Margery left early next morning, since, by the ingenious and tortuous
route pursued by the Cornish lines, it was a day's journey from Penalva
to the Lizard. Frank drove with her to the station, and promised to
do as he was told, and not work more than seven hours a day and not
less than four. He had quite recovered his equanimity, and spoke of
the portrait without fear or despair. But when they got in sight of
the station, and again when a puff of white steam and a thin, shrill
whistle came to them as they stood on the platform, through the
blue-white morning mist, a terror came and looked him in the face, and
he clung to Margery like a frightened child.
"Margery, you will come back to-morrow, won't you?" he said. "Ah, need
you go at all?"
Margery was disappointed. She had thought that Frank had got over his
fantastic fears, he had been so like himself during the drive. But
she was absolutely determined to go through with this. To yield once
was to yield twice, and she would not yield. Frank must be cured of
this sort of thing, and the only way to cure him was to make him do
what he feared--to make him give himself absolute final evidence that
personalities did not vanish away before portraits like ghosts at
daybreak. But, as a matter of fact, Frank's fear was the fear he had
not spoken to her of. The danger of losing her swallowed up the danger
of losing himself.
"Oh, Frank, don't be a fool!" she said. "Here's the train. Have you had
my bag labelled? Of course I shall be back to-morrow. Good-bye, old
boy!"
And with another whistle and puff of steam the train was off.
Frank drove home again like a man possessed. Margery had gone, and
there remained to him only one thing, and until he was with that time
ran to waste. The horses, freshened by the cool, clean air, flew over
the hard road, but Frank still urged them on. As soon as they drew up
by the door Frank jumped down, leaving the reins on their backs, and
went to his studio. There in the corner stood his worst self, and he
set to work in earnest. To-day there was no waiting, no puzzling over
an idea he could not realize. The evil face smiled as it looked at the
yellow little programme, and the long-fingered hands smoothed out its
creases with a lingering, loving touch. Desire and the fulfilment of
desire were there, and into the soul had the leanness of it entered.
And because, as he had said, no man knows the best of himself, but
only the worst, there was but little trace in the face of the man who
had loved Margery and whom Margery had loved; yet in the eyes was the
trace of what had been lost, and if not regret, at least the longing
to be able to regret. The better part was not wholly dead, though half
smothered under the weight of evil. As he painted he began to realize
that it would be so. Had Margery been there, he felt the better part
would have been recorded too; but the devil is a highwayman who waits
for men who are alone, and he is stronger than a solitary man, though
he be St. Anthony himself. But Margery was away, and her absence was
almost as the draught that transformed Jekyll into Hyde. So for those
two days he worked alone, as he had never worked before, but as he
has often worked since, utterly absorbed in his painting, and eating
ravenously, but for a few moments only, when his food was brought to
him. As the hours went on the conviction came over him that he was
right both about the strange fear he had spoken of to Margery and about
the other fear of which he had spoken to none. His conscious self
seemed to be passing into the portrait, and one by one, like drops of
bitter water, his past life flowed higher and higher round him. Far
off he thought he could see Margery, but she gave no sign. She did not
beckon to him to come, she was not alive to the danger of the rising
waters. Soon it would be too late.
The first evening, after the daylight had fallen and he could no longer
paint, he threw himself down on the sofa. The work of the last few days
stood opposite him, and the red glow of the sunset, not yet quite faded
from the sky, still made it clearly visible, though the value of the
colors was lost. Frank felt like a man who, after a long, sleepless
night of pain, feels that if only he could forget everything for a
moment he might doze off into a slumber that would take an hour or two
out of life. But the pain, as it were, stood before him, mastering him.
It may only have been that his nerves, abnormally excited after the
strain of working, played him false; but it seemed to him that, in
spite of the fading light, the portrait was as clear as ever; and as
he was sitting wondering at this, half encouraging himself to believe
it, he was suddenly aware that the figure he had painted cast a shadow
on to the background which he had never put there. As he had painted
it, the shadow fell on the left side of the face, but now it seemed
that the shadow was on the right side of the face, exactly as it would
naturally be cast by the light coming from the window. At that moment
he knew what fear was--cold fear that clutches at the heart--and he
sat there a moment unable to move, almost expecting to hear it speak
to him. Then, with an effort of will so strong that it seemed like a
straining of the body, he walked up to it, turned it round to the wall,
and left the room.
