maradick in a new r?le—he afterwards sees tony’s
face in a mirror
he didn’t precisely know what his feelings were; he was too hot, and the whole thing was too much of a surprise for him to think at all; the thing that he did most nearly resemble, if he had wanted similes, was some sharply contested citadel receiving a new attack on its crumbling walls before the last one was truly over.
but that again was not a simile that served with any accuracy, because he was so glad, so tumultuously and intensely glad, to see her. he wanted to keep that moment, that instant when she was coming down the path towards him, quite distinct from all the other moments of his life in its beauty and colours, and so he focussed in his mind the deep green of the trees and their purple shadows on the path, the noise that two birds made, and the deep rustle as of some moving water that her dress sent to him as she came.
he sat there, one hand on each knee, looking straight before him, motionless.
mrs. lester had that morning done her utmost to persuade her husband to “play a game.” she was brimming over with sentiment, partly because of the weather, partly because treliss always made her feel like that, partly because it was “in the air” in some vague way through tony.
she did not understand it, but she knew that she had one of her “fits,” a craving for excitement, for doing anything that could give one something of a fling.
but her talk with her husband had also partly arisen from her realisation of her feeling for maradick. she was not a very serious woman, she took life very lightly, but she knew that her affection for her husband was by far the best and most important thing in her.
she knew this through all the passing and temporary moods that she might have, and she had learnt to dread those moods simply because she never knew how far she might go. but then fred would be so provoking! as he was just now, for instance, paying no attention to her at all, wrapped in his stupid writing, talking about nerves and suggesting doctors.
but she had tried very hard that morning to awaken him to a sense of the kind of thing that was happening to her. she had even, with a sudden sense of panic, suggested leaving the place altogether, hinting that it didn’t suit her. but he had laughed.
she had, in fact, during these last few days, been thinking of maradick a great deal. for one thing, she hated mrs. maradick; she had never in her life before hated anyone so thoroughly. she took people easily as a rule and was charitable in her judgment, but mrs. maradick seemed to her to be everything that was bad. the little woman’s assumption of a manner that quite obviously could never belong to her, her complacent patronage of everybody and everything, her appearance, everything seemed to mrs. lester the worst possible; she could scarcely bear to stay in the same room with her. she had, therefore, for maradick a profound pity that had grown as the days advanced. he had seemed to her so patient under what must be a terrible affliction. and so “the game” had grown more serious than usual, serious enough to make her hesitate, and to run, rather as a frightened child runs to its nurse, to fred for protection. but fred wouldn’t listen, or, what was worse, listened only to laugh. well, on fred’s head be it then!
she had not, however, set out that afternoon with any intention of finding him; she was, indeed, surprised when she saw him there.
they both, at once, felt that there was something between them that had not been there before; they were both nervous, and she did not look at him as she sat down.
“how lazy we are!” she, said. “why, during the last week we’ve been nothing at all but ‘knitters in the sun!’ i know that’s a nice quotation out of somewhere, but i haven’t the least idea where. but, as a matter of fact, it’s only the irresponsible tony who’s been rushing about, and he’s made up for most of us.”
she was dressed in her favourite colour, blue, the very lightest and palest of blue. she had a large picture hat tied, in the fashion of a summer of a year or two before, with blue ribbon under her chin; at her belt was a bunch of deep crimson carnations. she took one of them out and twisted it round in her fingers.
she looked up at him and smiled.
“you’re looking very cool and very cross,” she said, “and both are irritating to people on a hot day. oh! the heat!” she waved her carnation in the air. “you know, if i had my way i should like to be wheeled about in a chair carved out of ice and sprayed by cool negroes with iced rose water! there! isn’t that théophile gautier and théodore de banville and the rest? oh dear! what rot i’m talking; i’m——”
“i wish,” he said, looking her all over very slowly, “that you’d be yourself, mrs. lester, just for a little. i hate all that stuff; you know you’re not a bit like that really. i want you as you are, not a kind of afternoon-tea dummy!”
