night of the twenty-seventh—maradick and

mrs. lester

but the gods had not yet done with his night.

as the sharp night air met him he realised that his clothes were torn apart and that his chest was bare. he pulled his shirt about him again, stupidly made movements with his hand as though he would brush back the hair from his eyes, and then found that it was blood that was trickling from a wound in his forehead.

that seemed to touch something in him, so that he suddenly leaned against the wall and, with his head in his arm, began to cry. there was no reason really why he should cry; in fact, he didn’t want to cry—it was like a woman to cry. he repeated it stupidly to himself, “like a woman, like a woman. . . .”

then he began slowly to fling himself together, as it were; to pick up the bits and to feel that he, maradick, still existed as a personal identity. he pulled his clothes about him and looked at the dark house. it was absolutely silent; there were no lights anywhere. what had happened? was morelli looking at him now from some dark corner, watching him from behind some black window?

and then, as his head grew cooler under the influence of the night air, another thought came to him. what was the little parlour-maid doing? what would happen to her, shut up all night in that house alone with that . . .? ought he to go back? he could see her cowering, down in the basement somewhere, having heard probably the noise of the crashing lamp, terrified, waiting for morelli to find her. yes, he ought to go back. then he knew that nothing, nothing in the world—no duty and no claim, no person, no power—could drive him back into that house again. he looked back on it afterwards as one of the most shameful things in his life, that he had not gone back to see what had happened to the girl; but he could not go, nothing would make him. it was not anything physical that he might have to face. if it had been ordinary normal odds—a “scrap,” as he would call it—then he would have faced it without hesitation. but there was something about that struggle upstairs that made him sick; it was something unreal, unclean, indecent. it had been abnormal, and all that there had been in it had not been the actual struggle, the blows and wounds, but something about it that must be undefined, unnamed: the “air,” the “atmosphere” of the thing, the sudden throwing down of the decent curtain that veils this world from others.

but he couldn’t analyse it like that now. he only felt horribly sick at the thought of it, and his one urgent idea was to get away, far, far away, from the house and all that it contained.

the night was very dark; no one would see him. he must get back to the hotel and slip up to his room and try and make himself decent. he turned slowly up the hill.

then, as his thoughts became clearer, he was conscious of a kind of exultation at its being over. so much more than the actual struggle seemed to be over; it swept away all the hazy moral fog that he had been in during the last weeks. in casting off morelli, in flinging him from him physically as well as morally, he seemed to have flung away all that belonged to him—the wildness, the hot blood, the unrest that had come to him! he wondered whether after all morelli had not had a great deal to do with it. there were more things in it all than he could ever hope to understand.

and then, on top of it all, came an overwhelming sensation of weariness. he went tottering up the hill with his eyes almost closed. tired! he had never felt so tired in his life before. he was already indifferent to everything that had happened. if only he might just lie down for a minute and close his eyes; if only he hadn’t got this horrible hill to climb! it would be easier to lie down there in the hedge somewhere and go to sleep. he considered the advisability of doing so. he really did not care what happened to him. and then the thought came to him that morelli was coming up the hill after him; morelli was waiting probably until he did fall asleep, and then he would be upon him. those fingers would steal about his body again, there would be that biting pain. he struggled along. no, he must not stop.

at last he was in the hotel garden. he could hear voices and laughter from behind closed doors, but there seemed to be no one in the hall. he stumbled up the stairs to his room and met no one on the way. his bath seemed to him the most wonderful thing that he had ever had. it was steaming hot, and he lay absolutely motionless with his eyes closed letting his brain very slowly settle itself. it was like a coloured puzzle that had been shaken to pieces and scattered; now, of their own initiative, all the little squares and corners seemed to come together again. he was able to think sanely and soberly once more, and, above all, that terrible sensation of having about him something unreal was leaving him. he began to smile now at the things that he had imagined about morelli. the man had been angry at his helping janet to run away—that was natural enough; he was, of course, hot-tempered—that was the foreign blood in him. thank god, the world wasn’t an odd place really. one fancied things, of course, when one was run down or excited, but those silly ideas didn’t last long if a man was sensible.

he found that the damage wasn’t very serious. there were bruises, of course, and nasty scratches, but it didn’t amount to very much. as he climbed out of the bath, and stretched his limbs and felt the muscles of his arms, he was conscious of an enormous relief. it was all over; he was right again once more. and then suddenly in a flash he remembered mrs. lester.

