dining room. The ceiling and walls were dim, because the room was
lighted only by half-a-dozen candles set upon the table. The table
itself had been made as small as possible, a perfect circle, and was
not covered with a cloth. The candles within their decorated orange
shades gave a mellow glow. She could see directly across the table to
Monty, hardly three feet away, and soup was served the instant she was
seated. Jacobs, having served the soup, retired from the room to await
a summons.
"I should wish to consult you ... oh, upon a great number of things,"
evasively answered Patricia.
"As for instance?"
She smiled, looking quickly round, as if with a sinking heart.
"I don't strictly know what a necromancer is; but supposing him to
be a seer of the future, I should like to know ... I should like to
know...." Again Patricia hesitated. Hastily she improvised a substitute
for the real problem in her mind. "Do you believe in anything at all?"
she asked.
It was strange how tones, however low, were audible in that room. She
could hear Monty's rich, caressing, magnetic voice, so soothingly
quiet, as if it came from beside her.
"What would you like me to believe in?" he begged. "In Progress, or
Faith, or the future of England and the Arts? In Beauty and Goodness?
In yourself?"
"In honesty, for example. In truth."
"My dear Patricia, you shock me," protested Monty. "I have the greatest
respect for truth, and of course for honesty."
"Have you any familiarity with either?" She could see that he would not
talk seriously; and she presently was glad that he would not do so. She
had wanted answers to other questions, and not to those she had put.
The other questions it would have been impossible to ask.
"Patricia, I find that truth and honesty are supposed to be dull--so
commonplace as to shock even those who seem to be unable to invent any
satisfactory substitutes. 'Let us,' says the life-weary dweller in
this district, 'let us read something and see something at the theatre
which will take us away from the sordid truth of every-day life.' And
yet, I have never seen truth. I believe I shouldn't know it if I saw
it. 'What is truth?' asked jesting Pilate; and would not stay for an
answer. He might have waited until the last trump. As for honesty, it's
an appanage of truth, another romantic illusion. If you had asked me if
I believed in Beauty, or Goodness, or in yourself, I should have said
that the terms were indistinguishable."
"That would have been ample answer to my question about honesty," said
Patricia. "I don't think I shall ask more questions of the necromancer.
He seems to me rather specious." Nevertheless, Monty's elaborate reply
to her false question had increased her composure. She was almost at
ease, but still there was something to Monty not quite comprehensible
in her ever so faintly agitated manner. "Won't you ... won't you tell
me something about Carthage, please, or Egypt, or the Desert...." she
asked.
"The desert," said Monty, musingly. "Yes, the desert...."
vii
He described to the wondering Patricia the Nile as he had seen it, and
how it takes its rise in the mountains, and how at first the river is
red and then green because of the flood of the Blue Nile, and how the
flood of the White Nile comes later, so that the banks are covered and
the surrounding country is inundated with rich fertilising mud. He
described the desert, and repeated that short poem of Shelley's about
the King Ozymandias. He told her of the sounds and colours of the East,
of all those things which as a traveller he had seen and experienced.
He pictured the crowds of the Bazaar, the contrasts, always keeping
to familiar things of which she might have read, for the sake of
reawakening past imagination and past emotion, which would be so potent
in colouring her present mood. And all the time he was speaking in
that slow magic-creating voice of sweetness. Monty's eyes never once
left Patricia, but continued to absorb her fairness and her purity, as
though he could never cease from desiring her more than anything upon
earth or beyond life itself.
So given were they both to this scene that the food before them was
eaten mechanically, and the wine they drank insensibly was making them
more intimate and more at the mercy of the hour; and Patricia hardly
knew that she was eating and drinking, so much was she in a dream. And
in the dream she was haunted by the sense that she would awaken, that
fierce, cruel birds of prey were tearing her heart, that never again
would she know tranquillity or ease of spirit. And Monty was watching
her still, with eyes that yielded nothing and took everything, while he
sought only to maintain the power which he was achieving by the effect
of his story upon her imagination. To Monty all the marvel of which he
spoke was familiar. He was unmoved by it. Patricia's beauty, and that
alone, was the cause of his unrelaxing attentiveness, the creeping
white heat of his feeling, which grew each moment more fierce, more
concentrated, more difficult to keep within his own power. He was moved
so vehemently that his eyes were glowing. Into his face had stolen that
look of greedy sensual heaviness which his passion created. His voice
was lower, and the softness had given place to a dryer tone, still
caressing, still full of unknown music, but deeper and less smooth. His
lips were apart, showing his white teeth. His hands upon the table were
rigid.
