The sun slid over the edge of the sweating earth. Its red-hot plunge
into the sea behind the hills was almost audible. The black cloud,
fuming up from its setting-place, was as the steam of the collision. In
great clots and coils it rolled upwards, spreading as it thinned, till
it was a pall of vapour that sheeted all the lemon-coloured sky.
Suddenly a cold wind sprang up, raced down the silent heavens, and, by
way of Eastern Europe and the North Sea and the straight Roman road that
drives down England, tore along the Utterbridge byways, and into the
open window of Clare Hartill's parlour. A touch of its cold lips on her
hair, and brow, and breast, and it was out again, driving the dust
before it.
Clare shivered. She was very tired of waiting.... It was inexplicable
that Alwynne should be late; but Clare with a half laugh, promised
Alwynne to forego her scolding if she would but come.... The dusk and
the wind and the silence were getting on her nerves.... The tick of the
hall clock, for instance, was aggressive, insistent, maddening in its
precise monotony.... Oh, unbearable! With a gesture that was hysterical
in its abandonment, Clare rose suddenly and flung into the hall, plucked
open the clock door, and removed the pendulum. The released wire waggled
foolishly into silence, like an idiot, tongue a-loll.
As the quiet hunted Clare into her sitting-room again, a little silver
wire flickered down the sky like a scared snake, and for an instant she
saw herself reflected in a convex mirror, a Clare bleached and shining
and askew, like a St. Michael in a stained-glass window. Dusk and the
thunder followed. The storm was beginning.
Clare moved about restlessly. She disliked storms. Her eyes ached, and
she was cramped with waiting, and Alwynne had not come. She would, of
course.... That woman had detained her, purposely, no doubt, and now
there was the storm to delay her.... But Alwynne would come.... Clare
smiled securely.
Again the lightning whipped across the heavens, and thunder roared in
its wake.
Clare went to the window and watched the sky. The pane of glass was
grateful to her hot forehead. She was too tired, too bruised and shaken
by her own recent anger to arrange her thoughts, to pose for the moment,
even to herself--of all audiences the most critical. The interview with
Elsbeth Loveday rehearsed itself incessantly, pricking, probing,
bludgeoning, in crescendo of intonation, innuendo, open attack, to the
final triumphant insult. Triumphant, because true. The insult could cut
through her defences and strike at her very self, because it was true.
Her pride agonised. She had thought herself shrouded, invulnerable. And
yet Elsbeth, whom of all women she had reckoned negligible, had guessed,
had pitied.... Yet even her enemy was forgotten, as she sat and
shuddered at the wound dealt; plucked and shrank, and plucked again at
the arrow-tip rankling in it still.
The hours had passed in an evil mazement. But Alwynne was to come....
She thought of Alwynne with shifting passions of relief and longing and
sheer crude lust for revenge. Alwynne would come.... Alwynne would
soothe and comfort, intuitive, never waiting for the cry for help.
And Alwynne should pay.... Oho! Alwynne should pay Elsbeth's debts ...
should wince, and shrink, and whiten. _Scientific vivisection of one
nerve._ Wait a little, Alwynne!--Ah, Alwynne--the dearest--the
beloved--the light and laughter of one's life.... What fool is
whispering that Clare can hurt her?... Alwynne shall see when she comes,
who loves her.... There shall be a welcome, the royalest welcome she has
ever had.... For what in all the world has Clare but Alwynne, and
having Alwynne, has not Clare the world?
Ah, well.... Perhaps, she had not been always good to Alwynne....
To-day, for instance, she might have been kinder.... But Alwynne always
understood.... That was the comfort of Alwynne, that she always
understood.... Why didn't she come? Wasn't there an echo of a step far
down the street?
When Alwynne came, they would make plans.... It would not be easy to
wean the girl from her aunt, at least while they lived in the same town,
the same country.... But one could travel, could take Alwynne quite
away.... Italy.... Greece.... Egypt.... they would go round the world
together, shake off the school and all it stood for.... In a new world,
begin a new life.... Why not? She had money enough to burn.... It would
not be hard to persuade Alwynne, adventurous, infatuate.... Once gone,
Elsbeth might whistle for her niece.... They would talk it over
to-morrow ... to-night ... as soon as Alwynne came....
Was that thunder or a knocking? Rat-tat! Rat-tat! She had not been
mistaken after all.... Alwynne! Alwynne!
And Clare, with an appearance on her that even Alwynne had never seen,
ran like a child to open the door.
On the threshold stood a messenger boy, proffering a telegram. She took
it.
"Any answer, Miss!" for she had offered to close the door.
"Oh, of course!" She frowned, and pulled open the flimsy sheet.