well, that was over, of course. but to-night was thursday. he had promised to see her. he must have one last talk, just to tell her that there must be nothing more of the kind. as he slowly dressed, delighting in the cool of clean linen, he tried to imagine what he would say; but he was tired, so dreadfully tired! he couldn’t think; he really couldn’t see her to-night. besides, it was most absolutely over, all of it. he had gone through it all in the church that afternoon. he belonged to his wife now, altogether; he was going to show her what he could be now that he understood everything so much better; and she was going to try too, she had promised him in that funny way the other night.

but he was so tired; he couldn’t think connectedly. they all got mixed up, morelli and mrs. lester, tony and his wife. he stood, trying with trembling fingers to fasten his collar. the damned stud! how it twisted about! when he had got its silly head one way and was slipping the collar over it, then suddenly it slipped round the other way and left his fingers aching.

oh! he supposed he must see her. after all, it was better to have it out now and settle it, settle it once and for ever. these women—beastly nuisance. damn the stud!

he had considered the question of telling the family and had decided to leave it until the morning. he was much too tired to face them all now with their questions and anger and expostulation. oh! he’d had enough of that, poor man!

besides, there wouldn’t be any anxiety until the morning. tony was so often late, and although sir richard would probably fume and scold at his cutting dinner again, still, he’d done it so often. no, lady gale was really the question. if she worried, if she were going to spend an anxious night thinking about it, then he ought to go and tell her at once. but she probably had a pretty good idea about the way things had gone. she would not be any more anxious now than she had been during all these last weeks, and he really felt, just now, physically incapable of telling her. no, he wouldn’t see any of them yet. he would go up to the room of the minstrels and think what he was to do. he always seemed to be able to think better up there.

but mrs. lester! what was he to do about her? he felt now simply antagonism. he hated her, the very thought of her! what was he doing with that kind of thing? why couldn’t he have left her alone?

a kind of fury seized him at the thought of her! he shook his fist at the ceiling and scowled at the looking-glass; then he went wearily to the room. but it was dark, and he was frightened now by the dark. he stood on the threshold scarcely daring to enter. then with trembling fingers he felt for the matches and lit the two candles. but even then the light that they cast was so uncertain, they left so many corners dark, and then there were such strange grey lights under the gallery that he wasn’t at all happy. lord! what a state his nerves were in!

he was afraid lest he should go to sleep, and then anything might happen. he faced the grey square of the window with shrinking eyes; it was through there that the green lizards . . .

he would have liked to have crossed the room to prevent the window from rattling if he’d had the courage, but the sound of his steps on the floor frightened him. he remembered his early enthusiasm about the room. well, that was a long, long time ago. not long in hours, he knew, but in experience! it was another lifetime!

it was the tower that he wanted. he could see it now, in the market-place, so strong and quiet and grey! that was the kind of thing for him to have in his mind: rest and strength. drowsing away in his chair—the candles flinging lions and tigers on the wall, the old brown of the gallery sparkling and shining under the uneven light—the tower seemed to come to him through all the black intervening space of night. it grew and grew, until it stood beyond the window, great grey and white stone, towering to the sky, filling the world; that and the sea alone in all creation.

he was nearly asleep, his head forward on his chest, his arms hanging loosely over the sides of the chair, when he heard the door creak.

he started up in sudden alarm. the candles did not fling their circle of light as far as the door—that was in darkness, a black square darker than the rest of the world; and then as his eyes stared at it he saw that there was a figure outlined against it, a grey, shadowy figure.

in a whisper he stammered, “who is that?”

then she came forward into the circle of the candles—mrs. lester! mrs. lester in her blue silk dress cut very low, mrs. lester with diamonds in her hair and a very bright red in her cheeks, mrs. lester looking at him timidly, almost terrified, bending a little forward to stare at him.

“ah! it’s you!” he could hear her breath of relief. “i didn’t know, i thought it might be!” she stood staring at him, a little smile hovering on her lips, uncertainly, as though it were not sure whether it ought to be there.

“ah! it’s you!”

he stood up and faced her, leaning heavily with one hand on the chair.

he wanted to tell her to go away; that he was tired and wasn’t really up to talking—the morning would be better. but he couldn’t speak. he could do nothing but stand there and stare at her stupidly.

then at last, in a voice that did not seem his own at all, he said, “won’t you sit down?” she laughed, leaning forward a little with both hands on the green baize table, looking at him.

