IN THE CORNER
Christine had neither desire to avoid nor strength to refuse the
encounter. Her emotions had been stirred by what she had seen at Kate
Raymore's; they demanded some expression. Her heart went forth to a
friend, forgetting any bitterness which attached to the friendship. The
old attraction claimed her. When Caylesham said that it was quite dark
and there was no reason why he should not escort her, she agreed
readily, and was soon babbling to him about Eva and Jeremy. She put her
arm in his, talked merrily, and seemed very young and fresh as she
turned her face up to his and joked fondly about the young people. None
of the embarrassment which had afflicted her visit to his flat hung
about her now. She had somebody she could talk to freely at last, and
was happy in his society. It was a holiday--with a holiday's
irresponsibility about it. He understood her mood; he was always quick
to understand at the time, though very ready to forget what the feeling
must have been and what it must continue to be when he had gone. He
shared her tenderness, her pity, and her amusement at the youthful
venturers. They talked gaily for a quarter of an hour, Christine not
noticing which way they went. Then a pause came.
"Are we going right?" she asked.
"Well, not quite straight home," he laughed.
"Oh, but we must," she said with a sigh. He nodded and took a turn
leading more directly to her house.
"I hear things are much better with John. I met Grantley and he told me
they were in much better shape."
"Thanks to Grantley Imason and you. Yes, and you."
"I was very glad to do it. Oh, it's nothing. I can trust old John, you
know."
"Yes; he'll pay you back. Still it was good of you." She lifted her eyes
to his. "He knows, Frank," she said.
"The devil he does!" Caylesham was startled and smiled wryly.
"I don't know why I told you that. I suppose I had to talk to somebody.
Yes; Harriet Courtland told him--you remember she knew? He made her
angry by lecturing her about Tom, and she told him."
"He knows, by Jove, does he?" He pulled at his moustache; she pressed
his arm lightly. "But, I say, he's taken the money!" He looked at her in
a whimsical perplexity.
"So you may imagine what it is to me."
"But he's taken the money!"
"How could he refuse it? It would have meant ruin. Oh, he didn't know
when he sent me to you--he'd never have done that."
"But he knew when he kept it?"
"Yes, he knew then. He couldn't let it go when once he'd got it, you
see. Poor old John!"
"Well, that's a rum thing!" Caylesham's code was infringed by John's
action--that was plain: but his humour was tickled too. "How did
he--well, how did he take it?"
"Awful!" she answered with a shiver.
"But I say, you know, he kept the money, Christine."
"That makes no difference--or makes it worse. Oh, I can't tell you!"
"It doesn't make it worse for you anyhow. It gives you the whip hand,
doesn't it?"
She did not heed him; she was set on pouring out her own story.
"It's dreadful at home, Frank. Of course I oughtn't to talk to you _of_
all people. But I've had two months and more of it now."
"He's not unkind to you?"
"If he was, what do I deserve? Oh, don't be fierce. He doesn't throw
things at me, like Harriet Courtland, or beat me. But I----" She burst
into a little laugh. "I'm stood in the corner all the time, Frank."
"Poor old Christine!"
"He won't be friends. He keeps me off. I never touch his hand, or
anything."
A long-dormant jealousy stirred in Caylesham.
"Well, do you want to?" he asked rather brusquely.
"Oh, that's all very well, but imagine living like that! There's nobody
to speak to. I'm in disgrace. He doesn't talk about it, but he talks
round it, you know. Sometimes he forgets for five minutes. Then I say
something cheerful. Then he remembers and--and sends me back to my
corner." Her rueful laugh was not far from a sob. "It's awfully
humiliating," she ended, "and--and most frightfully dull."
"But how can he----?"
"One good scene would have been so much more endurable. But all day and
every day!"
Caylesham was amused, vexed, exasperated.
"But, good heavens, it's not as if it was an ordinary case. Remember
what he's done! Why do you stand it?"
"How can I help it? I did the thing, didn't I?"
His voice rose a little in his impatience.
"But he's taken my money. He's living on it. It's saved him. By gad, how
can he say anything to you after that? Haven't you got your answer? Why
don't you remind him gently of that?"
"That would hurt him so dreadfully."
"Well, doesn't he hurt you?"
"He'd never be friends with me again."
"He doesn't seem particularly friendly now."
"I feel quite friendly to him. I want to be friends."
"It does you credit then," he said with a sneer.
She pressed his arm lightly again, pleading against his anger and his
unwonted failure to understand.
"It would be an end of all hope if I threw the money in his teeth. He's
unhappy enough about it as it is." She looked up as she added: "I've got
to live with him, you know, Frank."
Caylesham gave her a curious quick glance.
"Got to live with him?"
"Yes; all my life," she answered. "I suppose you hadn't thought of
that?"
It was not the sort of thing which Caylesham was in the habit of
thinking about, but he tried to follow her view.