“but i am like that,” she said, laughing lightly, but also a little nervously. “i’m always like that in hot weather and at treliss. we’re all like that just now, on the jump. there’s lady gale and sir richard and alice du cane, and rupert too, if he wasn’t too selfish, all worrying their eyes out about tony, and there’s tony worrying his eyes out about some person or persons unknown, and there’s my husband worrying his eyes out about his next masterpiece, and there’s you worrying your eyes out about——” she paused.
“yes,” said maradick, “about?”
“oh! i don’t know—something. it was easy enough to see as one came along. i asked alice du cane; she didn’t know. what was she talking to you for?”
“why shouldn’t she?”
“oh! i don’t know; only she’s on the jump like the rest of us and hasn’t honoured anyone with her conversation very much lately. the place has got hold of you. that’s what it is. what did i tell you? treliss is full of witches and devils, you know, and they like playing tricks with people like yourself, incredulous people who like heaps of eggs and bacon for breakfast and put half a crown in the plate on sundays. i know.”
he didn’t say anything, so she went on:
“but i suppose alice wanted to know what tony was doing. that’s what they all want to know, and the cat will be out of the bag very soon. for my part, i think we’d all better go away and try somewhere else. this place has upset us.” suddenly her voice dropped and she leant forward and put her hand for a moment on his knee. “but please, mr. maradick—we’re friends—we made a compact the other day, that, while we were here, you know, we’d be of use to each other; and now you must let me be of use, please.”
that had never failed of its effect, that sudden passing from gay to grave, the little emotional quiver in the voice, the gentle touch of the hand; but now she was serious about it, it was, for once, uncalculated.
and it had its effect on him. a quiver passed through his body at her touch; he clenched his hands.
“yes,” he said in a low voice, “but i don’t think you can help me just now, mrs. lester. besides, i don’t think that i want any help. as you say, we’re all a little strained just now; the weather, i suppose.” he paused and then went on: “only, you don’t know what it is to me to have you for a friend. i’ve thought a good deal about it these last few days. i’ve not been a man of very many friends, women especially little.”
“life,” she said, “is so difficult.” she liked to talk about life in the abstract; she was not a clever woman and she never pretended to keep pace with her husband in all his ideas, but, after all, it was something to be able to talk about life at all—if one said that it was “queer” or “difficult” or “odd” there was a kind of atmosphere.
she said it again; “life is so difficult . . . one really doesn’t know.”
“i had never known,” he answered, looking steadily in front of him, “until these last weeks how difficult it was. you’ve made it that, you know.”
she broke in nervously, “oh, surely, mr. maradick.”
she was suddenly frightened of him. she thought she had never seen anyone so strong and fierce. she could see the veins stand out on the back of his hands and the great curve of his arm as he leant forward.
“yes,” he went on roughly, “i’m not fooling. i’d never seen what life was before. these last weeks, you and other things have shown me. i thought it was life just going on in an office, making money, dining at home, sleeping. rot! that’s not life. but now! now! i know. i was forty. i thought life was over. rot! life’s beginning. i don’t care what happens, i’m going to take it. i’m not going to miss it again. do you see? i’m not going to miss it again. a man’s a fool if he misses it twice.”
he was speaking like a drunken man. he stumbled over his words; he turned round and faced her. he saw the ribbon under her chin rise and fall with her breathing. she was looking frightened, staring at him like a startled animal. he saw her dress in a blue mist against the golden path and the green trees, and out of it her face rose white and pink and a little dark under the eyes and then shadows under the sweeping hat. he began to breathe like a man who has been running.
she put out her hand with a gesture as though she would defend herself, and gave a little cry as he suddenly seized and crushed it in his.
he bent towards her, bending his eyes upon her. “no, it’s rot, missing it again. my wife never cared for me; she’s never cared. nobody’s cared, and i’ve been a fool not to step out and take things. it isn’t any use just to wait, i see that now. and now we’re here, you and i. just you and i. isn’t it funny? i’m not going to make love to you. that’s rot, there isn’t time. but i’ve got you; i’m strong!”
she was terrified and shrunk back against the seat, but at the same time she had an overwhelming, overpowering realisation of his strength. he was strong. his hand crushed hers, she could see his whole body turning towards her as a great wave turns; she had never known anyone so strong before.