And something made Patricia look suddenly at Monty, when his expression
was unguarded; and she had this clear understanding of his nature and
his attitude to herself. Again she had the sensation which had come to
her at night after they had parted; of blood which rose to her cheeks
and shoulders, which in its recession made her body burn. It was with
fear, a fear which made a shrill cry of protest, of agony, difficult to
repress, that she slightly shrank. The colour faded from her cheeks. It
was succeeded by deadly pallor, and a trembling such as she could never
previously have known.
viii
After the dinner was finished, they went back to the studio for coffee;
but the picture of the East was forgotten, and to both of them it
was the moment alone that was the secret preoccupation. Patricia sat
upon a low seat near the fire, and smoked a cigarette; and they spoke
of other things without conviction, and without more than a pretence
of interest or intimacy. And when Monty would again have engaged her
with pictures of travel she was steadfast in refusal to yield herself.
There was a chasm between them. He could see that she had taken fright.
He was once more adroitly soothing--talked of the furnishings of his
studio, and, indicating each, said how he had acquired it, and with
what pure cunning--talked not very light-hearted nonsense about the
people who were coming later in the evening--talked of pictures and
music, of mountains and lakes and seas--everything to reassure her and
restore her ease. But all the time Patricia could remember that glow in
his eyes to which she had awakened at the table; and she shrank back,
uncontrollably, filled with vehement dread, shocked with the sense of
these impenetrable hangings, the dreadful silence beyond the closed
door.
And Monty could not continue to control himself with the same coolness.
With every effort to maintain the earlier calm, he was driven by urgent
necessity to approach her more nearly. Still he did not touch her;
but his manifestly exercised restraint was betrayed in every tone.
The colours of those barbaric curtains and chairs began for Patricia
to merge and swim together. And Monty was no longer a man; he became
some diabolical and terrifying figure, dark, sinister, grotesque. She
was afraid--not now of herself, as she had been, but solely of him.
She was cooler now, but watchful, still half-fascinated, but as one on
edge in face of danger. Monty was laughing and speaking of the dancing
which they had amusedly noticed at their last visit to Topping's; of
Jacky Dean; of the crowd; of other clubs. He imitated Jacky's devoted,
colourless style, which moved him to great mirth, prolonged until it
began to jar. And at last he said:
"Have you seen the new steps? Look...." As he spoke, he began dancing
alone in the middle of the brilliant studio, a black figure of grace,
his head turned from her so that she should not see the colour of
his cheeks and the ferocity of his eyes; while Patricia watched the
movement of his feet and the poise of his body. "See? Ta-ta-tum-ta....
Two steps ... it's a variation of the Tango, of course, very much
simplified; but it's rather deceptive. Try it...."
He approached her, his hands outstretched. With a heart of water,
Patricia rose, half-protesting. Their hands met, their heads were
level. And as Monty held her so he increased and strengthened his hold
until with suddenly uncontrollable passion he was savagely pressing
her to him and with fury advancing his face so that he might command
her lips. His whole body was rigid. The muscles of his arms were like
iron to her tender flesh. Patricia did not scream. She could not have
done so. Both were desperately silent except for their heavy breathing.
She withdrew her head to the greatest distance that Monty's cruel hold
allowed, until she was suffocating. One hand was tightly pressed to
Monty's side between his body and her own, and was useless. The other
remained. With all her hysterical strength she used it to push away
that dark, insistent face. Patricia's strength at the moment of stress
was so abnormal that, suddenly exerted so very little more, it might
have been sufficient to dislocate his neck. It was for an instant only.
