# The Highwayman (Bailey)/Chapter XXXIV

Harry lay asleep when Alison came into his room.
She made sure of that and sat herself beside him to wait. It was not, you know, a thing which she did well. She looked down at him gravely. Afterwards Harry would accuse her that what first she felt was how little and miserable a man she had taken to herself.
He lay there very still and his breath hardly stirred him. Indeed, the surgery of Mr. Rolfe had bound him up so tightly that he was in armour from waist to neck. After a moment, she started and trembled and bent over him and put her cheek close to his lips. She felt his breath and rose again slowly almost as pale as he. That cheating fear had stabbed cruelly, and still it would not let her be. His face was so thin, so white and utterly tired. The life was drained out of him….
She sat beside him, still but for the beat of her bosom, and it seemed that the consciousness in her was falling from a height or galloping against the wind. She seemed to try to stop and could not.
She tried to change the fashion of her thought and had no power in that either. It was a strange, half-angry, half-contemptuous pity that moved in her, and a fever of impatience. He was wicked to be struck down so, rent, impotent. Why must the wretch go plunging out into the world and measure himself against these swashbuckling conspirators? He had no equipment for it. He was fated to end it with disaster. Faith, it was a cruel folly to throw himself away and drag up her life by the roots as he fell. She needed him—needed him quick and eager, and there he lay, a shrunken thing that could use only gentleness, help, a tedious, trivial service like a child.
He was humiliated, a condition not to be borne in her man. As she watched him, she saw Geoffrey Waverton rise between them, blusterous and menacing, and his lustiness mocked at the still, helpless body. But on that all other feeling was lost in a fever of hate of Mr. Waverton. He was branded with every contemptible sin that she knew, she ached to have him suffer, and (unaware of the contusions and extravasations administered by Mr. O'Connor) tried to console herself by recalling the ignominious condition of Geoffrey in the hands of the truculent gentlemen at Highgate. Bah, the coward was dishonoured for ever, at least. He would never dare show his face in town or country. How could he? Mr. Hadley would spit him like a joint. The good Charles! She found some consolation in the memory of Mr. Hadley's sardonic contempt. Nay, but the others, that fire-eating little Scotsman and his lank friend, they were of the same scornful mind about Mr. Waverton. His blusterous bullying went for nothing with them but to call for more disdain. They had no doubt that he cut a miserable figure, that it was he who was humiliated in the affair. And so all men would think, indeed. It was only a fool of a woman who could be imposed upon by his brag, only a mean, detestable woman who could suppose Harry defeated.
Why, Harry must needs have done nobly to enlist these men on his side. He was nothing to Captain McBean, nothing but what he had done, and yet McBean took up his cause with a perfect devotion, cared for nothing but to punish his enemies, and to assure his safety. Faith, the little man would be as glad to thrash her as to overthrow Master Geoffrey. He had come near it, indeed. She smiled a little. The absurd imagination was not unpleasant. Monsieur was welcome to beat her if it would bring Harry any comfort. Aye, it would be very good for her. She would be glad to show Harry the stripes. Nay, but it was Harry who should beat her—only he never would. And these fantastics were swept away in a wave of tenderness.
Mr. Harry was not good at making others suffer. He left it to his wife, poor lad, and she—she had done it greedily. Well. There was to be an end of that. Pray God he might ever be strong enough to hurt her. She bent over him in this queer mood, and her eyes were dim, and she kissed him, and whispered to herself—to him. Yes. She must make him hurt her. She must have pain of him to bear….
Harry slept on. She began to caress his pillow, and crooned over him like a mother with her child, and found herself blushing and was still and silent again. Indeed, she was detestable. To make a show of fondling after having driven him to the edge of death! To chatter and flutter about him when he had no more than strength enough for sleep! Why, this was the very way for a light o' love. And, indeed, she was no better, wanting him only for her pleasure, for what he would give, watching greedily till he should be fit to serve her turn again. Yes, that was the only way of love Mrs. Alison understood.
It was some satisfaction to scold herself, to make herself believe that she was vile. For she wanted to suffer, she wanted to be humbled. Not so much for the comfort of penance, not even for the luxury of sensation which makes self-torture pleasure, but that she might be sure of realizing her sins against the love which was now in command of all her being, and go on to serve it with a clean devotion. One thing only was worth doing, in one thing only could there be honour and joy, to make him welcome her and have delight in her… And so she fell among dreams….
