We grow. We acquire. Do we change?
We talk of the formation of character, as if character were not already
triumphant in the infant that defies its father and seduces its
grandmother months before it can speak. We talk of character—but do we
not mean habit? Daily, weekly, yearly, we add to our habits, literally
our habits, our garments, the Joseph-coats of manner and custom, of
tolerance and caution and indifference, in which we clothe and conceal
ourselves, our unchanging, unchangeable selves, old as age, young as
youth, sexless, amoral, unconvinced by human logic, unbound by human
laws.
And for years we—I, with a hole in my stocking, and you, Collaborator,
incapable of any such thing, and Martha in the kitchen, and the Kaiser
at Potsdam, train up ourselves in the way we should go and criticize our
neighbours’ departure therefrom without a thought for our sleeping
partner, biding his time within us. But when his time comes, in
emergency, in crisis, then, as sure as you sit there knitting,
Collaborator, that original self wakes up, with a rending of garments,
and takes charge. But, when the occasion is over and it has sunk to
sleep again, it is we—our bewildered, protesting surface selves who have
to take the consequences. That explains, I imagine, why it is always the
most unlikely people who behave in the most incongruous way, and why
John Smith (condemn him or admire him as we may) remains the last person
we should have expected to murder his great-uncle or marry the princess,
or why Laura Valentine, who loved Justin more deeply than even his
mother did (I cannot put it higher) and had a fine sense of humour of
her own, should yet be setting out at ten o’clock of the morning of the
last Sunday in June, convinced that by the smashing of his birds’ eggs
she would save his soul alive, and that there was nothing ridiculous in
the situation.
As she walked, she argued it out with him, the old imaginary Justin, in
the old childish way. It was long since she had had him at her side. Her
common sense had recognized the danger of such make-believe, the folly
of using her mind as a mere play-house in which her thoughts were
actors, rehearsing each coming event with such richness of setting, such
significance of detail, such completeness of result, that, in
comparison, the reality must always disappoint her. She had conquered,
she believed that she had at last conquered the tendency, and prided
herself a little on the effort; for it had been surprisingly difficult.
Laura, arm-in-arm with Nemesis, did not for one instant recognize her
companion, did not guess that the old creative instinct that she had so
conscientiously scotched a year before was not, was never killed, that
if growth were denied it in one art it would be bound to appear in
another, and again and again denied its body, would find a ghost-life in
her very dreams. Dear Laura was merely pleased with herself because, as
Justin would have wished her to do, she had put an end to childish
things, such as telling herself stories when she went to bed, deciding
the colour of her eldest grandson’s eyes, and talking to Justin when he
was not there.
But, as I say, she had reckoned without her sleeping partner. On that
June morning she walked the long mile between Green Gates and the
Priory, unregenerate, a recusant, lips moving, eyes eloquent, rehearsing
an ordeal, haranguing Justin.
He would be angry—violently angry. She conceived her act, envisaged its
consequences, nor lost her head when the explosion came. She was face to
face with the anger of Justin and was able to ignore it. She argued: she
overbore him: for once she let herself go. She had no need to stumble
for words: the stinging phrases jostled for precedence upon her lips.
She ranged her charges, calling this and that incident in witness: held
up to ridicule his lethargy, his complacency, his lack of purpose. Her
passion rose, she convinced herself anew, as she sorted her sentences,
flung her taunts.
She told him that his collection typified his attitude to life and,
therefore, though it had been priceless, irreplaceable, instead of the
trumpery it was, she would have destroyed it just the same. He asked her
how she dared stand there—? (Justin’s few contributions to the
discussion strike one as having a distinctly feminine flavour) how she
dared—and she told him that she dared anything where he was concerned;
that she knew what she was doing, what she was risking, what she was
losing; but that he should not make himself a laughing-stock if she
could help it; that if he could not see that he was making himself a
laughing-stock, she did—she did!
She was furiously rude to him; she——
She began all over again.
They sat that time. There was no striding about the room and hammering
of fists upon the table; rather a statement of fact, an icy exchange of
view. There was cut and thrust and cut again, and to her sore, secret
triumph a Justin awake at last, revealing strength, subtlety, decision,
justifying her unconsciously in every estranging phrase. But human
nature turned from such triumph.
She began again, weakly, sparing herself.
A miracle happened. She talked to him and he understood. He was kind. He
was fine. He forgave her. He laughed at her and said she mattered more
to him than a million birds’ eggs. And so they talked things out,
friends still, watching their good future rise amid those scattered,
foolish shells.