“you don’t mind, do you? if you do, i’ll go at once. but it’s our last evening. we may not see much of each other again, and i’d like you to understand me.” then she sat down in a chair by the table, her dress rustling like a sea about her. the candle light fell on it and her, and behind her the room was dark.

but maradick sat with his head hidden by his hand. he did not want to look at her, he did not want to speak to her. already the fascination of her presence was beginning to steal over him again. it had been easy enough whilst she had been away to say that he did not care. but now the scent, violets, that she used came very delicately across the floor to him. he seemed to catch the blue of her dress with the corner of his eye even though he was not looking at her. she filled the room; the vision that he had had of the tower slipped back into the night, giving place to the new one. he tapped his foot impatiently on the floor. why could she not have left him alone? he didn’t want any more struggles. he simply wasn’t up to it, he was so horribly tired. anything was better than a struggle.

he spoke in a low voice without raising his eyes. “wasn’t it—isn’t it—rather risky to come here—like this, now?” after all, how absurd it was! what heaps of plays he had seen with their third act just like this. it was all shadowy, fantastic—the woman, the place. he wanted to sleep.

she laughed. “risky? why, no. fred’s in london. nobody else is likely to bother. but jim, what’s the matter? what’s happened? why are you suddenly like this? don’t you think it’s a little unkind on our last evening, the last chance that we shall get of talking? i don’t want to be a nuisance or a worry——” she paused with a pathetic little catch in her voice, and she let her hand fall sharply on to the silk of her dress.

he tried to pull himself together, to realise the place and the woman and the whole situation. after all, it was his fault that she was there, and he couldn’t behave like a cad after arranging to meet her; and she had been awfully nice during these weeks.

“no, please.” he raised his eyes at last and looked at her. “i’m tired, beastly tired; or i was until you came. don’t think me rude, but i’ve had an awfully exhausting day, really awfully exhausting. but of course i want to talk.”

she was looking so charmingly pretty. her colour, her beautiful shoulders, the way that her dress rose and fell with her breathing—a little hurriedly, but so evenly, like the rise and fall of some very gentle music.

he smiled at her and she smiled back. “there, i knew that you wouldn’t be cross, really; and it is our last time, isn’t it? and i have got a whole lot of things that i want to say to you.”

“yes,” he said, and he leaned back in his chair again, but he did not take his eyes off her face.

“well, you know, for a long time i wondered whether i would come or not; i couldn’t make up my mind. you see, i’d seen nothing of you at all during these last days, nothing at all. perhaps it was just as well. anyhow, you had other things to do; and that is, i suppose, the difference between us. with women, sentiment, romance, call it what you like, is everything. it is life; but with you men it is only a little bit, one amongst a lot of other things. oh! i know. i found that out long ago without waiting for anyone to tell me. but now, perhaps, you’ve brought it home to me in a way that i hadn’t realised before.”

he was going to interrupt her, but she stopped him.

“no, don’t think that i’m complaining about it. it’s perfectly natural. i know—other men are like that. it’s only that i had thought that you were a little different, not quite like the rest; that you had seen it as something precious, valuable. . . .”

and so he had, of course he had. why, it had made all the difference in his life. it was all very well his thinking, as he had that afternoon, that it was tony or the place or punch, one odd thing or another that had made him think like that, but, as a matter of fact, it was mrs. lester, and no one else. she had shown him all of it.

“no, you mustn’t think that of me,” he said; “i have taken it very seriously indeed.” he wanted to say more, but his head was so heavy that he couldn’t think, and he stopped.

meanwhile she was wondering at her own position. she had come to him that evening in a state of pique. all day she had determined that she would not go. that was to be the end of an amusing little episode. and after all, he was only a great stupid hulk of a thing. he could crush her in his arms, but then so could any coalheaver. and she had got such a nice letter from fred, the dear, that morning. he had missed her even during the day that he had been away. oh yes! she wouldn’t see any more of mr. maradick!

but she would like to have just a word alone with him. she expected to see him at teatime. but no; sir richard and rupert had seen him at the station and he had said that he was following them back. but no; well, then, at dinner. neither tony nor he were at dinner.

oh well! he couldn’t care very much about her if he could stay away during the whole of their last day together! she was well out of it all. she read fred’s letter a great many times and kissed it. then directly after dinner—they were so dull downstairs, everyone seemed to have the acutest depression and kept on wondering where tony was—she went to her room and started writing a long, long letter to her “little pet of a fredikins”; at least it was going to be a long, long letter, and then somehow it would not go on.

mr. maradick was a beast. if he thought that he could just play fast and loose with women like that, do just what he liked with them, he was mightily mistaken. she flung down her pen. the room was stifling! she went to her window and opened it; she leaned out. ah! how cool and refreshing the night air was. there was somebody in the distance playing something. it sounded like a flute or a pipe. how nice and romantic! she closed the window. after all, where was he? he must be somewhere all this time. she must speak to him just once before she went away. she must, even though it were only to tell him . . . then she remembered that dusty, empty room upstairs. he had told her that he often went up there.

and so she came. that was the whole history of it. she hadn’t, when she came into the room, the very least idea of anything that she was going to do or say. only that it was romantic, and that she had an extraordinarily urgent desire to be crushed once more in those very strong arms.