“mr. maradick! please! let me go!”
her voice was thin and sharp like a child’s. but he suddenly leaned forward and took her in his arms; he crushed her against him so that she could feel his heart beating against her like a great hammer. he turned her head roughly with his hand and bent down and kissed her. his mouth met hers as though it would never go.
she could not breathe, she was stifled—then suddenly he drew back; he almost let her fall back. she saw him bend down and pick up his hat, and he had turned the corner of the path and was gone.
he did not know how he left the garden. he did not see it or realise it, but suddenly he found himself in the stretch of cornfield that reached, a yellow band, from horizon to horizon. the field ran down the hill, and the little path along which he stumbled crept in and out across the top of the slope. below the corn was the distant white road, and curving round to the left was the little heap of white cottages that stand, stupidly, almost timidly, at the water’s edge. then beyond that again was the wide blue belt of the sea. the corn was dark brown like burnt sugar at the top and a more golden yellow as it turned trembling to the ground. the scarlet poppies were still split in pools and lakes and rivers across its breast, and it seemed to have caught some of their colour in its darker gold.
still not knowing what he was doing, he sat down heavily on a little green mound above the path and looked with stupid, half-closed eyes at the colour beneath him. he did not take it in, his heart was still beating furiously; every now and again his throat moved convulsively, his hands were white against his knee.
but, through his dazed feelings, he knew that he was glad for what he had done. very glad! a kind of strange triumph at having really done it! there was something pounding, drumming through his veins that was new—a furious excitement that had never been there before.
he felt no shame or regret or even alarm at possible consequences. he did not think for an instant of mrs. maradick or the girls. his body, the muscles and the nerves, the thick arms, the bull neck, the chest like a rock—those were the parts of him that were glad, furiously glad. he was primeval, immense, sitting there on the little green hill with the corn and the sea and the world at his feet.
he did not see the world at all, but there passed before his eyes, like pictures on a shining screen, some earlier things that had happened to him and had given him that same sense of furious physical excitement. he saw himself, a tiny boy, in a hard tight suit of black on a sunday afternoon in their old home at rye. church bells were ringing somewhere, and up the twisting, turning cobbles of the street grave couples were climbing. the room in which he was hung dark and gloomy about him, and he was trying to prevent himself from slipping off the shiny horsehair chair on which he sat, his little black-stockinged legs dangling in the air. in his throat was the heavy choking sensation of the fat from the midday dinner beef. on the stiff sideboard against the wall were ranged little silver dishes containing sugar biscuits and rather dusty little chocolates; on the opposite side of the room, in a heavy gilt frame, was the stern figure of his grandmother, with great white wristbands and a sharp pointed nose.
he was trying to learn his sunday collect, and he had been forbidden to speak until he had learnt it; his eyes were smarting and his head was swimming with weariness, and every now and again he would slip right forward on the shiny chair. the door opened and a gentleman entered, a beautiful, wonderful gentleman, with a black bushy beard and enormous limbs; the gentleman laughed and caught him up in his arms, the prayer-book fell with a clatter to the floor as he buried his curly head in the beard. he did not know now, looking back, who the gentleman had been, but that moment stood out from the rest of his life with all its details as something wonderful, magic. . . .
