by R. R. Ryan
“Mrs. Border. Will you please let me out?”
“You must wait.”
Mary continued on her way. Presently, her nudity covered, she returned and put her lips to the door.
“It’s safe, cook. He’s fast asleep.”
Stealthily, the other scared woman emerged.
“He’ll sleep now for hours,” she said with a gesture at Vin . . . “I’m sorry, Mrs. Border, you must please take my notice.”
“It will never occur again, cook.”
“Oh, but it will, ma’am. I know that lit-up type of drinker. My husband was like that . . . White with it, as he is. Mine promised me on his honour, on his soul, on his hope for salvation, it would never occur again. He beat me black and blue three nights later . . .”
She had a lot more to say, but Mary fainted.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Elizabeth’s prophecy of penitence proved justified. Next day, Mary, in bed, suffering acutely from pain and shock, heard a timid knocking at her door. Immediately she knew it was he. A wave of anger and disgust surged through her. She felt exceedingly confused, and had thus far come to no decision regarding her future dealings with Vin.
“I ought to inform the police,” she told herself violently.
She felt he had robbed her of self-respect; destroyed something lovely and immaculate that does perish when sheltered women meet violence at masculine hands. It was not only the horror, pain, shock, that she resented so bitterly, there was the profound vulgarity of the affair. Reviewing it, Mary could find no difference between her experience and those of the police news type that delicate women avoid as men avoid mush.
Her face was hard and set when Vin crept in. He had dressed and looked spick and span, as unlike the drink-shot maniac of last night as a square is unlike a circle. Humility and penitence suited his saintly beauty, but unfortunately both his beauty and spiritual distress were lost upon Mary, for she kept her gaze rigidly averted.
“Mary!”
There was a tremor in his tones of a heart-touching quality.
“Mary, I don’t know what to say.”
Clearly she shared this inability of expression.
“Terry told you about me and whisky . . . I’ve no excuse to make . . . I swore to him I’d keep clear of the wretched stuff . . .”
So began a most eloquent tale. No counsel could have pleaded his case more subtly or with greater fervour, the better for being decently restrained.
This was only his third outbreak, he said. Terry had witnessed the second. He had asked Terry then to help him, now he asked Mary. Mere condemnation saved no souls. A little help’s worth all the rebuke in Christendom. After all, they were married. They had to spend their lives together. And Mary must realize that it was not he, Vincent Border, who had disgraced the name of man last night, but the debased being created by the fumes of drink. He, the sane, sober he, would not hurt a hair of Mary’s head; and to prove that, he would, if Mary wished, go now, never see her again.
Almost she bade him go. It is not easy, however, to set down in cold letters the emotional power of Vincent Border’s dignified humility. Mary had not one of those boardlike souls off which men’s pleas bounce like rubber balls. She wanted to be happy. She wanted everybody to be happy. She was young, full of belief. This was her first skirmish with disillusion.
She promised to help him and his eyes shone with an almost holy resolve, or what appeared to be such resolve.
He helped her disabilities with wonderful efficiency, so that eventually she was able to rise with some measure of physical and mental ease, when he wisely effaced himself. Mary descended with a renewed feeling of hope in her heart and with a sense of mission in her soul.
She felt sufficiently revived to face even Elizabeth, who, however, was wont to declare she had corns on her soul and no more belief in human promises than in divine fulfilments.
“Mr. Border offers you his apologies,” Mary said without timidity; for she still believed in the discrepancies of class and an apology from “Master” seemed to her a very noble thing and more than full compensation for any wrong suffered by a servant.
Elizabeth sniffed, her final comment with the significance behind it of years of domestic disillusionment.
“Things are being left just as they were?” she asked in her dry voice.
Mary explained.
“Oh, yes! Well, all the same, ma’am, my notice stands. Moreover, I prefer to forego my wages and leave at once.”
It was only with the utmost difficulty and after much persuasion that Mary prevailed on Elizabeth to stay until her young mistress could find other help.
