upon her face. Even this tame gesture was almost overpowering to her, however, and though she did not exactly withdraw her hand from his grasp, she seemed to look upon it in awe at its daring.
A mantle clock chimed a quarter, and Davey mustered himself to begin the affair in earnest, before the charmed half-hour should elapse. To his frustration, he realised that their prolonged courtship so far counted for nothing, and that he must now begin his wooing over again, in order to dispel her trembling and assuage her terrors. But he was happily recompensed for his pains by the little suppressed panting breaths she gave as replies, the soulful glances from her depthless eyes, and the faint squeezes of her fingers now and then; and besides, she had agreed to this secret meeting, which was fairly compromising already, so he knew she must be inclined to yield to his love without many more sessions of persuasion. This first time, however, her alarm was uppermost, and though she panted, glanced and squeezed as I have described, the only words she spoke were desperate, almost helpless pleas that she loved her husband dearly. Nevertheless, every time she said it, Davey knew that it became more and more of a lie.
The clock intruded upon them for the second quarter, and they prepared to make their goodbyes before Tom should return. Parting was anguish, of course, and they lingered a dangerous time. Davey’s assumed gentleness fell away with each passing second, and the full heat of his ardour began to emerge— he told her outright that he loved her, that she must be his; and as she was blushing, the temptation of that scarlet cheek overwhelmed him: he snatched her into his arms and stole a kiss. She struggled free, pushing him back, but as she did so, her long sleeve rode up her forearm, to reveal there a vivid pattern of bruises, running through every colour such wounds assume. Davey gaped at her, aghast, as she hurriedly concealed them again, and retreated.
‘You love your husband for that?’ he demanded, as she begged him to leave. ‘No, Artemisia, you must leave— come with me now!’
She began to weep in the face of his anger, but he was so enraged he could hardly console her.
‘I can’t force you, Artemisia— I would never do that— but you must choose me now, you must leave him. I can’t— I can’t stand to think of him hurting you— I can’t— he won’t! He’ll never touch you again— I’ll kill him first.’
He immediately resolved to remain in the room and challenge the guilty husband when he returned, but Artemisia fell to her knees, and, pleading with her liquid eyes, implored him to go, swearing that if he would, she would engage to meet him again in a fortnight’s time. This, plus the admission of three or four more angry kisses, made him more malleable, and when something like a movement in the hall downstairs startled them, Davey forgot his resolve in alarm, warned her to beware of her spouse, to protect herself from him, and to remember his own love, before escaping.
As soon as he was safely gone, the door to the parlour opened again, to admit Artemisia’s Aunt Jenny, who had, in actuality, been responsible for the ominous noise that sent Davey on his way.
Artemisia glanced up, relaxed her face into a smile, put her finger to her lips while the other closed the door, and then clapped her hands in glee.
‘Congratulate me before I congratulate myself!’ she laughed, her sparkling eyes lifting and transforming her beauty, by dispelling solemnness in favour of vivacity.
‘It went well, then?’ Jenny asked, cautiously.
‘Brilliantly— that man is my man, as definitely as I’m my husband’s wife. But dear Davey is going to cut that vicious marriage-knot— I’ve only to give him the means and the moment!’
With these words, she took up a flannel, and rolling back her sleeves, hastily rubbed off the nasty bruises she had so skilfully painted on an hour before —and all this because the truth was, of course, that Artemisia was not demure and weak at all: her plight was not that of a persecuted beauty, but a frustrated genius.
The great mistake of her life had been, too young, to marry a hysterical man. She had chosen and accepted him because, in her small town, he was affluent and powerful— but now she meant to undo that mistake. Certainly, he never abused her physically, but for sure he made her miserable, and his jealousy really did make it impossible for her to go out and take part in her life as she ought. So, with a taste for intrigue and design, she decided to contrive a rescue for herself. First, she stayed alert for a suitable candidate, and when she saw the handsome Davey at the festival, and found out from her aunt afterwards his reputation for passionate attachments, she began to weave her plot, to lure the sailor in. When she outlined her approach, Jenny thought it too lengthy and laborious, but Artemisia knew better, and was prepared to bide her time.
‘Desire’s fed by denial,’ she told her aunt. ‘The more it’s denied, the hungrier it gets— and believe me, Jenny, I’m going to starve him half to death!’
