“Good-bye, dear. Write your plans, and come and see us as soon as we get back. It won’t be more than a week or two now.”
Cedric put her into the waiting taxi, and stood on the steps looking after her as the cab turned out of Clevedon Square. And Alex, crouched into a corner of the swiftly-moving taxi, knew herself capable of any treachery, any moral infamy to which she might be tempted, since Cedric had been right when he said that her sense of honour, of fundamental rectitude, was completely perverted.
XXIX
Forgiveness
The weather broke suddenly, and it became cold and rainy. For two or three days Alex sat in her sitting-room at Malden Road and heard the trams and the omnibuses clash past, and the children screaming to one another in the street. She could hardly have said when she had first realized that it was impossible for her to go on living. But the determination, now that it was there, full-grown, had brought with it a sense of utter finality.
For two or three days she felt stunned, and yet driven by a desperate feeling that it was necessary for her to think, to make a plan. But she could not think.
Then one evening Mrs. Hoxton, the landlady, said to her curiously:
“Wouldn’t you like a fire, tonight?” She seldom said “Miss” in speaking to Alex. “It’s so chilly, all of a sudden, and you look ill, really, now, you do.”
Alex felt rather surprised. Perhaps she was ill, which would account for the impossibility of consecutive thought. A fire would be very nice. She shivered involuntarily, looking at her little empty grate crammed with cut paper. She remembered that there was no need to consider expense any more.
“Yes, I’d like a fire, please,” she said gently. And that evening she sat close to the pleasant blaze, flickering on the wall, and dimly recalling to her the nursery at Clevedon Square in the old days, and the power of thought came back to her.
It was as though the warmth and companionship of the flames had suddenly unsealed something frozen up within her, and she became more herself than she had been for many months. With the horrible, pressing dread of an unbearable present and an unimaginable future lifted from her heart, Alex felt a pervading lucidity of thought, to which she had for years been a stranger, take possession of her. She knew suddenly that she was, for a little while, to regain faculties that had been atrophied within her since the far, free days of her girlhood. She began to reflect.
Why had life, to which she had looked forward so eagerly, with such confident anticipation of some wonderful happiness, which should be in proportion to the immense capacity for realizing it which she knew to exist within her, have proved to be only a succession of defeats, of receding hopes and of unfulfilled desires?
Alex did not question that the fault lay with herself. From her baby days, under the unvarnished plain speaking of old Nurse, she had known herself to be the black sheep of every flock. And she had not sinned splendidly, dramatically, either. Her sins had been those of petty meanness, of shirking and evading, of small self-indulgences and childish tyranny at the expense of others, of vulgar lies and half-truths.
Those sins which find little or no place in the decalogue, and which stand lowest in the scale by which the opinion of others is meted out to us.
Those are the things which are not forgiven. That was it, Alex told herself, with a feeling of having suddenly struck the keynote. Forgiveness.
Forgiveness was the key to everything. Alex, in the sudden surety of vision that had come to her, did not doubt that her own interpretation of the word was the right one. Forgiveness meant understanding — not condemnation and subsequent pardon. It did not mean the bewildered, scandalized, and yet regretful oblivion to which Cedric would consign her memory and that of her many failings, it did not mean Barbara’s detached, indifferent kindness, carefully measured in terms of material resources, nor Pamela’s and Archie’s good-natured patronage, half-stifled in mirth, of which the very object was the gulf that separated them from their sister. It did not even mean Violet’s soft pity and unresentful acceptance of facts that amazed her. Looking further back, Alex knew that it did not mean either the serious, perplexed pardon that Sir Francis had tendered to his troublesome daughter, or Lady Isabel’s half-complaining, half-affectionate remonstrances.
It did not in any way occur to her to blame them for a lack of which she had all her life been subconsciously aware in all their forbearance. She told herself, with a fresh sense of enlightenment, that they had not understood because it was in none of them to have yielded to those temptations which had beset and mastered her so easily. Measuring her frailty by their own strength, they had only seen her utter failure in resistance, and been shamed and grieved by it. Alex knew that in herself was another standard of forgiveness; she could never condemn, for the simple reason that she herself had failed, in every sense of the word. Unresentfully, she was able to sum it all up, as it were, when she told herself, “People who would have resisted temptation themselves, can’t understand those who fall — so they can’t really forgive. But the bad ones, who know that they have given way all along the line, know that any temptation would have been too strong for them — it’s only chance whether it comes their way or not — so they can understand.”
She felt oddly contented, as at having reached a solution.
Later on, her thoughts turned to the past again, and to the childish days when she had been the leading spirit in the Clevedon Square nursery. But the memory of that past, incredible, security and assurance, made her begin to cry, and she wiped away blinding tears and told herself that she must not give way to them. She did not at first quite know why she must reserve the tiny modicum of strength still left her, but presently she realized that the end which had become inevitable could not be reached without decisive action of her own.
