by Edith Nesbit
“Yours obediently,
“Martha Clitheroe.”
They read it together, their hands still locked on the sofa between them.
“I must be rather horrid,” she said, leaning across to rub her cheek against his shoulder, “because when I read it I couldn’t feel a bit sorry for him. I do now. Perhaps he really was fond of me.”
“I daresay he was,” said Templar grimly; rose, and put the letter on the table. Then he sat down again in his corner. Sandra had already returned to hers.
“I suppose it’s almost as bad as murder to wish that somebody was dead. Do you know I’ve prayed he might die. That night I went home and prayed . . . and now he’s dead. ... It isn’t really wicked, is it? Not really. You don’t know how horrible he was that night.”
She had drawn her hand from his and was twisting it with its fellow, on her knee.
“What night?” he asked, remote in his corner.
“The night after — after I’d lost you — oh, I forget — you don’t know. We haven’t told each other anything, really. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Do you mean you’ve seen him again? Spoken to him? Allowed him to speak to you?” His face had changed, darkened, his features seemed thickened and swollen.
“I ... I couldn’t help it. He would have come to the house and made a row. It was very late that night. There was a letter from him. I went out and met him . . .”
“You went out and met that man? Alone?”
“I took my little revolver — I’d gone to bed, after I came home from seeing you. I was tired, ill ... I don’t know. And I told the others to go to bed and leave some supper for me. And it was awfully late when I went down to get it. Wasn’t it horrid of me to be hungry. But I was. And there was his letter — I had to go out and meet him!”
“Were you dressed?”
“Of course I was dressed. Why are you like this? What is it?”
“I hate to think of your being alone with that man — go on.”
“I told him to stand where he was, and if he came near me I’d shoot him. Once he moved, and I nearly did. And I wished I could — and nobody know it. I don’t wonder you hate me. I am horrible. And then I prayed he might die.”
“Goon.”
“That’s all.”
“You haven’t told me what he wanted — what he said.”
“Oh! — horrible things. I can’t tell you.”
“You shall tell me.” He caught her wrists and held them.
“Don’t,” she said: “you frighten me.”
“Tell me, then,” he repeated, and his grasp of her wrists hurt.
“About our being married — him and me . . . and wanting . . .”
“Did he want you to go and live with him?”
“I don’t know. No. He . . . don’t make me tell you,” she said.
“Go on,” he said inexorably.
“He said if I married you he’d not interfere if I paid him.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes.” Pause. “Nearly all.”
“Go on.”
“Or that if you didn’t care about marrying me we could live together without.”
“Damn,” said he.
“Why did you make me tell you?” she said. “ Yes, I’ll tell you everything. You’re hurting me — let go.”
“Go on.”
“And he threatened me and said things about actresses and dancers being all horrid about love and things. That was when I wanted to shoot him. Only they’d have found his body, and known. Yes — now you hate me. It serves me right for speaking the truth.”
“What did you say to him?”
“I told him to do what he chose, and that I wasn’t afraid of him. But I was.”
“Did he touch you?”
“I should have killed him if he had.”
“And then?”
“Then I came home — and then I worked as hard as I could. And prayed. And then he was dead. He’s dead now. And yet you go on like this. And now you don’t love me any more — I wish I was dead. I wish I’d never seen you.”
“It’s a good thing for him he’s dead,” said Templar savagely. “ If I’d been there when he dared to speak to you like that, he wouldn’t have had much chance of speaking like it again.”
“Don’t let’s think of him anymore,” she said. “Don’t. I can’t bear it. Don’t look like that. You frighten me. Don’t. I can’t bear it. I can’t bear any more. I’ve borne so much. You don’t really love me. You don’t know what I’ve done and suffered for you — you never will know — ah!”
She sprang up wildly. And he, as wildly, caught her in his arms.
“Don’t I love you? don’t I? Don’t you understand that I can’t bear to think of his coming within a yard of you? Don’t you know what jealousy means? Don’t you know it drives me mad? How would you like me to meet another woman alone at night, in a shrubbery — a woman I was married to?”
“I should know you didn’t want to. I should trust you’’ she said.
“You don’t know how I love you,” he said: “ it’s like a fire in my heart to think of him. Oh, I tell you, it’s a good thing for him that he’s dead.”
“Don’t,” she said faintly, “oh, don’t! I have been brave. I can’t be brave any more. Forget him. Promise me you’ll never talk of him again to me. I shall go mad if you do. I know I shall. Promise.”
“I’ll promise anything you like,” he cried, and his anger transfused itself into passion. “ You’re mine, mine, mine. Are you afraid of me now? Are you?”
“No,” she breathed, in a caress.
“You ought to be,” he said, and let her go. She did not understand him. He walked to the window and stood looking out on the dark pit at the bottom of which was, she had told him, the garden.
She followed, and laid her head against his arm.
“Ah, don’t,” she said. “ We’ve been so miserable. Can’t we be happy now that we’ve got each other?”
