There are men of a certain type in this world whose judgment is
exceedingly sound when their instincts are not in play, but who, in
certain channels, when the senses are at riot, become puerile; the
good ship, rudderless, which only rights itself when the storm has
passed. They are men without the necessary leaven of introspection.
Of themselves, in fact, they know nothing, learn nothing even in the
remorse when the deed is done. For first of all, they are men of
strength--men who can over-ride, with determination, rough-shod,
the hampering results of their follies. Fate and circumstance have
no power over them. They make their own destiny; cutting, if
necessary, the knots they have tied, with a knife-edge of will that
needs but the one clear sweep to set them free.
Of this type--a vivid example--is Traill. The lust of animalism and
the determination to possess the woman he once desired, were the two
channels, swept into which, he became ungovernable. All clear
judgment which he displayed in the management of his work, all
foresight which he possessed to a degree in the arrangement of common,
mundane affairs, were in such a moment cast out of him. Brute instinct
hugged him in its embrace. He lost all sense of honour, who could
in other matters be most honourable of all. All sense of pity he left,
to become the animal that scents its prey, and stretches limbs,
strains heart to reach it. In those moments when the hunger held him,
he took the cruelty of the beast into his heart, and drove all else
out before it.
When Sally's inert body fell, crushing him against the window recess,
he looked down at her white face in the first realization of what
he had done. Then he came readily to action; picked her up bodily--a
tender, listless weight. In the bend of his arms, he carried her into
the other room. An uncushioned settle, no springs, the seat of plain
wood, was where he laid her, propping her head, because he knew no
better, with a pillow which he brought from the inner room. The sounds
from the yard at the back still reached his ears. He strode through
to the window and closed it; brought back with him a glass of water,
and stood beside the settle, looking down at the slowly disappearing
pallor of her face. Her hat was crushed against the pillow as she
lay; he sought with blind and clumsy fingers for the hat pins,
extracting them gently, with infinite slowness, as though they were
fastened in the flesh. When it was free, he took the hat away and
laid it on the table. Then he stood again and watched her. She looked
asleep. The loosened hair clustered over her ears--soft silk of gold;
his hands touched it. Where a few curls fell out, and the candle-light
struck through them, the hair was pale yellow--champagne held up to
the sun.
Presently, he picked up her hand, the arm hanging a dead weight from
her shoulder, the knuckles touching the floor. His fingers closed
over the pulse to find it faintly beating. He had been a fool to let
her stand there and watch the fight. He might have known. The thought
thrust itself into his mind that he would like to meet the woman who
could watch the whole thing out, take the lust of it as he did. She
might be worth while. But this child--she was nothing more than a
child--who fainted at the sight of blood; he felt a tenderness for
her. Looking down at her as she lay on the settle before him, he could
not conceive himself actually doing her harm. She had called him a
gentleman. It seemed as if that stray phrase of hers had taken away
all the sting of the desire. She expected him to act as a gentleman;
then her expectations should be fulfilled to the letter. The woman
who moved him to the deepest force of his nature, was she who knew
the brute, not the gentleman in him, and bowed herself in supine
submission. And as he stood and watched her there, slowly creeping
back through the faintest tinges of colour to consciousness, he
little imagined that Sally was the very woman who would so yield
herself rather than lose him from her life.
At last she opened her eyes, the dazed, wondering stare that comes
after the period of forced unconsciousness.
"Where--where am I?" she whispered.
"Here--my rooms--you fainted."
"Fainted? Why?"
"I don't know;" he knelt down beside her, all tenderness and apology.
"The fight, I suppose; we were looking on at that fight outside, at
the back. I never thought--I was a brute--it never entered my head
for a moment. Here, take a sip of this water, while I go and get you
some brandy."
He put the glass in her hand, laced her cold fingers round it, and
hurried across to a cupboard in one of the oak cabinets. She was
sipping the water bravely when he returned. He took the glass from
her, emptied nearly all the contents away into the coal-scuttle--the
first receptacle that came to his hand--and poured in the neat
spirit.
