EVIL DAYS
"I am returning the check you sent for what I did on the Manderson
case," Trent wrote to Sir James Molloy from Munich, whither he had gone
immediately after handing in at the _Record_ office a brief despatch
bringing his work on the case to an unexciting close. "What I sent you
wasn't worth one-tenth of the amount; but I should have no scruple about
pocketing it, if I hadn't taken a fancy--never mind why--not to touch
any money at all for this business. I should like you, if there is no
objection, to pay for the stuff at your ordinary space-rate, and hand
the money to some charity which does not devote itself to bullying
people, if you know of any such. I have come to this place to see some
old friends and arrange my ideas, and the idea that comes out upper-most
is that for a little while I want some employment with activity in it. I
find I can't paint at all; I couldn't paint a fence. Will you try me as
your Own Correspondent somewhere? If you can find me a good adventure I
will send you good accounts. After that I could settle down and work."
Sir James sent him instructions by telegram to proceed at once to
Kurland and Livonia, where Citizen Browning was abroad again, and town
and country-side blazed in revolt. It was a roving commission, and for
two months Trent followed his luck. It served him not less well than
usual. He was the only correspondent who saw General Dragilew killed in
the street at Volmar by a girl of eighteen. He saw burnings, lynchings,
fusillades, hangings; each day his soul sickened afresh at the
imbecilities born of misrule. Many nights he lay down in danger. Many
days he went fasting. But there was never an evening or a morning when
he did not see the face of the woman whom he hopelessly loved.
He discovered in himself an unhappy pride at the lasting force of this
infatuation. It interested him as a phenomenon; it amazed and
enlightened him. Such a thing had not visited him before; it confirmed
so much that he had found dubious in the recorded experience of men.
It was not that, at thirty-two, he could pretend to ignorance of this
world of emotion. About his knowledge, let it be enough to say that what
he had learned had come unpursued and unpurchased, and was without
intolerable memories; broken to the realities of sex, he was still
troubled by its inscrutable history; he went through life full of a
strange respect for certain feminine weakness and a very simple terror
of certain feminine strength. He had held to a rather lukewarm faith
that something remained in him to be called forth, and that the voice
that should call would be heard in its own time, if ever, and not
through any seeking.
But he had not thought of the possibility that, if this proved true some
day, the truth might come in a sinister shape. The two things that had
taken him utterly by surprise in the matter of his feeling towards Mabel
Manderson were the insane suddenness of its uprising in full strength
and its extravagant hopelessness. Before it came, he had been much
disposed to laugh at the permanence of unrequited passion as a generous
boyish delusion. He knew now that he had been wrong, and he was living
bitterly in the knowledge.
Before the eye of his fancy the woman always came just as she was when
he had first had sight of her, with the gesture which he had surprised
as he walked past unseen on the edge of the cliff; that great gesture of
passionate joy in her new liberty which had told him more plainly than
speech that her widowhood was a release from torment, and had confirmed
with terrible force the suspicion, active in his mind before, that it
was her passport to happiness with a man whom she loved. He could not
with certainty name to himself the moment when he had first suspected
that it might be so. The seed of the thought must have been sown, he
believed, at his first meeting with Marlowe; his mind would have noted
automatically that such evident strength and grace, with the sort of
looks and manners that the tall young man possessed, might go far with
any woman of unfixed affections. And the connection of this with what
Mr. Cupples had told him of the Mandersons' married life must have
formed itself in the unconscious depths of his mind. Certainly it had
presented itself as an already established thing when he began, after
satisfying himself of the identity of the murderer, to cast about for
the motive of the crime. Motive, motive! How desperately he had sought
for another, turning his back upon that grim thought, that
Marlowe--obsessed by passion like himself, and privy perhaps to
maddening truths about the wife's unhappiness--had taken a leaf, the
guiltiest, from the book of Bothwell. But in all his investigations at
the time, in all his broodings on the matter afterwards, he had been
able to discover nothing else that could prompt Marlowe to such a
deed--nothing but that temptation, the whole strength of which he could
not know, but which if it had existed must have pressed urgently upon a
bold spirit in which scruple had been somehow paralyzed. If he could
trust his senses at all, the young man was neither insane nor by nature
evil. But that could not clear him. Murder for a woman's sake, he
thought, was not a rare crime, Heaven knew! If the modern feebleness of
impulse in the comfortable classes, and their respect for the modern
apparatus of detection, had made it rare among them, it was yet far from
impossible; it only needed a man of equal daring and intelligence, his
soul drugged with the vapors of an intoxicating intrigue, to plan and
perform such a deed.
