‘Has he told you so?’ she asked in a voice that sounded to come from far away.
‘Not he,’ Ben chuckled as he went towards the door. ‘He wouldn’t tell. He’s one of the quiet kind, like his mother.’
He went out and Kate stood there, as she had stood at Ben’s first remark, as if turned to stone. Her face was very pale; her lips were grey. Then, as if the frost were breaking, sensation, numbed by the blow, crept slowly back; not the old glow of serene and radiant happiness, but a slow, bitter flood of pain that poisoned all her being. Then came a longing to slink away and hide herself, to hide away from daylight and human society, to lie down and rest. She went towards the door, groping for the door-handle like a blind woman. She had thought of taking refuge in her room, but she remembered that, at this hour, Annie might be making the bed. Her thoughts flew to the barn. If only she could escape from the house without meeting Mrs. Jobson; if only she could cross the farmyard without meeting Ben or David, and the rough ground between the yard and the barn, she would be safe for awhile.
She opened the parlour door softly and looked out into the passage. No one was stirring. The clank of a pail in the scullery told her that the kitchen was likely to be empty, and without waiting any longer she hurried down the passage and out into the yard.
The sharp, early-morning air, damp with rain, laid cold hands upon her, leaving a grey dust of moisture on her black dress. No one was about. The place seemed to be deserted. In a few seconds she had reached the great double doors of the barn, had pushed one of them ajar, slipped inside and then pushed it shut again.
Inside the barn it was still night. Only here and there a vague light, shed from the holes in the roof and walls, hung grey veils among the utter darkness. Kate made her way gropingly to the far end of the huge cavern and dropped down upon the straw there. For awhile she lay without thought or motion, resigning herself to mere suffering. By degrees an intense hatred of Ben took possession of her. If hatred could kill, Ben would have fallen dead where, at that moment, he stood talking to George the hind in the stackyard. All her old disgust of him when she had discovered the hateful secret about him and Emma returned to her redoubled. His hard, vicious laugh, when he had hinted that David too had his secret, still sounded in her ears and filled her with loathing. That laugh and his remark were, for Kate, an affirmation of his own vileness and a satisfied boast that David was like him. In her hatred and despair she was blind to reason. It never occurred to her that Ben’s hint might have a perfectly innocent interpretation, nor that it might not, after all, be true. All that she felt, as she lay there in the dark, was that another unutterable secret had been laid bare, another hidden cancer which had all this while been spreading and corrupting the beauty and innocence of life. But that it should be through David that this ruin should be brought upon her, David who had become for her the very source and symbol of love, faith, and happiness, the very meaning of life for her, was a thing to wreck body and soul. If David was corrupt, like his father, then all men were corrupt. If vileness and deceit could assume those looks of honesty, beauty, and innocence which she had seen and irresistibly loved in David, then her faith in life was destroyed for ever.
Poor Kate! In her passion of jealousy and despair she did not see that David had never deceived her, that even if this guessed-at love of his existed there was no obligation on him to tell her of it, for he was ignorant of her love for him and felt nothing more than friendliness for her. Her emotions were too acute and too turbid for such discriminations. She had not even begun, in spite of all she believed about David, to blame him. The depth of her despair left no room for anger against him. All her anger, all her hatred, were fixed upon Ben. She felt vaguely and confusedly that it was Ben, and Ben only, who was to blame. Ben had, in his own case, lured her into trusting and believing in him and then destroyed her trust; and now, when she had set her trust and all her hopes of happiness upon David, Ben had destroyed these also. He had become in her eyes a callous and sinister demon who took pleasure in wrecking her faith. Once more she heard that horrible, lecherous laugh of his, and once more hatred boiled up in her heart; and feeling herself stultified and powerless in the face of his cruelty, she began to weep, lying curled up in the straw and crying quietly like a lonely child.