"Now drink a few sips of this," he said.
She put it to her lips, then lowered her hand again.
"You're really very kind to me," she said in gratitude.
"Kind! Not a bit. Go on--drink it."
She drank a little, obediently, and the points of light came back
again into her eyes, the colour burnt once more with a little fevered
glow in her cheeks. Then she sat up suddenly with the glass gripped
tightly in her hand.
"Oh, what a fool you must think I am," she exclaimed bitterly, "to
make a scene like this, the very first evening that you bring me to
your rooms. I am so sorry, so awfully sorry."
He looked at her in wonder. "Great heavens!" he said. "There's
nothing to be sorry about. If any one should be sorry, it ought to
be myself. I let you in for it. I suppose it is a filthy sight, when
you're not accustomed to it."
"Yes, but you must think me so weak. And I'm not weak really; I'm
very strong."
He saw part of the pathos of this, but not all of it. He did not realize
that she was pleading for herself with all the earnestness of her
soul. He had no subtlety of mind, and the fact was too subtle for
him to grasp that the whole scene which had taken place with that
other woman in his rooms upstairs was being re-enacted, but with a
different motive. That woman had fought for his money, his protection
for her future. Sally was warring against the frailty of her body
for his love. Of his selfishness, she had seen nothing. His cruelty,
that she had seen; the beast in the every-man, that she had realized
as well.
But in the components of a woman there may always be found that
unswerving subjection to the lower nature of the man. It is a passive
submission--for which we have much to be thankful--taking upon
itself in its most extreme form, no more definite expression than
the parted lips, eyes glazed with passion, and the body inert in its
total abandonment.
It is foolish, therefore, to say that man, in that lower animalism
of his nature, is alone in the supposed God-creation of his likeness
to the divinity. The very instinct itself would die out were there
not in woman the passive echo to answer to its call. Divine he may
be; in every man there is the possibility, the nucleus, of divinity;
but it has not yet shaken off the beast of the fields which blindly,
obstinately, without intelligence, hinders the onward path of its
progress.
It was this part of her nature, then, in Sally that answered to the
display of the lower instincts in Traill. By reason of that part of
her, she understood it; by reason of it also, and because she loved
him, she was neither thwarted nor dismayed in her desire to win him
to herself.
"I do hate myself for doing that!" she exclaimed afresh, when she
had finished the brandy he had poured out for her. "Did I say anything
foolish, silly--did I? Oh, I hope I didn't. What happened?"
Traill laughed good-naturedly at her apprehension.
"You didn't say a word; you just moaned and tumbled off. Pitched
against me. If I hadn't been there, you'd have fallen clean on to
the floor and perhaps hurt yourself."
She sat up, then rose unsteadily to her feet. "I am much better now!"
she declared eagerly.
He watched her incomprehensively as she walked across the floor, her
knees loose to bear her weight, her lips twitching, and her hands
doing odd little things with no meaning in them. It was forced upon
him then, the wondering why she was trying so hard to hide her
weakness. He would have imagined that a woman would like to be made
a fuss of, petted, looked after; to be allowed to lie prone upon a
couch, emitting little moans of discomfort to attract sympathy. And
he, himself, would have been quite willing to give it. But now, he
came to the conclusion more than ever that she was not a woman who
cared for the closest relationship. Such a moment as this had been
an excellent opportunity for a woman to have forced sentiment into
the position, and dragged it on from there to intimacy, to have put
out her hand to touch him, seemingly for comfort, but in reality with
an hysterical desire for some demonstration of affection. Sally had
done none of these things. With a giant effort she had struggled
against her inertia. There she was before him, walking up and down
the room, talking anything that came into her head with forced
courage, feigning a strength which any fool could see she did not
possess.
At last his wonder dragged the question from him. "Why are you going
on like this?" he asked suddenly.
She stopped abruptly in her walking, turned and faced him with lips
trembling and fingers picking at the braid upon her dress.
"Like what?"