The boy waited. He peered past her, interested in the odd pictures on
the walls, and the glimpse of a table luxuriously set. The minutes sped.
He had soon seen all he could, and began to fidget.
"Any answer, Miss?" he hinted.
"Oh!" said Clare vaguely. "Answer? No. No answer. No answer at all."
The boy knuckled his forehead and clattered away down the staircase.
Mechanically Clare shut the door, locked and bolted it and secured it
with the chain. Then she returned to the sitting-room and crossed to her
former station by the open window.
The storm was ending in a downpour of furious tropical rain. It beat in
unheeded upon her thin dress and bare neck and the open telegram in her
hands, as, with lips parted and a faint, puzzled pucker between her
brows, she conned over the message--
_I cannot come to-night.--I have gone to Dene. I am going to marry
Roger._
She read it and re-read, twisting it this way and that, for it was
barely visible in the wet dusk. It seemed an eternity before its full
meaning dawned upon her. And yet she had known all there was to know
when she confronted the messenger boy (Oh, Destiny is up to date) and
took her sentence from his grimy hand.
_I am going to marry Roger._
"Very well, Alwynne!" Clare flung up her head, up and back. Her face was
drowned in the shadows of the crimson curtain, but her neck caught the
last of the light, shone like old marble. The whole soul of her showed
for an instant in its defiant outline, in the involuntary pulsation that
quivered across its rigidity, in the uncontrollable flutter beneath the
chin.
The thin, capable fingers twisted and clenched over the sodden paper.
She moved at last, spoke into space. Passion, anger, and the cool
contempt of the school-mistress for a mutinous class, mingled
grotesquely in her voice.
"Very well, Alwynne! Just as you please, of course. There is no more to
be said." She tossed away the little ball of paper as she spoke.
She wandered aimlessly about the room; turned to her book-shelves after
a while, and stood a long time, pulling out volume after volume,
opening each at random, reading a page, closing the book again, letting
it slide from her hand, never troubling to replace it. She was tired at
last and turned to her writing-table.
It was piled high with exercise-books, and she corrected a couple before
she swept them also aside.
The rain had not faltered in its swishing downfall. It beat against the
panes, and on to the sill, and dripped down into a pool beneath the open
window.
"She will have to come back on Monday," said Clare suddenly. "She can't
go off like that. There's the school----" She broke off abruptly, as a
gust of wind soughed by.
_I cannot come. I have gone to Dene. I am going to marry Roger._ She
could hear Alwynne's voice in it, answering.
"But why?" cried Clare piteously. "Why? What is it? What have I done?"
"S'hush!" sighed the rain. "S'hush!"
"I loved her," cried Clare. "I loved her. What have I done?"
"S'hush!" sobbed the rain. "S'hush! S'hush!"
She turned to the darkening windows, and started, and shuddered away
again, stricken dumb and shaking. A pool of something red and wet was
spreading over the polished boards, and a thin trickle was stealing
forward to her feet.
Blood?
Fool.... The red of the curtains reflected, tingeing a pool of
rain-water.... Blood, nevertheless.... She had forgotten Louise.
What had Alwynne heard? A garbled version of that last interview? Fool
again--unless the dead can speak.... But Alwynne knew.... Something had
been revealed to her, suddenly, during their idle talk.... But when? But
how? She had come as a lover ... she had left as a stranger ... what in
any god's name, had she guessed? Clare's subconscious memory reproduced
for her instantly, with photographic accuracy, details of the scene that
she had not even known she had observed. Alwynne had changed, in an
instant, between a word and a reply.... What was it that Clare had
said--what trifling, teasing nothing, flung out in pure wantonness? But
Alwynne's face, her dear face, had become, for an instant--Clare
strained to the memory--as the face of Louise.... Louise had looked at
her like that, that other day.... What had they seen then, both of them?
Was she Gorgon to bring that look into their faces? Louise--yes--she
could understand Louise.... She did not care to think about Louise....
But Alwynne--what had she ever done to Alwynne? At least Alwynne might
tell her what she had done.... She would not submit to it.... She would
not be put aside.... She would at least have justice....
_I am going to marry Roger._
Useless! All useless! The struggle was over before she had known she was
fighting.... She knew that in Alwynne's life there was no longer any
part for her. And Clare had travelled far that evening, to phrase it
thus. Sharing was a strange word for her to use. But she recognised
dully that even sharing was out of her power. What had she to do with a
husband, and housewifery, and the bearing of children? Alwynne married
was Alwynne dead.
Alwynne in love.... Alwynne married.... Alwynne putting any living thing
before Clare! She broke into bitter laughter at the idea. What had
happened? What had Clare done or left undone? She realised grimly that
of this at least she might be sure--it had been her own doing.... No
influence could have wrought against her own.... Alwynne, at least, was
where she was, because Clare had sent her, not because another had
beckoned.... And that was the comfort she had stored up for herself, to
last her in the lean years to come....
