On a September morning, some fortnight later, Archie was waiting in the
drawing-room at Oakland Crescent for Helena's entry. He had seen her
twice since her husband's death, and it struck him now that she always
kept him waiting when she asked him to come and see her, and ascribed to
that the very probable motive that she expected thereby to increase his
eagerness for her coming. Certainly he wanted her to come, because he
was much interested and amused in the conventional little comedy she was
playing, and he looked forward to the third act, on which the curtain
would presently ring up. In the interval he sat very serenely smiling to
himself, and tickling the end of his nose with three white feathers that
he had received in the street to-day. That always diverted him
extremely; a rude young woman would come up (she was invariably square
and plain, and had a knobby face like a chest of drawers) and say,
"Aren't you ashimed not to be serving your country? You're a coward, you
are," and then she would give him a white feather. He had quite a
collection of them now; there were nine already which he carefully kept
in his stud-box, and these three all in one day were a splendid haul.
He had, to occupy his mind very pleasantly, the remembrance of his
previous interviews with Helena, which formed the two existing acts of
the comedy. In the first she had come in, looking deliciously pretty in
her deep mourning, and, with her head a little on one side, had held out
both her hands to him. They had stood with hands clasped for quite a
long time, and then Archie kissed her because he was rather tired of
holding her hands, and because he enjoyed kissing anything so pretty.
That had caused a break, and they sat down side by side, and Helena made
some queer movements in her throat, which seemed to Archie to be
designed to convey the impression that she was repressing her emotion.
But they did not quite fulfil their design; they looked rather as if
they were due to the desire to pump up rather than keep down. Then
Helena gave a long sigh.
"Oh, Archie," she said, "I am utterly broken-hearted. It was so sudden,
so terribly sudden. I shall never get over it. Think! We had been
married only a fortnight, and next day I got a letter from him, after I
knew he was dead. Such a sweet little letter, so cheerful and so
loving."
Archie expected something of this sort: its conventionality, its utter
insincerity, amused him enormously. And, wanting more of it, he said
just the proper sort of thing to encourage her to give it him.
"Oh, my dear," he said, "but how you will love and cherish that letter!
I don't suppose you were once out of his thoughts all the time he was in
France."
She shook her head.
"I am sure of it," she said. "Ah, what a privilege to have been loved as
I was loved by such a noble, manly heart. I must always think of that,
mustn't I?"
Archie took her hand again. The touch of those soft, cool fingers gave
him pleasure; so, too, did the answering pressure of them.
"Yes, indeed," he said. "And you must remember, too, that it's better to
have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."
She repeated the quotation in a dreamy meditative voice.
"Yes, that is so true: it does me good to think of that," she said. "And
I mustn't think of him as dead really. He is just as living as ever he
was. He was so fond of you too. We often spoke of you. And his quaint,
quiet humour!..."
That was the general note of the first act: it had been short, for the
conversation suitable to it was necessarily limited. The second showed a
great advance in scope and variety of topics. Also the _tempo_ was quite
changed: instead of its being _largo_, it was at least _andante con
moto_.
This time, after again keeping him waiting, she had entered with a
smile.
"What a comfort you are, Archie!" she said. "I have been looking forward
to seeing you again. Somehow you understand me, which nobody else does.
I feel all the time that neither darling Jessie, whenever I see her,
which isn't often, for she is so busy, nor daddy quite understand me. I
mean to be brave, and not lose courage, not lose gaiety even, and I
think--I think that they both misjudge me. They expect me to be utterly
broken. So I was at first, as you know so well, but I tried to take to
heart what you said, and force myself not to despair. I feel I oughtn't
to do that: I must take the burden of life up again with a smile."
Her hand lay open on her knee; as she said this, she turned it over
towards him, making an invitation that seemed unconscious. He slipped
his long brown fingers into that rosy palm. She was astonishingly like a
girl he met a night or two ago.
"I must get over this awful feeling of loneliness," she said, "and you
are helping me so deliciously to do so. Daddy is busy all day; I
scarcely see him. Jessie is busy also. I think she enjoys washing up
knives and forks and plates for soldiers, though of course that doesn't
make it any less sweet of her to do it. But, anyhow, she hasn't got much
time for me. I wish--no, I suppose it's wrong to wish that."