and then, later—perhaps he was about fifteen, a rather handsome, shy boy—and he was in an orchard. the trees were heavy with flowers, and the colours, white and pink, swung with the wind in misty clouds above his head. over the top of the old red-brown wall a girl’s face was peeping. he climbed an old gnarled tree that hung across the wall and bent down towards her; their lips met, and as he leaned towards her the movement of his body shook the branches and the petals fell about them in a shower. he had forgotten the name of the little girl, it did not matter, but the moment was there.
and then again, later still, was the moment when he had first seen mrs. maradick. it had been at some evening function or other, and she had stood with her shining shoulders under some burning brilliant lights that swung from the ceiling. her dress had been blue, a very pale blue; and at the thought of the blue dress his head suddenly turned, the corn swam before him and came in waves to meet him, and then receded, back to the sky-line.
but it was another blue dress that he saw, not mrs. maradick’s—the blue dress, the blue ribbon, the trees, the golden path. his hands closed slowly on his knees as though he were crushing something; his teeth were set.
everything, except the one central incident, had passed from his mind, only that was before him. the minutes flew past him; in the town bells struck and the sun sank towards the sea.
he made a great effort and tried to think connectedly. this thing that had happened would make a great change in his life, it would always stand out as something that could never be altered. anyone else who might possibly have had something to say about it—mrs. maradick, mr. lester—didn’t count at all. it was simply between mrs. lester and himself.
a very faint rose-colour crept up across the sky. it lingered in little bands above the line of the sea, and in the air immediately above the corn tiny pink cushions lay in heaps together; the heads of the corn caught the faint red glow and held it in the heart of their dark gold.
the sheer physical triumph began to leave maradick. his heart was beating less furiously and the blood was running less wildly through his veins.
he began to wonder what she, mrs. lester, was thinking about it. she, of course, was angry—yes, probably furiously angry. perhaps she would not speak to him again; perhaps she would tell her husband. what had made him do it? what had come to him? he did not know; but even now, let the consequences be what they might, he was not sorry. he was right whatever happened.
a long time passed. he was sunk in a kind of lethargy. the pink cushions in the sky sent out fingers along the blue to other pink cushions, and ribbons of gold were drawn across and across until they met in a golden flame above the water. the sun was sinking and a little wind had stirred the sea, the waves were tipped with gold.
the breeze blew about his cheeks and he shivered. it must be late; the sun was setting, the field of corn was sinking into silver mist from out of which the poppies gleamed mysteriously. suddenly he thought of tony. he had forgotten the boy. he had come back to the hotel probably by now; he remembered that he had said that he must be back in time for dinner. but tony’s affairs seemed very far away; he did not feel that he could talk about things to-night, or, indeed, that he could talk to anyone. he could not go back to the hotel just yet. the sun had touched the sea at last, and, from it, there sprung across the softly stirring water a band of gold that stretched spreading like a wing until it touched the little white houses now sinking into dusk. the sky was alive with colour and the white road ran in the distance, like a ribbon, below the corn.
the bells struck again from the town; he rose and stood, an enormous dark figure, against the flaming sky. there was perfect stillness save for the very gentle rustle of the corn. in the silence the stars came out one by one, the colours were drawn back like threads from the pale blue, and across the sea only the faintest gold remained; a tiny white moon hung above the white houses and the white road, the rest of the world was grey. the lights began to shine from the town.
he was cold and his limbs ached; the dim light, the mysterious hour began to press about him. he had a sudden wish, a sudden demand for company, people, lights, noise.
not people to talk to, of course; no, he did not want anyone to talk to, but here, in this silence, with the mysterious rustling corn, he was nervous, uneasy. he did not want to think about anything, all that he wanted now was to forget. he could not think; his brain refused, and there was no reason why he should bother. to-morrow—to-morrow would do. he stumbled down the path through the field; he could not see very well, and he nearly fell several times over the small stones in his path; he cursed loudly. then he found the hard white road and walked quickly down, past the little white houses, over the bridge that crossed the river, up into the town.