How long she lay there she did not know; but when at last her weeping had spent itself, she sat up. Already, she felt, she was becoming habituated to her tragedy: her mind was clearer and cooler, as if the first fever of grief had abated. The barn was now full of a clear twilight in which the doors and wooden walls and the great structure of beams and rafters overhead showed grey and watery, as though the place was a great submarine cavern. It was chilly. She shivered and, rising to her feet, she went over to the doors.
Through a broken board she could see the sheds opposite, and part of the red walls and stone-slabbed roof of the house and the dark tangle of elm-boughs which rose above it, speckled still with a few last yellow leaves which trembled and flickered in the cold air. The door of one of the sheds was half open: Kate could hear something moving about inside, and next moment David came out, stood for a moment outside, surveying the world with that quiet, confident, self-absorbed air of his, and then, pulling-to the door behind him, strode away.
At that sight of David a flood of tenderness rushed back upon her. Whether he was good or bad, she loved him, desperately, inescapably, with all the strength of her body and soul. Even if he had been ten times as bad as Ben had hinted, she would — she knew it and confessed it to herself now — have given herself to him freely and thankfully. All the hopes and desires of her life were fixed upon him. Without him, life would be impossible. And yet he was being stolen from her: once again inscrutable Fate had given her a glimpse of supreme and unbelievable happiness and was tearing it from her grasp un-tasted. Who was this girl who was luring him away from her? Was she young and pretty? Was she old — as old as herself? Was she … could she be like Emma? No. No. That would be too cruel, too unendurable. Leaning against the wall of the barn, Kate asked herself these torturing and unanswerable questions, stabbed to the heart by each one of them. But this time she would act; for this was her last hope. If she resigned herself, if she let life and happiness slip from her again, it would be the end of her. She turned convulsively and put out her hands to open the doors, as if the mere action of grasping the doors and forcing them open would be enough to save her. But next moment her hands had fallen to her sides. Where was she going? What was she going to do? She had no plan. It was easy to think of acting, of grasping at life and taking possession of it; but what was she to do, how was she to cope with this living nightmare which had caught her in its toils? She must think and scheme and plan, coolly and carefully. But her mind was exhausted: she was incapable of the labour and intricacy of thought. If only the problem could be solved by simple bodily action, she felt that she could summon strength enough to achieve everything. But, however difficult, something must be decided. It seemed to her, in her torturing anxiety, that every moment was precious; and soon she saw that the only thing she could do was to speak to David himself. That much was clear.
The moment that was settled in her mind, a desperate resolution took possession of her. All her energies concentrated themselves on that one object. She must force herself to go through with it, ignoring all the fear and all the shame of her trembling heart. She took hold of the heavy doors, heaved them open, and went out.
After sitting so long in the dark, she was so dazzled by the daylight that she could hardly see, and stood with her eyes half closed till her sight cleared. Then she began to search for David, going from shed to shed and looking into the stables and cow-byres. As she came out of one of the byres she met George the hind, who told her that Ben and David were out in one of the further meadows with a man who had come over to see them about some sheep, and Kate went back to house, knowing that she would not be able to see David till dinner-time. It seemed to her almost impossible that she would be able to bear
the suspense and, to silence the clamour of her nerves, she went into the parlour, took a half-made shirt from the work-basket, and sat down at the sewing-machine. She was determined that she would empty her mind of all thought and all idle apprehensions of the ordeal before her; but, work as she might, she could not always disregard the desperate fear that oppressed her heart and ran through her veins like a cold fever.
So she sat with her dark head bent over her work, pausing sometimes to lean back for a moment and stare unseeing before her like a shape of suffering stone.
XXII
At five minutes to twelve, Kate, seated at the machine-table, heard steps in the passage. Who would it be, Ben or David? She gripped the table with both hands to steady her nerves. Her heart was beating in her throat so thickly that she could hardly breathe. The footsteps entered the room and stopped.
‘Hello, Kate!’ It was David’s voice, casual and cheerful.
‘David,’ she said, not daring to turn round and look at him, ‘will you wait after dinner till your father has gone out. I want to talk to you.’