"Well, confess, then," said Archie, smiling at her.
"Yes, dear father-confessor, though I ought to say boy-confessor, for
you look so young! Well, I'll confess to you. I--I'm sure you won't be
shocked with me. I wish Jessie cared for me a little more. She is my
sister, after all. But I daresay it's my fault. I haven't got the key to
her heart. And, with Jessie and daddy so full of other affairs, I do
feel lonely. But when you are here I don't. I don't know what I should
have done without you, Archie. I think I might have killed myself."
This was glorious. Archie gave a splendid shudder.
"Don't talk like that," he said, in a tone of affectionate command. "You
don't know how it hurts."
"Ah, I'm sorry. It was selfish of me. Do you forgive me?"
"You know I do," said he.
She had brought into the room with her a long envelope, and rather
absently she took out from it an enclosure of papers.
"I got this to-day from the lawyers," she said. "It's about my darling's
will, I think. I wonder if you would help me to understand it, I am so
stupid at figures."
She slid a little closer to him, leaning her hand on his shoulder and
looking over him as he read. The document required, as a matter of fact,
very little exercise of intelligence. The house in Surrey where they had
spent the week of the honeymoon was hers; and so was a very decent
income of L15,000 a year, left to her without any condition whatever for
her life; it was hers absolutely. The disposition of the rest of his
fortune depended on whether she had a child. The details of that were
not given: his lawyer only informed her what was hers.
She hid her face on the hand that rested on Archie's shoulder.
"Oh, Archie, I can never go back to that house," she said, "at least not
for a long time. It would be tearing open the old wound again."
"Yes, I understand that," said he, with another pressure of his fingers.
And, thinking of the L15,000 a year without conditions, he had a wild
temptation to console her further by quoting--
"Let us grieve not, only find
Strength in what remains behind."
But he refrained: though, apparently, there was no limit to Helena's
insincerity, there might be some in her acceptance of the insincerity of
others.
"Oh, you do understand me so well," she said. "And, Archie, I want to
ask a horribly selfish thing of you, but I can't help it. I am all alone
now, except for you. You won't go out to the war, will you? I don't
think I could bear it if you did."
It was quite easy for him to promise that, but an allusion to the
misconception he might incur made his acquiescence sound difficult and
noble.
Since then, up to the day when he was now expecting her entry for the
third act, he had thought over the whole situation with the imaginative
vision which absinthe inspired. He had not the slightest doubt in his
mind that Helena, according to her capacity for loving, was in love with
him, and that she thought he was still in love with her. But, when he
considered it all, he found he had no longer the slightest intention of
marrying her, even though she had L15,000 a year for life without
conditions attached. Plenty of money was no doubt a preventive of
discomfort in this life, and he felt it was fine of him not to be
attracted by so ignoble a bait. But no amount of money would really
compensate for the inseparable companionship of Helena, with her
foolishness, her apparent inability to understand that her
insincerities, so far from being convincing and beautiful, were no more
than the most puerile and transparent counterfeits. Certainly she
aroused the ardour of his senses, but how long would that last? And,
even while it lasted, how could it compare with his ardour for his
absinthe-coloured dreams, and the ecstasy of his communion with the
spirit that had made its home in him? She would interrupt all that; and,
as a companion, she could not compare with his father. She would always
be wanting to be caressed and made much of and admired and taken care
of. It would soon become most horribly tedious.
There was a further reason against marrying her, which was as potent as
any. He would forfeit his revenge on her, if he did that. Once, dim ages
ago, it seemed, and on another plane of existence, he had loved her, and
she, knowing it, had fed his devotion with smiles and glances, and at
the end had chosen him whose body now decayed in some graveyard of North
France, already probably desecrated by the on-swarming Germans. Now it
was Archie's turn; already, he was sure, she expected to marry him, and
she would learn that he had not the least intention of doing so. That
delightful situation might easily be arrived at in the third act for
which he was waiting now.
This time she came with flowers in her hand, and presently, as they sat
side by side on the sofa talking, she put one into his button-hole.
