Maggy intended making for Covent Garden. She had once seen it in the
early hours after a fancy-dress ball to which Woolf had taken her, and
she had marked the leviathan motor-lorries, freighted with perishable
produce, converging on it. She meant to end her troubles under the
wheels of one of these. The drug had failed her because of her
ignorance of the fatal dose. This would be a sure and decisive way. In
her dream it had seemed so feasible.
There would be something fitting in such an end. The very monstrousness
of the ponderous vehicle was symbolical of the violence of the feeling
that she had had for Woolf, the strength of passion that had drawn her
to him. Her spirit had succumbed to strength and violence: strength and
violence should annihilate her body.
The deserted streets were very silent. Maggy wandered along them,
insensibly diverging from her route. She was thinking dully of a scene
that long ago had made a dreadful impression on her mind. It had been a
disconnected incident at the time: now its significance was almost
personal. She had once seen a number of dogs pursuing a small mongrel,
typical of the ownerless cur that gets its living in the streets. It
was looking over its shoulder, heedless of the traffic. A motor-lorry
came along at top speed. The mongrel made an unexpected dart across its
track. There was an agonizing yelp, suddenly cut short; and though
Maggy had quickly averted her eyes she had not been able to avoid
witnessing the canine tragedy.
A shudder went through her at the recollection of it, a shudder of pity
for the dog, not of apprehension for herself. She was too wretched to
feel fear; but she was very weary and to some extent stupefied. When,
therefore, she found herself in Portland Place instead of Covent Garden
she was indifferent at having wandered in the wrong direction. She
hardly met a soul. It was too late for night-prowlers and still too
early for those who steal a march upon the day's work. An occasional
policeman was all she came across. One flashed his lantern in her face,
but satisfied by the serious look on it and her appearance generally,
took no further notice of her.
It seemed to her that she had been walking interminably before the
silence of the streets was broken by any sound of traffic. She had
crossed the top of Regent Street, gone on due west by Cavendish Square
and Wigmore Street, and was now in one of the turnings that give on
Great Cumberland Place. At the corner a lighted doorway and an awning
over the pavement told of a dance in progress. One or two carriages and
a motor car were drawn up before the house. She did not look up as she
passed it, but she slackened her pace when it was behind her, for she
had heard the sound of a heavy vehicle. A slowly-moving van drawn by
horses lumbered across the top of the turning. There surely she would
find her _coup de grace_!
She stood in Great Cumberland Place, listening. The faint rumble of the
morning traffic coming along Edgware and Bayswater Roads was audible
now. Presently it was silenced by a nearer sound, the reverberation of
machinery. It was coming at last. She kept on the edge of the pavement
waiting and listening, trying to discern the advancing monster. The
clank and rattle of it filled the wide street with stridulous echoes.
She moved into the roadway, telling herself that she must make no
mistake, give it no chance of avoiding her. She stood still, nerving
herself for the moment of impact. It was very close now; its noise
deafened her; a breath of hot metal filled her nostrils....
_Now!_
She stood poised, her body bent forward ready for the spring; and at
that moment a heavy hand fell on her, jerked her roughly back and held
her while the motor-lorry thundered by.
"Let me go!" she muttered thickly, pulling ineffectually against a
uniformed arm.
"No, that I shan't," was the firm rejoinder. "Trying to do for yourself,
eh?"
"I was crossing the road," she gasped, maddened by this second defeat.
The stars in their courses seemed to be fighting against her. Why
should they prevent her taking her worthless life? And now, to add to
her inflictions, she was in the grip of a policeman. She would be
charged, cautioned, watched, so that another attempt would be well-nigh
impossible. Besides, she wanted to make it now, while the madness was
upon her.
"Crossing the road," she repeated. "Here comes a gentleman. He must
have seen me. He'll believe me, if you won't."
She said it to gain time, in the hope that the policeman would relax his
hold, so that she might run away. But though he took her suggestion, he
gave her no chance of escaping.
"Beg pardon, sir, did you witness this young lady step off the pavement
sudden-like in front of that there lorry?" he inquired.
The pedestrian, thus addressed, came to a stop. Maggy stared at him.
The street lamp at the corner was behind him. But while she stared a
motor car slipped past, the beam of its headlights full on his face, and
she caught her breath as their eyes met--hers and Chalfont's. He was
clearly too astonished to speak.
"He--the constable--thinks I was going to commit suicide, I believe,"
said Maggy, conjuring up a laugh that made Chalfont shiver. "It's
fortunate you came along, Lord Chalfont. Please assure him I'm much too
level-headed to do anything like that. I--I'm on my way home."
