"Witherings? Shatterings? What if the very ground one grew in is poisoned? You want me to go back to him--not loving him; do you want me to go back hating?--for I do hate him."
"I want you to go back understanding him; pitying him. Bother love."
That memory of the lighthouse flash could no longer guide in this darkness where a blind and wilful giant's hand steered for a shore of reefs and precipitous cliffs intolerable for shuddering flesh to look upon. She herself must grasp the helm and turn the ship straight to the open, unknown sea.
"Do you want me to go back, loving you?" she said.
"Loving me?" Geoffrey repeated, and the giant indeed reeled back, as if from a staggering blow. His arm fallen, the ship in a moment had whirled round and fronted the tempestuous elements.
Her final question had been asked as evenly, as monotonously as the others. She went on: "I wrote and told him that I despised him--hated him, that I would never go back to him. And I told him that I loved you. He will get that letter to-morrow--perhaps to-day."
Geoffrey turned to her. All thought was struck to chaos. Maurice, Felicia, himself went like storm-blown birds through the mind that had been too steady--in the steadiness a rigidity tempting to an ironic, shattering blow. And in the chaos Maurice sank back--back, and down--where he had chosen to be, by his own act; and Felicia rose like dawn over the darkness. He approached her, leaned over her.
The beat of the rain against the windows sounded as if from great distances. They were near in grey solitude, the world fading to emptiness; they were near in the enfolding storm, in the sound that was like a deeper silence. Neither spoke and neither smiled; into the mind of neither man nor woman came the image of a kiss or an embrace. Looking deeply into each other's eyes they seemed to see an eternity of awe and wonder. It was Geoffrey who first spoke.
"I would not have told you if you had not wished to send me back to him."
Her eyelids for a moment fell, almost as if she mused.
"It seemed to make things less simple--more difficult."
"More difficult, perhaps," said Geoffrey, "but more simple, too, I think. Have you known for long?"
"Only, clearly, yesterday; but it seems now as if it had been there--oh--for long, long--since the beginning perhaps. I can't tell. I can't see. But so strangely, Geoffrey, not touching or harming my love for him, giving it strength indeed, I believe, as you gave me strength."