Instantly he interrupted himself in what he was saying and kissed it.
She gave him that long glance which he had once thought meant so much.
It had not meant much then, from her point of view, but it meant a good
deal more now. But to Archie it had passed from being a gleam of wonder
to a farthing dip.
"Oh, you foolish boy!" she said.
He almost thought he heard Martin laugh.
"I don't see anything foolish about it," he said. "At least, if it's
foolish, I've always been foolish."
Her lips moved, though not to speak: they just gathered themselves
together, and a little tremor went down the arm that rested against his.
He was perfectly certain of both those signals, and next moment he had
folded her to him, and she lay less than unresisting in his arms.
Then she gently thrust him from her.
"Ah, how wrong of me," she said, "and yet perhaps it's not wrong. The
dear Bradshaw would always want me to be happy. Perhaps he even thought
of this when he left me so free. For this time, Archie, I shan't come to
you empty-handed. But, of course, we mustn't think of all that for many
months yet."
Archie, flushed and merry-eyed, looked at her with boyish surprise.
"Think of what?" he said.
"Ah, you force me to say it, do you? Of our marriage."
He was adorable in her eyes just then; she could hardly realize that so
few months ago she had definitely put him from her. His warm, smooth
face, his crisp, curling hair, the youthful roughness and ardour of his
embrace, inflamed and ravished her.
He looked at her still inquiringly a moment, then threw back his head
and laughed.
"Oh, you're delicious!" he said. "But marriage? What do you mean? A
cousinly kiss, a little sympathy, a few dear little surrenders of each
of us to the other: that's all I intended. Well, I must be off.
Good-bye!"
Next moment, still choking with laughter, he was downstairs and out into
the street. He could not resist looking up at the window, and waving a
gay hand towards it. Something within him, that seemed the very essence
of his being, shouted and sang with glee.
* * * * *
The house in Grosvenor Square, where his mother had become housekeeper
and Jessie kitchen-maid, had at present in it only a few wounded
officers from France, and during these two or three days in town Archie
could still occupy his own bedroom, while his servant slept in the
dressing-room adjoining. He was out very late that night, for the
completeness of his revenge on Helena ran like a feeding fire through
his veins, and both nourished and burned him.
Dawn had already broken when he let himself in, and went very quietly
upstairs, not intending to go to bed till he had had an interview with
Martin. All night he had felt as if Martin was bursting to come forth
again; he was already intensely present, even though Archie had not yet
sunk his conscious self and opened the door of mystic communication.
That controlling spirit foamed and simmered within him; he could all but
break open the door himself, and project himself without invitation. He
was still just confined, but only just; it seemed that at any minute he
might assert himself. But Archie, with the gourmand instinct that delays
an actual fulfilment, teasing itself, while it knows the fulfilment is
assured, lingered over his undressing, and planned to make himself cool
and comfortable in his pyjamas, before he abandoned the fortress of his
normal self. He brushed his teeth, he sponged face and neck with cold
water, he arranged his chair in the window, and put on the table by his
bed the moonstone stud on which he would focus his eyes, and stretched
himself long and luxuriously till he heard his shoulder joints crack.
Martin seemed in a great hurry to come to-night, but Martin must just
wait till he was ready. And then, all of a sudden, he heard a tremendous
noise of rapping. He knew that Martin had come, and an awful terror
seized his soul, for Martin had come without being called.
At that precise moment his servant next door started up, wide awake,
with some loud sound in his ears that seemed to come from Archie's
bedroom. He tapped at his door, but, getting no answer, went in. He
found Archie lying on the floor, curled up together, like some twisted
root of a tree, foaming at the mouth. He ran downstairs to get help, and
brought up one of the nurses who was on duty. She instantly telephoned
for a doctor, and woke Lady Tintagel.