“I ought to go,” he said dully.
“No!” she said, “ no. How can I ever let you go again? “ She turned her face to his, and her eyes implored.
“There!” he said hastily, and kissed her, answering her appeal.
“It’s not all right? You’re still angry?”
“No — no — I’m not angry — I’m . . I’m tired.”
“Lie down,” she said, “ lie down on the sofa, go to sleep. I’ll sit and hold your hand. I’m not tired.”
“We’ll sit down,” he said, “and talk of pleasant things.”
“Two,” said the carriage clock, more in sorrow than in anger.
They took, as before, the opposite ends of the sofa. But in five minutes his arm was round her neck, and she was smiling at him with lovely, innocent eyes — alluring, intolerable. He turned her face so that he could not see it.
“Why,” she said, resisting, “how pale you are, — and how bright your eyes are!”
“The better to see you with,” he quoted.
“What is it — what is it? Aren’t you happy?”
“Happy?” he echoed. “There — let’s be quiet and rest.”
Her arm went round his neck, and she rested there. And so they sat, in a silence electric with his passion. In her, only a faint, not-understood longing troubled the joy of that silence — the longing to do everything for him, to be everything to him, to give him everything he wanted, to make him happy. This longing, in the breast of a woman who loves is as tinder to the spark of man’s desire, — and thus are kindled the great fires that burn down cities, and lay waste happy fields.
And so they sat, — he thrilled with the fierceness of the fight within him, and she clinging, yielding, and yet ignorant that there was any fight in him, any demand on her. The natural sweet tenderness of her embrace touched presently the spring of tenderness in him; his arm clasped her less closely, more kindly, and when at last she fell asleep in his arms he held her lightly, securely, fondly, cherishing her in
her slumber as one holds and cherishes a sleeping child. Toward morning he, too, slept.
There are for all of us some moments that stand out for ever, pure gold against the dull dust-colour of life. For him the moment of! all such moments was that in which he woke to the chatter of the sparrows in the gray of the London dawn and found her in his arms.
He would not move even to lay his lips to her face — lest he should awaken her; he sat still as sleep, while the light brightened and deepened in the strange room, re-painting the colours of curtain and carpet that dawn had made ash-coloured and at last, washing away with a flood of pure light the last shadows in the corners.
“Six,” said the carriage clock cheerfully, as one who bears no malice. And she smiled and woke, and smiled again.
That they could not pass the day together was a grief that they shared, as they shared their breakfast — as they meant, from now onward, to share all things.
He had promised his uncle to go round quite early. It was not an attractive prospect, but it had to be faced.
“You’ll send a wire for me to Denny at The Wood House, won’t you; he must come up at once and get me that new head modelled.”
It was delightfully domestic — to be there alone with her, to have her pour the tea, and charge him with commissions. This was how it was always to be.
“I shall go down to The Wood House tomorrow — yes, I can get the charwoman or someone to stay here if you really think I oughtn’t to be alone. But you’ll come and see me to-night. I’ll arrange with Forrester . ..”
“No,” he said, “I can’t do that. But I’ll come to Wood House to-morrow — no, not tomorrow, hang it, I can’t — Sunday, if I may. I’ll come down on Sunday afternoon.”
She found his hat, in the corner where he had thrown it, fetched him a clothes brush. He carried the tea-tray for her into the kitchen; folded the table cloth and put it away.
It was to be always like this.
“Forrester comes at eight,” she said. “ Come and see the garden.”
It was a queer dark garden, in whose black mould ivy grew, and ferns, and purple irises. There was a fountain in the middle, with a flagged pathway round it. Bay trees in tubs, pink geraniums in stone vases.
“But they soon die,” she said. “ We have to keep getting fresh ones. I expect there’s a Lorenzo head in each of the pots really, and that kills the flowers. They look just like it, don’t they?”
In the passage under the lift she whistled through a speaking tube to Forrester above, giving him his orders.
“The lift’s coming now,” she said. “Goodbye. Good-bye. Till Sunday.”
There was a respectfully resentful something in Forrester’s manner as he adjusted the steel bars of the motor brougham, which forced Templar to say, quite without meaning to:
“Your mistress and I are engaged to be married.” He found it comforting to add: “ She wishes to see you as soon as possible, to arrange for some woman to come and sleep in the house to-night. It is not right that she should be alone here.”
“No, sir,” said Forrester, “it isn’t.”
CHAPTER XII. MISS STEINHART SHOPS
The discomfort which Templar felt in the knowledge that his uncle knew of his engagement was considerably alleviated by the knowledge that his aunt didn’t. To this protection he clung, never leaving, all day, the safe anchorage of her apron-strings. He craftily ignored all his uncle’s ingenuously subtle plans for the securing of a tête-à-tête. The deft dodging involved changed what might have been a severe duty into an enjoyable game of skill in which he came off the winner. When he saw them off at Waterloo on Saturday night he came near to pitying the uncle: so plainly had the itching of an exacerbated curiosity written itself on the old man’s features. But Templar was determined that until he could say of Sylvia “ She is my wife,” he would say nothing.
