afternoon and evening of the twenty-seventh—maradick

goes to church and afterwards pays a

visit to morelli

as he came out of the station and looked at the little road that ran down the hill, at the grey banks of cloud, at the white and grey valley of the sea, he felt curiously, uncannily alone. it was as though he had suddenly, through some unknown, mysterious agency been transported into a new land, a country that no one ever found before. he walked the hill with the cautious adventurous sense of surprise that some explorer might have had; he was alone in the world of ghosts.

when he came to the bottom of the road he stopped and tried to collect his thoughts. where was he? what was he going to do? what were the thoughts that were hovering, like birds of prey, about his head, waiting for the moment of descent to come? he stood there quite stupidly, as though his brain had been suddenly swept clear of all thought; it was an empty, desolate room. everything was empty, desolate. two plane trees waved mournfully; there were little puddles of rain-water at his feet reflecting the dismal grey of the sky; a very old bent woman in a black cloak hobbled slowly up the hill. then suddenly his brain was alive again, suddenly he knew. tony was gone. tony was gone and he must see people and explain.

the thought of the explanations troubled him very little; none of those other people really mattered. they couldn’t do very much; they could only say things. no, they didn’t matter. he didn’t mind about them, or indeed about anyone else in the world except tony. he saw now a thousand little things that tony had done, ways that tony had stood, things that tony had said, little tricks that he had; and now he had gone away.

things could never be quite the same again. tony had got some one else now. everyone had got some one else, some one who especially belonged to them; he saw the world as a place where everyone—murderer, priest, king, prostitute—had his companion, and only he, maradick, was alone. he had been rather proud of being alone before; he had rather liked to feel that he was quite independent, that it didn’t matter if people died or forgot, because he could get on as well by himself! what a fool he had been! why, that was simply the only thing worth having, relationships with other people, intimacy, affection, giving anything that you had to some one else, taking something in return from them. oh! he saw that now!

he had been walking vaguely, without thought or purpose. now he saw that his feet had led him back into the town and that he was in the market-place, facing once more the town. he was determined not to go back to the hotel until he had seen morelli, and that he could not do before the evening; but that would be the next thing. meanwhile he would walk—no matter where—but he would get on to the road, into the air, and try and straighten out all the tangled state of things that his mind was in.

for a moment he stood and looked at the tower. it gave him again that sense of strength and comfort. he was, after all, not quite alone, whilst the world was the place that it was. stocks and stones had more of a voice, more of a personal vital activity than most people knew. but he knew! he had known ever since he came to this strange town, this place where every tree and house and hill seemed to be alive.

and then, with the thought of the place, mrs. lester came back to him. he had forgotten her when he was thinking of tony. but now that tony was gone, now that that was, in a way, over, the other question suddenly stepped forward. mrs. lester with her smile, her arms, the curve of her neck, the scent that she used, the way that her eyes climbed, as it were, slowly up to his just before she kissed him. . . . mrs. lester . . . and it must be decided before to-night.

he started walking furiously, and soon he was out on the high road that ran above the sea. the rain had stopped; the sun was not actually shining, but there was a light through the heavy clouds as though it were not very far away, and the glints of blue and gold, not actually seen, but, as it were, trembling on the edge of visible appearance, seemed to strike the air. everything shone and glittered with the rain. the green of trees and fields was so bright against the grey of sea and sky that it was almost dazzling; its brightness was unnatural, even a little cruel. and now he was caught up in the very heat of conflict. the battle seemed suddenly to have burst upon him, as though there were in reality two visible forces fighting for the possession of his soul. at one moment he seemed calm, resolute; tony, janet, his wife (and this was curious, because a few days before she would not have mattered at all), punch, the tower, all kinds of queer bits of things, impressions, thoughts, and above all, a consciousness of some outside power fighting for him—all these things determined him. he would see mrs. lester to-night and would tell her that there must be nothing more; they should be friends, good friends, but there must be no more of that dangerous sentiment, one never knew where it might go. and after all, laws were meant to be kept. a man wasn’t a man at all if he could injure a woman in that sort of way. and then he had been lester’s friend. how could he dishonour his wife?

