Somewhere about three o'clock Maggy got back to her flat. She was as
calm as death, and knew exactly what she had to do. In her nature there
were few complexities: intuition guided her most of the time. Now she
simply did not want to live. She was not only heart-broken because of
Woolf's desertion but utterly crushed in spirit at having discovered
that every foolish ideal with which she had endowed him had had no
existence except in her imagination. That reflection made her despise
herself as much as she despised him. If the breach could have occurred
without such callous perfidy on his part, she might still have retained
her self-respect. How much more preferable that would have been, even
though it meant she might have gone on loving him.
How she had loved him! She had poured out to him all the passionate
first-love of an exceedingly ardent nature; she had gloried in him,
suffered for him. She had been content with an illicit position, even
to the extent of refraining from urging him to legitimize their union
when there was a reason for it--one that would have stirred the
compassion of any other man. She had not thought herself good enough to
be his wife, because, in effect if not in direct words, he had told her
so. She saw him now as he really was, an unutterable cad, despicable,
utterly snobbish. He had married with the sole object of associating
himself with a titled family. That it was in bad odor made no
difference to him. To hear the announcement or to read in print of "Mr.
Woolf and the Lady Susan Woolf" had no doubt been the prevailing factor
with him. It was clear enough to Maggy. He had not considered her a
fit wife for himself because she was a chorus-girl, yet he had married a
woman infinitely more common in the slangy sister of a decadent peer.
And all the time he had been contemplating this marriage she had made a
jest of it, teasing him about a honeymoon abroad, unwittingly joking
about the terrible truth! To think of it was gall and wormwood. She
had trusted the man. Her own honesty had made her assume that he was
incapable of deception. Conformity with the easy code of honor which
men generally adhere to, even in an irregular union, was all she had
expected. It had been denied her.
She was filled with a distaste for life. It could be so simply ended.
There was a bottle of laudanum in the cupboard over her washstand.
Without any hesitation she poured its contents into a tumbler and drank
it off. It tasted so nasty that she ate a chocolate afterwards. Then
she locked her door and lay down on her bed. Nothing in the world
mattered now, not even Alexandra. She was too weary to think of her,
even to analyze what she believed to be her own last sensations.
Mentally exhausted she fell asleep.
She slept from half-past three until half-past nine, woke up suddenly
and felt horribly ill. Her memory was quite clear. She remembered
everything that had happened that day and what she had done, and
wondered whether she was dead. A dreadful nausea and discomfort left her
in doubt. Presently she decided she was not dead but wished she were.
She dragged herself to her feet and, obeying instinct, made herself an
emetic. Though she did not wish to live she wanted to put an end to her
appalling sensations. Later on, she drank two cups of strong black
coffee, and soon after knew she was recovering. She must have taken
either too little or too much of the horrid stuff.
She lay back, waiting for its nauseating effect to wear off.
Half-an-hour passed inertly. Then abruptly her mind went to Alexandra,
and she sat up. Lexie was on the verge of taking the reckless step
which she, Maggy, had so long been advising, and Lexie must be stopped.
She gave a hurried look at the clock. Nearly eleven! She might just
catch her at the theater. She flew downstairs, found a taxi and drove
there, just too late. Lexie had left a few minutes ago. On her way out
again she ran up against the stage-manager.
"Hullo, Miss Delamere," he began; "what do you mean by turning up after
the show? You seem quite indifferent to fines." Then he observed her
livid face and the dark circles round her eyes. "Why, you look like
death! What's the matter?"
"Nothing.... Let me go, Mr. Powell. I'll be all right soon. I want to
find Miss Hersey."
She tore away, jumped into another cab and drove to Sidey Street.
Alexandra was luxuriating in the unwonted extravagance of a fire. That
and the song she was humming were evidence of a new serenity of mind
that had come to her. She was leisurely undressing, thinking of her
impending marriage, when Maggy burst into the room, a Maggy whom she
scarcely recognized. She had not been much concerned at her absence
from the theater that night. She so often played truant.
Maggy reeled toward her. Alexandra caught her in her arms.
"Darling, what is it?" she cried in alarm.
Maggy clung to her like a terrified child.
"Lexie," she gasped, "am I too late? Am I too late? You haven't--Oh,
my God! Lexie, it isn't worth it. Men--"
And then she fainted. Alexandra got her on to the bed, loosened her
things, and called for Mrs. Bell. Together they managed to get a little
brandy between her lips. The landlady dabbed her face with a wet towel;
Alexandra held smelling salts to her nose, and presently she drew the
reluctant breath of returning consciousness.
"Please go now," Alexandra requested Mrs. Bell. "I'll look after her.
She shall stay with me to-night."
Mrs. Bell protested that she wanted to stop. Her _penchant_ for any form
of illness enchained her. She argued that she might be needed, and only
reluctantly left the room when Maggy opened her eyes and murmured a
request to be alone with her friend. She lay with her face against
Alexandra's shoulder, and then began to cry, weakly but uncontrollably.
"Lexie, I've been through Hell since I left you," she sobbed. "Suddenly
I remembered you and rushed to the theater and then on here. You
mustn't! Promise me you won't!"
"Never mind me, dear. Something has upset you. Won't you tell me? I
shall understand better then."
"Fred's left me," said Maggy in a cracked voice. "He's married! ...
Never trust a man, Lexie! Never trust a man! Keep straight if you
starve for it. Promise me you won't go off like I did. I've come to
_make_ you promise."
Pity kept Alexandra silent. To make that promise would involve an
avowal of her own happiness. How could she do that in face of the
misery in which her poor friend was sunk?
Maggy clutched at her hand.
"A ring!" she cried, fearfully. "On that finger--!"
"Oh, hush, dear! I--I'm quite safe. Believe me, Maggy."
"But what does it mean? You wouldn't wear a ring on that finger if--"
"Maggy, darling, it means that I'm going to be married."
Maggy sat up the better to look at her. One glance at Alexandra's
clear, illumined face told her that in some wondrously blest way her
future had been happily arranged. All thought of her own disaster
temporarily vanished in the joy she felt for the safety of her friend.
"That's all right," she said with a sigh of relief. "Lexie ... have you
got anything to eat?"