* * * * *
All that day Archie lay in this strange seizure, apparently quite
unconscious. Sometimes a paroxysm would take hold of him, and he lay
with staring eyes and teeth that ground against each other, and limbs
that curled into fantastic shapes. In the intervals he remained still,
stiff and rigid, his eyes for the most part shut, breathing quickly, as
if he had been running. Then once again the panic and the agony would
grip him, and with eyes wide with terror and foaming mouth he struggled
and fought against the Thing that mastered him. But each paroxysm left
him weaker, and it was clear that he would not be able to stand many
more of these attacks. Yet no one could wish them prolonged; it would
but be merciful if the end came soon, and spared him further suffering.
Towards sunset that day Jessie was sitting by him, with orders to call
the nurse next door if he showed signs of the restlessness which
preceded the return of a seizure. She knew that, humanly speaking, he
was dying, but her faith never faltered that he might still be saved,
and that through her and her love salvation might come to him. Medical
science was of no avail; it could not combat the spiritual foe that had
taken him prisoner. That rescue had to be made through spiritual means,
and the two-edged sword by which alone his captor could be vanquished
was the bright-shining weapon of love and prayer. It was in her hand
now, as she watched and waited.
He lay quite still, breathing quickly and with a shallow inspiration,
but there were no signs of the restlessness for which she had to look
out. But presently she observed that his eyes were no longer closed, but
were open and looking steadily at the brass knob at the foot of his bed
on which a sunbeam, entering through a chink at the side of the drawn
window-blind made a focus of light. And, all at once, she guessed that
he was looking at this with purpose, and her soul, sword in hand,
crouched ready to spring. Then from the bed came Archie's voice.
"Martin," it said.
There was a dead silence, and she saw forming in the air a little in
front of him a nucleus of mist. It gathered volume from a little jet as
of steam that appeared to come from Archie himself. Thicker and thicker
it grew; strange lines began to interlace themselves within it, and
these took form. The dimness of its outline grew firm and distinct, the
shape stood detached and clear, and, bending over Archie with a smile
triumphant and cruel, stood the semblance she had seen once before at
midnight in Archie's room. He was no longer looking at the knob at the
foot of his bed, but with eyes wide open and blank with some nameless
terror he gazed at the apparition.
Jessie rose and stood opposite it on the other side of his bed. Her
two-edged sword was drawn now, and its bright blade gleamed in the
darkness of the evil that flooded the room. And then it seemed that that
incarnation of it that stood beside Archie's bed was aware, for it
turned and looked her full in the face, bringing to bear on her the
utmost of its hellish potency.
For one moment against that awful assault her soul cried out in panic.
It had not dreamed that from all the crimes with which the world had
withered and bled there could be distilled a tincture so poisonous. And
then her love rallied her scattered courage, and she stood firm again.
Nothing in the world but love and prayer could prevail, but nothing, if
once she could fully realize that, could prevail against them. In her
hand, as in the hand of all who are foes to evil, was the irresistible
weapon, could she but use its power to the full...
She stood, as she knew, in the face of the deadliest peril by which any
living thing, into which the breath of God has passed, can be
confronted. There is no soul so strong that evil can cease to be a
menace for it, and here, facing her, was the power that had already
perverted all that Archie held of goodness and humanity. There it stood,
one victim already its helpless prisoner, and it lusted for more. And
the wordless struggle, as old as evil itself, began.
She would not give ground. Her soul laid itself open, and let the light
invisible shine on it. In this struggle there were no strivings or
wrestlings; she had but to stay quiet, and in just that achievement of
quietness the struggle lay. Once for a moment all Hell swirled and
exulted round her, for her love for Archie let itself contemplate the
human and material aspect of him; the next she put all that away from
her, and again stood with his soul, so to speak, in her uplifted hands,
offering it to God. In the very storm-centre of this evil which shrieked
and raged round her, there must be, and there was, a space where the
peace that passeth understanding dwelt in serene calm. The storm might
shift and envelope her again in its bellowings, but again and yet again
she had to regain the centre where no blast of it could penetrate.
How long this lasted she could not tell. Her body was quite conscious of
its ordinary perceptions; the blind tapped on the window, and there came
from outside the stir of distant traffic. But she did not take her gaze
from those awful eyes that sometimes smiled, sometimes blazed with hate.
Steadily and firmly she looked at them and through them, for behind
them, as behind the cloud, was the sunlight of God.