"Yes, of course. It would be better to be friends. But you shouldn't let
him get on stilts. It's absurd, after what he's done. I mean--I mean
he's done a much queerer thing than you have."
"Poor old John! How could he help it?"
He glanced at her sharply and was about to speak, when she cried, "Why,
where are we? I didn't notice where we were going."
"We're just outside my rooms. Come in for a bit."
"No, I can't come in. I'm late now, and--and--really I'm ashamed to tell
even you. Well, I'm always questioned where I've been. I have to give an
account of every place. I have to stand with my hands behind me and give
an account of all my movements, Frank."
He whistled gently and compassionately.
"Like a schoolgirl!"
"How well you follow the metaphor, Frank! So I can't come in. I'll go
home. No, don't you come."
"I'll come a bit farther with you. Oh, it's quite dark."
"Well, not arm in arm!"
"But doesn't that look more respectable?"
"You're entirely incurable," she said, with her old pleasure in him all
revived.
"It's infernal nonsense," he went on. "Just you stand up for yourself.
It's absolute humbug in him. He's debarred himself from taking up any
such attitude--just as much as he has from making any public row about
it. Hang it, he can't have it both ways, Christine!"
"I've got to live with him, Frank."
"Oh, you said that before."
"And I'm very fond of him."
"What?" He turned to her in a genuine surprise and an obvious vexation.
"Yes, very. I always was. We used to spar, but we were good friends. We
don't spar now; I wish we did. It's just iciness. But I'm very fond of
him."
"Of course, if you feel like that----"
"I always felt like that, even--even long ago. I used to tell you I did.
I suppose you thought that humbug."
"Well, it wouldn't have been very strange if I had."
"No, I suppose not. It must have looked like that. But it was true--and
it is true. The only thing I've got left to care much about in life is
getting to be friends with John again--and I don't suppose I ever
shall." Her voice fairly broke for a moment. "That's what upset me so
much when I saw those silly children at Kate Raymore's."
Caylesham looked at her. There was a roguish twinkle in his eye, but he
patted her hand in a very friendly sympathy.
"I say, old John's cut me out after all!" he whispered.
"You're scandalous! You always were," she said, smiling. "The way you
put things was always disreputable. Yes, it was, Frank. But no; it's not
poor old John who's cut you out--or at least it's John in a particular
capacity. Life's cut you out--John as life. John, as life, has cut you
out of my life--and now I've got to live with John, you see."
Caylesham screwed up his mouth ruefully. Things certainly seemed to
shape that way. She had to live with John. John's conduct might be
unreasonable and unjustifiable, but people who must be lived with
frequently presume on that circumstance and behave as they would not
venture to behave if living with them were optional. John really had not
a leg to stand on, if it came to an argument. But arguing with people
you have to live with does not conduce to the comfort of living with
them--especially if you get the better of the argument. He was
exceedingly sorry for Christine, but he didn't see any way out of it for
her.
"Of course there's a funny side to it," she said with a little laugh.
"Oh, yes, there is," he admitted. "But it's deuced rough luck on you."
"Everything's deuced rough luck." She mimicked his tone daintily. "And I
don't suppose it's ever anything worse with you, Frank! It was deuced
rough luck ever meeting you, you know. And so it was that John wanted
money and sent me to you. And that Harriet's got a temper, and, I
suppose, that we've got to be punished for our sins." She took her arm
out of his--she had slipped it in again while she talked about John as
life. "And here I am, just at home, and--and the corner's waiting for
me, Frank."
"I'm devilish sorry, Christine."
"Yes, I'm sure you are. You always meant to be kind. Frank, if ever I do
make friends with John, be glad, won't you?"
"I think he's behaved like a----"
"Hush, hush! You've always been prosperous--and you've never been good."
She laughed and took his hand. "So don't say anything against poor old
John."
"I tell you what--you're a brick, Christine. Well, good-bye, my dear."
"Good-bye, Frank. I'm glad I met you. I've got some of it out, haven't
I? Don't worry--well, no, you won't--and if I succeed, do try to be
glad. And never a word to show John that I've told you he knows!"
"I shall do just as you like about that. Good-bye, Christine."
He left her a few yards from her house, and she stood by the door
watching his figure till it disappeared in the dark. He had done her so
much harm. He was not a good friend. But he was good to talk to, and
very kind in his indolent, careless way. If you recalled yourself to
him, he was glad to see you and ready to be talked to. A moment of
temptation came upon her--the temptation to throw up everything, as Tom
Courtland had thrown everything up, to abandon the hard task, to give up
trying for the only thing she wanted. But Caylesham had given her no
such invitation. He did not want her--that was the plain English of
it--and she did not want him in the end either. She had loved the thing
and still loved the memory of it; but she did not desire it again,
because in it there was no peace. She wanted a friend--and John would
not be one. Nobody wanted her--except John; and because he wanted her,
he was so hard to her. But Frank Caylesham had been in his turn too hard
on John. She was the only person who could realise John's position and
make allowances for him. Yet all the light died out of her face as she
entered her home.