and then suddenly it came from the other side, fierce, hot, wild, so that his heart began to beat furiously, his eyes were dim. he only saw her, all the rest of the world was swept away. they should have this one adventure, they must have their one adventure. after all they were no longer children. they had neither of them known what life was before; let them live it now, their great experience. if they missed it now they would regret it all their lives. they would look back on the things that they might have done, the things that they might have known, and see that they had passed it all simply because they had not been brave enough, because they had been afraid of convention, of old musty laws that had been made thousands of years ago for other people, people far less civilised, people who needed rules. and then the thought of her grew upon him—details, the sense of holding her, keeping her; and then, for an instant, he was primitive, wild, so that he would have done anything to seize her in the face of all the world.

but it passed; the spirit left him, and again he was miserable, wretched, penitent. he was that sort of man, a traitor to his wife, to his friends, to everything that was decent. he was walking furiously, his hair was blown by the wind, his eyes stared in front of him, and the early dusk of a grey day began to creep about his feet.

it all came to this. was there one ethical code for the world, or must individuals make each their law for their individual case?

there were certain obvious things, such as doing harm to your neighbours, lying, cruelty, that was bad for the community and so must be forbidden to the individual; but take an instance of something in which you harmed no one, did indeed harm yourself by denying it, was that a sin even if the general law forbade it? what were a man’s instincts for? why was he placed so carefully in the midst of his wonderful adventurous life if he were forbidden to know anything of it? why these mists? this line of marble foam far below him? this hard black edge of the rocks against the sky? it was all strong, remorseless, inevitable; and he by this namby-pamby kind of virtue was going contrary to nature.

he let the wind beat about his face as he watched the mists in great waves and with encircling arms sweep about the cove. there came to him as he watched, suddenly, some lines from end of “to paradise.” he could not remember them exactly, but they had been something like this:

to tressiter, as to every other human being, there had come suddenly his time of revelation, his moment in which he was to see without any assistance from tradition, without any reference to things or persons of the past. he beheld suddenly with the vision of some one new-born, and through his brain and body into the locked recesses of his soul there passed the elemental passions and movements of the world that had swayed creation from the beginning. the great volume of the winds, the tireless beating of waves upon countless shores, the silent waters of innumerable rivers, the shining flanks of a thousand cattle upon moorlands that stretch without horizon to the end of time—it was these things rather than any little acts of civilisation that some few hundred years had seen that chimed now with the new life that was his. he had never seen before, he had never known before. he saw now with unprejudiced eyes, he knew now with a knowledge that discounted all man-made laws and went, like a child, back to mother earth. . . . but with this new knowledge came also its dangers. because some laws seemed now of none effect it did not mean that there must be no laws at all. that way was shipwreck. only, out of this new strength, this new clarity of vision, he must make his strength, his restraint, his discipline for himself, and so pass, a new man, down the other side of the hill. . . . this is the “middle-age” that comes to every man. it has nothing to do with years, but it is the great rubicon of life. . . .

and so lester. fine talk and big words, and a little ludicrous, perhaps, if one knew what lester was, but there was something in it. oh! yes! there was something in it!

and now this time, this “middle-age,” had come upon him.

he found that his steps had led him back again to the little church where he had been already that day. he thought that it might be a good place to sit and think things out, quiet and retired and in shelter, if the rain came on again.

the dusk was creeping down the little lane, so that the depths of it were hidden and black; but above the dark clumps of trees the sky had begun to break into the faintest, palest blue. some bird rejoiced at this return of colour and was singing in the heart of the lane; from the earth rose the sweet clean smell that the rain leaves. from behind the little blue windows of the church shone a pale yellow light, of the same pallor as the faint blue of the sky, seeming in some intimate, friendly way, to re-echo it. the body of the church stood out grey-white against the surrounding mists. it seemed to maradick (and this showed the way that he now credited everything with vitality) to be bending forward a little and listening to the very distant beating of the sea; its windows were golden eyes.