“i have taken it very seriously indeed.” he wondered, as he said it to her, what it was, exactly, that he had taken seriously. the “it” was very much more than simply mrs. lester; he saw that very clearly. she was only the expression of a kind of mood that he had been in during these last weeks, a kind of genuine atmosphere that she stood for, just as some quite simple and commonplace thing—a chair, a picture, a vase of flowers—sometimes stands for a great experience or emotion. and then—his head was clearer now; that led him to see further still.

he suddenly grasped that she wasn’t really for him a woman at all, that, indeed, she never had been. he hadn’t thought of her as the woman, the personal character and identity that he wanted, but simply as a sort of emotional climax to the experiences that he had been having; any other woman, he now suddenly saw, would have done just as well. and then, the crisis being over, the emotional situation being changed, the woman would remain; that would be the hell of it!

and that led him—all this in the swift interval before she answered him—to wonder whether she, too, had been wanting him also, not as a man, not as james maradick, but simply as a cap to fit the mood that she was in: any man would fit as well. if that were the case with her as well as with him what a future they were spared by his suddenly seeing as clearly as he did. if that were not so, then the whole thing bristled with difficulties; but that was what he must set himself to find out, now, at once.

then, in her next speech, he saw two things quite clearly—that she was determined, come what might, to have her way about to-night at any rate, and to go to any lengths to obtain it. she might not have been determined when she came into the room, but she was determined now.

she leant forward in her chair towards him, her cheeks were a little redder, her breath was coming a little faster.

“jim, i know you meant it seriously. i know you mean it seriously now. but there isn’t much time; and after all, there isn’t much to say. we’ve arranged it all before. we were to have this night, weren’t we, and then, afterwards, we’d arrange to go abroad or something. here we are, two modern people, you and i, looking at the thing squarely. all our lives we’ve lived stupidly, dully, comfortably. there’s never been anything in the very least to disturb us. and now suddenly this romance has come. are we, just because of stupid laws that stupid people made hundreds of years ago, to miss the chance of our lives? jim!”

she put one hand across towards him and touched his knee.

but he, looking her steadily in the face, spoke without moving.

“wait,” he said. “stop. i want to ask you a question. do you love me—really, i mean? so that you would go with me to-morrow to timbuctoo, anywhere?”

for an instant she lowered her eyes, then she said vehemently, eagerly, “of course, of course i do. you know—jim, how can you ask? haven’t i shown it by coming here?”

but that was exactly what she hadn’t done. her coming there showed the opposite, if anything; and indeed, at once, in a way that she had answered him, he had seen the truth. she might think, at that moment, quite honestly that she loved him, but really what she wanted was not the man at all, but the expression, the emotion, call it what you will.

and he saw, too, exactly what the after-results would be. they would both of them in the morning postpone immediate action. they would wait a few weeks. she would return to her husband; for a little, perhaps, they would write. and then gradually they would forget. she would begin to look on it as an incident, a “romantic hour”; she would probably sigh with relief at the thought of all the ennui and boredom that she had avoided by not running away with him. he, too, would begin to regard it lightly, would put it down to that queer place, to anything and everything, even perhaps to morelli; and then—well, it’s no use in crying over spilt milk, and there’s no harm done after all—and so on, until at last it would be forgotten altogether. and so “the unforgiveable sin” would have been committed, “the unforgiveable sin,” not because they had broken social laws and conventions, but because they had acted without love—the unforgiveable sin of lust of the flesh for the sake of the flesh alone.

after her answer to his question she paused for a moment, and he said nothing; then she went on again: “of course, you know i care, with all my heart and soul.” she said the last three words with a little gasp, and both her hands pressed tightly together. she had moved her chair closer to his, and now both her hands were on his knee and her face was raised to his.

“then you would go away with me to-morrow anywhere?”

“yes, of course,” she answered, now without any hesitation.

“you know that you would lose your good name, your life at home, your friends, most of them? everything that has made life worth living to you?”

“yes—i love you.”