John was waiting for her. His mind was full of how well things were
going in the City. In the old days this would have been one of their
merry, happy, united evenings. He would have told her of his success,
and "stood" a dinner and a play, and brought her home in the height of
glee and good companionship, laughing at her sharp sayings, and admiring
her dainty little face. All this was just what he wanted to do now, and
his life was as arid as hers for want of the comradeship. But he would
not forgive; it seemed neither possible nor self-respecting. That very
weak point in his case, with which Caylesham had dealt so trenchantly,
made him a great stickler for self-respect; nothing must be
done--nothing more--to make her think that he condoned her offence or
treated it lightly. It was part of her punishment to hear nothing of the
renewed prosperity in the City, to know nothing of his thoughts or his
doings, to be locked out of his heart. This was one side; the other was
that obligation to make full disclosure of all she did, and of how her
time was spent. She must be made to feel the thing in these two ways
every day. Yet he considered that he was treating her very mercifully;
he was anxious to do that, because he was all the time in his heart
afraid that she would throw Caylesham's money--the money which was
bringing the renewed prosperity--in his face.
She faced the punishment with her usual courage and her unfailing
humour. There was open irony in the minuteness with which she catalogued
her day's doings; she did not sit down, but stood on the other side of
his writing-table, upright, and with her hands actually behind
her--because she liked the schoolgirl parallel which Caylesham had
drawn. John saw the humour and felt the irony, but he was helpless. She
did what she was told; he could not control the manner in which she did
it.
"And then I walked home--yes, walked. Didn't take a bus, or a tram, or a
steam-engine. I just walked on my two legs, going about three miles an
hour, and oh, yes, taking one wrong turn, which makes me five minutes
later than I ought to be. Quite a respectable turn--just out of the way,
that's all. May I go and get myself some tea?"
He did so want to tell her about the successes in the City. And in fact
he admired the courage and liked the irony. They were her own, and of
her. Doing justice was very hard, with that provoking dainty face at
once resenting and mocking at it. But justice must be done; his
grievance should not be belittled.
"I'm not stopping you getting yourself tea. Is it a crime to ask where
my wife's been?"
"It's mere prudence, I'm sure. Only what makes you think I should tell
you the truth?"
She had her tea now--a second tea--and was sipping it leisurely.
"At any rate I know your account, and if I heard anything different----"
"That's the method? I see." Her tone softened. "Don't let's quarrel.
What's the good? Had a good day in the City?"
"Just like other days," grunted John.
"Nothing particular?"
"No."
"There never is now, is there?"
He made no answer. Opening the evening paper, he began to read it.
Christine knew what that meant. Saving what was unavoidable, he would
talk no more to her that evening.
The wound to her vanity, her thwarted affection, her sense of the
absurdity of such a way of living together, all combined to urge her to
take Caylesham's view of the position, and to act upon it--to make the
one reply, the one defence, which was open to her. The very words which
she would use came into her mind as she sat opposite to John at dinner.
Living on Caylesham's generosity--it would be scarcely an exaggeration
to say that. And from what motive came the bounty? It would not be hard
to find words--stinging words--to define that. John could have no answer
to them; they must shame him to the soul. At every sullen short word, at
every obstinate punitive silence, the temptation grew upon her. Knowing
that she knew all, how could he have the effrontery to behave in this
fashion? She steeled herself to the fight, she was ready for it by the
time dinner was done and they were left alone, John sitting in glum
muteness as he drank his port, Christine in her smart evening frock,
displaying a prettiness which won no approving glances now. It was
insufferable--she would do it!
Ah, but poor old John! He had been through so many worries, he had so
narrowly escaped dire calamity. He had been forced into a position so
terrible. And they had been through so many things together; they had
been comrades in fair and foul weather. What would be the look in his
eyes when he heard that taunt from her? He would say little, since there
would be little to say--but he would give her a look of such hopeless
fierce misery. No; in the end she was responsible for the thing, and she
must bear the burden of it. Caylesham's view might be the man's view,
perhaps the right view for a man to take. It could not be the woman's;
the wife was not justified in looking at it like that. No, she couldn't
do it.
But neither could she go on living like this. Her eyes rested
thoughtfully on him. He was looking tired and old. Poor old John! He
wanted livening up, some merriment, a little playful petting to which he
might respond in his roughly jocose, affectionately homely fashion--with
his "old girl" and "old lady" and so on. He never called her "old girl"
now. Would she hate it as much now? She longed for it extraordinarily,
since it would mark happiness and forgetfulness in him. But it seemed as
if she would never hear it again. Suddenly she broke out with a
passionate question:
"Are we to live like this always?"