They were struggling no more. Monty released her, and they drew apart,
panting. Red marks were beneath Monty's chin. Patricia felt bruised, as
she might have done if she had been severely beaten with a stick. She
was shuddering.
"I'm sorry, Patricia," Monty said, harshly. "I beg your pardon. It was
too much for me." The two of them turned away from each other, Monty
breathing rapidly, Patricia still almost stifled. "Did I hurt you? Poor
child! I was brutal. I'm sorry...."
With her heart seeming to beat in her throat, Patricia nodded slowly.
"My fault," she said, indistinctly. "I ought...."
Both, if it had not been for breathlessness and dishevelment, were
treating the situation with strange coolness, as if all heat had
evaporated from it. Patricia had no fear. She knew that the embrace
could not be repeated. It was as though the fire which had burned
in Monty had been extinguished. He stood before her, recovering his
normal address, the heaviness gone from his face, and the fury from his
eyes. Already he was slipping back into that slow thick courtesy of
manner which had been so attractive. Quite soon he would be debonair,
perfectly at ease. And she herself, incapable of thought, and in a
state of physical agitation though she was, became apparently composed.
But even as Patricia felt this, she was overcome by deadly sickness.
Her pallor was increased. She groped her way to the fireplace, resting
her head against the cool mantelpiece in an effort to recover. And as
she stood thus, only half-conscious, there came a sound which made
Monty start. He gave an exclamation, and turned quickly. At first his
hands went to his neck, instinctively to the spot where he might bear
marks of the struggle. Then, from a sharp glance, with similar intent,
at Patricia, he discovered her fainting condition.
"Good God, you're ill!" he cried. "That's the bell. They'll be coming
now. Drink this. For God's sake don't let them see...."
As he spoke he moved quickly across the studio to a cupboard, from
which he produced and brought to her side a decanter and glass. Again
Patricia nodded, taking the glass from his hand, and sitting once more
upon her low chair, and drinking the brandy. It made her cough. In
the midst of her coughing the studio door opened and a merry group of
newcomers, all peeping and laughing, appeared without.
They gave universal shouts of greeting, and proclaimed envy of anybody
caught with a brandy-glass in her hand, and made general uproar. And
in doing so the crowd pushed its way into the studio and its members
scattered.
"Hul-lo!" they jovially cried. "Caught you, Patricia! Leading an
inebriate's life, I see.... Greedy! Oh!"
Patricia, laughing, waved the glass in acknowledgment; but it was poor
laughter, and was fortunately unheard amid the louder noises of the
careless people who had brought their own gaiety.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: THE VISITOR
i
The noise which the others made, as fresh arrivals increased their
numbers, enabled Monty to return to Patricia's side. She could see a
whiteness even in Monty's cheeks when he was quite close to her, and
her aversion to him died. Quickly her heart told her that he too was
suffering.
"How are you feeling? Would you care to lie down? Shall I get you a
taxi? I can't get rid of these people yet. If you'll lie down, I'll
take you home later."
"I'll go soon," she whispered back, touched by his subdued tone. "Don't
worry. I'm all right. I'm better. I'll go presently, when I feel able.
I'll just slip out."
"I'm so sorry," he repeated. "Look here, I must see you before you go."
At that her nerves again raised protest. A deep shudder shook her.
"I'd rather not," she said, in the same low voice. "I couldn't stand
any more ... excitement to-night."
"I _must_ see you," he said. "You mustn't go without giving me five
minutes."
And at that moment there was a loud call for him from the other end of
the studio, and Monty left Patricia. She continued to sit quite still,
while the brandy began slowly to have its effect. The blood stole back
to her cheeks. She looked at her little hands, which lay together,
clenched, in her lap, and slowly unclenched them, so that the knuckles
were no longer white. The nails had left two or three pink marks in
her palms, which gradually disappeared. The shuddering left her body,
which was now quite inert. A dreadful sensation of staleness pervaded
Patricia. Her head ached. Quietly, and as if by accident, Monty was
near her again. He poured a little more brandy into her glass.