Alex’ logic was elementary, and its directness left her no loophole for doubt.
She could endure the plane of existence on which she found herself no longer. If she fled in search of other conditions, it was with full certainty that these could not be less tolerable than those from which she was flying, and at the back of her mind was a strange, growing hope that perhaps that forgiveness of which her mind was full, might be found beyond the veil.
“After all,” thought Alex, “it’s even chances. If religion is all true, then I must go to hell, whether I kill myself or not, and if it isn’t, then perhaps I shall just go out and know nothing more — ever — or perhaps it will be really a new beginning, and there will be somebody or something who will forgive me, and let me start over again.”
She began to feel rather excited, as though she were about to try an experiment that might best be described as a gamble.
Mrs. Hoxton, coming in with the small supper-tray, looked at her sharply two or three times, and when she had gone away again, Alex, turning to the glass, saw that her eyes were shining and looking enormously large and wide-pupilled.
“I believe I am happy tonight,” she thought wonderingly.
While she ate her supper she tried to make a plan, but the excitement within her was growing steadily, and she could only think out eager self-justification for her own decision.
“It won’t hurt any one else — nobody will mind. In fact, when they’ve got over the first shock, it will be a relief to them all. They’ve been very kind — Violet and Cedric — Violet most of all — but they haven’t understood. They’d have understood better if I’d been a bad woman — lived with wicked men, or things like that. I suppose I should have done that too, if it had come my way — but then I never had the temptation. I had only little, mean, horrible temptations — and I didn’t resist any of them. The other sort of sin would have made me happier — it would have meant a sort of success in a way — but I have been a failure at everything — always.”
Her heart hammering against her side, Alex resolved that in this, her last disgrace, she would not fail.
Making no preparations, no written farewells, she rose presently and went to her room, where sh
e put on her thickest coat and tied a woollen scarf over her head.
Then she went out.
It had stopped raining, and the air was soft and moist. It was a starless night, and when Alex got to the Heath and away from the lighted streets, it was very dark. Underneath her sense of adventure she was conscious of terror — sheer physical terror — and also of the deeper dread that her resolution might fail her.
“I mustn’t — I mustn’t,” she kept on muttering to herself.
Then, as though reassuring somebody else, “But it’s only like going for a journey — to a quite new place where everything may be different and much, much better ... or else to sleep, and never any waking up to misery again.... Just one dreadful minute or two, perhaps, and then it will all be over ... only a question of a little physical courage ... not to struggle ... like taking gas ... much easier if one doesn’t struggle....”
She was struck by a sudden thought and said aloud, triumphantly, as though she were defeating by her inspiration some one who was urging difficulties upon her:
“I won’t give myself any chances. I’ll put big stones in my pocket and tie my scarf over my mouth. That’ll make it quicker, too.”
When she came to the part of the Heath where the water lay, Alex began to stoop down and hunt for stones. She pounced on each one that seemed larger than its fellows with a sense of pride at her own success, and put them into the pockets of her coat. The moon appeared palely through clouds and then disappeared again, but not before she had taken her bearings.
She was on one of the many wide bridges that span the long pools dotted over the Heath — pools shelving at the sides with an effect of shallowness and deepening suddenly in the middle. Alex threw an indifferent glance at the dark water, and only felt annoyance that so few stones should be loose upon the pathway, and none of them very large ones. When her pockets were filled, she did not think the weight very noticeable.
Then came another evanescent gleam of moonlight, and Alex, still with that sharpening of all her perceptions, noticed that there was a man’s figure at the far end of the bridge. He appeared to be stationary, leaning on the parapet and gazing down at the almost invisible pond.
She was conscious of vexation. His presence would surely interfere with her scheme.
For a moment she wondered, detachedly enough, whether she should go away and come back the following evening. But the next instant she recoiled from the thought, as though seeing in it the promptings of her own weakness.
“I am not frightened tonight — at least, hardly at all. If I wait I may never feel like this again. I shall make a failure of it all, and that would be worse than anything. I must do it tonight, while I’m not frightened.”
She was not cold. Walking in her heavy coat had warmed her, and the evening was mild as well as damp. So she waited quietly in the shadow, hoping that the man would presently move away.
The thought crossed her mind, with a certain humour, that the situation held possibilities of romance.
“If it were in a book, he would save me at the last minute and fall in love with me and it would all end happily. Or he would see me now, and perhaps speak to me, and he would understand all I told him, and persuade me not to. Anyhow, it would all come right.”
She smiled in the darkness.
“But that won’t happen to me. There never was any one — and nobody would love me now, especially when they knew all about me.” She remembered the haggard, distorted countenance that the looking-glass had shown her — the great, starting eyes with discoloured circles beneath them, and the blackened, prominent teeth, more salient than ever from the thinness of her face.
She could almost have laughed, without any conscious bitterness, at the idea of any romance in connection with her present self.