That night he had an odd dream, the result again of the excitement of
the day, but so strangely natural that he hardly knew next morning
whether it had happened or not. He dreamed he went back to the studio,
finding everything exactly as he had left it--the portrait turned
with its face to the wall, and his brushes and palette where he had
laid them down when it had become too dark to paint. The servants
had brought in lights, and had laid the day's paper on the table. He
was conscious of utter weariness of mind and body, and he longed for
Margery, but knew that she was away. The yellow programme of the Café
Chantant lay on a shelf of the bookcase, where he had put it in the
leaves of _Jekyll and Hyde_, and he took the two down together, as he
had done a few days before, and mechanically his mind again retraced
the life it had before suggested to him. Suddenly an utter loathing
of it all, more complete than he had ever felt, came over him, and he
tried to tear the programme up. But it seemed to be made of a thin
sheet of some hard substance, and it would not tear. Then he tried
to crush it under his foot, but it would not even bend. The bitter,
unimaginable agony of not being able to destroy it awoke him, and he
found morning had come.
All that day he worked, and once again as evening fell he sat on the
sofa, staring blankly at what he had done. Once again the shadow
shifted on the painted face, and fell where the light from the window
would naturally cast it, and once again cold fear clutched at his
heart. At that moment he heard steps along the passage, steps which he
knew, and Margery entered.
"Frank," she said, opening the door, "are you there?"
A long figure sprang off the sofa and ran across the room to her, half
smothering her in caresses.
"Oh, Margery, I'm so glad you've come," he said--"so glad. You don't
know what it has been without you. Margery, promise you won't go away
again till it is finished. You won't go away again, will you?"
Margery shuddered and drew back a moment, she hardly knew why.
"Why, Frank, what's the matter?" she asked. "Have you seen a ghost--or
what?"
"The place is full of ghosts," said he. "But they won't trouble me any
more now you've come back. Let's go out, away from here."
"But I want to see the portrait first," said she.
"Ah, the portrait!"
Frank took two quick steps to where it was standing, and wheeled it
round with its face to the wall.
"Not to-night," he said. "Please don't look at it to-night. You can't
see it by this light."
"I know I can't," said she, "but I only wanted to peep at it to see if
it had got on."
"It has got on," said Frank, "it has got on wonderfully. But don't look
at it to-night. It is terrible after sunset."
Margery raised her eyebrows.
"Oh, don't be so silly," she said. "However, I don't mind waiting till
to-morrow. Is it good?"
"Come out of this place, and I'll tell you about it."
Outside the west was still luminous with the sunken sun, and as they
stepped out on to the terrace Margery turned to look at Frank. His
face seemed terribly tired and anxious, and there were deep shades
beneath his eyes. But again, as a few moments before in the shadow, she
involuntarily shrank from him. There was something in his face more
than what mere weariness and anxiety would produce--something she had
seen in the face he had sketched two days ago, and the something she
knew she had shrunk from before, though she had not seen it. But in
a moment she pulled herself together; if she were going to go in for
fantastic fears too, the allowance of sanity between them would not be
enough for daily consumption. Frank, however, noticed it at once.
"Ah, you too," he said, bitterly--"even you desert me."
Margery took hold of his arm.
"Don't talk sheer, silly nonsense," she said. "I don't know what you
mean. I know what's the matter with you. You've been working all day
and not going out."
"Yes, I know I have. I couldn't help it. But never mind that now. I
have got you back. Margery, you don't give me up really, do you?"
"Frank, what do you mean?" she asked.
"I--I mean--I mean nothing. I don't know what I am saying. I've been
working too hard, and I have got dazed and stupid."
He turned to look at the blaze on the waters to the west.
"Ah, how beautiful it is!" he exclaimed. "I wish I were a
landscape-painter. But you are more beautiful, Margery. But it is safer
to be a landscape-painter, so much safer!"
Margery stopped and faced him.
"Now, Frank, tell me the truth. Have you been out since I left you
yesterday morning?"
"No."
"How long have you been working each day?"
"I don't know. I didn't look at my watch. All day, I suppose; and the
days are long--terribly long--and the nights too. The nights are even
longer, but one can't work then."
Margery was frightened, and, being frightened, she got angry with
herself and him.
"Oh, you really are too annoying," she said, with a stamp of her foot.
"You get yourself into bad health by overworking and not taking any
exercise--you've got the family liver, you know--and then you tell me
the house is full of ghosts, and conjure up all sorts of absurd fancies
about losing your personality, frightening yourself and me. Frank, it's
too bad!"
Frank looked up suddenly at her.
"You too? Are you frightened too? God help me if you are frightened
too!"
"No, I'm not frightened," said Margery, "but I'm angry and ashamed of
you. You're no better than a silly child."
"Margery," said he, in his lowest audible tone, "I'll never touch the
picture again if you wish. Tell me to destroy it and I will, and we'll
go for a holiday together. I--I want a holiday; I've been working too
hard. Or it would be better if you went in very quietly and cut it up.
I don't want to go near it. It doesn't like me. Tell me to destroy it."