The train was assuring itself with shrieks and puffings that it really did mean to start presently; the guard was ominous with flags. Another moment and he would be free. It was only six. He might get down to The Wood House to-night even. His mind strayed to half-digested extracts of the South Eastern time-table.
The Aunt recalled if.
“Oh, by the way,” she said, “I promised Lady Jones you’d go there to dinner to
morrow.”
“I can’t he said. “ I’m engaged.”
“But you told me you were free.”
“That was when I thought you would be here on Sunday,” he said, with the smile that was one of the things his aunt loved him for.
“But she’ll expect you. She’ll be very much hurt. I promised you’d go.”
“Better go,” said the Uncle, malicious with baffled inquisitiveness. “ You mustn’t drop all your old friends. You’ll want some nice people for your wife to know some day.”
“I can’t,” said Templar again; “I’m awfully sorry.”
“Then we must,” said the Aunt firmly. “ Henry, stop the train. She’ll never forgive me. She’s got a party. She asked us. We’ll go, and try to apologise for you — though I must say — Henry, take the umbrellas — Where’s my bag?”
“Don’t, Auntie,” said Templar resignedly. “ I’ll go.” He looked anxiously at the flag, its waving imminent.
The thing was to get them started. If they didn’t go now they would stay till Monday. — Half a day — though — How he grudged it. Never mind: he was to spend his life with her.
“Good-bye, Auntie dear,” he said — and the guard really did, at last, do with his flag what he might just as well have done five minutes before. The train glided away. And Templar was left free indeed of Uncle and Aunt, but chained to Lady Jones’ dinner party.
Sylvia, too, was chained. For Uncle Moses did not come that morning. Would perhaps come to-morrow. She snubbed Forrester’s suggestion of a woman to sleep in the house. She was all right, she liked to be alone.
“Yes, Madam,” said Forrester.
Denny came up at midday to see about the new wax head, ordered it at Clarkson’s, and lunched with Sandra. He had never known her so gay. While she was making the omelettes for lunch, which she did much better than Agar, he picked up a letter from a rose-wood sofa table, and read it. A black-edged letter. Then he understood her gaiety. After luncheon she practised her dancing, and he played to her. It was the last rehearsal before Denny’s benefit, at which his own music was to be played.
“I like this better than the theatre,” he said in the pause after a dance: “this room — the looking-glasses. Sandra, there are hundreds of you here — look, and hundreds of me. I like that.”
“Why?” she idly asked from the green carpet where she rested.
“It’s silly,” he said, “ but I know that one of you — the one furthest away of all — the one we can just see — is perfectly contented because she is with me.”
“Which one of you?” she asked and smiled at him.
“This one,” he said quietly, and struck himself on the breast. “This one — the one that loves you best, Sandra — best of them all. Though they all love you, of course,” he added in a vague, troubled note,—” all of them, even the furthest — the one that we just can’t see.”
“Dear Denny,” she said, and “Dear Denny,” again. Then she jumped up.
“Play something new,” she said, “ something of your own, something very beautiful indeed. I want to invent a new dance — a happy love-dance. I’ve never tried that.”
“No — you’ve never tried that,” he said, and lifted the fiddle to his chin.
The plain, white folds of the dress in which she always practised her dancing lent themselves to the innocent, joyous beauty of the gestures she sketched while he attuned the strings, but as soon as he drew the bow across them in a wild, sweet entreating air, her gestures changed, drooped and saddened.
“That won’t do,” she said. “ It’s beautiful, but it’s too sad. That’s hopeless love, Denny. I want love that’s happy, — the kind of love that turns every
thing rainbow-coloured.
He swept his hand hastily across the strings. “Yes,” he said, “I know.” And played again.
“Ah, that’s better,” she said, as the strong full notes quivered fuller and stronger.
“But I don’t know this music,” she said. “I want to practice the dance of worship.
“Yes,” said Denny, and the violin broke into silence. “ Yes, that was the song of worship. Only I’d got it in the minor. You see it’s all the same thing. And so is the first one I played. All that’s the bits of my Love Symphony that I’ve not put into it. The best part, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“I won’t dance any more to-day,” she said, and her face was shadowed. “ You play better than anyone else I know: but sometimes your playing is dreadful. That first thing. It had the note of doom in it — like Tristan—”
“I know,” said he. “ That note sounds in all love-symphonies. But the real note of doom is in my last movement, the one you’re to dance the Salome to.”
“I hope it’ll go all right,” she said, “ it isn’t my idea of the Salome music. It’s too triumphant, too alive. The Head’s dead, you know.”
“Yes,” he said, “I know. But the triumph’s alive. That’s just it.”
“You’re sure they’ll have the head ready by Monday?” she asked, to bring him back to lighter things of this world.
