She refused to go to her work at Adams’s any more. Her father had to
submit and she sent in her notice—she was not well. Sam Adams was
ironical. But he had a curious patience. He did not fight.
In a few weeks, she and Whiston were married. She loved him with
passion and worship, a fierce little abandon of love that moved him to
the depths of his being, and gave him a permanent surety and sense of
realness in himself. He did not trouble about himself any more: he felt
he was fulfilled and now he had only the many things in the world to
busy himself about. Whatever troubled him, at the bottom was surety. He
had found himself in this love.
They spoke once or twice of the white stocking.
“Ah!” Whiston exclaimed. “What does it matter?”
He was impatient and angry, and could not bear to consider the matter.
So it was left unresolved.
She was quite happy at first, carried away by her adoration of her
husband. Then gradually she got used to him. He always was the ground
of her happiness, but she got used to him, as to the air she breathed.
He never got used to her in the same way.
Inside of marriage she found her liberty. She was rid of the
responsibility of herself. Her husband must look after that. She was
free to get what she could out of her time.
So that, when, after some months, she met Sam Adams, she was not quite
as unkind to him as she might have been. With a young wife’s new and
exciting knowledge of men, she perceived he was in love with her, she
knew he had always kept an unsatisfied desire for her. And, sportive,
she could not help playing a little with this, though she cared not one
jot for the man himself.
When Valentine’s day came, which was near the first anniversary of her
wedding day, there arrived a white stocking with a little amethyst
brooch. Luckily Whiston did not see it, so she said nothing of it to
him. She had not the faintest intention of having anything to do with
Sam Adams, but once a little brooch was in her possession, it was hers,
and she did not trouble her head for a moment how she had come by it.
She kept it.
Now she had the pearl ear-rings. They were a more valuable and a more
conspicuous present. She would have to ask her mother to give them to
her, to explain their presence. She made a little plan in her head. And
she was extraordinarily pleased. As for Sam Adams, even if he saw her
wearing them, he would not give her away. What fun, if he saw her
wearing his ear-rings! She would pretend she had inherited them from
her grandmother, her mother’s mother. She laughed to herself as she
went down town in the afternoon, the pretty drops dangling in front of
her curls. But she saw no one of importance.
Whiston came home tired and depressed. All day the male in him had been
uneasy, and this had fatigued him. She was curiously against him,
inclined, as she sometimes was nowadays, to make mock of him and jeer
at him and cut him off. He did not understand this, and it angered him
deeply. She was uneasy before him.
She knew he was in a state of suppressed irritation. The veins stood
out on the backs of his hands, his brow was drawn stiffly. Yet she
could not help goading him.
“What did you do wi’ that white stocking?” he asked, out of a gloomy
silence, his voice strong and brutal.
“I put it in a drawer—why?” she replied flippantly.
“Why didn’t you put it on the fire back?” he said harshly. “What are
you hoarding it up for?”
“I’m not hoarding it up,” she said. “I’ve got a pair.”
He relapsed into gloomy silence. She, unable to move him, ran away
upstairs, leaving him smoking by the fire. Again she tried on the
ear-rings. Then another little inspiration came to her. She drew on the
white stockings, both of them.
Presently she came down in them. Her husband still sat immovable and
glowering by the fire.
“Look!” she said. “They’ll do beautifully.”
And she picked up her skirts to her knees, and twisted round, looking
at her pretty legs in the neat stockings.
He filled with unreasonable rage, and took the pipe from his mouth.
“Don’t they look nice?” she said. “One from last year and one from
this, they just do. Save you buying a pair.”
And she looked over her shoulders at her pretty calves, and the
dangling frills of her knickers.
“Put your skirts down and don’t make a fool of yourself,” he said.
“Why a fool of myself?” she asked.
And she began to dance slowly round the room, kicking up her feet half
reckless, half jeering, in a ballet-dancer’s fashion. Almost fearfully,
yet in defiance, she kicked up her legs at him, singing as she did so.
She resented him.