What was the use of regretting?
Alwynne was gone.... Then forget her.... There were other fish in the
sea.... There was a promising class this term.... That child in the
Fourth.... She wondered if Alwynne had noticed her.... She must ask
Alwynne.... Alwynne had gone away, had gone to Dene, was going to marry
Roger....
Well, there was always work.... Where was that letter to Miss Marsham?
She moved stiffly in her seat, lit a candle, and drew towards her the
half-written sheet that lay open on the blotter. She re-read it.
_You will, I am sure, understand how much I appreciate your offer of the
partnership, but after much consideration I have decided_----
She hesitated, crossed out the _but_ and wrote an _and_ above it, and
continued--
--_to accept it. I will come to tea to-morrow, as you kindly suggest._
She finished the letter, signed it, stamped and addressed, and sat idle
at last, staring down at it.
The neat handwriting danced, and flickered, and grew dim.
With an awkward gesture she put her hands to her eyes, and brought them
away again, wet. She smiled at that, a twisted, mocking smile. She
supposed she was crying.... She did not remember ever having done such a
thing....
So her future was decided.... It was to be work and
loneliness--loneliness and work ... because, it seemed, she had no
friends left.... Yet Alwynne had promised many things.... What had she
done to Alwynne? What had she done?
She turned within herself and reviewed her life as she remembered it,
thought by thought, word by word, action by action. Faces rose about
her, whispering reminders, forgotten faces of the many who had loved
her: from her old nurse, dead long ago, to Louise, and Alwynne, and
foolish Olivia Pring.
The candle at her elbow flared and dribbled, and died at last with a
splutter and a gasp. She paid no heed.
When the dawn came, she was still sitting there, thinking--thinking.
_March 1914--September 1915._
THE END
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
* * * * *
Transcriber's Note:
Punctuation and formatting markup have been normalized.
"_" surrounding text represents italics.
Apparent printer's errors have been retained, unless stated below.
Page 22, "critise" changed to "criticise". ("Excuse me, Miss Vigers, but
I hardly see that it is your business to criticise my way of teaching.")
Page 26, "inacessible" changed to "inaccessible". (Miss Hartill, who had
been, indeed, surrounded, inaccessible, from the instant of her entrance
until the prayer bell rang, did not look her way a second time.)
Page 29, "Tallyerand" changed to "Talleyrand".
(Marengo--Talleyrand--never heard of 'em!)
Page 30, "returned" changed to "return". (But to return to Napoleon and
the Lower Third----)
Page 31, "warned" changed to "warmed". (And how it warmed the cockles of
one's heart to her!)
Page 43, "all all" changed to "all". (Clare thanked the gods of her
unbelief, and, relaxing all effort, settled herself to enjoy to the full
the cushioning sense of security;)
Page 47, "shouldnt'" changed to "shouldn't". (Well, I thought I
shouldn't get it done under forty--an essay on _The Dark Tower_.)
Page 83, "scretly" changed to "secretly". (and she would pay any price
for apple-wood, ostensibly for the quality of its flame, secretly for
the mere pleasure of burning fuel with so pleasant a name;)
Page 88, "a a" changed to "a". (She could not believe in simplicity
combined with brains: a simple soul was necessarily a simpleton in her
eyes.)
Page 89, "negligble" changed to "negligible". (So that negligible and
mouse-like woman had been aware--all along ...)
Page 100, "eucalyplyptus" changed to "eucalyptus". (Before the evening
was over Alwynne reeked of eucalyptus.)
Page 108, "Clarke" changed to "Clare". ("Of course not," said Clare,
with grave sympathy.)
Page 135, "Louise's" changed to "Clare's". (And Alwynne's eyes grew big,
and she forgot all about Louise, as Clare's "loveliest voice" read out
the rhyme of _The River_.)
Page 152, "Cnythia" changed to "Cynthia". ("And yet it bores her
too----" parenthesised Cynthia shrewdly.)
Page 155, "Wail" changed to "Wait". ("Wait till you get a best boy.")
Page 186, "then" changed to "them". ("You begin by being heavenly to
people--and then you tantalise them.")
Page 250, "phrase" changed to "phase". (Elsbeth, not unused to
disillusionment and hopes deferred, could sigh and smile and acquiesce,
knowing it for the phase that it was and forgiving Alwynne in advance.)
Page 370, "so" changed to "to". (She had only to say, quite quietly,
that she must do what she felt to be right....)
Page 413, "Alwyne" changed to "Alwynne". (She thought of Alwynne with
shifting passions of relief and longing and sheer crude lust for
revenge.)