the lights seemed to prophesy company, and so he was surprised, on pushing the door softly back and entering, to find that there was no one there. but there were two large candles on the altar, and they waved towards him a little with the draught from the door as though to greet him. the church seemed larger now in the half light. the great box-like family pew was lost in the dark corners by the walls; it seemed to stretch away into infinite space. the other seats had an air of conscious waiting for some ceremony. on one of them was still an open prayer-book, open at the marriage service, that had been left there that afternoon. and at the sight of it the memories of tony and janet came back to him with a rush, so that they seemed to be there with him. already it seemed a very, very long time since they had gone, another lifetime almost. and now, as he thought of it, perhaps, after all, it was better that they had gone like that.

he thought over the whole affair from the beginning. the first evening in treliss, that first night when he had quarrelled with her, and then there had been tony. that dated the change in him. but he could not remember when he had first noticed anything in her. there had been the picnic, the evening in their room when he had nearly lost control of himself and shaken her. . . . yes, it was after that. that placed it. well, then, it was only, after all, because he had shown himself firm, because, for once, he had made her afraid of him. because, too, no doubt, she had noticed that people paid him attention. for the first time in their married life he had become “somebody,” and that perhaps had opened her eyes. but then there had been that curious moment the other night when she had spoken to him. that had been extraordinarily unpleasant. he could feel again his uncomfortable sensation of helplessness, of not in the least knowing how to deal with her. that was the new mrs. maradick. he had therefore some one quite new to reckon with.

and then he saw suddenly, there in the church, the right thing to do. it was to go back. to go back to epsom, to go back to his wife, to go back to the girls. he saw that she, mrs. maradick, in her own way, had been touched by the admonitus locorum—not that he put it that way; he called it the “rum place” or “the absurd town.” she was going to try (she had herself told him so) to be better, more obliging. he could see her now, sitting there on the end of the bed, looking at him so pathetically.

the shadows gathered about the church, creeping along the floor and blotting out the blue light from the windows, and only there was a glow by the altar where the candles seemed to increase in size, and their light, like a feathery golden mist, hung in circles until it lost itself in the dusky roof.

but he stared in front of him, seeing simply the two women, one on each side of him. he had forgotten everything else. they stood there waiting for him to make his choice. it was the parting of the ways.

and then suddenly he fell asleep. he did not know that his eyes closed; he seemed to be still stupidly staring at the two candles and the rings that they made, and the way that the altar seemed to slope down in front of him like the dim grey side of a hill. and it was a hill. he could see it stretch in front of him, up into the air, until the heights of it were lost. at the foot of the hill ran a stream, blue in the half-light, and in front of the stream a green plain stretching to his feet. along the stream were great banks of rushes, green and brown, and away to the right and left were brown cliffs running sheer down into the sea.

and then in his dream he suddenly realised that he had seen the place before. he knew that beyond the plain there should be a high white road leading to a town, that below the cliffs there was a cove with a white sandy bay; he knew the place.

and people approached. he could not see their faces, and they seemed in that half light in which the blue hills and the blue river mingled in the grey of the dusk to be shadows such as a light casts on a screen. they were singing very softly and moving slowly across the plain. then they passed away and there was silence again, only a little wind went rustling down the hill and the rushes all quivered for an instant. then the rushes were parted, and a face looked out from between them and looked at maradick and smiled. and maradick recognised the smile. he had seen it for the first time in a public-house, thick with smoke, noisy with drinking and laughter. he could see it all again; the little man in brown suddenly at his table, and then that delightful charming laugh unlike anything else in the world—morelli.

but this figure was naked, his feet were goats’ feet and on his head were horns; his body was brown and hairy and in his hand was a pipe. he began to play and slowly the shadowy figures came back again and gathered about him. they began to dance to his playing moving slowly in the half-light so that at times they seemed only mist; and a little moon like a golden eye came out and watched them and touched the tops of the blue hills with flame.

maradick woke. his head had slipped forward on to the seat in front of him. he suddenly felt dreadfully tired; every limb in his body seemed to ache, but he was cold and the seat was very hard.