And yet the girl, Alex Clare, could have loved — had looked forward to love and to happiness as her rights, just as Pamela Clare did now.
But Pamela was different. Every one was — No!
It was Alex that was different — that had always been different.
She began to feel less warm, and shivered a little as she waited.
It occurred to her, not with any sense of fear, but with vexation, that her purpose would be far more difficult of achievement if she waited until she was physically chilled.
She looked up at the bridge again, and the figure was still there, at the furthest end. Alex measured the length of the bridge with her eyes.
It was doubtful if he would see her from the furthest end of it, but she reflected matter-of-factly:
“If I jump there will be the noise of a splash — and he might do something — he would try to save me, I suppose — or run for help. It wouldn’t be safe. If he would only go.”
She became irritated. With a sense of despair she determined to circumvent the motionless, watchful figure.
Moving very quietly and almost soundlessly over the soft muddy ground, Alex made her way from the path to the bank, and further and further down it till only a short declivity of shelving mud lay between her and the water.
She could feel the brambles catching in her thick coat as though pulling her back, but she went on, cautiously and steadily. Once or twice she pushed at the low, tangled bushes that impeded her progress, and paused aghast at the rustling that ensued. But from the bridge above her there came no sound.
Within a few steps of the dark water, her feet already sinking ankle-deep into the wet, spongy ground, she stopped.
She realized with wondering joy that, after all, she was not very much afraid. It was as though the self-confidence which had for so long deserted her had come back now to carry her through the last need.
She felt proud, because she knew that for this once she was not going to fail.
She talked to herself in a whisper:
“This one time — just a few minutes when it may be very bad — but remember that it can’t last long, and then it’ll all be over. And perhaps there’ll never be anything more afterwards — like being always asleep, and no one need be vexed or disappointed any more. But perhaps—”
She paused on the thought, and her heart began to beat faster with a hopeful excitement such as she had not known for a very long while.
“Perhaps it will be much better than one imagines possible. Perhaps there’ll be real forgiveness and understanding — and then my having done this won’t matter. Anyway, I shall know very soon, if only I’m brave just for a few minutes.”
She drew a long breath, then, instinctively stretching her arms straight out before her so as to balance herself, she began to move forward.
The first unmistakable touch of the water round her feet made her gasp and stifle a scream, but she waded on, encouraging herself in a low murmur, as though speaking to a child:
“It’s only like going into the sea when one’s bathing — pretend it’s that, then you won’t be frightened. Just straight on — it will be over quite soon—”
She was moving, slowly, but without pause, her hands held out in front of her, the ground still beneath her slipping feet, which felt oddly weighted. Once she began to pull the woollen scarf over her mouth, but with the sense of breathlessness came the beginning of panic, and she tore it away again.
“Go on — coward — coward,” she urged herself. “Remember what it would mean to make another muddle of this, and to fail.”
The cold invaded her body and her teeth began to chatter.
For an instant she stood, surrounded by the silent water, cold and terror and the weight of her now sodden clothing paralysing her, so that she could move neither backwards to the shore nor forward into the blackness in front of her.
“I must,” muttered Alex, and wrenched one foot desperately out of the mud below. With the forward movement, she lost her balance, and her hands clutched instinctively at the water’s level. Then the clogging bottom of the pond sheered away suddenly from beneath her, and there was only water, dark and icy and rushing, above and below and all round her.
XXX
Epitaph
They sat round, afterwards, in the Clevedon Square drawing-room — all the people who had helped misguided, erring Alex, according to their lights, or again, according to their limitations, and who had failed her so completely in the ultimate essential.
Pamela and her lover whispered together in the window.
“After all, you know,” hesitated the girl, “she had nothing much to live for, poor Alex. She’d got out of touch with all of us — and she had no one of her very own.”
“Not like us.”
His hand closed for an instant over hers.
“There was no reason why she should not have come to us if — if she was in money difficulties,” reiterated Cedric uneasily. He consciously refrained from adding “again.”
Violet was crying softly, lying back in the depths of a great arm-chair.
“Poor Alex! I never guessed Malden Road was like that. Why did she go there? Oh, poor Alex!”
“You were nicer to her than any of us, Violet,” said Archie gruffly. “She was awfully fond of you, wasn’t she, and of the little kid?”
Barbara, hard and self-contained, gazed round the familiar room. For a moment it seemed to her that they were all children again, sent down from the nursery by old Nurse, on Lady Isabel’s “At Home” afternoon.
Her eyes met those of Cedric, who had taken up his stand against the mantelpiece, in his hand his glasses, which he was shaking with little, judicial jerks.
“Oh, Cedric,” said Barbara with a sudden catch in her voice.
“Don’t you remember — Alex was such a pretty little girl!”
London, 1917.
Bristol, 1918.
THE END
TENSION
CONTENTS
I
II
III
IV
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 123