“All very well, fine promises and that. However, I’ll stay on this understanding: at the first sign of trouble I leave on the spot.”
Yet an hour later even she had yielded to Vin’s blandishments and irresistible charm.
CHAPTER IV
It was while on his way home to be demobbed that coincidence introduced Vincent Border’s name to Terry’s immediate cognizance at a time when for once he was thinking neither of his friend nor of her whom his friend had married. And it happened like this: Terry, while in the actual presence of Tom Mordaunt, his traveling companion, also on his way to wave a fond farewell to war until the next, and also a lawyer, dropped his over-packed pocket-book from which there fell, face upwards and among many others, a photograph of Vin. Picking up his fallen property, Terry proffered Vin’s photograph to Tom with the remark:
“How’s that for a really good-looking chap?”
Tom Mordaunt took the likeness casually, then glanced at Terry quizzically.
“So he’s a noble British soldier now, holding His Majesty’s commission into the bargain?”
“Why, d’you know him?”
“And some.” He grinned to himself. “And what, oh man of the law, do you know about him?”
“Well-connected bloke, was at Cambridge when war started, has independent means.”
“How nice! He didn’t happen to mention that he was at Borstal and in certain of His Majesty’s guest houses, too?”
“You’re kidding, Tom!” Terry exclaimed anxiously.
“I defended him before the justices on an abominable sex-charge, Terry, old man. Young girl, under the age, grievous assault. Three years, at the Old Bailey. More recently, eighteen months, fraud. His independent means, you know.”
“Good God!”
Tom glanced at his companion and his light manner underwent a change. Clearly his news had filled Terry with unspeakable horror.
“What’s the trouble, old thing?”
“Eh, what?” Absorbed in his thoughts, urgent and anxious, Terry had not grasped the import of Tom Mordaunt’s question; and, instead of answering, himself demanded: “Can it be possible that you’ve made a mistake, Tom? This boy’s only my own age.”
“Says he! Your little pip-squeak’s exactly thirty-one years old.”
“But he only looks . . .”
“Any age he wishes. It’s no mistake, old bean. I’d know that phiz anywhere. There aren’t two beautiful, saintlike criminals with those features. Dyed in the wool, incurable adventurer and bad hat. No woman’s safe with him. No child’s safe with him. The best, the kindest judgment that can be passed upon master Border—if that’s his real name—is he’s abnormal. But how does all this concern you, my bachelor lad?”
“I’d rather you didn’t ask, Tom. It does concern me very nearly and seriously. Let it go at that, will you, old sport?”
The other immediately dropped the subject; but his information had blackened the fairest prospect of Terry’s young life. He had looked forward with unqualified delight to returning home, to taking up his abode next door to Mary once more, to dropping in on her and Border for jolly evenings and arranging excursions with them both. But now! He felt terribly perturbed. If only he had known this earlier! If only . . . But there was no end to these if onlys. Damnable that Vincent should have had his chance to be demobbed first. Heaven alone knew what
had happened to Mary by now . . . And he had not the slightest doubt of Tom Mordaunt’s accuracy. Tom was a cautious chap; never made statements unless he could substantiate them. Nearly forty, Tom, not given to slack imaginings.
Anyhow, thank God he was going home. Thank God Vin and Mary were remaining in the old home . . . Though, of course, that was all along inevitable. That was what Master Vin had been after, security, comparative ease and comfort, a comfort very different from the unfriendly hardship of prison . . .
And how amazingly subtle the devil was! How he had taken him, Terry, in! Yet, no; to be fair to himself, not altogether. He’s sensed a wrong ’un. More fool he to lack confidence in his judgment . . . Though, actually, it was a matter of instinct, not judgment. Would it have done any good to warn Mary? Unlikely. Naturally she’d have asked what he knew against Vin. And people were exceedingly sceptical about instinct, despite the constant proof of its infallibility.