then he was suddenly aware that there was some one else in the church. over by the altar some one was kneeling, and very faintly there came to him the words of a prayer. “our father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. . . . thy will be done, . . . as it is in heaven. . . . lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil. . . .” it was the old clergyman, the old clergyman with the white beard.

maradick sat motionless in his seat. he made no movement, but he was praying, praying furiously. he was praying to no god that had a name, but to the powers of all honour, of all charity, of all goodness.

love was the ultimate test, the test of everything. he knew now, with a clearness that seemed to dismiss all the shadows that had lingered for days about him, that he had never loved mrs. lester. it was the cry of sensuality, the call of the beast; it was lust.

“deliver us from evil.” he said it again and again, his hands clenched, his eyes staring, gazing at the altar. the powers of evil seemed to be all about him; he felt that if he did not cling with all his strength to that prayer, he was lost. the vision of mrs. lester returned to him. she seemed to get between him and the old man at the altar. he tried to look beyond her, but she was there, appealing, holding out her arms to him. then she was nearer to him, quite close, he could feel her breath on his cheek; and then again, with all the moral force that was in him, he pushed her away.

then he seemed to lie for a long time in a strange lassitude. he was still sitting forward with his hands pressed tightly together, his eyes fixed on the altar, but his brain seemed to have ceased to work. he had that sensation of suddenly standing outside and above himself. he saw maradick sitting there, he saw the dusky church and the dim gold light over the altar, and outside the sweep of the plain and the dark plunging sea; and he was above and beyond it all. he wondered a little that that man could be so troubled about so small an affair. he wondered and then pitied him. what a perspective he must have, poor thing, to fancy that his struggles were of so vast an importance.

he saw him as a baby, a boy, a man—stolid, stupid self-centred, ignorant. oh! so dull a soul! such a lump of clay, just filling space as a wall fills it; but no use, with no share at all in the music that was on every side of him.

and then, because for an instant the flame has descended upon him and his eyes have been opened, he rushes at once to take refuge in his body. he is afraid of his soul, the light of it hurts him, he cowers in his dark corner groping for his food, wanting his sensuality to be satisfied; and the little spark that has been kindled is nearly out, in a moment it will be gone, because he did not know what to do with it, and the last state of that man is worse than the first.

and slowly he came back to himself. the candles had been extinguished. the church was quite dark. only a star shone through the little window and some late bird was singing. he gathered himself together. it must be late and he must see morelli. he stumbled out of the church.

he knew as he faced the wind and the night air that in some obscure way, as yet only very vaguely realised, he had won the moral victory over himself. he had no doubt about what he must do; he had no doubt at all about the kind of life that he must lead afterwards. he saw that he had been given something very precious to keep—his vie sacré, as it were—and he knew that everyone had this vie sacré somewhere, that it was something that they never talked about, something that they kept very closely hidden, and that it was when they had soiled it, or hurt it, or even perhaps for a time lost it, that they were unhappy and saw life miserably and distrusted their fellow beings. he had never had it before; but he had got it now, his precious golden box, and it would make all life a new thing.

but there was still his body. he had never felt so strong in his life before; the blood raced through his veins, he felt as though he would like to strip himself naked and fight and battle with anything furious and strong.

his sense of weariness had left him; he felt that he must have some vent for his strength immediately or he would commit some crime. for a few minutes he stood there and let the wind blow about his forehead. the storm had passed away. the sky was a very dark blue, and the stars had a wind-blown, misty look, as they often have after a storm. their gold light was a little watery, as though they had all been dipped in some mysterious lake somewhere in the hills of heaven before they were out in the sky. in spite of the wind there was a great silence, and the bird on some dark wind-bent tree continued to sing. the trees on either side of the lane rose, dark walls, against the sky. then in the distance there were cries, at first vague and incoherent, almost uncanny, and then, coming down the lane, he heard the bleating of innumerable sheep. they passed him, their bodies mysteriously white against the dark hedges; they pressed upon each other and their cries came curiously to him, hitting the silence as a ball hits a board; there were very many of them and their feet pattered away into distance. they seemed to him like all the confused and dark thoughts that had surrounded him all these weeks, but that he had now driven away. his head was extraordinarily clear; he felt as though he had come out of a long sleep.

