NIGHT OF THE TWENTY-SEVENTH—MARADICK AND MRS. LESTER
 
But the gods had not yet done with his night.
As the sharp night air met him he realised that his clothes were torn apart and that his chest was bare. He pulled his shirt about him again, stupidly made movements with his hand as though he would brush back the hair from his eyes, and then found that it was blood that was trickling from a wound in his forehead.
That seemed to touch something in him, so that he suddenly leaned against the wall and, with his head in his arm, began to cry. There was no reason really why he should cry; in fact, he didn’t want to cry—it was like a woman to cry. He repeated it stupidly to himself, “like a woman, like a woman. . . .”
Then he began slowly to fling himself together, as it were; to pick up the bits and to feel that he, Maradick, still existed as a personal identity. He pulled his clothes about him and looked at the dark house. It was absolutely silent; there were no lights anywhere. What had happened? Was Morelli looking at him now from some dark corner, watching him from behind some black window?
And then, as his head grew cooler under the influence of the night air, another thought came to him. What was the little parlour-maid doing? What would happen to her, shut up all night in that house alone with that . . .? Ought he to go back? He could see her cowering, down in the basement somewhere, having heard probably the noise of the crashing lamp, terrified, waiting for Morelli to find her. Yes, he ought to go back. Then he knew that nothing, nothing in the world—no duty and no claim, no person, no power—could drive him back into that house again. He looked back on it afterwards as one of the most shameful things in his life, that he had not gone back to see what had happened to the girl; but he could not go, nothing would make him. It was not anything physical that he might have to face. If it had been ordinary normal odds—a “scrap,” as he would call it—then he would have faced it without hesitation. But there was something about that struggle upstairs that made him sick; it was something unreal, unclean, indecent. It had been abnormal, and all that there had been in it had not been the actual struggle, the blows and wounds, but something about it that must be undefined, unnamed: the “air,” the “atmosphere” of the thing, the sudden throwing down of the decent curtain that veils this world from others.
But he couldn’t analyse it like that now. He only felt horribly sick at the thought of it, and his one urgent idea was to get away, far, far away, from the house and all that it contained.
The night was very dark; no one would see him. He must get back to the hotel and slip up to his room and try and make himself decent. He turned slowly up the hill.
Then, as his thoughts became clearer, he was conscious of a kind of exultation at its being over. So much more than the actual struggle seemed to be over; it swept away all the hazy moral fog that he had been in during the last weeks. In casting off Morelli, in flinging him from him physically as well as morally, he seemed to have flung away all that belonged to him—the wildness, the hot blood, the unrest that had come to him! He wondered whether after all Morelli had not had a great deal to do with it. There were more things in it all than he could ever hope to understand.
And then, on top of it all, came an overwhelming sensation of weariness. He went tottering up the hill with his eyes almost closed. Tired! He had never felt so tired in his life before. He was already indifferent to everything that had happened. If only he might just lie down for a minute and close his eyes; if only he hadn’t got this horrible hill to climb! It would be easier to lie down there in the hedge somewhere and go to sleep. He considered the advisability of doing so. He really did not care what happened to him. And then the thought came to him that Morelli was coming up the hill after him; Morelli was waiting probably until he did fall asleep, and then he would be upon him. Those fingers would steal about his body again, there would be that biting pain. He struggled along. No, he must not stop.
At last he was in the hotel garden. He could hear voices and laughter from behind closed doors, but there seemed to be no one in the hall. He stumbled up the stairs to his room and met no one on the way. His bath seemed to him the most wonderful thing that he had ever had. It was steaming hot, and he lay absolutely motionless with his eyes closed letting his brain very slowly settle itself. It was like a coloured puzzle that had been shaken to pieces and scattered; now, of their own initiative, all the little squares and corners seemed to come together again. He was able to think sanely and soberly once more, and, above all, that terrible sensation of having about him something unreal was leaving him. He began to smile now at the things that he had imagined about Morelli. The man had been angry at his helping Janet to run away—that was natural enough; he was, of course, hot-tempered—that was the foreign blood in him. Thank God, the world wasn’t an odd place really. One fancied things, of course, when one was run down or excited, but those silly ideas didn’t last long if a man was sensible.
