1
A bitter and most curious warfare it was that must now be waged between
Martin and Stephen, but secretly waged, lest because of them the
creature they loved should be brought to suffer; not the least strange
aspect being that these two must quite often take care to protect each
other, setting a guard upon eyes and lips when they found themselves
together with Mary. For the sake of the girl whom they sought to
protect, they must actually often protect each other. Neither would
stoop to detraction or malice, though they fought in secret they did so
with honour. And all the while their hearts cried out loudly against
this cruel and insidious thing that had laid its hand upon their doomed
friendship—verily a bitter and most curious warfare.
And now Stephen, brought suddenly face to face with the menace of
infinite desolation, fell back upon her every available weapon in the
struggle to assert her right to possession. Every link that the years
had forged between her and Mary, every tender and passionate memory that
bound their past to their ardent present, every moment of joy—aye, and
even of sorrow, she used in sheer self defence against Martin. And not
the least powerful of all her weapons, was the perfect companionship and
understanding that constitutes the great strength of such unions. Well
armed she was, thanks to both present and past—but Martin’s sole weapon
lay in the future.
With a new subtlety that was born of his love, he must lead the girl’s
thoughts very gently forward towards a life of security and peace; such
a life as marriage with him would offer. In a thousand little ways must
redouble his efforts to make himself indispensable to her, to surround
her with the warm, happy cloak of protection that made even a hostile
world seem friendly. And although he forbore to speak openly as yet,
playing his hand with much skill and patience—although before speaking
he wished to be certain that Mary Llewellyn, of her own free will, would
come when he called her, because she loved him—yet nevertheless she
divined his love, for men cannot hide such knowledge from women.
Very pitiful Mary was in these days, torn between the two warring
forces; haunted by a sense of disloyalty if she thought with unhappiness
of losing Martin, hating herself for a treacherous coward if she
sometimes longed for the life he could offer, above all intensely afraid
of this man who was creeping in between her and Stephen. And the very
fact of this fear made her yield to the woman with a new and more
desperate ardour, so that the bond held as never before—the days might
be Martin’s, but the nights were Stephen’s. And yet, lying awake far
into the dawn, Stephen’s victory would take on the semblance of defeat,
turned to ashes by the memory of Martin’s words: ‘Your triumph, if it
comes, will come too late for Mary.’ In the morning she would go to her
desk and write, working with something very like frenzy, as though it
were now a neck-to-neck race between the world and her ultimate
achievement. Never before had she worked like this; she would feel that
her pen was dipped in blood, that with every word she wrote, she was
bleeding!
2
Christmas came and went, giving place to the New Year, and Martin fought
on but he fought more grimly. He was haunted these days by the spectre
of defeat, painfully conscious that do what he might, nearly every
advantage lay with Stephen. All that he loved and admired most in Mary,
her frankness, her tender and loyal spirit, her compassion towards
suffering of any kind, these very attributes told against him, serving
as they did to bind her more firmly to the creature to whom she had
given devotion. One thing only sustained the man at this time, and that
was his conviction that in spite of it all, Mary Llewellyn had grown to
love him.
So careful she was when they were together, so guarded lest she should
betray her feelings, so pitifully insistent that all was yet well—that
life had in no way lessened her courage. But Martin was not deceived by
these protests, knowing how she clung to what he could offer, how gladly
she turned to the simple things that so easily come to those who are
normal. Under all her parade of gallantry he divined a great weariness
of spirit, a great longing to be at peace with the world, to be able to
face her fellow men with the comforting knowledge that she need not fear
them, that their friendship would be hers for the asking, that their
laws and their codes would be her protection. All this Martin perceived;
but Stephen’s perceptions were even more accurate and far-reaching, for
to her there had come the despairing knowledge that the woman she loved
was deeply unhappy. At first she had blinded herself to this truth,
sustained by the passionate stress of the battle, by her power to hold
in despite of the man, by the eager response that she had awakened. Yet
the day came when she was no longer blind, when nothing counted in all
the world except this grievous unhappiness that was being silently borne
by Mary.
