‘If’ is the pivot of existence.

If Justin had stayed in the garden with Laura—if the curate had found it pleasanter to make a fourth at bridge than to flirt with Annabel Moulde—if Laura had been a year or two older and a decade or two wiser, old enough to diagnose Justin’s symptoms, wise enough to heal him at the right moment with the right word—if Justin had been scientifically interested rather than humanly annoyed by this new disturbing state of mind of his—then it would not have degenerated from significant malaise into mere bad temper, he would not have been rude to Aunt Adela, Annabel Moulde would not have laughed, and you, Collaborator, could have been assured your happy ending.

If Justin had stayed in the garden——

But Justin went into the house and that new-born garden-mood of his resented it, resented the lights and the voices, and the need for amenities. It shrank uncomfortably, ashamed of his own existence and, half in self-ignorance, half in self-defence, hardened, as I tell you, into temper, the harmless, unreasonable bad-temper to which men are always liable and with which women (who always know why they themselves are in a temper and how far they mean to go) have no sympathy whatever. Laura tried in vain to understand what had happened. She watched him anxiously, entirely bewildered, thinking—He’s cross.... Have I made him cross?... He was so different just now.... Why should he be cross?... And besides——

She was naÏvely horrified, you see, that he should be in a temper when visitors were about. It upset her severe young notions of hospitality.

That three-handed bridge was in full swing did not improve matters. Aunt Adela was a makeshift, but one could not turn her out. Justin cut in. Aunt Adela partnered him.

Now to Aunt Adela bridge was a game. She played it in the “Ah, if you could only see my hand!” manner, with giggles, and leading questions, and audible asides. She would regularly outbid the rest of the table and explain the ensuing dÉbÂcle by admitting, with modest pride, that she was afraid she had the gambling instinct. Also, she thought it showed a grasping spirit not to let her take back a card when it was obvious to every one that she had put it down by mistake.

And while she chattered (she called Justin “Mr. Partner”) Gran’papa raked in the tricks with an expression of almost religious satisfaction, and Justin’s face grew so black that Mrs. Cloud glanced at him once uneasily. Her son hardly ever lost his temper, but when he did he called every one to help him look for it. Yet he was generally no more than decently morose over cards.... Had he and Laura bickered in the garden?...

“Having no hearts, Miss Adela?” Justin’s voice was implacable.

Aunt Adela fluttered. Now that he mentioned it—to tell the truth—Mrs. Cloud’s candied fruits were delicious, of course, and such a good idea—so much better than chocolates to have on a card-table—less thirsty—but they certainly made one’s fingers just a little bit sticky and that was why, she supposed, her heart had got stuck behind another card. However, here it was—no harm done—her trump would come in nicely later on.

Justin breathed heavily.

“And the odd!” announced Gran’papa.

To make matters worse the billiard players had finished their game and had gathered round to watch and comment, though Justin, as Laura knew, hated an audience.

And then Justin revoked.

He had never done such a thing in his life! Laura knew—his mother knew—he had never done such a thing in his life! But if people would gabble and chatter—Beggar-my-Neighbour—Perfect farce—He had never done such a thing in his life!... He said nothing with beautiful restraint, but those were the thoughts that you could see rippling one after another over his Adam’s apple. It was an awful moment.

But even then the situation might have been saved if Aunt Adela, in the giddy delight of the revoke not being hers, had not been coy about it at the end of the round.

“Well, Mr. Partner, and what have you got to say for yourself now?” etc., etc. Upon which Justin—of course there is no excuse whatever for Justin—looked the good lady very deliberately up and down and, without answering, turned to Mr. Valentine.

Aunt Adela flushed, with that sudden change from caricature to quaintly pathetic dignity that an elderly spinster can sometimes achieve. Laura saw it. Impulsively she put out her hand (she was sitting beside him) and touched Justin’s arm.

“Justin!” she breathed.

He shook it off.

“One diamond!” he defied them.

It was at that moment that she looked up to find the eyes of Annabel Moulde fixed upon her.

She stared back, insolent as Justin a moment ago, and Annabel turned away.

But Annabel had been laughing.

An hour later, in the quiet of her own room, she tried to shrug her shoulders, wisely, tolerantly, at the pin-prick—and could not.