She began again and broke off, and began again and yet again.
She was still defying and defending and accusing and convincing him when
she reached the Priory’s open door, and, noiseless and unseen, slipped
up the stairs and along the panelled corridor to Justin’s room.
It was empty. He had asked her to meet him there at noon and it was
barely eleven o’clock. She had plenty of time.
She began her invariable little tour of inspection. He had left his
slippers as usual, toe to heel, in the middle of the floor: and the
ash-tray stank. She knocked it out against the window-sill and the wind
caught the ashes and dusted them back in her face. She had to trim
herself in the fire-place tiles—there was no looking-glass—before she
put back the tray and ranged the pipes in the rack and shook up the
squashed cushions of Justin’s chair—all this with a grim little smile.
She loved his hopeless ways.
But the table was neat, set out with that extreme care which is the
effect of a hobby on the untidiest of men. The books of reference were
stacked in two piles, one for him and one for her. He had paste and
photographs and scissors, and on the floor beside his chair an empty
drawer and a roll of cotton-wool. She had pen and ink, and his
beautifully bound private catalogue with the thick, lined paper and
blank interleaves for illustrations. Between them was the cardboard box
with the eggs they had not as yet classified and put away.
She thought——He’s enjoyed himself getting things ready!...
She drew the box towards her and stirred her hand round among the eggs;
then, lifting a handful, poured them idly from one palm to the other.
They rattled faintly like a woman’s high heels tapping along the
pavement.
She weighed them up and down. They were as light—as light as love....
Deliberately she let them shower through her fingers on to the floor.
But the carpet was thick and they took no harm.
Then, as if in spite of herself, she put out her foot and crushed them
where they lay.
She stood a moment, slurring her shoe to and fro, mechanically, to free
it from the crumbs of shell, and then turned to the cabinet between the
window and the door. That came next.... If you began a job, you must
finish it....
She pulled open the doors one by one, sliding out the glass, and ran her
hand from hollow to hollow in the cotton-wool. A pressure was enough for
the smooth, frail eggs of the finches and the tits. They crumpled like
hare-bells. For the bigger specimens she had to use both hands. They
would not break unless she held them sideways, and then they cracked
sharply, scratching her palms.
The business was soon done. She left the cabinet open and awry, and sat
down in the window-seat.
After a pause she discovered that she was breathing again.
But before her mind had time to consider that phenomenon it was
distracted by another. There was a sound, immense, insistent—sound of an
earth rhythmically convulsed—sound as of an army, an army with banners,
marching upon her to the eternal, infernal repetition of the drums,
drawing nearer, entering definitely into her, and resolving itself at
last into the throb of her own pulses, into the beating of her own
heart, obsessed by the guilty, idiotic terror of nightmare itself.
‘Nightmare!’ The recognition of the word, of the state, brought relief.
‘Nightmare!’...
“Justin—I have broken——” That was the sort of thing one did in
nightmare, just before one woke.... But one always woke.... She herself
would be waking in a moment with a gasp of relief.... “Not true! I never
did it! A dream!” And she would open her eyes and see the blessed
sunshine filtering through the blinds, and hear the birds bickering in
the roses, and so turn on her pillow and drowse till breakfast time. Not
true! Thank God that even in nightmare one always knew that it was not
true, although one were looking at Justin’s cabinet and the door stood
wide.... If Justin came in ... at any moment he might come ... he would
wonder why ... he would discover....
In an instant she was across the room, thrusting back the long drawers
one after another with hands that shook. Her haste made her clumsy. The
wood stuck and squeaked and the handles jingled so loudly that it was
impossible that Justin should not hear them out in the woods and come
quickly and catch her in the act.
She managed them at last, closed the doors and turned the key and stood
leaning against them, breathing quickly as though she had been running.
At least it would give her a pause, a moment’s pause before discovery,
in which to—wake up. She tried to laugh. The collection was all right
really—quite all right.... That was why there was really no use in
waiting for Justin.... What if she went away quietly, at once, on
tiptoe?... Nobody had seen her come.... Nobody would ever guess that she
had touched anything.... She was the last person who would be
suspected.... The cat ... a careless maid ... some one who owed Justin a
grudge.... There would be talk and marvelling.... Justin would rage....
But they would never find out....
Besides, it was only nightmare.... She would have waked before they
suspected....
What was that? That creaking stair? Justin? Not Justin?... Her feet had
already carried her to the door, but at that sound she slipped back into
her chair, white, speechless, waiting. But it was only the maid,
restoring a waste-paper basket.