"Patricia's not very grand," she heard him whisper to another man. "See
that she drinks this, will you?"
The other man, a stranger, drew up his chair, and sat near her, talking
in a low voice while she drank the brandy. She could not understand
what he said, but his voice was grateful. She smiled her thanks at him,
and her attention wandered away to the groups in other parts of the
studio, so loud, so closely resembling in appearance the groups which
had been present on the occasion of her first visit to this studio.
So much had happened since that evening that she realised how changed
she now was. It seemed to Patricia that she must have been a child
then. She felt very old now, as if she were looking back, an old woman,
upon days of happy ignorance. The noise did not echo sweetly in her
ears as it had done. This was no longer an enchanted meeting-place for
those who were wise and wonderful and superior to the rest of all human
beings. She had seen so much, and felt so much, since she had first
known them that the staleness which had come upon her this evening was
diffused among the visitors. She felt them to be also stale, curious
automata chattering to hide their emptiness and unhappiness, as she too
might now chatter to combat the knowledge that she was weary and unable
any longer to experience simple things with her old fresh delight.
A sigh shook Patricia. The feeling of sickness remained with her. And
this stranger who tried vainly to distract her attention with idle
speeches about things she did not understand and did not want to
understand was no other than the rest. She could see his long hair and
hear his thin light voice; and she was stirred by a contempt for all
that these groups represented. But her contempt no longer arose from
a sense that she was superior to the groups. For the first time she
was sick at heart as well as in mind and body. She made no attempt
to listen. She only felt tired and filled with distaste and the
longing for quietude and sincerity. The crowd became vague. At first
Patricia thought that she was again in danger of fainting; but she was
immediately better, and able at last to hear what the man said. He was
talking about the theatre, and was describing a play he had seen.
"Perfectly ghastly...." he was saying. "And all these suburbans were
enjoying it with all their ears. A silly little fool of a girl,
supposed to be extraordinarily charming; and saying and doing the most
incredible things...."
ii
Patricia could never have understood that it was her state of mind
alone which made these people distasteful to her. Any other crowd
would have seemed equally empty and unprofitable. But she was sitting
amid the noise sobered by her late excitement; and her reactions were
so rapid that she was misconstruing a mood as a revelation. As she
had hitherto over-valued herself, and then, by the mere plunge of her
neuroticism, had undervalued every quality she had, she now felt aghast
at the results of her own unreasoning wilfulness. She saw herself as a
feather, tossed by every wind of inclination, veering, flying, without
will. She was deeply shocked.
She thought of Harry; of Monty; of Edgar; and she was ashamed. There
was no indignation towards Monty; only acid shame. She had been
fascinated, tempted; she had been flattered and excited; and her vanity
had betrayed her. When the reality had come she had awakened to the
understanding that this fascinating sport with fire was a horror to
her. She, who had thought herself so clever, and so experienced, was
appalled at the very thing which she had supposed so fascinating.
She felt like the little boy who coveted one of those big glass jars
full of coloured liquid which still stand in the windows of small
pharmacies; and who, when the water had been emptied, found himself
possessed of a jar without beauty. Nothing could have been more bitter
than the realisation that she was a fool who had not even the courage
to pursue her folly to its end.
Patricia had played with the idea of love for Harry; and it had been
shown to be empty. She hardly thought of him. Lightly, she had fallen
in love with love. And then, tempted, she had enjoyed her sense of
power over Monty. She had responded to him, encouraged him; and the
result had been this evening's ignominious struggle. The bruises she
had received had been not only those of the body; they had been bruises
of her self-esteem, of the immaculate legend of Patricia Quin.
Subdued, miserable, she accepted her mortification.
"I've had my lesson!" she thought. And then, with a rising of that fear
which she had thought to allay by means of excitement, she exclaimed:
"But what in the world am I to do?"
iii
It was to Patricia an appalling moment of realisation. She fell into
a kind of stupor, a dream in which all things appeared to her in a
clear light of understanding, in which facts which hitherto she had not
truly perceived were made apparent. She was not asleep, but she was
so absorbed in contemplation that all noise made an undersong to her
reverie.