his need for company increased with every step that he took; the loneliness, the half light, the cold breeze were melancholy. he turned his head several times because he thought that some one was following him, but only the white road gleamed behind him, and the hedges, dark barriers, on either side.
the lights of the town came to him as a glad relief. they were not very brilliant; in the first streets of all the lamps were very wide apart, and in between their dim splashes of yellow were caverns of inky blackness.
these streets were almost deserted, and the few people that passed hurried as though they were eager to reach some more cheerful spot. very few lamps burnt behind the windows, but maradick felt as though the houses were so many eyes eagerly watching him. everything seemed alive, and every now and again his ear caught, he fancied, the sound of a measured tread in his rear. he stopped, but there was perfect silence.
his exultation had absolutely left him. he felt miserably depressed and lonely. it seemed to him now that he had cut off his two friends with a sudden blow for no reason at all. mrs. lester would never speak to him again. tony, on his return, would be furious with him for not being there according to his solemn promise. lady gale and alice du cane would lose all their trust in him; his wife would never rest until she had found out where he had been that night, and would never believe it if she did find out. he now saw how foolish he had been not to go back to the hotel for dinner; he would go back now if it were not too late; but it was too late. they would have finished by the time that he was up the hill again.
he was hungry and tired and cold; he greeted the lights of the market-place with joy. it was apparently a night of high festival. the lamps on the town hall side showed crowds of swiftly moving figures, dark for a moment in the shadows of the corner houses and then suddenly flashing into light. the chief inn of the town, “the green feathers,” standing flamboyantly to the right of the grey tower, shone in a blazing radiance of gas. two waiters with white cloths over their arms stood on the top stair watching the crowd. behind them, through the open door, was a glorious glimpse of the lighted hall.
the people who moved about in the market were fishermen and country folk. their movement seemed aimless but pleasant; suddenly some one would break into song, and for a moment his voice would rise, as a fish leaps from the sea, and then would sink back again. there was a great deal of laughter and a tendency to grow noisier and more ill-disciplined.
maradick, as he pushed his way through the crowd, was reminded of that first night when tony and he had come down; the dance and the rest! what ages ago that seemed now! he was another man. he pushed his way furiously through the people. he was conscious now of tremendous appetite. he had not eaten anything since lunch, and then only very little. he was tired both mentally and physically; perhaps after a meal he would feel better.
he walked wearily up the steps of “the green feathers” and accosted one of the waiters. he must have food, a room alone, quiet. maradick commanded respect; the waiter withdrew his eye reluctantly from the crowd and paid attention. “yes—fish—a cutlet—a bottle of burgundy—yes—perhaps the gentleman would like the room upstairs. it was a pleasant room. there was no one there just now; it overlooked the market, but, with the windows down, the noise——”
the idea of overlooking the market was rather pleasant; the people and the lights would be there and, at the same time, there would be no need to talk to anyone. yes, he would like that room. he walked upstairs.
there was much movement and bustle on the ground floor of the inn, chatter and laughter and the chinking of glasses, but above stairs there was perfect silence. the waiter lighted candles, two massive silver candlesticks of venerable age, and entered the long dining-room carrying them in front of him. he explained that they had not lighted this room with gas because candles were more in keeping. he hinted at the eighteenth century and powder and ruffles. he almost pirouetted as he held the candles and bent to put them on the table by the window. he was most certainly a waiter with a leg.
he did, beyond question, suit the room with its long gleaming walls and long gleaming table. the table at which he was to dine was drawn up close to the window, so that he could watch the antics of the square. the candle-light spread as far as the long table and then spread round in a circle, catching in its embrace a tall mirror that ran from the ceiling to the floor. this mirror was so placed that a corner of the square, with its lights and figures and tall dark houses, was reflected in it.
the room seemed close, and maradick opened the window a little and voices came up to him. in places the people were bathed in light and he could see their faces, their eyes and their mouths, and then in other parts there was grey darkness, so that black figures moved and vanished mysteriously. the tower reminded him curiously of the tower in his dream; it rose black against the grey light behind it.
his dinner was excellent; the waiter was inclined to be conversational. “yes, it was some kind o’ feast day. no, he didn’t know exactly. the place was full of superstitions—no, he, thank gawd, was from london—yes, clapham, where they did things like christians—there were meringues, apple-tart, or custard—yes, meringues.” he faded away.
voices came up to the room. vague figures of three people could be seen below the window. the quavering voice of an old man pierced the general murmurs of the square.