No part of her statement convinced him, but he took care that neither
she nor the policeman should see that.
"So am I," he said in the most ordinary tone. "This lady is a friend of
mine, constable. Here's my card. You've erred a little on the side of
discretion, but that's excusable considering how dark it is. I'll see
her home myself. Good morning."
The policeman looked at the card and then touched his hat.
"Very well, m'lord. I apologize to the young lady for the mistake. At
this hour of the night if we're not very careful--"
"That's all right," said Chalfont.
He took Maggy's arm, holding it almost as tightly as the policeman had
done, and walked her on in the direction of the Marble Arch.
"Thank you," she said in a subdued tone when they had gone a dozen
paces. "Now I can manage to--to go on by myself."
"I don't think so," he rejoined sternly. "What are you doing, wandering
about at this time of night?"
"I--I might as well ask you the same question."
"I can answer it. I have just left a friend's house--a late
affair--fortunately for you."
"Why fortunately for me?" she asked, trying to assume an air of innocent
resentment. "You're making too much fuss about a mistake in crossing the
street."
He stopped, still holding her, compelling her to look at him.
"Maggy, are you going to tell me lies?"
"No," she choked, lowering her head.
"Then--" Chalfont did not proceed with what he was about to say. A
taxi was passing and he hailed it. "I'll take you to your flat," he
said.
"No, not there! I'm never going there again!" she cried, drawing back.
That she had some potent reason for that decision was evident to him.
He did not ask her what it was. He guessed it.
"In that case," he said, "you must come to my house. I'm not going to
leave you."
His determined tone put a stop to her spirit of rebelliousness.
Passively she got into the cab and sat silent in its obscurity. When it
stopped Chalfont opened his door with a latchkey. His servants had gone
to bed, but in the room where Maggy had breakfasted with him there were
sandwiches and consomme. He helped her to some of this, and she, beyond
resistance now, took it. Then she shrank into the depths of the big
chair which he had drawn up to the fire for her. She was unconscious of
the tears of weakness that were welling from her eyes. Her hair had
come down and was tumbled over her shoulders. Emotion had played havoc
with her face.
Chalfont, watching her, was stirred by feelings that had their birth in
pity. If they were gathering force, changing into others more personal,
more tender, there was nothing of disloyalty to the memory of the dead
woman on whom he had once lavished great affection.
"Maggy," he said quietly, "he has left you."
She lifted heavy eyes.
"How--how did you know?"
"I thought it would come."
A dry sob broke from her. Then she said: "He really was on his
honeymoon.... Did you know?"
"No. But a few days ago I heard something.... I knew he was very thick
with Cantire. I saw it coming."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"How could I?"
"No; I see.... I had to find out for myself.... Well, it's finished
now." She stared blankly in front of her.
"Do you care so terribly?" he asked, after a pause.
She shook her head. "That's dead, I think. Everything's dead except
myself, and I want to be. I can't stand it: the hardness--and the
loneliness."
"I thought you were brave."
"Not when I don't want to be."
"I'm lonely too," he said; "but I haven't turned my back on life, partly
because your advice helped me when I was feeling very down. Don't you
think suicide is rather a craven thing?"
"Perhaps.... I shall have to go on living now, I suppose," she admitted
dully. "Oh, damn that policeman! I should have been pulp by this time!
That's the second failure. I took laudanum this afternoon, and was only
sick."
Chalfont went over to her chair, sat on its arm-rest and took one of her
hands.
"Don't you think we have something in common?" he said, and waited for a
reply that should warrant him speaking more definitely.
She rested her head against his shoulder like one who is spent.
"You make me feel peaceful," she murmured. "I wish you would give me
some poison and let me die while you held me."
"You tragic person!" He tried to speak lightly. "You'll laugh at
yourself, later on.... I want you to live."
"I'll live," she consented. "It's only a matter of breathing."
"You must promise me that--and something else."
"All right. What's the else?" Her voice was unutterably tired.
"Everything, in effect. I'm not good at explaining, but, first of all,
I want you to understand that I honor you."
Maggy sat bolt upright. Two fierce spots of color came into her cheeks.
"Also," he continued, "that from the beginning, ever since I first met
you, even when you made that admission about--him, I always thought of
you apart from him, as Maggy--the nice girl."
"Maggy--the nice girl!" she echoed in wonder.
"When you came down to Purton Towers I seemed to see you as belonging
there. Even after you had gone I felt that."