"I've been too clever," she thought. "I shall always be too clever
for myself, too big for my boots. All my life. I shall go on and on,
thinking myself so marvellous, until I come up against ... what? How
am I marvellous at all? What have I ever done that I should consider
myself marvellous? Nothing!" It was a terrible confession. If she had
been alone she must have screamed. But she was not alone. She was in
this wildly-coloured room, where each thing had been brought and placed
by some inner certainty of judgment on Monty's part, until the whole
room was a sort of picture of his mind; and there were others laughing
and talking within a few yards of her. And as Patricia remembered that
this piece of stuff had been brought from that place, and this other
given by some friend, and a lacquered chest discovered in a small shop
in Dublin, and a bronze figure ... she could not prevent herself from
thinking that Monty was much more wonderful than she would ever be,
much more wonderful, perhaps, than she had ever imagined. She saw him
among his guests, ever and anon glancing to make sure that she was
still there, that she was better; and Patricia knew that in culture and
acquaintance with all beautiful and sophisticated things he had wisdom
that she would never attain. This whole house was filled with his
personality, filled with his taste and his knowledge, his love of rare
things and those that were rich in colour and florid in design. His
interests were innumerable. He could talk of all the arts as only one
who was a connoisseur in each could talk. His sensitiveness to these
arts, so coolly displayed, was due not only to spontaneous outgoing to
whatever was sightly but to the gift which enabled him to appraise its
quality, and that degree of precision to the artist's concept to which
a work of art owes its singularity and therefore its permanence. He was
not a child, exclaiming at a toy: he was the product of a civilisation,
of many civilisations. His merest words were charged with references
and associations of which Patricia must for ever remain ignorant. And
with all this knowledge, all this culture, Monty was at bottom the
crude animal she had discovered. He had wanted her as an animal wants
another animal of the same species. And Patricia had opposed her will
to his, her instinctive doctrine of life to Monty's. Well?
Harry Greenlees had nothing like Monty's culture. In Monty's sense he
was not even educated. But even Harry was better-instructed and more
positive than herself. He was an individual; he could stand alone;
whereas Patricia only tried to do so, and made a tremendous fuss about
standing alone. Harry was physically as charming as herself. He was
lively, beautiful, able to do many unexpected things which were outside
the needs of his daily life. He could spend whole days alone without
monotony, which in itself was testimony to his endowment. He could tell
all the wild flowers of Europe in their seasons; without pretending to
be a musician he could play the piano well enough to be mistaken by the
unlearned for a professional; and without pretending to be an artist he
could draw with a certain cunning. And he was a competent journalist,
a specialist in his own department, rough and ready in diction, but
capable and individual in style. His technical acquaintance with all
sports was considerable. In his own way Harry also was a connoisseur.
He had a devotion to sport and sportsmanship, and a code which related
itself to the sporting code; and his sureness of judgment in everything
sporting was that of a good critic. And at bottom Harry was just a
rolling stone, wandering about the world for the fun of it; and he
had wanted Patricia for his chum, to roll about the world with him
for a space, until one or other of them was tired of the exploit. And
Patricia had refused to roll about the world, because she imagined that
she had a nobler destiny. Well?
Edgar was a man who by the strict disciplining of his natural capacity
had done what came first to his hand. He had learnt the details of
a business which had been distasteful to him; and he had mastered
them. He had made money, he had travelled, he had created a microcosm
for his family, in which they moved graciously and comfortably. The
whole of his business was at the tips of his fingers; his reading was
considerable, and his understanding enormous. She had never yet found
Edgar betraying by a false note any failure to comprehend the essential
qualities of a subject or its intricacies. His mind was so trained
that he unerringly caught secondary meanings, and those which were
implicit. He spoke without any air of authority; but she knew that he
was reckoned wise even among men of greater accomplishments. And Edgar
had offered her help and love; and Patricia had clung to her own path
of folly. What had she to put against this weight of challenge? If she
insisted upon her personality, in what way was the intrinsic value of
this personality made manifest to the impressible world?