Would he telephone this morning? Even if it were only to make final and
absolute the severance between them? She felt that she must at all costs
speak to him once again, and then unquestioningly she would accept her
dismissal. She vowed that she would not in any way attempt to clutch at
him, but he could not expect her to be superhuman ... and it would be
superhuman to be content to drop out of his life, with never a word of
farewell.
All that morning she was on the alert to catch the sound of the
telephone, ready to run and answer it immediately, so as not to waste
the precious moments he might have set aside for her. Other sounds there
were; deceptive sounds that jerked at her taut nerves; bicycle-bells in
the streets; the whirr of the telephone in the house next door; jingle
of bells on a passing cart; bells that existed only in her imagination.
The whole world seemed to be full of bell-sounds.... The telephone alone
remained dumb, as if under an enchantment.... But later on it threw off
this spell, and rang with persistent and diabolical frequency during the
whole afternoon. And each time Antoinette was convinced that it must be
Dennis, and with her heart beating wildly, flew to take off the
receiver; and was told that she was the “wrong number,” or else lured
into chatty conversation with some friend of her mother’s.
She raged impotently against these people who kept the line engaged,
while Dennis was perhaps trying in vain to get on.... The exhausting day
wore to its finish; and after one more “Sorry you’re troubled,” and a
somewhat tactless enquiry on the part of the Exchange as to whether the
telephone was “in order,” the instrument relapsed into silence.
And no letter, no word from him next morning.
... Scorching eyeballs and aching head; the sick, hot swell of tears in
the throat, and the unremitting effort required to swallow them down, to
appear natural, to deny herself the luxury of unrestrained emotion. If
once she broke down, there would be questions ... questions that she
could not answer. How much understanding could she expect from her
environment? They were strangers to her, strangers all—her father, her
mother, her grandmother.
Even despite her really gallant efforts at self-control, it was apparent
to her relatives that she was looking ill. Grand’mère, of course, took
this to be a piece of personal cussedness on Antoinette’s part: did not
the presence of M. Lefèvre in London render it eminently desirable that
she should appear at her best?
“She is anæmic,” said Henriette.
“She smokes too much,” declared Anatole.
“We should have found her a husband when she was younger,” Grand’mère
wagged her head sagaciously.
“There is still time,” muttered Anatole; “Jean Lefèvre had quite a good
impression of her, though one must admit that she made very little
effort to please him.”
Grand’mère brightened, and expressed the hope that M. Lefèvre would soon
come to pay his “_visite de digestion_.”
“He will come soon enough,” grumbled Anatole, who discouraged enthusiasm
on principle.
Of course he would come. And more than probably he would propose to her.
Antoinette knew that type from past experience. And the family would be
indignant if she refused him—just as they had been indignant on previous
occasions. Only this time the indignation would be greater, because, as
Grand’mère had said, they should have married her off when she was
younger; they were getting uneasy about her future; wanted to see her
safely settled.... Perhaps they would make it difficult—impossible for
her to refuse him. Perhaps her own strength of resistance would give
way. She felt as if she were being slowly strangled to death.
There was no one in whom she could confide, except, perhaps, Pegeen.
Pegeen might not understand, but she would be good to her, and that, for
the moment, was all that she asked; someone to be good to her, and
before whom she could relax her wearisome pretence. She was to go to
supper at the studio that evening; and the thought of it somehow helped
her through the first part of the third day without news of Dennis.
But when she reached the studio, Pegeen was not there. The side-entrance
had been left open, and on the table she found a scrawled note from
Pegeen, saying that she had gone out to tea with Conn and would be back
soon, and in the meantime would Antoinette help herself to the
cigarettes.... Antoinette was bitterly disappointed, her nerves already
fretted with over-much waiting. She had no idea of the time. The hands
of the three clocks—an antique bronze, a little painted Bavarian one,
and a cuckoo-clock—all pointed to different hours and ticked at variance
with one another; through the window that stood open to the garden, a
flood of orange sunset-light poured in, and lit up the colours in the
gorgeous brocades and fabrics that lay strewn about. From the
vicarage-garden next door came the sound of voices, and the smart dry
crack of croquet balls in collision. Antoinette wondered if Pegeen and
Conn were at Miss Mowbray’s, and if Dennis and Alan were there too.