Mary was now to all practical purposes alone in the world, she had no one to champion her, except her friends, the closest of whom was himself. It was up to him to do something regarding this alarming information. Wisest, of course, to be guided by the situation obtaining on the spot; but clearly he must face Vin with the truth. All kinds of difficult complications presented themselves for his consideration.
What should have been the happiest home-coming of his life now promised to be one that he would definitely have avoided had he cared for Mary less. Not only was he in for trouble, but would lack the fine judgment of his mother, who was still occupied by her self-sought duties. Impossible to say when he’d see his sister again, his father was gone forever, and there was an empty house to damp his spirits still further. However, Mrs. Cliffe had written to Thatcher, their old cook-housekeeper, who was returning specially to look after him and set everything once more in order. Things would brighten up when, with time, Mrs. Cliffe was able to relinquish work and herself return home.
However, when eventually he did arrive home, he found, except for the inevitable absences, things going on as smoothly as when he first left for France. Thatcher was there, helped by a cherubic kitchen-maid and, of all the marvels, Anne—who surely should have married—was back to carry on upstairs. Everything was orderly, bright and as his mother liked to see her house. In the latter’s absence Mrs. Thatcher, who had nursed him as a boy, was a good substitute. Mrs. Cliffe herself loved Terry no better.
For the best part of an hour, during which he was doing full justice to Mrs. Thatcher’s substantial fare, he all but forgot his anxiety about next door; but presently, his things unpacked and put in place, bathed and in the strange-feeling “civies,” he smoked a cigarette while Mrs. Thatcher announced the various changes and imparted the most dramatic news of a neighbourhood not given to providing lurid episodes. The most lurid troubling Mrs. Thatcher’s mind was that connected with next door. She was as familiar with the Rodney household as the Cliffe, little less fond of Mary than of Terry. Once she had ardently hoped these two would marry and was well aware of Terry’s unquenchable love. It was for this reason she felt reluctant to wound feelings only too greatly harrowed during nearly five years of war. It was a shame, she told herself, that he should hear bad news on his first night back from the great shambles; but, nevertheless, it was much wiser to tell him, lest he should go happily hailing Mary over the garden wall as of yore; or in case some other informant, less concerned for his peace of mind, should impart a tale only to be told with tact and care.
And then, to her surprise, Terry himself broached the subject, saving her the trouble of finding the right words with which to begin.
“Has there been any trouble next door, Mrs. Thatcher?”
“Trouble enough, Mr. Terry; but how do you come to know anything about it?”
“I heard something on my way home that prepared me.”
“Whatever did Miss Mary want to go marrying that devil for?”
“Devil!”
“That’s what he is, neither more nor less. He tortures her.”
“What?”
“It’s literally true.”
“Whisky?”
“Yes. It started four nights after he came home. There were terrible scenes; but that I knew nothing of. They’ve been repeated several times since. The last time he kicked her in the stomach and she was in bed for a week. After each bout he swears repentance and stays all right for a few days; then off he goes again. Elizabeth’s left. Miss Mary’s got a young girl in her place; but it seems to me she does most of the work herself. She’s avoided me; however, I did see her last Friday and was shocked. All her lively looks and ways are gone.”
As if it were some manifestation of the black arts, a rapidly approaching, shrill series of screams interrupted Mrs. Thatcher’s recital. Made prompt by war, Terry sprang to his feet and set off to meet the out-cry. An instant later, leaving Mrs. Thatcher still petrified, he had burst open the french windows, but, as he advanced his foot to step outside, a frantic figure rushed up: a wild-eyed girl not more than sixteen. The girl from Mary’s! Come the back way.
“Oh, come and ’elp, please, please; he’s killing the missus! Going to shoot her!”
Like a stone the gasping child fell at Terry’s feet. He rushed into the night, over the old way into the Rodney garden. But as he ran he heard no sound. At once ominous yet hopeful. No shot. No wail.