She saw something glitter on the table by the bed, and idly put out her hand for it. She found herself looking at the diamonds of the Pretender's watch. How did Harry come to such a gorgeous toy? J.R., the diamonds wrote. Who was J.R.?
"Alison," Harry said.
She started, stared at him, and stood up. His eyes were open, and he frowned a little.
"Alison? It is you?" he said, and rubbed at his eyes.
"Yes."
"Why have you come?"
She fell on her knees by the bed. "Oh, Harry, Harry," she murmured, and hid her face.
"Is it true?"
"I will be true," she sobbed.
"I want to see you."
She showed him her face pale and wet with tears….
After a while, "Why have you come?" he said again.
"Harry, I knew about Geoffrey. He told me."
"You—knew?"
I wrote you warning. I begged you come back to me. Oh, Harry, Harry, you are proud."
"I had no warning. Proud? Oh, yes, I am proud. What were you with Geoffrey?"
"Harry! Oh, Harry! No, it's fair. Well. I tried to trick him for your sake to save you."
"I am obliged for your care of me."
She cried out "Ah, God," and hid her face again. Harry lay still and white as death…. "Oh, Harry, you torture me," she murmured. "You have the right. No man but you has ever had a thought of me. Harry—I want to pray you—oh, I want to lie at your feet. Only believe in me—use me—take me again."
"I am a fool," Harry said, and she looked up and saw that he, too, was crying. "Oh, curse the wound," he said hoarsely. "Egad, I am damned feeble, child."
"I love you, I love you," she sobbed, and pressed her face to his…. "Oh, Harry, I am wicked."
She raised herself. "You are hurt, and I wear you out."
"That's a brag." Harry smiled faintly, "It takes more than you can give to kill me, ma'am."
"Ah, don't."
"Stand up and let me look at you." Which she did, and made parade of her beauty, smiling through tears. "Aye, you're a splendid woman," and his eyes brightened.
She made him a curtsy. "It's at your will, sir."
"Yes, and why? Why? What made you come back?"
"My dear!" She held out her arms to him. "I have wanted you ever since I lost you. And now—now I am nothing unless you want me."
"Oh, be easy. There is plenty of you, and I want it all."
"Can you say so? Ah, Harry, you have known enough bad that's me, cruel and greedy and hard and cheating. I have always taken, and given nothing back."
"Damn your humilities," Harry said.
"Oh, sir, but I want them, my new humilities. I have nothing else to cover my nakedness."
"You look better without them, ma'am."
"Fie, I will stop your mouth." But it was a cup of herb water that she offered him instead of a kiss.
"You are a cheat," Harry spluttered. "You presume on my infirmities."
"No. No. I have made you talk too much. You must be still and rest again."
"Burn your maternal care! I have hardly seen you yet a minute."
"A minute! Oh!" She looked at the jewelled watch. "Aye, sir, an hour. And what's this pretty toy?"
Harry laughed. "Why, now I have you. Sure, ma'am, it's a love token."
"I shall go away, sir."
"Not till you come by the secret. I know you."
His ear was pinched. "J. R. Who is J. R., sir?"
"Jemima Regina. A queen of beauty, ma'am. She fell in love with my nose. And offered me a thousand pound for it."
"Harry! I am going to say good night."
"Hear the truth, Alison. Do you remember—you told me I was born to be a highwayman—my stand-and-deliver stare—my—"
"Oh! Don't play so. I was a fiend when I taunted you so."
"Why, child, it's nothing. Come then—J.R., it's Jacobus Rex, the poor lad, Prince James, who will never be a king, God help him. He gave me that for the memory of some little service I did him. McBean brought the toy to-day."
Alison nodded. "I will have that story from Captain McBean, sir. You tell stories mighty ill, do you know—highwayman. Yes, Harry, you are that. You pillage us all. Love, honour, you win it from all. And I—I am the last to know you."
"Bah, you will never be a wife," Harry said. "You have too much imagination. But you make a mighty fine lover, my dear."