"Like this. Walking up and down the room. Trying to talk all sorts
of courageous nonsense, and showing how utterly unnerved you are in
everything you say."
"I'm not unnerved!" Her hand wandered blindly to the table near which
she was standing. She leant on it imperceptibly for support. "I'm
not unnerved," she repeated.
"But you are, my dear child. And why should you want to hide that
from me?"
She stood there, swaying slightly, taking deep breaths to aid her
in her effort.
"Well, I assure you I feel absolutely all right now. I'm not a bit
weak now! I know I was ridiculously foolish--"
"Yes, that's the point I want to get at," he interrupted; "that's
just the point I want to get hold of." He did not even appreciate
his want of consideration then in pressing her to answer. "Why do
you call it foolish? It was I who was foolish; I, entirely, who am
to blame. I ought to have known that that was not a fit sight for
any woman not accustomed to look on at such things. And because you
can't stand it, you call yourself foolish."
Sally walked with an effort across to the armchair with the rushed
seat and sank quietly into it.
"I only mean it was foolish," she explained, "because it was a silly
thing to do, the first time that I come to your rooms, for me to faint
like that. Do you think you'll feel inclined to ask me again? Isn't
it natural that a man should hate a scene of that kind? I only hope
that you won't think I easily faint; I don't; I've never--"
Traill leant forward on his knees. Understanding was dawning in him,
it burnt a light in his eyes.
"Do you want to come again, then?" he asked.
So keen was he upon getting his answer, that he could not see the
climax of hysteria towards which he was bringing her. But against
that she was fighting, most fiercely of all. Like the rising water
in a gauge, it was leaping in sudden bounds within her. But to break
into tears, to murmur incoherently between laughter and sobbing that
it could not be helped, but she loved him, wildly, passionately,
would give every shred of her body into his hands if he would but
take it--against this, in the sweating of her whole strength, she
was battling lest he should guess her secret.
"Do you want to come again, then?" he repeated, when she continued
to look at him with frightened eyes, saying nothing.
"Yes, of course; of course I do."
"But why--why?" he insisted.
This reached the summit of his cruelty--blind cruelty it may have
been--but it dragged her also to the climax of her mood. Like the
falling of the Tower of Babel, with its crumbling of dust and its
confusion of tongues, she tumbled headlong from her pinnacle of
strength.
"Oh, don't, please!" she moaned, and then in torrents came the tears;
in an incoherent toppling of sound, the little cries of her weeping
rushed from her; and Traill, hurled from the sling of impulse, was
kneeling at her feet.
"I'm awfully sorry," he kept on saying; "I'm awfully sorry."
Even then he but vaguely understood, had not rightly guessed the
verge upon which she was treading. It was not that she feared he might
guess the secret in her heart. If, as she half believed, he loved
her too, what real harm could be done by that? It was the fear that,
in this unsexing moment of hysteria, she might lose all control,
pitch all reserve and modesty into the flood-tide of her emotions,
and lose him for ever in the unnatural whirlwind of her passion.
Against that she fought, needing only the release from the tension
of his questions. When he began, in his futile efforts to make amends,
to ply them again, she rose hurriedly to her feet.
"Can I go into the other room for a moment?" she asked; "or will you
go and leave me here alone--just for a minute or two?"
He stood up. "I'll do anything you like," he said.
"Then, go--just for a moment."
The door had scarcely closed behind him before she sank back again
into the chair, shaking with the passion of tears. When they ran dry,
she rose and crossed the room to the window, throwing it open. The
cold air blew refreshingly on to her face. She pressed back the hair
from her temples to let it reach her forehead. It was like ice-water
on the burning pulses of her nerves. She took deep breaths of it,
thankful from her heart for the release. When, at last, Traill
knocked upon the door, she could turn with brave assurance and bid
him enter. He came in with questioning eyes that lost their
querulousness the moment they had found her face.
"You're better?" he said at once.
"Yes." She smiled reassuringly. "I'm absolutely all right now."