He did not seem startled; he answered slowly and ponderously; "What have
you to complain of? Do I say anything? Do I reproach you? Have I made a
row? Look at what I might have done! Some people would think you were
very lucky."
"It makes you miserable as well as me."
"You should have thought of all that before."
He took out a cigar and lit it, then turned his chair half-way round
from the table, and began to read his paper again. Christine could not
bear it; she began to sob softly. He took no visible notice of her; his
eyes were fixed on a paragraph and he was reading it over and over
again, not following in the least what it meant. She rose and walked
towards the door; he remained motionless. She came back towards him in a
hesitating way.
"I want to speak to you," she said, choking down her sobs and regaining
composure.
He looked up now. There was fear in his eyes, a hunted look which went
to her heart. At the least invitation she would have thrown herself on
her knees by him and sought every means to comfort him. She was thinking
only of him now, and had forgotten Caylesham's gay attractiveness. And
in face of that look in his eyes she could not say a word about
Caylesham's money.
"I'm going away for a little while, John. I'm going to ask Sibylla to
let me come down to Milldean for a bit."
"What do you want to go away for?"
"A change of air," she answered, smiling derisively. "I can't bear this,
you know. It's intolerable--and it's absurd."
"Am I to blame for it?"
"I'm not talking about who's to blame. But I must go away."
"How long do you want to stay away?"
"Till you want me back--till you ask me to come back." He looked at her
questioningly. "It must be one thing or the other," she went on.
"It's for me to decide what it shall be."
"Yes; which of the two possible things. It's for you to decide that. But
this state of things isn't possible. If you don't want me back, well, we
must make arrangements. If you ask me to come back, you'll mean that you
want to forget all this wretchedness and be really friends." Her feeling
broke out. "Yes, friends again," she repeated, holding her arms out
towards him.
"You seem to think things are very easily forgotten," he growled.
"God knows I don't think so," she said. "Do you really think that's what
I've learnt from life, John?"
"At any rate I've got to forget them pretty easily!"
She would not trust herself to argue lest in the heat of contention that
one forbidden weapon should leap into her hand.
"We can neither of us forget. But there's another thing," she said.
He would not give up his idea, his theory of what she deserved and of
what morality demanded.
"You may go for a visit. I shall expect you back in two or three weeks."
"Not back to this," she insisted.
He shrugged his shoulders and held the paper up between them.
"If you don't want me back, well, I shall understand that. But I shan't
come back to this." She walked to the door, and looked back; she could
not see his face for the paper. She made a little despairing movement
with her hands, but turned away again without saying more, and stole
quietly out of the room.
John Fanshaw dashed his paper to the ground and sprang to his feet. He
gave a long sigh. He had been in mortal terror--he thought she was going
to talk about the money. That peril was past. He flung his hardly
lighted cigar into the grate and walked up and down the room in a frenzy
of unhappiness. Yes, that peril was past--she had said nothing. But he
knew it was in her heart; and he knew how it must appear to her.
Heavens, did it not appear like that to him? But she should never know
that he felt like that about it. That would be to give up his grievance,
to abandon his superiority, to admit that there was little or nothing to
choose between them,--between her, the sinner, and him, who profited by
the sin, whose salvation the sin had been, who knew it had been his
salvation and had accepted salvation from it. No, no; he must never
acknowledge that. He must stick to his position. It was monstrous to
think he would own that his guilt was comparable to hers.
He sank back into his chair again and looked round the empty room. He
thought of Christine upstairs, alone too. What a state of things! "Why
did she? My God, why did she?" he muttered, and then fell to lashing
himself once more into a useless fury, pricking his anger lest it should
sleep, setting imagination to work on recollection, torturing himself,
living again through the time of her treachery, elaborating all his
grievance--lest by chance she should seem less of a sinner than before,
lest by chance his own act should loom too large, lest by chance he
might be weak and open his heart and find forgiveness for his wife and
comrade.
"By God, she had no excuse!" he muttered, striking the table with his
fist. "And I--why, the thing was settled before I knew. It was settled,
I say!" Then he thought that if things went on doing well he would be
able to pay Caylesham sooner than the letter of his bond demanded. Then,
when he had paid Caylesham off--ah, then the superiority would be in no
danger, there would be no taunt to fear. Why, yes, he would pay
Caylesham off quite soon. Because things were going so well. Now to-day,
in the City, what a stroke he had made! If he were to tell Christine
that----! For a moment he smiled, thinking how she would pat his cheek
and say, "Clever old John!" in her pretty half-derisive way; how she
would----
He broke off with a groan. No; by heaven, he'd tell her nothing. His
life was nothing to her--thanks to what she'd done--to what she had
done. Oh, he did well to be angry!--Even to think of what she had
done----!
So he struggled, lest perchance forgiveness and comradeship should win
the day.