He found that the damage wasn’t very serious. There were bruises, of course, and nasty scratches, but it didn’t amount to very much. As he climbed out of the bath, and stretched his limbs and felt the muscles of his arms, he was conscious of an enormous relief. It was all over; he was right again once more. And then suddenly in a flash he remembered Mrs. Lester.
Well, that was over, of course. But to-night was Thursday. He had promised to see her. He must have one last talk, just to tell her that there must be nothing more of the kind. As he slowly dressed, delighting in the cool of clean linen, he tried to imagine what he would say; but he was tired, so dreadfully tired! He couldn’t think; he really couldn’t see her to-night. Besides, it was most absolutely over, all of it. He had gone through it all in the church that afternoon. He belonged to his wife now, altogether; he was going to show her what he could be now that he understood everything so much better; and she was going to try too, she had promised him in that funny way the other night.
But he was so tired; he couldn’t think connectedly. They all got mixed up, Morelli and Mrs. Lester, Tony and his wife. He stood, trying with trembling fingers to fasten his collar. The damned stud! how it twisted about! When he had got its silly head one way and was slipping the collar over it, then suddenly it slipped round the other way and left his fingers aching.
Oh! he supposed he must see her. After all, it was better to have it out now and settle it, settle it once and for ever. These women—beastly nuisance. Damn the stud!
He had considered the question of telling the family and had decided to leave it until the morning. He was much too tired to face them all now with their questions and anger and expostulation. Oh! he’d had enough of that, poor man!
Besides, there wouldn’t be any anxiety until the morning. Tony was so often late, and although Sir Richard would probably fume and scold at his cutting dinner again, still, he’d done it so often. No, Lady Gale was really the question. If she worried, if she were going to spend an anxious night thinking about it, then he ought to go and tell her at once. But she probably had a pretty good idea about the way things had gone. She would not be any more anxious now than she had been during all these last weeks, and he really felt, just now, physically incapable of telling her. No, he wouldn’t see any of them yet. He would go up to the room of the minstrels and think what he was to do. He always seemed to be able to think better up there.
But Mrs. Lester! What was he to do about her? He felt now simply antagonism. He hated her, the very thought of her! What was he doing with that kind of thing? Why couldn’t he have left her alone?
A kind of fury seized him at the thought of her! He shook his fist at the ceiling and scowled at the looking-glass; then he went wearily to the room. But it was dark, and he was frightened now by the dark. He stood on the threshold scarcely daring to enter. Then with trembling fingers he felt for the matches and lit the two candles. But even then the light that they cast was so uncertain, they left so many corners dark, and then there were such strange grey lights under the gallery that he wasn’t at all happy. Lord! what a state his nerves were in!
He was afraid lest he should go to sleep, and then anything might happen. He faced the grey square of the window with shrinking eyes; it was through there that the green lizards . . .
He would have liked to have crossed the room to prevent the window from rattling if he’d had the courage, but the sound of his steps on the floor frightened him. He remembered his early enthusiasm about the room. Well, that was a long, long time ago. Not long in hours, he knew, but in experience! It was another lifetime!
It was the tower that he wanted. He could see it now, in the market-place, so strong and quiet and grey! That was the kind of thing for him to have in his mind: rest and strength. Drowsing away in his chair—the candles flinging lions and tigers on the wall, the old brown of the gallery sparkling and shining under the uneven light—the tower seemed to come to him through all the black intervening space of night. It grew and grew, until it stood beyond the window, great grey and white stone, towering to the sky, filling the world; that and the sea alone in all creation.