The back door stood open. Pausing in the kitchen to pull off his slippers, Terry ran on. Lights flamed. The drawing-room door stood open; Terry jerked still, controlled by the tableau visible. Mary, a bruise on her forehead, stood, in an unconscious attitude of crucifixion, back against the mantelpiece, her arms extended. Facing her, back to Terry, Vin, armed with his service revolver, stood lightly poised like a cat enjoying the terror of a mouse. His body twitched in an uncanny fashion and a flow of strange mumbling issued continually from his lips.
Clearly Mary was in imminent danger. Her display of terror would not satisfy the fiend in Border for ever. At any second he might shoot. Yet he, Terry, knew well no sudden exclamation, no abrupt attack, must startle the whisky-inflamed mind at present controlling an urgent desire to kill.
Then inspiration served.
“At-tention!”
The revolver fell, Border snapped up like a ramrod into the prescribed salute, but, almost in one wave of thought, comprehending the ruse, dipped for his weapon—too late; Terry had it.
The drunk man leapt round, spasmodically pausing at sight of the steadily-presented barrel. His eyes lit up with cunning; his lips writhed into a smile.
“You won’t shoot, Terry.”
With curious, mincing little steps he advanced, the expression on his face made familiar to Terry time and again when they had gone over the top together. A vague shudder passed through the sober man’s being. It was almost as if the other feared no mortal weapon, defied the mediums of man-inflicted death.
Terry pocketed the revolver. Border sprang, but hardly had Mary’s gasp died away than he lay, out, at Terry’s feet. Simultaneously with Border’s fall, Mrs. Thatcher, puffing hard, entered. She ran immediately to Mary, who still stood in her crucified attitude staring at Terry, while he, in turn, stared—his eyes expressing his heart—at her.
It was as if Mrs. Thatcher had broken some sudden spell that opened secret doors, revealing hearts, souls, lost chances and, in one instance, an unsuspected treasure that needed forcible revelation were it not to lie forever hid.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Vincent Border, saturated by Terry’s rough treatment under the kitchen tap, dishevelled, cut, bleeding and obsequiously sober, stood silently weeping—as recently he had made Mary weep.
“Well, that ends our preliminary little argument, Border,” Terry said, putting on his shirt. “Just a bit of a scuffle, observe; but I’d like to know whether or not you’ve ever been really and truly manhandled?”
Border, certainly suffering in as great a degree as Mary had so far suffered, remained silent. Maybe he was wondering just h
ow this grim-eyed, lean thunder-bolt interpreted the term himself. For that matter, Border was not without his experience of rough usage, nor was he without an ill-directed courage; but also he had learned to know when surrender paid best, when he had met his master. Contempt for risks he already knew Terry Cliffe possessed; strength tough as steel hawsers, too; yet he had immeasurably underestimated the younger man’s ruthlessness when certain fires in his spirit were lit. This before him was the proverbial British bulldog, so seldom seen with bared teeth and its secret viciousness exposed. That one prod too many, that one over-tantalizing twist—and, this; than which nothing more deadly exists in human kind.
The ultimate cunning in this drunken, debased, distorted mentality had been stirred. It was not now a case of fighting for his physical welfare, but of fighting to retain a coveted and hardly hoped for security. His secret mind, like a nest of squirming vipers, needed camouflage to escape obliteration. It must cover its true nature. He must abandon the helpless victim that accident had provided. He had given the demon within its fling; now he must call a halt, find secret ways to satisfy his urge for vice—because at all cost this refuge must be assured him. Every atom of his not inconsiderable will must be assembled for the subjection of the whisky urge. His drink must be gin. That fired him, excited him, satisfied him, but did not release the urges that human pain alone could pacify.
The face that presently he raised to Terry’s view was the face that the latter had, out there in France, associated with medieval saints and human nobility. He eyed it now grimly; but he waited.
“You know, Terry,” Border said softly, “I think you’re destined to be my good angel.”
“Fancy that! Mother’s lost boy stuff, eh, Border?”
The latter’s eyes became wary. Indeed and indeed he had encountered the steel of Terry Cliffe’s seemingly diffident nature.
“It’s all that damnable whisky.”