A thousand times, with a heart full of anguish, he had sought to reason
away the dread that Mabel Manderson had known too much of what had been
intended against her husband's life. That she knew all the truth after
the thing was done, he could not doubt; her unforgettable collapse in
his presence when the question about Marlowe was suddenly and bluntly
put had swept away his last hope that there was no love between the
pair, and had seemed to him, moreover, to speak of dread of discovery.
In any case, she knew the truth after reading what he had left with her;
and it was certain that no public suspicion had been cast upon Marlowe
since. She had destroyed his manuscript, then, and taken him at his word
to keep the secret that threatened her lover's life.
But it was the monstrous thought that she might have known murder was
brewing, and guiltily kept silence, that haunted Trent's mind. She might
have suspected, have guessed something; was it conceivable that she was
aware of the whole plot, that she connived? He could never forget that
his first suspicion of Marlowe's motive in the crime had been roused by
the fact that his escape was made through the lady's room. At that time,
when he had not yet seen her, he had been ready enough to entertain the
idea of her equal guilt and her coöperation. He had figured to himself
some passionate _hystérique_, merciless as a tiger in her hate and her
love, a zealous abettor, perhaps even the ruling spirit in the crime.
Then he had seen her, had spoken with her, had helped her in her
weakness; and such suspicions, since their first meeting, had seemed the
vilest of infamy. He had seen her eyes and her mouth; he had breathed
the woman's atmosphere. Trent was one of those who fancy they can scent
true wickedness in the air. In her presence he had felt an inward
certainty of her ultimate goodness of heart; and it was nothing against
this, that she had abandoned herself a moment, that day on the cliff, to
the sentiment of relief at the ending of her bondage, of her years of
starved sympathy and unquickened motherhood. That she had turned to
Marlowe in her destitution he believed; that she had any knowledge of
his deadly purpose he did not believe.
And yet, morning and evening, the sickening doubts returned, and he
recalled again that it was almost in her very presence that Marlowe had
made his preparations in the bedroom of the murdered man, that it was
from the window of her own chamber that he had escaped from the house.
Had he forgotten his cunning and taken the risk of telling her then? Or
had he, as Trent thought more likely, still played his part with her
then, and stolen off while she slept? He did not think she had known of
the masquerade when she gave evidence at the inquest; it read like
honest evidence. Or--the question would never be silenced, though he
scorned it--had she lain expecting the footstep in the room and the
whisper that should tell her it was done? Among the foul possibilities
of human nature, was it possible that black ruthlessness and black
deceit as well were hidden behind that good and straight and gentle
seeming?
These thoughts would scarcely leave him when he was alone.
* * * * *
Trent served Sir James, well earning his pay, for six months, and then
returned to Paris, where he went to work again with a better heart. His
powers had returned to him, and he began to live more happily than he
had expected among a tribe of strangely-assorted friends, French,
English and American, artists, poets, journalists, policemen,
hotel-keepers, soldiers, lawyers, business men and others. His old
faculty of sympathetic interest in his fellows won for him, just as in
his student days, privileges seldom extended to the Briton. He enjoyed
again the rare experience of being taken into the bosom of a Frenchman's
family. He was admitted to the momentous confidence of _les jeunes_, and
found them as sure that they had surprised the secrets of art and life
as the departed _jeunes_ of ten years before had been.
One morning in June, as he descended the slope of the Rue des Martyrs,
he saw approaching a figure that he remembered. He glanced quickly
round, for the thought of meeting Mr. Bunner again was unacceptable. For
some time he had recognized that his wound was healing under the spell
of creative work; he thought less often of the woman he loved, and with
less pain. He would not have the memory of those three days re-opened.
But the straight and narrow thoroughfare offered no refuge, and the
American saw him almost at once.
His unforced geniality made Trent ashamed, for he had liked the man.
They sat long over a meal, and Mr. Bunner talked. Trent listened to him,
now that he was in for it, with genuine pleasure, now and then
contributing a question or remark. Besides liking his companion, he
enjoyed his conversation for its own sake.