Perhaps Pegeen would bring her some news, some message. But why was she
so late? Perhaps, with characteristic absent-mindedness, while she
listened to the usual vehement sort of talk in the tea-shop, she had
forgotten that Antoinette was waiting for her.
Already the sunset had faded, and the skylight showed a square of dull
grey. Restlessly she went to the window and looked out. The garden with
its unkempt lawn and tangled shrubbery, had a sinister appearance:
effect heightened by a yellow-eyed cat, crouching motionless among the
bushes.
She returned to her armchair by the fireplace; selected at random a book
from one of the shelves; discovered after five minutes that she had not
taken in a single word that she had read. Why didn’t Pegeen come? Yet,
even if she came, Antoinette realised again that it would not be
possible to tell her anything. How could she tell without implicating
Dennis? Pegeen might turn away in shuddering disgust, or she might
repeat Antoinette’s story to Conn.... No, one could not tell that sort
of thing. That was law that could not be infringed, even though
infringement might bring such relief.
Terror and loneliness of the Ishmaelite, outcast among men and women....
She was coming to know by her own experience every stage of the
suffering he had foreshadowed for her, suffering that she was not big
enough, not strong enough to bear alone.
Still the noise of the croquet balls persisted. Idly she wondered how
the players could see in this dim light. It was getting cold, but she
dared not go to close the door leading into the garden. To do so she
would have to cross the whole length of the studio ... and shadows were
beginning to lurk in the corners now, shadows that it would be horrible
to know behind one. As long as one faced them, it was bearable. Just
bearable.... The square of the skylight was changing from grey to dark
blue. The primroses that Conn had brought Pegeen the other day still
filled the green bowl, but they had faded to a hideous shrivelled mass
of brown. The sounds from the next door garden had ceased entirely, but
the studio was full of strange little sounds—creakings, whisperings,
mutterings.... From the walls, the figures in the cartoons leered
grotesquely down at her. There was something sinister about the designs
and the crude, brutal colouring of the brocades, just as there was
something sinister in that neglected garden with the weed-grown paths
and the crouching cat. She could not switch on the electric lamp at her
elbow; in accordance with the Lighting Regulations, the blind had to be
drawn over the skylight before the lamp could be lit ... and she knew
that she could never get even as far as the skylight. Those shapes in
the corners would creep up behind her, padding soft-footed at her
heels.... Soon it would be quite dark, and she would be alone with her
terrible thoughts, alone with the shadows and the mutterings and
creakings.
“Pegeen, come—please—please—please....”
No possibility of getting a sane grip of herself now. If Pegeen came she
would confess to her everything—everything—not caring if she infringed
the law. Only to have sight and sound of a human being among these
inanimate things imbued suddenly with a mysterious spirit of evil.
Footsteps at last, coming down the path towards the entrance.... With a
sob of relief, she rushed to the door.
“_Dennis!_”
She was clinging to him, laughing and crying hysterically. “I—I didn’t
know you were coming here.”
“And I didn’t know I’d find you here—I came for a book that Alan lent
Conn—‘_Towards Democracy_’—he wants it,” he spoke in rapid, jerky
sentences.
“Conn’s out. Pegeen too. I’ve been waiting for her for hours and
hours.... Dennis, it was dreadful!” Still she clung to his hand,
trembling.
“Poor child.... Antoinette, I know you expected me to ring up—I’ve
behaved despicably, oh, worse than that, but what’s the use of piling on
adjectives? I couldn’t ring up because there was nothing to say. You see
how it is with me, my dear.”
“I see, Dennis....”
“And doesn’t it make you hate me?”
“Could anything do that?”
He took her by the shoulders and kissed her again and again.
With a horrible flash of insight, she cried: “You’re kissing me—and
thinking of Alan.”
He answered “Yes” ... determined that at least there should be no
deception between them. “You shouldn’t let me do this, Antoinette.”
“I love you....”
“I’m a cad and a beast to let you let me.”
She laughed a little as the pressure of his hands tightened around her.
“I love you, Dennis.”