‘But he’ll get bored,’ her collaborator protested. ‘The little messages you send him are so bland and wet— he’ll sicken of them.’
‘Tsk! Tsk! Has he sickened yet? You tell me he’s more desperate every time you meet him. He’s seen how I look, and likes me— that’s enough. Men— and especially men like Davey— have no interest in what women think or say for themselves. I’m a creature of his imagination, and the less I give him, the more he’ll invent on my behalf.’
Artemisia knew that she would have to secure her lover’s affections as tightly as possible if he were to fulfil her intentions, so she developed the little scheme of the key to test his ingenuity. In reality, there was no restriction on their time together, as Tom would return directly to the bar, and not bother her— and there was no single key to the front door. Although Tom supposed the one he wore around his neck to be unique, actually, even with Jenny’s copy, Artemisia had two or three to spare. But of course, if Davey had failed in his task, she had a hundred other ideas to try on him till he should prove himself worthy to deliver her from her obnoxious marriage. From the first, however, he had been not only worthy, but able, and now her confidence in him was satisfied. Therefore her mood was both excited and rather triumphant as she cleaned away the fake bruises.
‘What’s to happen next, then?’ this Jenny enquired, whose similar love of intrigue had made her a willing accomplice in all. ‘A couple more meetings, and you’ll be ready to run away together. He’s everything you hoped for, as far as I can see— were you impressed with him?’
‘Delighted! There’s no doubting he’s smitten. I hardly had to pretend to be flustered when he said how much he adores me.’
‘Oh, he does, if ever a man did! He’s fit to die for love.’
Artemisia shook her head with a smile. ‘He’ll have to do better than that— he’ll kill for my love.’
‘What do you mean?’ the aunt frowned. ‘You’ve been playing the silent heroine too long, Artemisia— now you’re full of wild words.’
‘Ah, Jenny,’ her niece replied, kissing her upon the cheek. ‘Do you think I’ve done all this in order to run away with a fisherman? Think again! What? Repay my darling husband for years of his temper, his arrogant ignorance, his prison-warder antics, with a meek little divorce settlement, and plenty of scope to find some new victim? Oh, think again, Jenny! I know well what revenge is, and I’ll have it! Davey will give it to me.’
‘Artemisia! I won’t listen to this!’ the other chided. ‘I won’t listen if you’re saying what I think you are!’
‘Then cover your ears, aunt.’
The older woman started forward and grasped Artemisia by the shoulders. ‘Stop it,’ she cried. ‘Whatever you have in mind, stop! I didn’t help you for this— you can’t mean to have Tom killed?’
‘Don’t I hate him? Don’t you? Won’t Davey do it?’
‘I— I can’t tell what he’ll do.’ Her face had grown pale at the sight of her relative’s serene ruthlessness.
‘I’ll tell you what he’ll do— whatever I suggest. He was ready to do it today.’
‘You’d use that poor young man— you’d ruin his life
?’
‘“Poor young man” —really! Some people in the world are murderers, Jenny— I mean they’re capable of it, given the right prompting— and others just don’t have it in them. I’m unlucky enough to be one of these last, or I’d have poisoned my Mr. Parnell longsince. But I reckon Davey has that— aptitude— and I’m going to use it, before he wastes it by knocking someone on the head in a bar-brawl.’
‘This is horrible, Artemisia— enough! Think of yourself, then, since you disregard everyone else. You couldn’t have him kill Tom without being implicated.’
‘Perhaps not,’ she conceded, ‘but if I can fool a lover with my tears, I daresay I can fool a jury. Who knows I’ve ever met Davey? What evidence is there that we’re anything but strangers? I’ve burned his letters, and all the barber knows is that he played a practical joke.’
‘I know everything,’ Jenny asserted.
‘You’d testify against me?’ asked the lovely lady, in surprise.
‘No, I won’t— I’ll never have to, because this will never happen.’
Artemisia rounded on her sternly. ‘I deserve my revenge, Jenny, and you know it! You know how unhappy he’s made me— you’ve gnashed your teeth at him in anger before now, and don’t forget the time you tried to hit him with a bottle. If he wasn’t too quick and strong
The Sleight of Heart: a modern folk tale Page 4