Mr. Bunner was, it appeared, resident in Paris as the chief Continental
agent of the Manderson firm, and fully satisfied with his position and
prospects. He discoursed on these for some twenty minutes. This subject
at length exhausted, he went on to tell Trent, who confessed that he had
been away from England for a year, that Marlowe had shortly after the
death of Manderson entered his father's business, which was now again in
a flourishing state, and had already come to be virtually in control of
it. They had kept up their intimacy, and were even now planning a
holiday for the summer. Mr. Bunner spoke with generous admiration of his
friend's talent for affairs. "Jack Marlowe has a natural big head," he
declared, "and if he had more experience, I wouldn't want to have him up
against me. He would put a crimp in me every time."
As the American's talk flowed on, Trent listened with growing surprise
and anxiety. It became more and more plain that something was very wrong
in his theory of the situation; there was no mention of its central
figure. Presently Mr. Bunner mentioned that Marlowe was engaged to be
married to an Irish girl, whose charms he celebrated with native
enthusiasm.
Trent clasped his hands savagely together beneath the table. What could
have happened? His ideas were sliding and shifting. At last he forced
himself to put a direct question.
Mr. Bunner was not very fully informed. He knew that Mrs. Manderson had
left England immediately after the settlement of her husband's affairs,
and had lived for some time in Italy. She had returned not long ago to
London, where she had decided not to live in the house in Mayfair, and
had bought a smaller one in the Hampstead neighborhood; also, he
understood, one somewhere in the country. She was said to go but little
into society. "And all the good hard dollars just waiting for someone to
spraddle them around!" said Mr. Bunner with a note of pathos in his
voice. "Why, she has money to burn--money to feed to the birds--and
nothing doing! The old man left her more than half his wad. And think of
the figure she might make in the world! She is beautiful, and she is the
best woman I ever met, too. But she couldn't ever seem to get the habit
of spending money the way it ought to be spent."
His words now became a soliloquy: Trent's thoughts were occupying all
his attention. He pleaded business soon, and the two men parted with
cordiality.
Half an hour later Trent was in his studio, swiftly and mechanically
"cleaning up." He wanted to know what had happened; somehow he must find
out. He could never approach herself, he knew; he would never bring back
to her the shame of that last encounter with him; it was scarcely likely
that he would even set eyes on her. But he must know!... Cupples was in
London, Marlowe was there.... And anyhow he was sick of Paris.
Such thoughts came, and went; and below them all strained the fibers of
an unseen cord that dragged mercilessly at his heart, and that he cursed
bitterly in the moments when he could not deny to himself that it was
there.... The folly, the useless, pitiable folly of it!
In twenty-four hours his feeble roots in Paris had been torn out. He was
looking over a leaden sea at the shining fortress-wall of the Dover
cliffs.
* * * * *
But though he had instinctively picked out the lines of a set purpose
from among the welter of promptings in his mind, he found it delayed at
the very outset.
He had decided that he must first see Mr. Cupples, who would be in a
position to tell him much more than the American knew. But Mr. Cupples
was away on his travels, not expected to come back for a month; and
Trent had no reasonable excuse for hastening his return. Marlowe he
would not confront until he had tried at least to reconnoiter the
position. He constrained himself not to commit the crowning folly of
seeking out Mrs. Manderson's house in Hampstead; he could not enter it,
and the thought of the possibility of being seen by her lurking in its
neighborhood brought the blood to his face.
He stayed at a hotel, took a studio, and while he awaited Mr. Cupples'
return attempted vainly to lose himself in work.
At the end of a week he had an idea that he acted upon with eager
precipitancy. She had let fall some word, at their last meeting, of a
taste for music. Trent went that evening, and thenceforward regularly,
to the opera. He might see her; and if, in spite of his caution, she
caught sight of him, they could be blind to each other's
presence--anybody might happen to go to the opera.
So he went alone each evening, passing as quickly as he might through
the people in the vestibule; and each evening he came away knowing that
she had not been in the house. It was a habit that yielded him a sort of
satisfaction along with the guilty excitement of his search; for he too
loved music, and nothing gave him so much peace while its magic endured.
* * * * *
One night as he entered, hurrying through the brilliant crowd, he felt a
touch on his arm. Flooded with an incredible certainty at the touch, he
turned.
It was she: so much more radiant in the absence of grief and anxiety, in
the fact that she was smiling, and in the allurement of evening dress,
that he could not speak. She, too, breathed a little quickly, and there
was a light of daring in her eyes and cheeks as she greeted him.
Her words were few. "I wouldn't miss a note of _Tristan_," she said,
"nor must you. Come and see me in the interval." She gave him the number
of the box.