She was aware that her self-respect, her sense of moral degradation
should have risen in revolt against his treatment of her. Yet she knew
no shame in taking and returning his kisses, would have known no shame
in giving herself to him entirely, if by so doing she could have brought
him an instant’s fleeting delight, appeased the hunger of his senses.
“The waste, the utter futile waste of you.... Oh, God, why can’t I care
for you more?”
It might have been the cry of a person drowning, and it filled her with
immense pity and despair—pity and despair beyond all consciousness of
her own suffering.
“What is it that he can give you, and that I can’t?”
“You mustn’t want to give me anything. I’m not worth it. To-morrow I’m
seeing Alan for the last time. He’s pledged his word to be ready when
the police come for him next morning. I’m ... spending the last evening
with him, Antoinette....”
A sound of pain broke from her lips as he drew her closer to him. “I’ve
done my best to make you hate me. I’m doing it now.... I shall be with
Alan to-morrow, I tell you! Don’t you hate me now, Antoinette, and now?”
Thus might a different man, the phantom lover of her school-girl dreams,
have sought to wring from her the admission that she loved him. “Don’t
you love me now, Antoinette, and now...?”
Yet in this inverted world it could still seem natural that he should
try to wring from her the assurance of her hatred, using the most cruel
weapon in his power—the name of Alan.
“Don’t you hate me, Antoinette? It would be so much better if you
could!”
Through her torture she cried, “No!”
He kissed her roughly and passionately then, in a sort of fury at her
inability to satisfy him. And she, perceiving this, was yet happy after
a distorted fashion; happy despite her sad knowledge and lack of all
illusions. While she was in his arms her terrors could still be kept at
bay; she could laugh at the menace of M. Lefèvre or of continued
existence at Cadogan Gardens. It might be the last time that she would
feel secure.... Sudden conviction came upon her, that this _was_ the
last time that his arms would be around her; and now as once before, she
knew that the moment must be held and held—even though past experience
had proved that the memory of it would be powerless to soften the
inevitable pain that was to come.
“Dennis—it’s no good, you can’t make me hate you. And I can’t make
myself hate you—I’ve tried.... And I can’t do without you. I’ve tried
that too. Seeing what it felt like.... Yes, I know you’re in love with
Alan, and that I’m nothing to you and that you’d rather be rid of me
altogether—Oh, don’t interrupt me—let me say all I have to say, for
once.... I know if I had any pride or decent feeling I shouldn’t be
saying anything at all. You called me an immoral woman once, in fun.
Perhaps you were right. I’d rather kiss you like this, knowing
everything, than be respectably married to a respectable man. I suppose
I’m not good enough to be able to care for a respectable man. But is it
immoral to care for one man only, and for him so much, that nothing he
is or does, and nothing he can make you be or do, can ever make you hate
him?”
“And all this wasted on a wretched freak who can’t take it—but who’d
give his soul to be able to take it—bear that in mind, Antoinette,
perhaps it’ll help just a little.”
“It’s undignified of me to ask you not to cut me off entirely, but I do
ask you, all the same. Dignity and pride don’t seem to convey very much
to me now. They’re just words. But I know that I can’t do without you.
That’s real.”
He bent over her and murmured: “Forgive me, dear, for hurting you so
much....”
She answered with a half smile: “Forgive me, Dennis, for loving you so
much ...” and added in a whisper: “As I forgive you for loving me so
little....”
He said after a while: “Perhaps it’s just as well that Alan came when he
did; otherwise you might not have believed me. Seeing was believing,
wasn’t it?”
“No,” she said softly, “feeling was believing.”
“It’s monstrous that I should have had to drag you through all this!”
“I went gladly, Dennis—at first, anyway. So it was just as much my
fault. And I’m still willing to go wherever you’ll lead, if only you
_will_ lead, and not leave me stranded and alone. So it’s still my fault
now.”
He said sorrowfully: “It’s not your fault—and it’s not my fault—we’re
both unfortunates....”
As they left the studio, they heard footsteps scurrying down the walled
passage between the gardens, and almost collided with Pegeen. “I’m so
sorry to have kept you waiting,” she whispered breathlessly, “but I
couldn’t help it. We had to arrange things—we’re off to-morrow, Conn and
I—so good-bye to the two of you, and all the best luck in the world!”