I
She lay still asleep in her bed while Gregory prepared himself for his
journey. He trod in stockinged feet upon the boards of the bedroom,
throwing articles of clothing into a carpet bag, and stopping to glance
at his wife who, with her hair loose on the pillow around her small
face, looked like some fragile child, and like a child’s too was the
shape of her limbs beneath the thin covering of blanket. She lay
sleeping; her lips parted. Gregory had purposely not roused her. It was
her undoubted business to go downstairs, light the fire, and get him
some breakfast, but he would forego the meal sooner than watch her
moving about the house he was that day abandoning. He did not wish to
carry away the picture of her at her familiar tasks, in which, he
imagined, she would so soon be watched by another. In his fancy he
pictured Morgan entering the house as soon as he, Gregory, had safely
left it. Would they breakfast delightedly together? or would the fear of
Silas counsel prudence? Again, as many times before, he was upon the
point of renouncing his journey. He looked at Nan with his fists
clinched, a storm of hatred and possession tearing him. His placid
inward life, running as smoothly as the machines with which it was
always occupied, had been disturbed lately, disturbed with a violence he
would not have suspected; he was troubled and resentful, directing his
resentment particularly against Nan who had brought this disturbance
upon him. He glared at her as she lay asleep. He thought angrily that he
should be allowed to live as a privileged designer of engines, not drawn
into the fury of domestic calamity. His nature, once roused, held
elements so harsh and intolerant, he knew, that it fitted him all too
well for a part in such a calamity. Had he been aloof, indifferent ...
ah! how he coveted that gift of indifference. He had it not; he was too
much of a Dene. So he dressed himself, packed his bag, and brooded
resentment over Nan. She slept on; breathing softly; unconscious.
He was ready, but for his coat. He stood in his shirt sleeves looking at
Nan and wondering whether he should wake her or slip away to the station
with no farewell. Then he bent down and slid his arm beneath the pillow,
lifting her bodily towards him. She woke with a cry, to find Gregory’s
face near hers as he knelt on the floor. It was very fortunate that he
could not hear the cry, which, at first merely startled, changed to
horror as she recognised him. His sardonic smile and her widened eyes
were terribly close; their two faces, by reason of their nearness,
seemed large to one another. She pushed with both hands against his
chest, struggling silently; only half awake, she had not the wisdom not
to struggle; now, she knew only his distastefulness. He held her,
hardened to a cold fury by her resistance. He could see all her muscles
exerted in the effort to get rid of him; even the corners of her mouth
were drawn tight, and her eyes were fixed on him in concentration. She
could not plead with him, as she could have with another man; their
strife must be soundless; she pushed, and twisted herself within his
grasp, both quite in vain, then, relaxing, she lay quiet, with his arm
still beneath her. She stared up at him. She knew, and was terrified by,
the expression in his eyes. He drew his hand from beneath her and
sketched a rapid phrase on his fingers, at the same time moving towards
her. She answered vehemently in the same manner, her arms pitifully
slight and delicate as the loose nightgown fell back from them, and the
fingers racing in gesticulation. His whole face darkened as he read; she
saw that an angry obstinacy was taking possession of him. She tried to
escape from the opposite side of her bed, but he seized her again,
holding her down, determined, revengeful, and unshaken by pity. She
sought wildly in her mind for some means of release, finding none, when
she heard Calthorpe’s voice calling for Gregory beneath the window.