She was instantly Miss Valentine, controlled, smiling.
“Thank you, Mary. Oh, Mary, is Mr. Justin in?”
The maid thought so, Miss—had seen him crossing the lawn just now: and
so departed, shutting the door, fastening the cage, upon a trapped
creature. No escape now!... The maid had seen her, sitting in Justin’s
room.... No chance of an alibi.... Besides, Justin might come up at any
moment now....
She sat a long while, waiting for him to come.
She was asked once—how long? an hour? half an hour? ten minutes? She
said painfully——She didn’t know. A long while.
But if you consider that Justin had appointed twelve o’clock, that he
was a punctual man, and that he came in at last mopping his forehead and
complaining of the noon heat, it cannot have been long. Half an hour,
perhaps? Yet she had sat so still that when he came her cramped limbs at
first refused to stir, and she stayed where she was, helplessly, staring
at him, till he, missing the greeting and the bustle that was his due,
turned to her with a vague notion that something must be wrong.
“Why, Laura, what’s up?” And then, “My dear girl, you do look white! But
this heat’s enough to knock up any one.” And so disposed of his concern
and turned to his prepared table, while she sought for an answer and
found none upon her lips save the forgotten, petulant retort of her
childhood.
“I’m—not—your dear girl!”
But there was neither petulance nor childishness in her voice as she
said it, rather an intonation of such hopelessness, such despair, that
Justin must have guessed at worse trouble than the heat, had he not been
talking too fast on his own account to catch a word.
“Now then—let’s get to work. But the eggs? Where’s the box of eggs? Why,
Laura, you’ve cleared away the eggs! Did you sort them? I never told you
to. Did you put them in the cabinet?”
She shook her head.
“Where then?”
Still she did not speak. She was making the discovery that she had lost
control of her voice, of the muscles of her throat. She swallowed once
or twice. She said, her will said, two and three and four times, “They
are broken. I broke them,” but she made no sound at all. The sensation
was a horrible one. It confirmed, with its physical reality, the
paralysis of her spirit.
Justin, watching her, guessed distortedly at the truth.
“There’s been an accident?”
You could not say that she shook her head, but she moved it stiffly,
once, a very little.
“Laura? Not smashed?” His face was tragic. “Not smashed, Laura? How
many? Which ones? Not the whole lot?”
Again she opened and shut her mouth.
He was at the cabinet.
“Where’s the key? What have you done with the key?” And then, with
palpable effort—“Don’t be scared, Laura. I know you couldn’t help it.
But what happened?”
His generosity cut like a knife. As suddenly as it had descended upon
her the dumbness passed away. Her tongue was loosened. She heard her
voice, her high, shaking voice, entirely independent of her, yet still
her own voice—
“I did it,” said Laura’s voice, “I—I did it on purpose.”
“What?” He wheeled, staring, while within her mind she implored this
voice of hers to go on, to tell Justin, to make Justin understand. And
at last it did say—
“I had to, Justin. Justin—I had to.”
He took a step towards her. There was a new and dangerous light in his
eyes.
“Are you mad? What do you mean? Are you quite mad?”
She considered.
“I had to.” Her voice was growing easier to manage.
“Will you tell me why?”
Her moment was come. Now she must loose her lightnings, launch her
thunderbolts, harangue, arraign, convince, convict him, overwhelming him
with unanswerable truths. She must take the chance that had come to her.
Whitening, she drew breath and spoke—
“I—I had to,” said Laura.
“Where—?” he began, then his eyes, following hers, caught sight of the
mess of shell that littered the floor and he lost control. He was
flushed, darkly, like a drinker. The natural man emerged in a quick,
furious staccato of unintelligible words. A wave of terrified laughter
swept over her as she listened.
So that’s swearing!... So he can swear, Coral! You see, he can.... And
then——It’s like a cat—like a tom-cat! It’s comical! It’s horrible! It
makes one sick! Stop! Oh, Justin, stop!... She was clutching at the arms
of her chair.
But it was all over in an instant. Before she realized what was
happening she found him towering over her, the Justin of a nightmare,
huge and hazy, with glittering eyes.
He was speaking to her.
“Will you go away, please?”
“Justin!” she implored him.
“Will you go away, please?”
She resisted, roused at last, eloquent at last, fighting desperately—
“Justin! I must tell you——Justin! Wait! Listen! Just a minute——Justin!”
But he took her lightly by the arm, and in a moment she was in the
passage, and he had shut the door against her.
She went shaking and stumbling down the staircase and out into the
sunshine.
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