“well, ’e’d seen the first wasp of the season, as early back as april; yus, ’e was minded to give ’im a clout, but ’e missed it.” the wasp figured largely in the discussion. they were all three rapidly reaching that stage when excessive affection gives place to inimical distrust. the old man’s voice quavered on. “if ’e called ’is woman names then ’e didn’t see why ’e shouldn’t call ’is woman names.” this led to futile argument. but the old man was obstinate.
stars burnt high over the roofs in a silver cluster, and then there trailed across the night blue a pale white path like silk that was made of other stars—myriads of stars, back in unlimited distance, and below them there hung a faint cloud of golden light, the reflexion from the lamps of the tower.
maradick’s dinner had done him good. he sat, with his chair tilted slightly forward, watching the square. the magnificent waiter had appeared suddenly, had caught the food in a moment with a magical net, as it were, and had disappeared. he had left whisky and soda and cigarettes at maradicks side; the light of two candles caught the shining glass of the whisky decanter and it sparkled all across the table.
the question of tony had come uppermost again; that seemed now the momentous thing. he ought to have been there when tony came back. whatever he had done to mrs. lester, or she to him—that matter could be looked at from two points of view at any rate—he ought to have gone back and seen tony. the apprehension that he had felt during the afternoon about the boy returned now with redoubled force. his dream, for a time forgotten, came back with all its chill sense of warning. that man morelli! anything might have happened to the boy; they might be waiting for him now up at the hotel, waiting for both of them. he could see them all—lady gale, alice du cane, mrs. lester, his wife. he had in a way deserted his post. they had all trusted him; it was on that condition that they had granted him their friendship, that they had so wonderfully and readily opened their arms to him. and now, perhaps the boy . . .
he drank a stiff whisky-and-soda, his hand trembling a little so that he chinked the glass against the decanter.
he felt reassured. after all, what reason had he for alarm? what had he, as far as morelli was concerned, to go upon? nothing at all; merely some vague words from punch. the boy was perfectly all right. besides, at any rate, he wasn’t a fool. he knew what he was about, he could deal with morelli, if it came to that.
he drank another whisky-and-soda and regarded the mirror. it was funny the way that it reflected that corner of the square, so that without looking at all out of the window you could see figures moving, black and grey, and then suddenly a white gleaming bit of pavement where the light fell. his head became undoubtedly confused, because he fancied that he saw other things in the mirror. he thought that the crowd in the square divided into lines. some one appeared, dancing, a man with a peaked cap, dancing and playing a pipe; and the man—how odd it was!—the man was morelli! and suddenly he turned and danced down the lines of the people, still piping, back the way that he had come, and all the people, dancing, followed him! they passed through the mirror, dancing, and he seemed to recognise people that he knew. why, of course! there was tony, and then janet morelli and lady gale, mrs. lester, alice du cane; and how absurd they looked! there was himself and mrs. maradick! the scene faded. he pulled himself up with a jerk, to find that he was nodding, nearly asleep; the idea of the music had not been entirely a dream, however, for a band had gathered underneath the window. in the uncertain light they looked strangely fantastic, so that you saw a brass trumpet without a man behind it, and then again a man with his lips pressed blowing, but his trumpet fading into darkness.