Martin, if he had wished for revenge, might have taken his fill of it
now from Stephen. Little did he know how, one by one, Mary was weakening
her defences; gradually undermining her will, her fierce determination
to hold, the arrogance of the male that was in her. All this the man was
never to know; it was Stephen’s secret, and she knew how to keep it. But
one night she suddenly pushed Mary away, blindly, scarcely knowing what
she was doing; conscious only that the weapon she thus laid aside had
become a thing altogether unworthy, an outrage upon her love for this
girl. And that night there followed the terrible thought that her love
itself was a kind of outrage.
And now she must pay very dearly indeed for that inherent respect of the
normal which nothing had ever been able to destroy, not even the long
years of persecution—an added burden it was, handed down by the silent
but watchful founders of Morton. She must pay for the instinct which, in
earliest childhood, had made her feel something akin to worship for the
perfect thing which she had divined in the love that existed between her
parents. Never before had she seen so clearly all that was lacking to
Mary Llewellyn, all that would pass from her faltering grasp, perhaps
never to return, with the passing of Martin—children, a home that the
world would respect, ties of affection that the world would hold sacred,
the blessèd security and the peace of being released from the world’s
persecution. And suddenly Martin appeared to Stephen as a creature
endowed with incalculable bounty, having in his hands all those
priceless gifts which she, love’s mendicant, could never offer. Only one
gift could she offer to love, to Mary, and that was the gift of Martin.
In a kind of dream she perceived these things. In a dream she now moved
and had her being; scarcely conscious of whither this dream would lead,
the while her every perception was quickened. And this dream of hers was
immensely compelling, so that all that she did seemed clearly
pre-destined; she could not have acted otherwise, nor could she have
made a false step, although dreaming. Like those who in sleep tread the
edge of a chasm unappalled, having lost all sense of danger, so now
Stephen walked on the brink of her fate, having only one fear; a
nightmare fear of what she must do to give Mary her freedom.
In obedience to the mighty but unseen will that had taken control of
this vivid dreaming, she ceased to respond to the girl’s tenderness, nor
would she consent that they two should be lovers. Ruthless as the world
itself she became, and almost as cruel in this ceaseless wounding. For
in spite of Mary’s obvious misgivings, she went more and more often to
see Valérie Seymour, so that gradually, as the days slipped by, Mary’s
mind became a prey to suspicion. Yet Stephen struck at her again and
again, desperately wounding herself in the process, though scarcely
feeling the pain of her wounds for the misery of what she was doing to
Mary. But even as she struck the bonds seemed to tighten, with each
fresh blow to bind more securely. Mary now clung with every fibre of her
sorely distressed and outraged being; with every memory that Stephen had
stirred; with every passion that Stephen had fostered; with every
instinct of loyalty that Stephen had aroused to do battle with Martin.
The hand that had loaded Mary with chains was powerless, it seemed, to
strike them from her.
Came the day when Mary refused to see Martin, when she turned upon
Stephen, pale and accusing: ‘Can’t you understand? Are you utterly
blind—have you only got eyes now for Valérie Seymour?’
And as though she were suddenly smitten dumb, Stephen’s lips remained
closed and she answered nothing.
Then Mary wept and cried out against her: ‘I won’t let you go—I won’t
let you, I tell you! It’s your fault if I love you the way I do. I can’t
do without you, you’ve taught me to need you, and now . . .’ In
half-shamed, half-defiant words she must stand there and plead for what
Stephen withheld, and Stephen must listen to such pleading from Mary.
Then before the girl realized it she had said: ‘But for you, I could
have loved Martin Hallam!’
Stephen heard her own voice a long way away: ‘But for me, you could have
loved Martin Hallam.’
Mary flung despairing arms round her neck: ‘No, no! Not that, I don’t
know what I’m saying.’
