember my lame sentences. "We'll have a boat. That's best

here."

I took her to the little boat-house, and there we hired a boat, and

I rowed in silence under the bridge and into the shade of a tree.

The square grey stone masses of the Foreign Office loomed through

the twigs, I remember, and a little space of grass separated us from

the pathway and the scrutiny of passers-by. And there we talked.

"I had to write to you," I said.

"I had to come."

"When are you to be married?"

"Thursday week."

"Well?" I said. "But-can we?"

She leant forward and scrutinised my face with eyes wide open.

"What do you mean?" she said at last in a whisper.

"Can we stand it? After all?"

I looked at her white face. "Can you?" I said.

She whispered. "Your career?"

Then suddenly her face was contorted,-she wept silently, exactly as

a child tormented beyond endurance might suddenly weep…

"Oh! I don't care," I cried, "now. I don't care. Damn the whole

system of things! Damn all this patching of the irrevocable! I

want to take care of you, Isabel! and have you with me."

"I can't stand it," she blubbered.

"You needn't stand it. I thought it was best for you… I

thought indeed it was best for you. I thought even you wanted it

like that."

"Couldn't I live alone-as I meant to do?"

"No," I said, "you couldn't. You're not strong enough. I've

thought of that; I've got to shelter you."

"And I want you," I went on. "I'm not strong enough-I can't stand

life without you."

She stopped weeping, she made a great effort to control herself, and

looked at me steadfastly for a moment. "I was going to kill

myself," she whispered. "I was going to kill myself quietly-

somehow. I meant to wait a bit and have an accident. I thought-

you didn't understand. You were a man, and couldn't understand…"

"People can't do as we thought we could do," I said. "We've gone

too far together."

"Yes," she said, and I stared into her eyes.

"The horror of it," she whispered. "The horror of being handed

over. It's just only begun to dawn upon me, seeing him now as I do.

He tries to be kind to me… I didn't know. I felt adventurous

before… It makes me feel like all the women in the world who

have ever been owned and subdued… It's not that he isn't the

best of men, it's because I'm a part of you… I can't go

through with it. If I go through with it, I shall be left-robbed

of pride-outraged-a woman beaten…"

"I know," I said, "I know."

"I want to live alone… I don't care for anything now but just

escape. If you can help me…"

"I must take you away. There's nothing for us but to go away

together."

"But your work," she said; "your career! Margaret! Our promises!"

"We've made a mess of things, Isabel-or things have made a mess of

us. I don't know which. Our flags are in the mud, anyhow. It's

too late to save those other things! They have to go. You can't

make terms with defeat. I thought it was Margaret needed me most.

But it's you. And I need you. I didn't think of that either. I

haven't a doubt left in the world now. We've got to leave

everything rather than leave each other. I'm sure of it. Now we

have gone so far. We've got to go right down to earth and begin

again… Dear, I WANT disgrace with you…"

So I whispered to her as she sat crumpled together on the faded

cushions of the boat, this white and weary young woman who had been

so valiant and careless a girl. "I don't care," I said. "I don't

care for anything, if I can save you out of the wreckage we have

made together."