If she had gone home, if she had been able to go home after that appeasing hour when Justin had helped her with Timothy, when they had walked together on the terrace, she knew that she should have fallen asleep happily, hopefully, though on what she based her happiness and her hope she could not have told you. But Annabel had laughed, more maliciously, more discreetly, yet as Coral might have laughed: and in a flash the old thoughts, the old bitterness, had overwhelmed her again. She inveighed against herself. Was she such a weakling that she could be moved by what outsiders chose to think? Annabel, indeed! That for Annabel! But Annabel had been laughing at Justin ... at Justin, a grown man—making a fool of himself—over a game!... at Laura, unable to stop him, without the faintest influence.... A trifle? Of course it was a trifle, the straw which showed so clearly to Annabel, to all the world, which way the wind blew. Such a trifle that if she spoke to Justin.... What was the use of speaking to Justin, of telling him what she thought? It would only mean a row.... He had been annoyed the other day, about the letter.... It wasn’t her business to criticize Justin.... And if it were, that wasn’t the way to do it.... Men must be humoured.... And after all, it wasn’t difficult to humour Justin....

She smiled to herself as she combed out her long hair, and, parting it carefully, put up her hands to plait it; but she got no further; for as she looked at the glass she realized suddenly, with a certain crisping of her skin, a certain shortening of her breath, that not only was she looking at herself, but that herself was looking at her. It moved as she moved, pursed lips with her, while its hand divided the rope of hair into three; yet all the while it stared at her with that air of critical comprehension that looking-glass faces have, and its thoughts, underneath its imitative obedience, shone in its eyes with such an odd suggestion of menace that she cried out to it at last, aloud—

“What is it? Oh, what is it? I’m afraid——”

Its lips, moving quickly, answered even while she spoke—

“—Of yourself! Actually afraid of yourself. You’re afraid to be yourself, aren’t you? Justin mightn’t like it.”

She watched the shamed, conscious flush rise and die again in its looking-glass face.

“I’m quite happy,” she said to it defiantly.

“Of course!” Its narrowed eyes were merciless. “Of course. It’s such fun humouring Justin. It’s so easy to give in. It’s such a pleasure to oil the wheels—to be always exactly what he wants, where he wants, and when he wants. It’s the delightfullest slavery. He owns you, doesn’t he? and you’re proud of it. Well, I suppose it’s worth while to you. I’m told it’s a most voluptuous sensation.”

She winced, her head flung up in outrage.

“I’m not like that. Never for one instant!”

But the tilted, scornful looking-glass face said only—

“Never for one instant? Are you sure?”

She had a wild gust of anger.

“It’s not fair. We’re going to be married. It’s cruel of Justin. It doesn’t happen to other people like this. It doesn’t happen in books. There was Oliver—there’s Robin and Annabel——Why should we be different? Everywhere people love each other.” Then, with a whimsical twist of her thought: “Well, I suppose they’re satisfied.”

“I expect they are.” The face in the glass had also its mocking smile. “They’re in love, you see.”

“But Justin’s in love——”

“Is he?” asked the looking-glass.

And as she stared into those reflected eyes she saw rising up in their depths as if they were not eyes but pools of memory, a gleam, minute and exquisite as an enamel, of green and midday blue, and a patch of black like a sloe-bush and its scanty shadow, and herself, a tiny far-away self, lying under it listening to a tiny Justin who plucked at the thyme and the golden hawksbit as he said—she heard his voice—

“Marry me—will you? Then we needn’t have any upset.”

For an instant the old bliss held her again.

“He hasn’t grown much, has he, since then?” The looking-glass could mock her while its eyes still held the vision.

She answered sullenly—

“What does it matter? I like him this way.”

“So much,” it drawled, “the worse for Justin.”

“Can I help that?” She struck at the table in front of her so that the brushes clattered, and a bottle of lavender tipped, and fell, and broke. And while the sweet, domestic fume of it filled the room she heard the instant, inexorable comment—

“What’s the use of that? What’s the use of behaving like a child?”

“Am I his keeper?” she began fiercely, but at once, with equal violence, it over-rode her—

“Aren’t you? Aren’t you? Haven’t you made your plans?”

Her eyes fell before the completeness of its contemptuous comprehension.