He looked at her eyes, red with weeping. He knew she had been
crying--had heard her sobs from the other room. Part of her secret
then, at least, he had realized. She was fond of him. How fond, it
would be more or less impossible to divine; but it must be nipped
there--strangled utterly--if he were to fulfil her expectations of
him. What it was that pressed him to the sacrifice, he could not
actually say; unless it were that it appealed to his better nature
as a thing of shame to do otherwise. She would marry him, he felt
sure of that. But marriage, with all its accompanying conventions
and indissoluble bonds--indissoluble, except through the loathsome
medium of the divorce court--was a condition of life that his whole
nature shrank from. He refused it utterly. This girl--this little
child--perhaps saw no other termination to their acquaintance than
that of marriage, and either this thought had become a brake upon
his desire, or he wished, in the honesty of his heart, to treat her
well; whatever it was, there was not that in his mind which made him
determine to be the one to teach her otherwise.
"Well, now sit down, don't stand about," he said kindly. "You can't
be really as strong as you think yet, and I've got something I want
to say to you. Take this chair, it's about the most comfortable there
is here, and I'll get that pillow for your back."
His voice was soft--gentle even--in the consideration that he showed.
To himself, he was striving to make amends; to her, he was that
tenderness which she knew lay beneath the iron crust of his harder
nature.
When she was seated, when he had placed the pillow at her back, he
took a well-burnt pipe--the well-burnt pipe that he had smoked before
under other circumstances than these--and filled it slowly from a
tobacco jar.
Sally watched all his movements patiently, until she could wait for
his words no longer.
"What have you to say?" she asked.
He lit the pipe before replying; drew it till the tobacco glowed like
a little smelting furnace in the bowl, and the smoke lifted in blue
clouds, then he rammed his finger on to the burning mass with cool
intent, as though the fire of it could not pain him.
From that apparently engrossing occupation, he looked up with a
sudden jerk of his head.
"You mustn't come here again," he said, without force, without
feeling of any sort.
She leant back against the pillow, holding a breath in her throat,
and her eyes wandered like a child that is frightened around the room,
passing his face and passing it again, yet fearing to rest upon it
for any appreciable moment of time.
When she found that he was going to say no more, she asked him why.
Just the one word, breathed rather than spoken, no complaint, no
rebellion, the pitiable simplicity of the question that the man puts
to his Fate, the woman to her Maker.
"Why?"
He at least was holding himself in harness that she knew nothing
of--the curb and snaffle, with the reins held tightly across fingers
of iron.
"Why?" he repeated. "If you don't know human nature, would it be wise,
do you think, for me to spell it out to you?"
She knit her brows, trying to see, trying to think, but finding
nothing save the blank and gaping question. Through her mind it swept,
that her fainting was some cause of it. She could not really believe
that that could have brought so much abhorrence to his mind; yet she
tried it. To say anything, to propose any cause, she struggled for
that in order to know the why.
"It was because I fainted?" she said quickly. "You hate a woman to
be weak; I know I was weak; you hate scenes of that sort. Do you think
I can't understand it?" She worked herself into the belief that this
was the reason, and her spirit of defence rose with it. "Of course
I can understand. If I were a man, I should hate it too! But you're
quite wrong if you think I shall get unnerved again, as I did this--"
"It's not that at all!" he said firmly. "Do you think I'm such a fool,
do you even think I'm such a brute as to blame you, to think poorly,
inconsiderately of you for something that was entirely my own fault?
I shouldn't have let myself be carried away by the excitement of that
fight. There are many things I shouldn't have done beside that. I
shouldn't have stopped as I passed along King Street that night. When
I saw that little gold head of yours in the window, I should have
gone on, taken no notice. I shouldn't have followed, I shouldn't have
spoken to you as I did."
"But why?" she entreated.
He gripped the bowl of his pipe in his fingers. "For the very reason
you gave me yourself, on the 'bus that day, and afterwards when we
were having lunch together."
"What was that?"
"That I didn't know you."
She looked her bewilderment. "I don't understand," she said simply.
"Then I can explain no further. We must leave it at that."