He came over and stood beside her chair. ‘Talk to me?’ he said. ‘Is it something particular?’
‘Yes,’ faltered Kate, glancing up at him.
His blue eyes were gazing down at her and as hers met them she could see in them a sudden shocked surprise. ‘Why, what’s the matter, Kate?’ he asked anxiously.
‘The matter?’ Her voice was scarcely audible.
‘You’re as white as a sheet.’
‘I’ve got … a bit of a headache, that’s all,’ she answered in a hard, dry voice. ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered, hearing Ben coming in from the yard, and she rose to her feet and went to the table as Ben entered, followed by Annie carrying in the dinner.
Kate did her best to eat, but the food was dry in her mouth and almost choked her when she tried to swallow, and she left more than half of what Ben gave her.
Ben, seeing it, glanced at her sharply. ‘Why, whatever’s wrong, lass? Are you out of sorts?’ he asked.
Kate nodded. ‘I’ve got a headache,’ she repeated.
David, sitting opposite to her, raised eyes full of solicitude. ‘Poor Kate,’ he said. ‘Is it very bad?’
His gentle sympathy wrung her heart and she turned away her head to hide the tears that suddenly filled her eyes.
Dinner dragged on interminably. She longed for it to end, yet dreaded what awaited her at the end of it. She dreaded, too, the possibility that her talk with David might be delayed, that Ben might not go out immediately after dinner or that Annie might be slow in clearing the table. Imagining these and other small accidents, she felt in her nervous and exhausted state, as in a nightmare, that countless obstacles which she had not the strength to overcome were combining against her. When at last they rose from table it was as if she had ceased to feel. Like an apathetic spectator she watched Ben fill his pipe and take his hat off the hook.
‘Now you take a good rest this afternoon,’ Ben told her. ‘Go and lie down on your bed for a bit.’
He went out, leaving the parlour door open and next minute Annie came in with the tray. Kate seated herself in Ben’s chair near the fire and David stood with his hands in his pockets, staring listlessly out of the window and whistling softly. When Annie had folded the tablecloth and put it away and had carried the tray out, David shut the door after her and came over to Kate’s chair.
Kate sat silent. Now that the moment was come, she felt tired, helpless, utterly deprived of confidence and hope. How could mere talk and argument unravel this dense, paralysing tangle in which Fate had snared her? She raised her head and, seeing him standing there so close looking down at her, she felt, in the presence of the simple bright reality which she so passionately adored, an overwhelming sense of the insuperable labour and utter uselessness of words, and she longed blindly and despairingly to leap up and throw her arms about him, to hold him safe in her embrace from all the hostile forces of life which were so surely drawing him away from her.
David looked down at her and a vague disquiet grew in him. Once more in those troubled grey-green eyes and the pallor of her face he felt that strangeness in his stepmother of which he had caught brief and disquieting glimpses before, as if a smouldering madness had flickered for a moment through the sane friendliness which he liked so much. ‘What is it, Kate?’ he asked.
She lowered her eyes. ‘David,’ she began in a voice that was no more than a whisper and her words came now slowly, now fast, and broken by pauses. ‘Try not to be hard on me, David. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to make you understand.’ She paused as if at a loss how to proceed. ‘You’re happy here, aren’t you?’ she asked.
He hesitated, puzzled by the inconsequence of her question. ‘Here? At home? You bet.’
‘You haven’t minded me coming here?’
‘Minded? Why, of course I haven’t. What’s the matter, Kate? Haven’t we always been friends?’
‘Yes,’ she said wistfully in a voice like a sigh. ‘Yes, we have.’ She paused again and seemed to fall into a dream. Then in the same quiet voice she began again. ‘David, are you … have you ever been in love?’
He did not reply. She looked up at him and saw that his face was flushed. ‘Why do you ask me these things?’ he said with a quiet impatience.
‘Tell me about it,’ she whispered.
‘There’s nothing to tell.’
‘Nothing?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘Are you sure?’
He began to tap one foot against the fender.