He was nearly asleep, his head forward on his chest, his arms hanging loosely over the sides of the chair, when he heard the door creak.
He started up in sudden alarm. The candles did not fling their circle of light as far as the door—that was in darkness, a black square darker than the rest of the world; and then as his eyes stared at it he saw that there was a figure outlined against it, a grey, shadowy figure.
In a whisper he stammered, “Who is that?”
Then she came forward into the circle of the candles—Mrs. Lester! Mrs. Lester in her blue silk dress cut very low, Mrs. Lester with diamonds in her hair and a very bright red in her cheeks, Mrs. Lester looking at him timidly, almost terrified, bending a little forward to stare at him.
“Ah! it’s you!” He could hear her breath of relief. “I didn’t know, I thought it might be!” She stood staring at him, a little smile hovering on her lips, uncertainly, as though it were not sure whether it ought to be there.
“Ah! it’s you!”
He stood up and faced her, leaning heavily with one hand on the chair.
He wanted to tell her to go away; that he was tired and wasn’t really up to talking—the morning would be better. But he couldn’t speak. He could do nothing but stand there and stare at her stupidly.
Then at last, in a voice that did not seem his own at all, he said, “Won’t you sit down?” She laughed, leaning forward a little with both hands on the green baize table, looking at him.
“You don’t mind, do you? If you do, I’ll go at once. But it’s our last evening. We may not see much of each other again, and I’d like you to understand me.” Then she sat down in a chair by the table, her dress rustling like a sea about her. The candle light fell on it and her, and behind her the room was dark.
But Maradick sat with his head hidden by his hand. He did not want to look at her, he did not want to speak to her. Already the fascination of her presence was beginning to steal over him again. It had been easy enough whilst she had been away to say that he did not care. But now the scent, violets, that she used came very delicately across the floor to him. He seemed to catch the blue of her dress with the corner of his eye even though he was not looking at her. She filled the room; the vision that he had had of the tower slipped back into the night, giving place to the new one. He tapped his foot impatiently on the floor. Why could she not have left him alone? He didn’t want any more struggles. He simply wasn’t up to it, he was so horribly tired. Anything was better than a struggle.
He spoke in a low voice without raising his eyes. “Wasn’t it—isn’t it—rather risky to come here—like this, now?” After all, how absurd it was! What heaps of plays he had seen with their third act just like this. It was all shadowy, fantastic—the woman, the place. He wanted to sleep.
She laughed. “Risky? Why, no. Fred’s in London. Nobody else is likely to bother. But Jim, what’s the matter? What’s happened? Why are you suddenly like this? Don’t you think it’s a little unkind on our last evening, the last chance that we shall get of talking? I don’t want to be a nuisance or a worry——” She paused with a pathetic little catch in her voice, and she let her hand fall sharply on to the silk of her dress.
He tried to pull himself together, to realise the place and the woman and the whole situation. After all, it was his fault that she was there, and he couldn’t behave like a cad after arranging to meet her; and she had been awfully nice during these weeks.
“No, please.” He raised his eyes at last and looked at her. “I’m tired, beastly tired; or I was until you came. Don’t think me rude, but I’ve had an awfully exhausting day, really awfully exhausting. But of course I want to talk.”
She was looking so charmingly pretty. Her colour, her beautiful shoulders, the way that her dress rose and fell with her breathing—a little hurriedly, but so evenly, like the rise and fall of some very gentle music.
He smiled at her and she smiled back. “There, I knew that you wouldn’t be cross, really; and it is our last time, isn’t it? And I have got a whole lot of things that I want to say to you.”
“Yes,” he said, and he leaned back in his chair again, but he did not take his eyes off her face.
“Well, you know, for a long time I wondered whether I would come or not; I couldn’t make up my mind. You see, I’d seen nothing of you at all during these last days, nothing at all. Perhaps it was just as well. Anyhow, you had other things to do; and that is, I suppose, the difference between us. With women,............