“You little fool, ha’ done with it,” he said. “And you’ll backfire them
stockings, I’m telling you.” He was angry. His face flushed dark, he
kept his head bent. She ceased to dance.
“I shan’t,” she said. “They’ll come in very useful.”
He lifted his head and watched her, with lighted, dangerous eyes.
“You’ll put ’em on the fire back, I tell you,” he said.
It was a war now. She bent forward, in a ballet-dancer’s fashion, and
put her tongue between her teeth.
“I shan’t backfire them stockings,” she sang, repeating his words, “I
shan’t, I shan’t, I shan’t.”
And she danced round the room doing a high kick to the tune of her
words. There was a real biting indifference in her behaviour.
“We’ll see whether you will or not,” he said, “trollops! You’d like Sam
Adams to know you was wearing ’em, wouldn’t you? That’s what would
please you.”
“Yes, I’d like him to see how nicely they fit me, he might give me some
more then.”
And she looked down at her pretty legs.
He knew somehow that she _would_ like Sam Adams to see how pretty her
legs looked in the white stockings. It made his anger go deep, almost
to hatred.
“Yer nasty trolley,” he cried. “Put yer petticoats down, and stop being
so foul-minded.”
“I’m not foul-minded,” she said. “My legs are my own. And why shouldn’t
Sam Adams think they’re nice?”
There was a pause. He watched her with eyes glittering to a point.
“Have you been havin’ owt to do with him?” he asked.
“I’ve just spoken to him when I’ve seen him,” she said. “He’s not as
bad as you would make out.”
“Isn’t he?” he cried, a certain wakefulness in his voice. “Them who has
anything to do wi’ him is too bad for me, I tell you.”
“Why, what are you frightened of him for?” she mocked.
She was rousing all his uncontrollable anger. He sat glowering. Every
one of her sentences stirred him up like a red-hot iron. Soon it would
be too much. And she was afraid herself; but she was neither conquered
nor convinced.
A curious little grin of hate came on his face. He had a long score
against her.
“What am I frightened of him for?” he repeated automatically. “What am
I frightened of him for? Why, for you, you stray-running little bitch.”
She flushed. The insult went deep into her, right home.
“Well, if you’re so dull——” she said, lowering her eyelids, and
speaking coldly, haughtily.
“If I’m so dull I’ll break your neck the first word you speak to him,”
he said, tense.
“Pf!” she sneered. “Do you think I’m frightened of you?” She spoke
coldly, detached.
She was frightened, for all that, white round the mouth.
His heart was getting hotter.
“You _will_ be frightened of me, the next time you have anything to do
with him,” he said.
“Do you think _you’d_ ever be told—ha!”
Her jeering scorn made him go white-hot, molten. He knew he was
incoherent, scarcely responsible for what he might do. Slowly,
unseeing, he rose and went out of doors, stifled, moved to kill her.
He stood leaning against the garden fence, unable either to see or
hear. Below him, far off, fumed the lights of the town. He stood still,
unconscious with a black storm of rage, his face lifted to the night.
Presently, still unconscious of what he was doing, he went indoors
again. She stood, a small stubborn figure with tight-pressed lips and
big, sullen, childish eyes, watching him, white with fear. He went
heavily across the floor and dropped into his chair.
There was a silence.
“_You’re_ not going to tell me everything I shall do, and everything I
shan’t,” she broke out at last.
He lifted his head.
“I tell you _this_,” he said, low and intense. “Have anything to do
with Sam Adams, and I’ll break your neck.”
She laughed, shrill and false.
“How I hate your word ‘break your neck’,” she said, with a grimace of
the mouth. “It sounds so common and beastly. Can’t you say something
else——”
There was a dead silence.
“And besides,” she said, with a queer chirrup of mocking laughter,
“what do you know about anything? He sent me an amethyst brooch and a
pair of pearl ear-rings.”
“He what?” said Whiston, in a suddenly normal voice. His eyes were
fixed on her.