the lights were beginning to come out in the town as he entered it. it must be, he thought, about eight o’clock, and morelli had probably returned from truro. it had not occurred to him until now to think of what he was going to say to morelli. after all, there wasn’t really very much to say, simply that his daughter was gone and that she would never come back again, and that he, maradick, had helped her to go. it hadn’t occurred to him until now to consider how morelli would probably take his share in it. he wouldn’t like it, of course; there would probably be some unpleasantness.

and then morelli was undoubtedly a queer person. tony was a very healthy normal boy, not at all given to unnecessary terror, but he had been frightened by morelli. and then there were a host of little things, none of them amounting to anything in themselves, but taken together—oh yes! the man was queer.

the street was quite empty; the lamplighter had not yet reached that part of the town and the top of the hill was lost in darkness. maradick found the bell and rang it, and even as he did so a curious feeling of uneasiness began to creep over him. he, suddenly and quite unconsciously, wanted to run away. he began to imagine that there was something waiting for him on the other side of the door, and when it actually opened and showed him only lucy, the little maid-of-all-work, he almost started with surprise.

“no, sir; they’re all out. i don’t know when miss janet will be back, i’m sure. i’m expecting the master any moment, sir.” she seemed, maradick thought, a little frightened. “i don’t know, i’m sure, sir, about miss janet; she said nothing about dinner, sir. i’ve been alone.” she stopped and twisted her apron in her hands.

maradick looked down the street, then he turned back and looked past her into the hall. “mr. morelli told me that he would be back about now,” he said; “i promised to wait.”

she stood aside to let him enter the hall. she was obviously relieved that there was some one else in the house. she was even inclined to be a little confidential. “that kitchen,” she said and stopped.

“yes?” he said, standing in the hall and looking at her.

“well, it fairly gives you the creeps. being alone all day down in the basement too. . . .” there was a little choke in her voice and her face was very white in the darkness. she was quite a child and not very tidy; pathetic, maradick thought.

“well,” he said, “your master will be back in a minute.”

“yes, sir, and it’s all dark, sir. i’ll light the lamp upstairs.”

she led the way with a candle. he followed her up the stairs, and his uneasiness seemed to increase with every step that he took. he had a strange consciousness that morelli had really returned and that he was waiting for him somewhere in the darkness. the stairs curved, and he could see the very faint light of the higher landing above him; the candle that the girl carried flung their two heads on to the wall, gigantic, absurd. his hair seemed to stand up in the shadow like a forest and his nose was hooked like an elephant’s trunk.

she lit the lamp in the sitting-room and then stood with the candle by the door.

“i suppose you couldn’t tell me, sir,” she said timidly, “when miss janet is likely—what time she’ll be in?”

“your master will probably be able to tell you,” said maradick.

lucy was inclined for conversation. “it’s funny, sir,” she said, “what difference miss janet makes about the house, comin’ in and goin’ out. you couldn’t want a better mistress; but if it weren’t for ’er . . . i must be seein’ to things downstairs.” she hurried away.

the room was quiet save for the ticking of the clock. the little blue tiles of the fireplace shone under the lamp, the china plates round the wall made eyes at him.

he was sitting straight up in his chair listening. the uneasiness that he had felt at first would soon, if he did not keep it in check, grow into terror. there was no reason, no cause that he could in the least define, but he felt as though things were happening outside the door. he didn’t know what sort of things, but he fancied that by listening very hard he could hear soft footsteps, whispers, and a noise like the rustling of carpets. the ticking of the clock grew louder and louder, and to forget it he flung up the window so that he could hear the noises of the town. but there weren’t any noises; only, very far away, some cat was howling. the night was now very dark; the stars seemed to have disappeared; the wind made the lamp flare. he closed the window.

at the same moment the door opened and he saw morelli standing there smiling at him. it was the same charming smile, the trusting, confiding laugh of a child; the merry twinkle in the eyes, taking the whole world as a delightful, delicious joke.