3
The first faint breath of spring was in the air, bringing daffodils to
the flower-stalls of Paris. Once again Mary’s young cherry tree in the
garden was pushing out leaves and tiny pink buds along the whole length
of its childish branches.
Then Martin wrote: ‘Stephen, where can I see you? It must be alone.
Better not at your house, I think, if you don’t mind, because of Mary.’
She appointed the place. They would meet at the Auberge du Vieux Logis
in the Rue Lepic. They two would meet there on the following evening.
When she left the house without saying a word, Mary thought she was
going to Valérie Seymour.
Stephen sat down at a table in the corner to await Martin’s coming—she
herself was early. The table was gay with a new check cloth—red and
white, white and red, she counted the squares, tracing them carefully
out with her finger. The woman behind the bar nudged her companion: ‘En
voilà une originale—et quelle cicatrice, bon Dieu!’ The scar across
Stephen’s pale face stood out livid.
Martin came and sat quietly down at her side, ordering some coffee for
appearances’ sake. For appearances’ sake, until it was brought, they
smiled at each other and made conversation. But when the waiter had
turned away, Martin said: ‘It’s all over—you’ve beaten me, Stephen
. . . The bond was too strong.’
Their unhappy eyes met as she answered: ‘I tried to strengthen that
bond.’
He nodded: ‘I know . . . Well, my dear, you succeeded.’ Then he said:
‘I’m leaving Paris next week;’ and in spite of his effort to be calm his
voice broke, ‘Stephen . . . do what you can to take care of Mary . . .’
She found that she was holding his hand. Or was it some one else who sat
there beside him, who looked into his sensitive, troubled face, who
spoke such queer words?
‘No, don’t go—not yet.’
‘But I don’t understand . . .’
‘You must trust me, Martin.’ And now she heard herself speaking very
gravely: ‘Would you trust me enough to do anything I asked, even
although it seemed rather strange? Would you trust me if I said that I
asked it for Mary, for her happiness?’
His fingers tightened: ‘Before God, yes. You know that I’d trust you!’
‘Very well then, don’t leave Paris—not now.’
‘You really want me to stay on, Stephen?’
‘Yes, I can’t explain.’
He hesitated, then he suddenly seemed to come to a decision: ‘All right
. . . I’ll do whatever you ask me.’
They paid for their coffee and got up to leave: ‘Let me come as far as
the house,’ he pleaded.
But she shook her head: ‘No, no, not now. I’ll write to you . . . very
soon . . . Good-bye, Martin.’
She watched him hurrying down the street, and when he was finally lost
in its shadows, she turned slowly and made her own way up the hill, past
the garish lights of the Moulin de la Galette. Its pitiful sails
revolved in the wind, eternally grinding out petty sins—dry chaff blown
in from the gutters of Paris. And after a while, having breasted the
hill, she must climb a dusty flight of stone steps, and push open a
heavy, slow-moving door; the door of the mighty temple of faith that
keeps its anxious but tireless vigil.
She had no idea why she was doing this thing, or what she would say to
the silver Christ with one hand on His heart and the other held out in a
patient gesture of supplication. The sound of praying, monotonous, low,
insistent, rose up from those who prayed with extended arms, with
crucified arms—like the tides of an ocean it swelled and receded and
swelled again, bathing the shores of heaven.
They were calling upon the Mother of God: ‘Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu,
priez pour nous, pauvres pêcheurs, maintenant et à l’heure de notre
mort.’
‘Et à l’heure de notre mort,’ Stephen heard herself repeating.
He looked terribly weary, the silver Christ: ‘But then He always looks
tired,’ she thought vaguely; and she stood there without finding
anything to say, embarrassed as one so frequently is in the presence of
somebody else’s sorrow. For herself she felt nothing, neither pity nor
regret; she was curiously empty of all sensation, and after a little she
left the church, to walk on through the wind-swept streets of
Montmartre.