“and then there is your husband. he has been very good to you. he has never given you the least cause of complaint. he’s been awfully decent to you.”

“oh! he doesn’t care. it’s you, jim; i love you heart and soul.”

but he knew through it all that she didn’t: the very repetition of the phrase showed that. she was trying, he knew, to persuade herself that she did because of the immediate pleasure that it would bring her. she wasn’t consciously insincere, but he shrank back in his chair from her touch, because he was not sure what he would do if he let her remain there.

he put her hands aside firmly. “no, you mustn’t. look here, i’ve something to tell you. i know you’ll think me an awful cad, but i must be straight with you. i’ve found out something. i’ve been thinking all these days, and, you know, i don’t love you as i thought i did. not in the fine way that i imagined; i don’t even love you as i love my wife. it is only sensual, all of it. it’s your body that i want, not you. that sounds horrible, doesn’t it? i know, i’m ashamed, but it’s true.”

his voice sank into a whisper. he expected her to turn on him with scorn, loathing, hatred. perhaps she would even make a scene. well, that was better, at any rate, than going on with it. he might just save his soul and hers in time. but he did not dare to look at her. he was ashamed to raise his eyes. and then, to his amazement, he felt her hand on his knee again. her face was very close to his and she was speaking very softly.

“well—perhaps—dear, that other kind of love will come. that’s really only one part of it. that other love cannot come at once.”

he turned his eyes to her. she was looking at him, smiling.

“but you don’t understand, you can’t?”

“yes, i understand.”

then something savage in him began to stir. he caught her hands in his fiercely, roughly.

“no, you can’t. i tell you i don’t love you at all. not as a decent man loves a decent woman. a few weeks ago i thought that i had found my soul. i saw things differently; it was a new world, and i thought that you had shown it me. but it was not really you at all. it isn’t i that you care for, it’s your husband, and we are both being led by the devil—here—now!”

“ah!” she said, drawing back a little. “i thought you were braver than that. you do care for all the old conventional things after all, ‘the sanctity of the marriage tie,’ and all the rest of it. i thought that we had settled all that.”

“no,” he answered her. “it isn’t the conventions that i care for, but it’s our souls, yours and mine. if we loved each other it would be a different thing; but i’ve found out there’s something more than thrilling at another person’s touch—that isn’t enough. i don’t love you; we must end it.”

“no!” she had knelt down by his chair and had suddenly taken both his hands in hers, and was kissing them again and again. “no, jim, we must have to-night. never mind about the rest. i want you—now. take me.”

her arms were about him. her head was on his chest. her fascination began to steal about him again. his blood began to riot. after all, what were all these casuistries, this talk about the soul? anyone could talk, it was living that mattered. he began to press her hands; his head was swimming.

then suddenly a curious thing happened. the room seemed to disappear. mrs. maradick was sitting on the edge of her bed looking at him. he could see the pathetic bend of her head as she looked at him. he felt once again, as he had felt in morelli’s room, as though there were devils about him.

he was tired again, dog-tired; in a moment he was going to yield. both women were with him again. beyond the window was the night, the dark hedges, the white road, the tower, grey and cold with the shadow lying at its feet and moving with the moon as the waves move on the shore.

for a moment the fire seized him. he felt nothing but her body—the pressure, the warmth of it. his fingers grated a little on the silk of her dress.

there was perfect silence, and he thought that he could hear, beyond the beating of their hearts, the sounds of the night—the rustle of the trees, the monotonous drip of water, the mysterious distant playing of the flute that he had heard before. his hands were crushing her. in another moment he would have bent and covered her face, her body, with kisses; then, like the coming of a breeze after a parching stillness, the time was past.

he got up and gently put her hands away. he walked across the room and looked out at the stars, the moon, the light on the misty trees.

he had won his victory.

his voice was quite quiet when he spoke to her.

“you had better, we had both better go to bed. it must never happen, to either of us, because it isn’t good enough. i’m not the sort of man, you’re not the sort of woman, that that does for; you know that you don’t really love me.”

she had risen too, and now stood by the door, her head hanging a little, her hands limply by her side. then she gave a hard little laugh.

“i’ve rather given myself away,” she said harshly. “only, don’t you think it would have been kinder, honester, to have said this a week ago?”

“i don’t try to excuse myself,” he said quietly. “i’ve been pretty rotten, but that’s no reason——” he stopped abruptly.

she clenched her hands, and then suddenly flung up her head and looked at him across the room furiously.

“good night, mr. maradick,” she said, and was gone.