"Oh! but why can't you explain?" She had nearly added, "When it means
so much to me," but shut her teeth, drew in her breath on the words,
inducing the physical act to aid her in preventing their utterance.
"I think you would be--perhaps sorry--perhaps hurt--if I did."
"I'm sure I wouldn't--and I'd sooner know."
He looked at her fixedly as the pendulum of decision swung in his
mind. To tell her would be to crush it, kill it utterly, the blow
of the sword of Damocles falling at last--falling inevitably. He knew
how she would take it; just as she had taken his advances to her on
the 'bus that night. Did he think that of her? Was that all the depth
of their acquaintance! Oh, she loathed him! Therefore, why let it
end that way? Why not with this little mystery in her mind, which
would not prevent their sometimes meeting again, even if she never
came to his rooms?
He stood up from the table, crossed the room to where her hat was
lying and picked it up.
"It's nearly eleven," he said quietly. "You'd better think of getting
home."
She took the hat from him, then the pins. He watched her silently
as she secured it to her head, not even appealing to him if it were
straight. Slowly she drew on her gloves, shivering as her fingers
fitted into the cold skin.
"I'm ready," she said, when all these things were done.
Traill went the round of the candles, blowing them out one by one,
until the scent of the smoking wick was pungent in the air. Before
the last, he stopped.
"You get to the door," he said.
Instead of obeying him, Sally walked firmly across to his side.
"We're not to meet again?" she asked.
"I didn't say that."
"But you will never bring me up to your rooms here again? As far as
that goes, it finishes here?" She did not even stop to wonder at
herself. The fears of losing him were spurs in her side.
"Yes."
"Then if you have any respect for me, you'll tell me why?"
"It's because I have respect for you, I suppose, that I don't tell
you."
She stepped back from him. "Is it anything about me?" she asked,
"or--or about yourself that you cannot tell me?" Then it was that
she feared he had discovered her love for him and loathed her for
the disclosing of her secret.
In this persistent determination of Sally's, Janet would scarcely
have recognized her. But she was driven, the hounds of despair were
at her heels. In such a moment as this, any woman drops the cloak
and stands out, limbs free, to win her own.
"Is it about yourself?" she repeated.
Another suspicion now that he was married--engaged--bound in some
way from which there was no escape--was throbbing, like the
flickering shadow that a candle casts, in a deeply-hidden corner of
her mind. She dared not let it advance, dared not let it become a
palpable fear, yet there it was. And all this time, Traill was looking
at her with steady eyes, behind which the pendulum was once more set
a-swinging.
Should he tell her, should he not? Should he rip out the knife that
would cut this knot which circumstances seemed to be tying?
"You want to know exactly what it is," he said suddenly. "Then it's
this. I'm not the type of man who marries. I've seen marriage with
other men and I've seen quite enough of it. My sister's married;
marriage has the making of women as a rule, it gives them place, power,
they want that--so much the better for them. With marriage, they get
it. My sister has often tried to persuade me to marry, drop my life,
adopt the social entity, and worship the god of respectability. I'd
sooner put a rope round my neck and swing from the nearest lamp-post.
And so, you see, I'm no fit company for you. I don't live the sort
of life you'd choose a man to live. I'm not really the sort of man
you take me for in the least. At dinner, this evening, you called
me a gentleman. I'm not even the sort of gentleman as you understand
him; though I've been trying to live up to my idea of the genus, ever
since you said it. My dear Sally"--he took her hand--she let him hold
it--"you don't know anything about the world, and I don't want to
teach you the lesson that I suppose some man or circumstances will
bring you to learn one day. Take my advice and have no truck with
me."
He blew out the last remaining candle, took her arm and led her to
the door. They walked down the one flight of stairs together, their
footsteps echoing up through the empty house; out on the pavement
he called a hansom, held his arm across the wheel as she stepped in;
turned to the cabby, gave him his fare, told him Waterloo Station;
then he leant across the step of the cab and held out his hand.
"Good-bye, Sally," he said.
She tried to answer him, but her words were dry and clung in her
throat.