THE SINISTER NIGHT
On the day of the big race at Kempton Park, in which the Ambler,
starting favourite, was left at the post, George Pendyce had just put
his latch-key in the door of the room he had taken near Mrs. Bellew,
when a man, stepping quickly from behind, said:
“Mr. George Pendyce, I believe.”
George turned.
“Yes; what do you want?”
The man put into George's hand a long envelope.
“From Messrs. Frost and Tuckett.”
George opened it, and read from the top of a slip of paper:
“'ADMIRALTY, PROBATE, AND DIVORCE. The humble petition of Jaspar
Bellew----'”
He lifted his eyes, and his look, uncannily impassive, unresenting,
unangered, dogged, caused the messenger to drop his gaze as though he
had hit a man who was down.
“Thanks. Good-night!”
He shut the door, and read the document through. It contained some
precise details, and ended in a claim for damages, and George smiled.
Had he received this document three months ago, he would not have taken
it thus. Three months ago he would have felt with rage that he was
caught. His thoughts would have run thus 'I have got her into a mess; I
have got myself into a mess. I never thought this would happen. This is
the devil! I must see someone--I must stop it. There must be a way out.'
Having but little imagination, his thoughts would have beaten their
wings against this cage, and at once he would have tried to act. But
this was not three months ago, and now----
He lit a cigarette and sat down on the sofa, and the chief feeling in
his heart was a strange hope, a sort of funereal gladness. He would have
to go and see her at once, that very night; an excuse--no need to wait
in here--to wait--wait on the chance of her coming.
He got up and drank some whisky, then went back to the sofa and sat down
again.
'.f she is not here by eight,' he thought, 'I will go round.'
Opposite was a full-length mirror, and he turned to the wall to avoid
it. There was fixed on his face a look of gloomy determination, as
though he were thinking, 'I'll show them all that I'm not beaten yet.'
At the click of a latch-key he scrambled off the sofa, and his face
resumed its mask. She came in as usual, dropped her opera cloak, and
stood before him with bare shoulders. Looking in her face, he wondered
if she knew.
“I thought I'd better come,” she said. “I suppose you've had the same
charming present?”
George nodded. There was a minute's silence.
“It's really rather funny. I'm sorry for you, George.”
George laughed too, but his laugh was different.
“I will do all I can,” he said.
Mrs. Bellew came close to him.
“I've seen about the Kempton race. What shocking luck! I suppose you've
lost a lot. Poor boy! It never rains but it pours.”
George looked down.
“That's all right; nothing matters when I have you.”
He felt her arms fasten behind his neck, but they were cool as marble;
he met her eyes, and they were mocking and compassionate.
Their cab, wheeling into the main thoroughfare, joined in the race of
cabs flying as for life toward the East--past the Park, where the trees,
new-leafed, were swinging their skirts like ballet-dancers in the wind;
past the Stoics' and the other clubs, rattling, jingling, jostling for
the lead, shooting past omnibuses that looked cosy in the half-light
with their lamps and rows of figures solemnly opposed.
At Blafard's the tall dark young waiter took her cloak with reverential
fingers; the little wine-waiter smiled below the suffering in his eyes.
The same red-shaded lights fell on her arms and shoulders, the same
flowers of green and yellow grew bravely in the same blue vases. On the
menu were written the same dishes. The same idle eye peered through
the chink at the corner of the red blinds with its stare of apathetic
wonder.
Often during that dinner George looked at her face by stealth, and its
expression baffled him, so careless was it. And, unlike her mood of
late, that had been glum and cold, she was in the wildest spirits.
People looked round from the other little tables, all full now that the
season had begun, her laugh was so infectious; and George felt a sort
of disgust. What was it in this woman that made her laugh, when his own
heart was heavy? But he said nothing; he dared not even look at her, for
fear his eyes should show his feeling.
'.e ought to be squaring our accounts,' he thought--'looking things in
the face. Something must be done; and here she is laughing and making
everyone stare!' Done! But what could be done, when it was all like
quicksand?
The other little tables emptied one by one.
“George,” she said, “take me somewhere where we can dance!”
George stared at her.
“My dear girl, how can I? There is no such place!”
“Take me to your Bohemians!”
“You can't possibly go to a place like that.”
“Why not? Who cares where we go, or what we do?”
“I care!”
“Ah, my dear George, you and your sort are only half alive!”
Sullenly George answered:
“What do you take me for? A cad?”
But there was fear, not anger, in his heart.
“Well, then, let's drive into the East End. For goodness' sake, let's do
something not quite proper!”
They took a hansom and drove East. It was the first time either had ever
been in that unknown land.
“Close your cloak, dear; it looks odd down here.”
Mrs. Bellew laughed.
“You'll be just like your father when you're sixty, George.”
And she opened her cloak the wider. Round a barrel-organ at the corner
of a street were girls in bright colours dancing.
She called to the cabman to stop.
“Let's watch those children!”
“You'll only make a show of us.”
Mrs. Bellew put her hands on the cab door.
“I've a good mind to get out and dance with them!”
“You're mad to-night,” said George. “Sit still!”
He stretched out his arm and barred her way. The passers-by looked
curiously at the little scene. A crowd began to collect.
“Go on!” cried George.
There was a cheer from the crowd; the driver whipped his horse; they
darted East again.
It was striking twelve when the cab put them down at last near the old
church on Chelsea Embankment, and they had hardly spoken for an hour.
And all that hour George was feeling:
'.his is the woman for whom I've given it all up. This is the woman to
whom I shall be tied. This is the woman I cannot tear myself away from.
If I could, I would never see her again. But I can't live without her. I
must go on suffering when she's with me, suffering when she's away from
me. And God knows how it's all to end!'
He took her hand in the darkness; it was cold and unresponsive as
a stone. He tried to see her face, but could read nothing in those
greenish eyes staring before them, like a cat's, into the darkness.
When the cab was gone they stood looking at each other by the light of a
street lamp. And George thought:
'.o I must leave her like this, and what then?'
She put her latch-key in the door, and turned round to him. In the
silent, empty street, where the wind was rustling and scraping round the
corners of tall houses, and the lamplight flickered, her face and figure
were so strange, motionless, Sphinx-like. Only her eyes seemed alive,
fastened on his own.
“Good-night!” he muttered.
She beckoned.
“Take what you can of me, George!” she said.