‘Don’t be angry with me,’ she said. She stretched out her hand and took his. Hers was as cold as ice and David could feel it tremble. ‘You see … I love you, David.’
His eyes clouded as he stood there confused, uncertain for a moment of the exact meaning of her words. But only for a moment, for the meaning was clear enough. He stood there tongue-tied and motionless, at a loss what to say or do. Then his face changed and he withdrew his hand from hers. ‘But … but it’s impossible, Kate,’ he stammered. ‘It’s all wrong. You must be out of your senses.’
Her lips were drawn and bloodless and her face was as pale as death. Only her grey-green eyes as they gazed at his face were alive with a hopeless appeal. ‘It’s true,’ she whispered, ‘more true than I can tell you. Don’t be angry, David.’
‘I never thought …’ he began with horrified reproach. ‘You always seemed so … so honest and friendly. Kate, can’t you see for yourself it’s all wrong?’
She fixed her full gaze upon him. ‘It’s easy to think of what’s right and what’s wrong when your heart’s free, David,’ she said: ‘but if you could feel what I feel you’d think differently. Right and wrong don’t help. Love’s something more than that.’
‘I don’t see that,’ said David stubbornly.
Her eyes fell before his frowning gaze and she sat with her head bowed, utterly abased before him.
‘You … you belong to Dad,’ began David. ‘You’re my father’s wife. That’s certain enough.’
‘What if I am?’ she said bitterly, and a ghost of smouldering hatred flickered in her eyes. ‘That doesn’t mean much. If you knew what your father was really like …’
‘I have a pretty good idea of what he’s like,’ said David soberly. ‘I’ve known for years. I’m not blind.’
‘I hate him,’ said Kate. ‘He deceived and cheated me here in this very house; and then to-day he said … he said … that you …’ She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.
David stood gazing at her huddled figure with a sort of embarrassed compassion. Then he took a step forward and laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Kate,’ he said appealingly, ‘do be sensible. Don’t spoil everything. We’ve all been so happy here together. Why, I never doubted that you and Dad got along fine. He’s very fond of you, I know that much. Why couldn’t you try to forgive him? If he’s behaved badly that’s no reason why you should, is it?’
‘But
I’m not wanting to behave badly. I’m not trying to harm him.’
‘Then why are you saying these things to me?’
‘Because … because I can’t bear to … to lose you, David.’
‘Lose me? What do you mean?’
‘If you’d only promise one thing I’d be content. Promise me that you’ll wait, David.’
‘Wait? Wait for what?’
‘Just wait here. Some day, perhaps, years from now … when everything’s different.’
‘No, Kate! No!’ said David wearily. ‘Where’s the use in pretending? Things’ll never be different.’
‘Only promise me you’ll wait,’ she begged. ‘It’s all I ask. Don’t … don’t …’ Shame silenced her.
‘Don’t what, Kate? You’re so strange. I can’t understand what it is you’re trying to say.’
Kate hardened herself to speak the words. ‘Don’t go after any other girl,’ she said. She rose to her feet and laid her hands on his shoulders. ‘Only promise me that, David,’ she implored.
‘No, Kate! No!’ he repeated with weary impatience. ‘How can I make a promise like that? Take your hands off me.’
He raised his hands and quietly took hers off his shoulders.
For a moment Kate stood gazing at him despairingly, her hands hanging at her sides. Then she dropped back into her chair and broke into a passion of weeping. That action of his had cut her to the heart. She felt that he had rejected her utterly. If he had flung her from him with the utmost fierceness he could hardly have hurt her more. For a moment David stood looking down at her with a dark, brooding gaze. Then, with a weary sigh, he turned and strode towards the door. Just before he reached it, it opened and Ben came in.
David, red-faced and embarrassed, stopped and stood there scowling, and Ben too stopped and shot a sharp, questioning glance from his son to the crouching figure of his wife. ‘Hello, hello!’ he said. ‘What’s the matter here?’
The Stepson Page 18