Yes—she had made her plans.... She knew—she had always known—that she could marry him, content him, and find her own happiness in doing so.... She could humour him: aid and abet him in his harmless, useless enterprises: lap him in little lies and call it management.... The tyrannous motherliness that is in every woman leaped within her at the idea. Of course she could manage Justin.... They would lead happy, well-fed lives.... They would die at last, placidly, and be buried, and that would be the end of them; because the spirit within them would have been stifled long ago....

She nodded deliberately. Yes, she could do that.... She knew herself capable of it.... She had killed one self already—and for that, too, she supposed, she was now being punished.... If she had stayed on in Paris, learning, growing, acquiring the self-mastery that is Art and the art that is self-mastery, she would have come back to Brackenhurst at last, full-grown, self-possessing, of account, good enough for Justin, the right woman for Justin....

But she had chosen to stultify herself.... She had sacrificed self-respect, common sense, common honesty sometimes, to what?... Not even to Justin, only to the mean, selfish fear of losing him.... Not love but fear had guided her in all her dealings.... She had wanted him for her own, her very own: she had encouraged every tendency, every fault, that would bind him to her.... How unfair, how cruelly unfair, she had been to Justin!... She pretended to love him—she did love him—but when had she lifted a finger to help him, to withstand him, as every human being needs to be withstood by those who love him best? No, for she would have been afraid—weakly, selfishly afraid of his displeasure, of his lack of comprehension, of putting herself in a position that he could misconstrue. Not love—fear. If Justin had his ways, his little faults—no, she would be honest with herself—the big faults that were sapping his whole character, she, and she alone, was to blame....

And yet—the unquenchable hopefulness of her temperament stirred within her like a sparrow chirping in a storm—couldn’t things be put right, even now?... They must get out of their groove.... They must help each other, she and Justin.... When two people loved each other—ah, but he did not love her! That was the reward of her folly.... He did not love her.... Her days rose up before her as if she were a drowning woman, as indeed, in a sense, she was, and for moments of an agony that was almost physical she clutched at this incident or that—such a look as he had once given her, such a word as he had said—and each was proved a straw. Kind he was—her friend, her ally—not her lover.... He had never been her lover.... He knew nothing of love.... Yet he was so ignorant, so pitifully ignorant, that he intended to marry her, to live his life with her and his children, and his comforts, and his collections: and he would never know, not even dimly in a dream, that something had died within him unborn....

“My fault,” she whispered to herself. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t see. He’s clogged. It’s getting worse and worse. He’s like the deaf adder that stoppeth up her ears. And yet he’s still Justin inside. I’ll never believe he’s not big really. And if I marry him——”

What right had she to marry him? If he were a fool—oh, she cried writhing—a most blind and bitter fool—was she to build her selfish happiness upon his blindness and his loss?

She turned on herself again—

“It’s my fault. It was my chance. He was given to me. I’m the unprofitable servant, and from him shall be taken away——It has been taken away. He doesn’t love me. I haven’t been able to teach him. I didn’t know I had to. I thought—I thought he must too, when I loved him so. I’ve been blinder than Justin. I’ve been a wicked fool.”

“But to break with Justin—what good would it do? He wouldn’t care. I don’t count. It wouldn’t even be a shock.”

She fingered the fringe of the table-cover as she glanced up at the looking-glass, furtively.

“And it’s a shock he wants—a shock——He wants tearing up—by the roots——” Then her voice rose. “Ah, but I can’t hurt him,” she cried defiantly. “I can’t. You can’t make me.”

The eyes in the glass were alive with passion.

“If it isn’t you it’ll be some one else—some beast of a woman who won’t care how she hurts him. It’s got to be you.”

At that she sprang up from the table to escape the intolerable domination. But everywhere there were looking-glasses. She turned panic-stricken from herself a yard away from her in the long wardrobe, to the mantelpiece reflecting Dresden figures and herself, and, caught from the wardrobe, herself again, and again, and yet again, in an unending reduplication of gay dressing-gown and ashy face. For she might turn where she would, she might crush out the candle-flames, and, flung down upon her bed, cover her eyes with her hair and her desperate, scorched hands; but she could not escape from herself, from the inquisition of her own awakened soul.