“why, maradick!” he seemed surprised, and came forward holding out his hand. “i’m delighted! i hope you haven’t been waiting long. but why is janet not entertaining you? she’s only upstairs, i expect. i’ll call her.” he moved back towards the door.

“miss morelli isn’t in,” maradick said slowly. he was standing up and resting one hand on the table.

“not in?”

“no. your servant told me so.”

he wanted to say more. he wanted to give his message at once and go, but his tongue seemed tied. he sat down, leaning both his arms on the table.

morelli laughed. “oh well, i expect she’s out with minns somewhere—walking, i suppose. they’re often late; but we’ll wait supper a little if you don’t mind. we’ll give them ten minutes. well, how’s young gale?”

seeing him like this, it was almost impossible to reconcile him with all the absurdly uncouth ideas that maradick had had of him. but the uncanny feeling of there being some one outside the door was still with him; he had a foolish impulse to ask morelli to open it.

then he leant across the table and looked morelli in the face.

“that’s what i came to tell you. young gale has gone.”

“gone? what, with his people? i’m sorry. i liked him.”

“no. not with his people. he was married to your daughter at two o’clock this afternoon. they have gone to london.”

there was absolute silence. morelli didn’t move. he was sitting now on the opposite side of the table facing maradick.

“my daughter has gone to london with gale?” he said very slowly. the smile had died away from his face and his eyes were filled with tears.

“yes. they were married to-day. they have gone to london.”

“janet!” he called her name softly as though she were in the next room. “janet!” he waited as though he expected an answer, and then suddenly he burst into tears. his head fell forward between his arms on to the table; his shoulders shook.

maradick watched him. it was the most desolate thing in the world; he felt the most utter cad. if it had been possible he would have, at that moment, brought janet and tony back by main force.

“i say,” he muttered, “i’m awfully sorry.” he stopped. there was nothing to say.

then suddenly morelli looked up. the tears seemed to have vanished, but his eyes were shining with extraordinary brilliance. his hands, with their long white fingers, were bending over the table; his upper lip seemed to have curled back like the mouth of a dog.

he looked at maradick very intently.

“you saw them married?”

“yes.”

“you saw them leave for london?”

“yes.”

“you have helped them all this time?”

“yes.”

“why?”

“i thought that they ought to marry; i was fond of both of them. i wanted them to marry.”

“and now i will kill you.”

he said it without moving; his face seemed to grow more like a beast’s at every moment. his hands stretched across the table; the long fingers were like snakes.

“i must go.” maradick got up. panic was about him again. he felt that he ought to make some kind of defence of what he had done, but the words would not come.

“you will see, afterwards, that what i did was best. it was really the best. we will talk again about it, when you feel calmer.”

he moved towards the door; but morelli was coming towards him with his head thrust forward, his back a little bent, his hands hanging, curved, in mid-air, and he was smiling.

“i am going to kill you, here and now,” he said. “it is not a very terrible affair. it will not be very long. you can’t escape; but it is not because you have done this or that, it is not for anything that you have done. it is only because you are so stupid, so dreadfully stupid. there are others like you, and i hate you all, you fools. you do not understand anything—what i am or who i am, or the world—nothing.”

maradick said nothing. the terror that had once seized tony was about him now like a cloud; the thing that was approaching him was not a man, but something impure, unclean. it was exactly as though he were being slowly let down into a dungeon full of creeping snakes.

his breath was coming with difficulty. he felt stifled.

“you must let me out,” he gasped.