And then there came a change. It seemed that the power she fought was
weakening. Its eyes shifted; they no longer looked undeviatingly at her,
but glanced round for a moment, as if they looked for some way of
escape. They would come back to her again with fresh assault of smiles
or hate, but each time they seemed less potent. More than once they left
her face altogether for a while, and were directed on Archie, as if
seeking the refuge there that they knew; but, with a wordless command
that they were forced to obey, she summoned them back to her again,
making the spirit that directed them turn the strength of its fury on
her. She gave it no rest, fixing it on herself by the strength of love
and prayer.
The eyes began to grow dim; the outline of the form began to waver. The
interlacing lines out of which it was woven began to unravel again, and
it grew shapeless. But it was not being absorbed into Archie; there were
no streams of mist between him and it, as when it had first taken
substance. Already through it she could see the wall behind it, and it
grew ever fainter and thinner...
There was nothing left of it now, and for the first time since the
struggle began, she looked at Archie. He was lying quite still with eyes
closed again. And then she saw that by her side was standing another
presence. It was identical in form and shape with that which had
vanished, and it bent on Archie so amazing a look of love that her soul,
spent and sick with struggle, felt itself uplifted and refreshed again.
And for one moment it looked at her, and it was as if Archie himself was
looking at her. And then it was there no longer. She hardly knew whether
her physical eyes had seen it externally, or whether it had been some
spirit-vision conveyed to them from within.
There came a sound from next door, and the nurse, who was there ready to
be summoned, entered.
"Has he been quite quiet?" she asked, and, without waiting for an
answer, she went to the bed. She looked at Archie a moment, then felt
his elbows and knees, finding them pliant again instead of being stiff
and rigid, and listened to his quiet breathing.
"But there has come an extraordinary change," she said. "The seizure has
passed, and yet he's alive."
She beamed at Jessie.
"Well, you are a good nurse," she said. "But I think I'll just fetch the
doctor."
She went out of the room, and Archie, who had lain quite motionless with
closed eyes, suddenly stirred and looked at the girl.
"Why, Jessie," he said.
She came close to the bed.
"Yes?"
"What's happened?" said he. "I've had some awful nightmare. And then you
broke it up. Hasn't Martin been here too?"
"Yes, Archie, I think so," she said.
He lay in silence a moment.
"Have you saved me again, Jessie?" he said. "You did once before at--at
Silorno, when the lightning struck the pine."
She could find no answer for him; not a word could she speak.
He held out his hand to her.
"Jessie!..." he said.
NOTABLE NEW NOVELS
7s. net each
By Sir H. Rider Haggard
Author of "Jess," etc. MOON OF ISRAEL. "The thrill which so many years
ago was felt by the readers of 'King Solomon's Mines' will certainly be
felt to-day by the readers of 'Moon of Israel.'"--_Ladies' Field_.
By C. E. Lawrence
Author of "Pilgrimage," etc. SUCH STUFF AS DREAMS. That the so-called
ordinary may be the sheath of the wonderful is shown by this book, which
is for lovers of London, a community spread the world over.
By Kathleen Norris
Author of "Martie the Unconquered," etc. JOSSELYN'S WIFE. Another study
by Kathleen Norris of fine and triumphant womanhood. Ellen Latimer is
brought from her humdrum life in the country to luxurious New York,
there to be faced with tragedy of the crudest and most cruel. She faces
her difficulties and wins, and saves the man she loves.
By Mrs. L. Allen Harker
Author of "Miss Esperance and Mr. Wycherly," etc. CHILDREN OF THE DEAR
COTSWOLDS. "All Mrs. Harker's child characters are a pure joy to her
readers, and we would fain hear more of them. The scenery of the
Cotswolds is everywhere painted with a skilled and loving hand."--_New
Witness_.
6s. net
By Arthur Conan Doyle
Author of "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes," etc. DANGER! and Other
Stories. "The contents of this volume all bear the hall-mark of the
author. There is no more capable craftsman than the inventor of Sherlock
Holmes."--_Daily Chronicle_.
-------------
LONDON: JOHN MURRAY
End of Project Gutenberg's Across the Stream, by Edward Frederic Benson