1
Fate, which by now had them well in its grip, began to play the game out
more quickly. That summer they went to Pontresina since Mary had never
seen Switzerland; but the Comtesse must make a double cure, first at
Vichy and afterwards at Bagnoles de l’Orne, which fact left Martin quite
free to join them. Then it was that Stephen perceived for the first time
that all was not well with Martin Hallam.
Try as he might he could not deceive her, for this man was almost
painfully honest, and any deception became him so ill that it seemed to
stand out like a badly fitting garment. Yet now there were times when he
avoided her eyes, when he grew very silent and awkward with Stephen, as
though something inevitable and unhappy had obtruded itself upon their
friendship; something, moreover, that he feared to tell her. Then one
day in a blinding flash of insight she suddenly knew what this was—it
was Mary.
Like a blow that is struck full between the eyes, the thing stunned her,
so that at first she groped blindly. Martin, her friend . . . But what
did it mean? And Mary . . . The incredible misery of it if it were true.
But was it true that Martin Hallam had grown to love Mary? And the other
thought, more incredible still—had Mary in her turn grown to love
Martin?
The mist gradually cleared; Stephen grew cold as steel, her perceptions
becoming as sharp as daggers—daggers that thrust themselves into her
soul, draining the blood from her innermost being. And she watched. To
herself she seemed all eyes and ears, a monstrous thing, a complete
degradation, yet endowed with an almost unbearable skill, with a
subtlety passing her own understanding.
And Martin was no match for this thing that was Stephen. He, the lover,
could not hide his betraying eyes from her eyes that were also those of
a lover; could not stifle the tone that crept into his voice at times
when he was talking to Mary. Since all that he felt was a part of
herself, how could he hope to hide it from Stephen? And he knew that she
had discovered the truth, while she in her turn perceived that he knew
this, yet neither of them spoke—in a deathly silence she watched, and
in silence he endured her watching.
It was rather a terrible summer for them all, the more so as they were
surrounded by beauty, and great peace when the evening came down on the
snows, turning the white, unfurrowed peaks to sapphire and then to a
purple darkness; hanging out large, incredible stars above the wide
slope of the Roseg Glacier. For their hearts were full of unspoken
dread, of clamorous passions, of bewilderment that went very ill with
the quiet fulfilments, with the placid and smiling contentment of
nature—and not the least bewildered was Mary. Her respite, it seemed,
had been pitifully fleeting; now she was torn by conflicting emotions;
terrified and amazed at her realization that Martin meant more to her
than a friend, yet less, oh, surely much less than Stephen. Like a
barrier of fire her passion for the woman flared up to forbid her love
of the man; for as great as the mystery of virginity itself, is
sometimes the power of the one who has destroyed it, and that power
still remained in these days, with Stephen.
Alone in his bare little hotel bedroom, Martin would wrestle with his
soul-sickening problem, convinced in his heart that but for Stephen,
Mary Llewellyn would grow to love him, nay more, that she had grown to
love him already. Yet Stephen was his friend—he had sought her out, had
all but forced his friendship upon her; had forced his way into her
life, her home, her confidence; she had trusted his honour. And now he
must either utterly betray her or through loyalty to their friendship,
betray Mary.
And he felt that he knew, and knew only too well, what life would do to
Mary Llewellyn, what it had done to her already; for had he not seen the
bitterness in her, the resentment that could only lead to despair, the
defiance that could only lead to disaster? She was setting her weakness
against the whole world, and slowly but surely the world would close in
until in the end it had utterly crushed her. In her very normality lay
her danger. Mary, all woman, was less of a match for life than if she
had been as was Stephen. Oh, most pitiful bond so strong yet so
helpless; so fruitful of passion yet so bitterly sterile; despairing,
heart-breaking, yet courageous bond that was even now holding them
ruthlessly together. But if he should break it by taking the girl away
into peace and security, by winning for her the world’s approbation so
that never again need her back feel the scourge and her heart grow faint
from the pain of that scourging—if he, Martin Hallam, should do this
thing, what would happen, in that day of his victory, to Stephen? Would
she still have the courage to continue the fight? Or would she, in her
turn, be forced to surrender? God help him, he could not betray her like
this, he could not bring about Stephen’s destruction—and yet if he
spared her, he might destroy Mary.
Night after night alone in his bedroom during the miserable weeks of
that summer, Martin struggled to discover some ray of hope in what
seemed a well-nigh hopeless situation. And night after night Stephen’s
masterful arms would enfold the warm softness of Mary’s body, the while
she would be shaken as though with great cold. Lying there she would
shiver with terror and love, and this torment of hers would envelop Mary
so that sometimes she wept for the pain of it all, yet neither would
give a name to that torment.
‘Stephen, why are you shivering?’
‘I don’t know, my darling.’
‘Mary, why are you crying?’
‘I don’t know, Stephen.’
Thus the bitter nights slipped into the days, and the anxious days
slipped back into the nights, bringing to that curious trinity neither
helpful counsel nor consolation.
2
It was after they had all returned to Paris that Martin found Stephen
alone one morning.
He said: ‘I want to speak to you—I must.’
She put down her pen and looked into his eyes: ‘Well, Martin, what is
it?’ But she knew already.
He answered her very simply: ‘It’s Mary.’ Then he said: ‘I’m going
because I’m your friend and I love her . . . I must go because of our
friendship, and because I think Mary’s grown to care for me.’