the crowd had gathered round and there was a great deal of noise; but it was mostly inarticulate, and, to some extent, quarrelsome. maradick caught the old man’s voice somewhere in the darkness quavering “if ’e calls my old woman names then i’ll call ’is old woman . . .” it trailed off, drowned in the strains of “auld lang syne,” with which the band, somewhat mistakenly, had commenced.
the time was erratic; the band too, it seemed, had been drinking, even now he could see that they had mugs at their sides and one or two of them were trying to combine drink and music.
one little man with an enormous trumpet danced, at times, a few steps, producing a long quivering note from his instrument.
the crowd had made a little clearing opposite the window, for an old man with a battered bowler very much on one side of his head was dancing solemnly with a weary, melancholy face, his old trembling legs bent double.
maradick felt suddenly sick of it all. he turned back from the window and faced the mirror. he was unutterably tired, and miserable, wretchedly miserable. he had broken faith with everybody. he was no use to anyone; he had deceived his wife, lady gale, tony, mrs. lester, everybody. a load of depression, like a black cloud, swung down upon him. he hated the band and the drunken crowd; he hated the place, because it seemed partly responsible for what had happened to him; but above all he hated himself for what he had done.
then suddenly he looked up and saw a strange thing. he had pulled down the window, and the strains of the band came very faintly through; the room was strangely silent. the mirror shone very clearly, because the moon was hanging across the roofs on the opposite side of the square. the corner of the street shone like glass. nearly all the crowd had moved towards the band, so that that part of the square was deserted.
only one man moved across it. he was coming with a curious movement; he ran for a few steps and then walked and then ran again. maradick knew at once that it was tony. he did not know why he was so certain, but as he saw him in the mirror he was quite sure. he felt no surprise. it was almost as though he had been expecting him. he got up at once from his chair and went down the stairs; something was the matter with tony. he saw the waiter in the hall, and he told him that he was coming back; then he crossed the square.
tony was coming with his head down, stumbling as though he were drunk. he almost fell into maradick’s arms. he looked up.
“you! maradick! thank god!”
he caught hold of his arm; his face was white and drawn. he looked twenty years older. his eyes were staring, wide open.
“i say—take me somewhere where i—can have a drink.”
maradick took him, without a word, back to the inn. he gulped down brandy.
then he sighed and pulled himself together. “i say, let’s get back!” he did not loosen his hold of maradick’s arm. “thank god you were here; i couldn’t have faced that hill alone . . . that devil . . .” then he said under his breath, “my god!”
maradick paid his bill and they left. they passed the crowd and the discordant band and began to climb the hill. tony was more himself. “i say, you must think me a fool, but, my word, i’ve had a fright! i’ve never been so terrified in my life.”
“morelli!” said maradick.
“yes; only the silly thing is, nothing happened. at least nothing exactly. you see, i’d been there a deuce of a time; i wanted to speak to him alone, without janet, but he wouldn’t let her go. it was almost as if he’d meant it. he was most awfully decent all the afternoon. we fooled about like anything, he and all of us, and then i had to give up getting back to dinner and just risk the governor’s being sick about it. we had a most ripping supper. he was topping, and then at last janet left us, and i began. but, you know, it was just as if he knew what i was going to say and was keeping me off it. he kept changing the subject—pleasant all the time—but i couldn’t get at it. and then at last my chance came and i asked him. he didn’t say anything. he was sitting on the other side of the table, smiling. and then suddenly, i don’t know what it was, i can’t describe it, but i began to be terrified, horribly frightened. i’ve never felt anything like it. his face changed. it was like a devil’s. you could only see his eyes and his white cheeks and the tips of his ears, pointed. he was still laughing. i couldn’t stir, i was shaking all over. and then he began to move, slowly, round the table, towards me. i pulled myself together; i was nearly fainting, but i rushed for the door. i got out just as he touched me, and then i ran for my life.”
he was panting with terror at the recollection of it. they were on the top of the hill. he turned and caught maradick’s hand. “i say,” he said, “what does it mean?”