“Sent me a pair of pearl ear-rings, and an amethyst brooch,” she
repeated, mechanically, pale to the lips.
And her big, black, childish eyes watched him, fascinated, held in her
spell.
He seemed to thrust his face and his eyes forward at her, as he rose
slowly and came to her. She watched transfixed in terror. Her throat
made a small sound, as she tried to scream.
Then, quick as lightning, the back of his hand struck her with a crash
across the mouth, and she was flung back blinded against the wall. The
shock shook a queer sound out of her. And then she saw him still coming
on, his eyes holding her, his fist drawn back, advancing slowly. At any
instant the blow might crash into her.
Mad with terror, she raised her hands with a queer clawing movement to
cover her eyes and her temples, opening her mouth in a dumb shriek.
There was no sound. But the sight of her slowly arrested him. He hung
before her, looking at her fixedly, as she stood crouched against the
wall with open, bleeding mouth, and wide-staring eyes, and two hands
clawing over her temples. And his lust to see her bleed, to break her
and destroy her, rose from an old source against her. It carried him.
He wanted satisfaction.
But he had seen her standing there, a piteous, horrified thing, and he
turned his face aside in shame and nausea. He went and sat heavily in
his chair, and a curious ease, almost like sleep, came over his brain.
She walked away from the wall towards the fire, dizzy, white to the
lips, mechanically wiping her small, bleeding mouth. He sat motionless.
Then, gradually, her breath began to hiss, she shook, and was sobbing
silently, in grief for herself. Without looking, he saw. It made his
mad desire to destroy her come back.
At length he lifted his head. His eyes were glowing again, fixed on
her.
“And what did he give them you for?” he asked, in a steady, unyielding
voice.
Her crying dried up in a second. She also was tense.
“They came as valentines,” she replied, still not subjugated, even if
beaten.
“When, today?”
“The pearl ear-rings today—the amethyst brooch last year.”
“You’ve had it a year?”
“Yes.”
She felt that now nothing would prevent him if he rose to kill her. She
could not prevent him any more. She was yielded up to him. They both
trembled in the balance, unconscious.
“What have you had to do with him?” he asked, in a barren voice.
“I’ve not had anything to do with him,” she quavered.
“You just kept ’em because they were jewellery?” he said.
A weariness came over him. What was the worth of speaking any more of
it? He did not care any more. He was dreary and sick.
She began to cry again, but he took no notice. She kept wiping her
mouth on her handkerchief. He could see it, the blood-mark. It made him
only more sick and tired of the responsibility of it, the violence, the
shame.
When she began to move about again, he raised his head once more from
his dead, motionless position.
“Where are the things?” he said.
“They are upstairs,” she quavered. She knew the passion had gone down
in him.
“Bring them down,” he said.
“I won’t,” she wept, with rage. “You’re not going to bully me and hit
me like that on the mouth.”
And she sobbed again. He looked at her in contempt and compassion and
in rising anger.
“Where are they?” he said.
“They’re in the little drawer under the looking-glass,” she sobbed.
He went slowly upstairs, struck a match, and found the trinkets. He
brought them downstairs in his hand.
“These?” he said, looking at them as they lay in his palm.
She looked at them without answering. She was not interested in them
any more.
He looked at the little jewels. They were pretty.
“It’s none of their fault,” he said to himself.
And he searched round slowly, persistently, for a box. He tied the
things up and addressed them to Sam Adams. Then he went out in his
slippers to post the little package.
When he came back she was still sitting crying.
“You’d better go to bed,” he said.
She paid no attention. He sat by the fire. She still cried.
“I’m sleeping down here,” he said. “Go you to bed.”
In a few moments she lifted her tear-stained, swollen face and looked
at him with eyes all forlorn and pathetic. A great flash of anguish
went over his body. He went over, slowly, and very gently took her in
his hands. She let herself be taken. Then as she lay against his
shoulder, she sobbed aloud:
“I never meant——”
“My love—my little love——” he cried, in anguish of spirit, holding her
in his arms.