"No, no!" cried Margery, "that's the very thing I will not do. And
fancy saying you want a holiday! You've just had two months' holiday.
But that's no reason why you should work like a lunatic. Of course any
one can go mad if they like--it's only a question of whether you think
you are going to."
"Margery, tell me truthfully," said Frank, "do you think I am going
mad?"
"Of course I don't. I only think you are very, very silly. But I've
known that ever since I knew you at all. It's a great pity."
They strolled up and down for a few moments in silence. The magic of
Margery's presence was beginning to work on Frank, and after a little
space of silence he laughed to himself almost naturally.
"Margery, you are doing me good," he said. "I've been terribly lonely
without you."
"And terribly silly, it appears."
"Perhaps I have. Anyhow, I like to hear you tell me so. I should like
to think I had been silly, but I don't know."
"I'm afraid if you've been silly the portrait will be silly too," said
she. "Is it silly, Frank?"
"It's wonderful," said he, suddenly stopping short. "It is not only
like me, but it's me--at least, if you will stop with me while I work
it will be all me. I shall feel safer if you are there."
"Then I won't be there," said Margery. "You are not a child any longer,
and you must work alone. You always say you can't work if any one else
is there."
"Well, I don't suppose it matters," said Frank, with returning
confidence. "The fact that I know you are in the house will be enough.
But the portrait--it's wonderful! I can't think why I loathe it so."
"You loathe it because you have been working at it in a ridiculous
manner," said Margery. "To-morrow I regulate your day for you. I
shall leave you your morning to yourself, and after lunch you shall
come out with me for two hours at least. We will go up some of those
little creeks where we went two years ago. Come in now. It's nearly
dinner-time."
When they were alone and a portrait was in progress they often sat in
the studio after dinner; but to-night, when Margery proposed it, Frank
started up from where he was sitting.
"No, Margery," he said, "please let us sit here. I don't want to go to
the studio at all."
"It's the scene of your crime," said Margery.
Frank turned pale.
"What crime?" he asked. "What do you know of my crimes?"
Margery put down the paper she was reading and burst out laughing.
"You really are too ridiculous," she said. "Are you and I going to play
the second act of a melodrama? Your crime of working all day and taking
no exercise."
"Oh, I see," said Frank. "Well, don't let us visit the scene of my
crimes to-night."
Margery had determined that, whatever Frank did, she would behave
quite naturally, and not allow herself to indulge even in disturbing
thoughts. So she laughed again, and wiped off Frank's remark from her
mind.
Otherwise his behavior that evening was quite reassuring. Often when he
was painting he had an aversion to being left alone in the intervals,
and though this perhaps was more marked than usual, Margery did not
allow it to disquiet her. The painting of a portrait was always rather
a trying time, though Frank's explanation of this did not seem to her
in the least satisfactory.
"When one paints," he had said to her once, "one is much more exposed
to other influences. One's soul, so to speak, is on the surface, and I
want some one near me who will keep an eye on it, and I feel safe if I
have your eye on me, Margery. You know, when religious people have been
to church or to a revivalist meeting, they are much more susceptible
to what they see, whether it is sin or sanctity; that is just because
their souls have come to the surface. It is very unwise to go to see
a lot of strange people when you are in that state. No one knows what
influence they may have on you. But I know what influence you have on
me."
"I wish my influence would make you a little less silly," she had
replied.
Margery went to bed quite happy in her mind, except on one point.
She had been gifted by nature with a superb serenity which it took
much blustering wind to ruffle, and in the main Frank's behavior was
different, not in kind, but only in degree, from what she had seen
before when he was painting. He always got nervous and excited over a
picture which he really gave himself up to; he always talked ridiculous
nonsense about personalities and influences, and though his childlike
desire to be with her when he was not working was more accentuated than
usual, she drew the very natural conclusion that he was more absorbed
than usual in his work.
But there was one point which troubled her: she had quite unaccountably
shrunk from him when he ran to meet her across the studio, and she had
shrunk from him again when she saw his face. She told herself that
this was her own silliness, not his, and that it was ridiculous of
her to try to cure Frank of his absurdities while she was so absurd
herself. She had shrunk back involuntarily, as if from an evil thing.
"How absurd and ridiculous of me," she said to herself, as she settled
herself in bed. "Frank is Frank, and it is his idea that he is ceasing
or will cease to be Frank which I have thought all along is so
supremely silly, and which I think supremely silly still. Yet I shrank
from him as I would from a man who had committed a crime."
Then suddenly another thought came to join this one in her brain: "What
crimes? What do you know of my crimes?"
The contact and the electric spark had been instantaneous, for she
wrenched the two thoughts apart. But they had come together, and
between them they had generated a spark of light.
And so, without knowing it, she knew for a moment what was Frank's
secret which he dared not tell her.