He thought Mary cared . . . Stephen got up slowly, and all of a sudden
she was no more herself but the whole of her kind out to combat this
man, out to vindicate their right to possess, out to prove that their
courage was unshakable, that they neither admitted of nor feared any
rival.
She said coldly: ‘If you’re going because of me, because you imagine
that I’m frightened—then stay. I assure you I’m not in the least
afraid; here and now I defy you to take her from me!’ And even as she
said this she marvelled at herself, for she was afraid, terribly afraid
of Martin.
He flushed at the quiet contempt in her voice, which roused all the
combative manhood in him: ‘You think that Mary doesn’t love me, but
you’re wrong.’
‘Very well then, prove that I’m wrong!’ she told him.
They stared at each other in bitter hostility for a moment, then Stephen
said more gently: ‘You don’t mean to insult me by what you propose, but
I won’t consent to your going, Martin. You think that I can’t hold the
woman I love against you, because you’ve got an advantage over me and
over the whole of my kind. I accept that challenge—I must accept it if
I’m to remain at all worthy of Mary.’
He bowed his head: ‘It must be as you wish.’ Then he suddenly began to
talk rather quickly: ‘Stephen, listen, I hate what I’m going to say, but
by God, it’s got to be said to you somehow! You’re courageous and fine
and you mean to make good, but life with you is spiritually murdering
Mary. Can’t you see it? Can’t you realize that she needs all the things
that it’s not in your power to give her? Children, protection, friends
whom she can respect and who’ll respect her—don’t you realize this,
Stephen? A few may survive such relationships as yours, but Mary
Llewellyn won’t be among them. She’s not strong enough to fight the
whole world, to stand up against persecution and insult; it will drive
her down, it’s begun to already—already she’s been forced to turn to
people like Wanda. I know what I’m saying, I’ve seen the thing—the
bars, the drinking, the pitiful defiance, the horrible, useless wastage
of lives—well, I tell you it’s spiritual murder for Mary. I’d have gone
away because you’re my friend, but before I went I’d have said all this
to you; I’d have begged and implored you to set Mary free if you love
her. I’d have gone on my knees to you, Stephen . . .’
He paused, and she heard herself saying quite calmly: ‘You don’t
understand, I have faith in my writing, great faith; some day I shall
climb to the top and that will compel the world to accept me for what I
am. It’s a matter of time, but I mean to succeed for Mary’s sake.’
‘God pity you!’ he suddenly blurted out. ‘Your triumph, if it comes,
will come too late for Mary.’
She stared at him aghast: ‘How dare you!’ she stammered, ‘How dare you
try to undermine my courage! You call yourself my friend and you say
things like that . . .’
‘It’s your courage that I appeal to,’ he answered. He began to speak
very quietly again: ‘Stephen, if I stay I’m going to fight you. Do you
understand? We’ll fight this thing out until one of us has to admit that
he’s beaten. I’ll do all in my power to take Mary from you—all that’s
honourable, that is—for I mean to play straight, because whatever you
may think I’m your friend, only, you see—I love Mary Llewellyn.’
And now she struck back. She said rather slowly, watching his sensitive
face as she did so: ‘You seem to have thought it all out very well, but
then of course, our friendship has given you time . . .’
He flinched and she smiled, knowing how she could wound: ‘Perhaps,’ she
went on, ‘you’ll tell me your plans. Supposing you win, do I give the
wedding? Is Mary to marry you from my house, or would that be a grave
social disadvantage? And supposing she should want to leave me quite
soon for love of you—where would you take her, Martin? To your aunt’s
for respectability’s sake?’
‘Don’t, Stephen!’
‘But why not? I’ve a right to know because, you see, I also love Mary, I
also consider her reputation. Yes, I think on the whole we’ll discuss
your plans.’
‘She’d always be welcome at my aunt’s,’ he said firmly.
‘And you’ll take her there if she runs away to you? One never knows what
may happen, does one? You say that she cares for you already . . .’
His eyes hardened: ‘If Mary will have me, Stephen, I shall take her
first to my aunt’s house in Passy.’
‘And then?’ she mocked.
‘I shall marry her from there.’
‘And then?’
‘I shall take her back to my home.’
‘To Canada—I see—a safe distance of course.’
He held out his hand: ‘Oh, for God’s sake, don’t! It’s so horrible
somehow—be merciful, Stephen.’
She laughed bitterly: ‘Why should I be merciful to you? Isn’t it enough
that I accept your challenge, that I offer you the freedom of my house,
that I don’t turn you out and forbid you to come here? Come by all
means, whenever you like. You may even repeat our conversation to Mary;
I shall not do so, but don’t let that stop you if you think you may
possibly gain some advantage.’
He shook his head: ‘No, I shan’t repeat it.’
‘Oh, well, that must be as you think best. _I_ propose to behave as
though nothing had happened—and now I must get along with my work.’
He hesitated: ‘Won’t you shake hands?’
‘Of course,’ she smiled; ‘aren’t you my very good friend? But you know,
you really must leave me now, Martin.’
3
After he had gone she lit a cigarette; the action was purely automatic.
She felt strangely excited yet strangely numb—a most curious synthesis
of sensations; then she suddenly felt deathly sick and giddy. Going up
to her bedroom she bathed her face, sat down on the bed and tried to
think, conscious that her mind was completely blank. She was thinking of
nothing—not even of Mary.