There was a pause, which did not come on Rachel's side from any lack of things to say; as usual she could not say them, and was further confused by the fact that the time for talking probably ran short.
She was haunted by absurd jumbled ideas--how, if one went back far enough, everything perhaps was intelligible; everything was in common; for the mammoths who pastured in the fields of Richmond High Street had turned into paving stones and boxes full of ribbon, and her aunts.
"Did you say you lived in the country when you were a child?" she asked.
Crude as her manners seemed to him, Richard was flattered.
There could be no doubt that her interest was genuine.
"I did," he smiled.
"And what happened?" she asked. "Or do I ask too many questions?"
"I'm flattered, I assure you. But--let me see--what happened?
Well, riding, lessons, sisters. There was an enchanted rubbish heap, I remember, where all kinds of queer things happened. Odd, what things impress children! I can remember the look of the place to this day.
It's a fallacy to think that children are happy. They're not; they're unhappy. I've never suffered so much as I did when I was a child."
"Why?" she asked.
"I didn't get on well with my father," said Richard shortly.
"He was a very able man, but hard. Well--it makes one determined not to sin in that way oneself. Children never forget injustice.
They forgive heaps of things grown-up people mind; but that sin is the unpardonable sin. Mind you--I daresay I was a difficult child to manage; but when I think what I was ready to give! No, I was more sinned against than sinning. And then I went to school, where I did very fairly well; and and then, as I say, my father sent me to both universities. . . . D'you know, Miss Vinrace, you've made me think? How little, after all, one can tell anybody about one's life! Here I sit; there you sit; both, I doubt not, chock-full of the most interesting experiences, ideas, emotions; yet how communicate? I've told you what every second person you meet might tell you."
"I don't think so," she said. "It's the way of saying things, isn't it, not the things?"
"True," said Richard. "Perfectly true." He paused. "When I look back over my life--I'm forty-two--what are the great facts that stand out? What were the revelations, if I may call them so?
The misery of the poor and--" (he hesitated and pitched over) "love!"
Upon that word he lowered his voice; it was a word that seemed to unveil the skies for Rachel.
"It's an odd thing to say to a young lady," he continued.
"But have you any idea what--what I mean by that? No, of course not.
I don't use the word in a conventional sense. I use it as young men use it. Girls are kept very ignorant, aren't they?
Perhaps it's wise--perhaps--You _don't_ know?"
He spoke as if he had lost consciousness of what he was saying.
"No; I don't," she said, scarcely speaking above her breath.
"Warships, ****! Over there! Look!" Clarissa, released from Mr. Grice, appreciative of all his seaweeds, skimmed towards them, gesticulating.
She had sighted two sinister grey vessels, low in the water, and bald as bone, one closely following the other with the look of eyeless beasts seeking their prey. Consciousness returned to Richard instantly.
"By George!" he exclaimed, and stood shielding his eyes.
"Ours, ****?" said Clarissa.
"The Mediterranean Fleet," he answered.
"The _Euphrosyne_ was slowly dipping her flag. Richard raised his hat.
Convulsively Clarissa squeezed Rachel's hand.
"Aren't you glad to be English!" she said.
The warships drew past, casting a curious effect of discipline and sadness upon the waters, and it was not until they were again invisible that people spoke to each other naturally. At lunch the talk was all of valour and death, and the magnificent qualities of British admirals. Clarissa quoted one poet, Willoughby quoted another.
Life on board a man-of-war was splendid, so they agreed, and sailors, whenever one met them, were quite especially nice and ******.
This being so, no one liked it when Helen remarked that it seemed to her as wrong to keep sailors as to keep a Zoo, and that as for dying on a battle-field, surely it was time we ceased to praise courage--"or to write bad poetry about it," snarled Pepper.
But Helen was really wondering why Rachel, sitting silent, looked so queer and flushed.