“oh no, i will throw you out, later. now, you are here. that boy understood a little, and that girl too. they were young, they were alive, they were part of me; i loved to have them about me. do you suppose that i care whether they are married; what is that to me? but they are gone. you with your blundering, you fat fool, you have done that; and now i will play with you.”

maradick, suddenly feeling that if he did not move soon he would be unable to move at all, stumbled for the door. in an instant morelli was upon him. his hand hung for an instant above maradick like a whip in the air, then it fastened on his arm. it passed up to maradick’s neck; his other hand was round his waist, his head was flung back.

then curiously, with the touch of the other man’s hand maradick’s strength returned. he was himself again; his muscles grew taut and firm. he knew at once that it was a case of life and death. the other man’s fingers seemed to grip his neck like steel; already they were pressing into the flesh. he shot out his arm and caught morelli’s neck, but it was like gripping iron, his hand seemed to slip away. then morelli’s hand suddenly dug into maradick’s shoulder-bone. it turned about there like a gimlet. suddenly something seemed to give, and a hot burning pain twisted inside his flesh as an animal twists in its burrow. they swayed backwards and forwards in the middle of the room. maradick pushed the other body slowly back and, with a crash, it met the table. the thing fell, and the lamp flamed for an instant to the ceiling and then was on the floor in a thousand pieces.

when the lamp fell the darkness seemed to leap like a wall out of the ground. it fell all about them; it pressed upon them, and the floor heaved to and fro.

they had turned round and round, so that maradick was confused and could not remember where the door was. then the other man’s hand was pressing on his throat so that he was already beginning to be stifled; then he felt that he was dizzy. he was swimming on a sea, lights flashed in and out of the darkness; the window made a grey square, and through this there seemed to creep innumerable green lizards—small with burning eyes; they crawled over the floor towards him. he began to whimper, “no, morelli, please . . . my god . . . my god!” his shoulder burnt like fire; his brain began to reel so that he fancied that there were many people there crushing him. then he knew that morelli was slowly pressing him back. one hand was about his neck, but the other had crept in through his shirt and had touched the skin. maradick felt the fingers pressing over his chest. then the fingers began to pinch. they caught the flesh and seemed to tear it; it was like knives. all his body was on fire. then the fingers seemed to be all over his limbs. they crept down to his hip, his thigh. they bit into his flesh, and then he knew that morelli was pressing some nerve in his hip and pushing it from the socket. at that moment he himself became aware, for the first time, of morelli’s body. he pressed against his chest and his fingers had torn the man’s clothes away. morelli’s chest was hairy like an animal’s and cold as marble. he was sweating in every pore, but morelli was icy cold. he dug his nails into the flesh, but they seemed to slip away. his arm was right round morelli’s body; the cold flesh slipped and shrunk beneath his touch. his mouth was against morelli’s neck. he had a sudden wild impulse to bite. he was becoming a wild beast. . . .

then morelli seemed to encircle the whole of him. every part of his body was touched by those horrible fingers—his arms, his neck; it was as though he were being bitten to death. then he felt in his neck teeth; something was biting him. . . .

he screamed again and again, but only a hoarse murmur seemed to come from his lips. he was still struggling, but he was going; the room seemed full of animals. they were biting him, tearing him; and then again he could feel the soft fingers stealing about his body.

a curious feeling of sleepiness stole over him. the pain in his shoulder and his arm was so terrible that he wanted to die; his body twitched with a fresh spasm of pain. things—he did not know what they were—were creeping up his legs; soon they would be at his chest.

he knew that they were both naked to the waist. he could feel the blood trickling down his face and his arms. . . .

tony was in the room! yes, tony. how was he there? never mind! he would help him! “tony! tony! they’re doing for me!” tony was all over the room. he pulled himself together, and suddenly fell against the knob of the door. they fell against it together. he hit at the other’s naked body, hit at it again and again. strength seemed to pour back into his body in a flood. he had been nearly on his knees, but now he was pressing up again. he snatched at the hand about his neck and tore it away. again they were surging about the room. his hand was upon the door. morelli’s hands were about his and tried to drag it away, but he clung. for an age they seemed to hang there, panting, heaving, clutching.

then he had turned it. the door flew open and his foot lunged out behind him. he kicked with all his force, but he touched nothing. there was nothing there.

he looked back. the door was open. there was a grey light over the room. something was muttering, making a noise like a dog over a bone. he could hear the ticking of the clock through the open door; it struck nine. there was perfect stillness; no one was near him.

then silently, trembling in every limb, he crept down the stairs. in a moment he was in the street.