"But--how could I belong to Purton Towers?" she asked in a wondering
voice.
"By marrying me," he said very deliberately.
She looked at him blankly for a few seconds.
"Marry you!" she faltered. "_Me_--marry you?"
"Suppose," he went on, "suppose I said I needed you? I do say it. I
believe that we can bring something into each other's lives that at
present is missing, and perhaps always has been. We should, at any rate,
be very perfect friends. That would be something."
All her face lit up. Her lips quivered.
"What an idea! Me and you! At breakfast, at dinner--always.... Purton
Towers, and me--your wife! Oh, you dear, I do believe you mean it! As
if I could! But I tell you what: let me live in a little cottage in the
grounds and sell eggs!"
"Oh, Maggy, you child!" he said tenderly.
Her eyes brimmed over. She took his hand and kissed it.
"Thank you so much," she said. "But it's--it's not in the picture.
What sort of a wife should I make? No, it wouldn't do.... And there
are other reasons."
"Ada Lambert?" he asked gently. "Is that one of them? I loved her as a
young man loves the first good woman who comes into his life. I don't
think I do her any disloyalty."
"No, it's not that. What difference could that make? If I could I
would make you happy because you lost her. It's me. I don't come from
a good man. I wouldn't let any one say that except myself. I loathe
what he's done to me and the way he's treated me. But I've loved him.
There's something I gave him I can never get back. It's strange: though
I never want to hear of him or see him again, I don't want anything bad
to happen to him. I should be sorry."
"I understand," nodded Chalfont. "But it need not stand between you and
me, Maggy. We should start fair."
The ghost of a smile flickered on her lips.
"Think of the racket there would be in the papers about us! You would
be ashamed. And I'm not worth it, really. 'Another peer weds actress.
Romance of the stage. The third this season. Below we append other
instances of brilliant marriages of stage beauties.' Think of it!"
"I fancy we could keep it out of the papers," he said. "We would be
married in the country--in church."
"In church!" Her eyes grew misty. "You would--go to church with me?
Oh, my dear, that would be more of my dream coming true, like the cedar
trees and the cows!"
"It's going to come true," declared Chalfont.
She held him away from her.
"Don't tempt me. It's not the title. That's only--funny. Me, my lady!
What tempts me is the thought of being with you in that place where my
heart is."
"My home?"
She nodded, appeared to be considering.
"There is this," she said. "If I married you I would do my best to try
and be a lady--not vulgar. I think, after a little, it would come
easy.... You said we should be perfect friends; but suppose--suppose I
couldn't help loving you?"
"I was asking myself if that would come about--hoping it. In my case it
is an eventuality not very remote."
His very quietness impressed her. She knew he was not demonstrative,
yet behind every word he spoke the intensity of his feelings was
manifest to her. She had to fight hard to keep in check the ferment of
emotion he had stirred in her. She picked up her hat from the chair
where she had been sitting on it.
"It might have been more crushed," she said quaintly, but with a meaning
that had a hint of tragedy averted in it. She went to a mirror and
began arranging her tumbled hair. "I must go back to Lexie. I stole
out while she was asleep. Perhaps I shall get there before she wakes
up."
"I'll take you," he said. "Only--aren't you going to give me an answer
first, Maggy?"
She made a last desperate and unsuccessful effort at calmness.
"Yes--but I'm not worth having," she sobbed and collapsed in a crumpled
heap at his feet. "Don't stop me!" she gasped, waving him away. "Let
me--_burst_!"
And Chalfont stood where he was, waiting while her pent-up feelings
exhausted themselves in a flood of choking tears, until she should be
ready for him. Presently her sobs ceased. She struggled to her knees;
her hands were clasped; her face, with a faint presage of happiness upon
it, was turned to the window where the dawn of a new morning glimmered.
Her lips moved. She was murmuring something beneath her breath. "What
are you saying, dear?" he asked gently. "I--I think I'm saying my
prayers," she answered huskily.
There, on her knees, with her hair still hanging in disorder, the tears
drying on her face, thanksgiving and humility in her heart, she repeated
the words of her rhymed creed, with a reverence that surely gave it the
consecration of a prayer.
"All's well with the world, my friend,
And there isn't an ache that lasts;
All troubles will have an end,
And the rain and the bitter blasts.
There is sleep when the evil is done,
There's substance beneath the foam;
And the bully old yellow sun will shine
Till the cows come home!"
She held out her arms to Chalfont.
"Lift me up," she whispered.