But his remark was either unheard or unheeded, for Miss Spence went on
with a growing exaltation, speaking so rapidly, however, and in such a
burningly intimate whisper that Mr. Hutton found it very difficult to
distinguish what she was saying. She was telling him, as far as he could
make out, the story of her life. The lightning was less frequent now,
and there were long intervals of darkness. But at each flash he saw her
still aiming towards him, still yearning forward with a terrifying
intensity. Darkness, the rain, and then flash! her face was there, close
at hand. A pale mask, greenish white; the large eyes, the narrow barrel
of the mouth, the heavy eyebrows. Agrippina, or wasn't it rather--yes,
wasn't it rather George Robey?
He began devising absurd plans for escaping. He might suddenly jump up,
Pretending he had seen a burglar--Stop thief, stop thief!--and dash off
into the night in pursuit. Or should he say that he felt faint, a heart
attack? or that he had seen, a ghost--Emily's ghost--in the garden?
Absorbed in his childish plotting, he had ceased to pay any attention to
Miss Spence's words. The spasmodic clutching of her hand recalled his
thoughts.
"I honoured you for that, Henry," she was saying.
Honoured him for what?
"Marriage is a sacred tie, and your respect for it, even when the
marriage was, as it was in your case, an unhappy one, made me respect
you and admire you, and--shall I dare say the word?--"
Oh, the burglar, the ghost in the garden! But it was too late.
"... yes, love you, Henry, all the more. But we're free now, Henry."
Free? There was a movement in the dark, and she was kneeling on the
floor by his chair.
"Oh, Henry, Henry, I have been unhappy too."
Her arms embraced him, and by the shaking of her body he could feel that
she was sobbing. She might have been a suppliant crying for mercy.
"You mustn't, Janet," he protested. Those tears were terrible, terrible.
"Not now, not now! You must be calm; you must go to bed." He patted her
shoulder, then got up, disengaging himself from her embrace. He left her
still crouching on the floor beside the chair on which he had been
sitting.
Groping his way into the hall, and without waiting to look for his hat,
he went out of the house, taking infinite pains to close the front door
noiselessly behind him. The clouds had blown over, and the moon was
shining from a clear sky. There were puddles all along the road, and a
noise of running water rose from the gutters and ditches. Mr. Hutton
splashed along, not caring if he got wet.
How heartrendingly she had sobbed! With the emotions of pity and remorse
that the recollection evoked in him there was a certain resentment: why
couldn't she have played the game that he was playing the heartless,
amusing game? Yes, but he had known all the time that she wouldn't, she
couldn't play that game; he had known and persisted.
What had she said about passion and the elements? Something absurdly
stale, but true, true. There she was, a cloud black bosomed and charged
with thunder, and he, like some absurd little Benjamin Franklin, had
sent up a kite into the heart of the menace. Now he was complaining
that his toy had drawn the lightning.
She was probably still kneeling by that chair in the loggia, crying.
But why hadn't he been able to keep up the game? Why had his
irresponsibility deserted him, leaving him suddenly sober in a cold
world? There were no answers to any of his questions. One idea burned
steady and luminous in his mind--the idea of flight. He must get away at
once.