Laurence Darrant, leaving his brother's house in the Adelphi, walked
northwards, rapidly, slowly, rapidly again. For, if there are men who by
force of will do one thing only at a time, there are men who from lack
of will do now one thing, now another; with equal intensity. To
such natures, to be gripped by the Nemesis which attends the lack of
self-control is no reason for being more self-controlled. Rather does it
foster their pet feeling: “What matter? To-morrow we die!” The effort
of will required to go to Keith had relieved, exhausted and exasperated
him. In accordance with those three feelings was the progress of his
walk. He started from the door with the fixed resolve to go home and
stay there quietly till Keith came. He was in Keith's hands, Keith would
know what was to be done. But he had not gone three hundred yards before
he felt so utterly weary, body and soul, that if he had but had a pistol
in his pocket he would have shot himself in the street. Not even the
thought of the girl--this young unfortunate with her strange devotion,
who had kept him straight these last five months, who had roused in him
a depth of feeling he had never known before--would have availed against
that sudden black defection. Why go on--a waif at the mercy of his own
nature, a straw blown here and there by every gust which rose in him?
Why not have done with it for ever, and take it out in sleep?
He was approaching the fatal street, where he and the girl, that early
morning, had spent the hours clutched together, trying in the refuge of
love to forget for a moment their horror and fear. Should he go in?
He had promised Keith not to. Why had he promised? He caught sight of
himself in a chemist's lighted window. Miserable, shadowy brute! And he
remembered suddenly a dog he had picked up once in the streets of Pera,
a black-and-white creature--different from the other dogs, not one of
their breed, a pariah of pariahs, who had strayed there somehow. He had
taken it home to the house where he was staying, contrary to all custom
of the country; had got fond of it; had shot it himself, sooner than
leave it behind again to the mercies of its own kind in the streets.
Twelve years ago! And those sleevelinks made of little Turkish coins
he had brought back for the girl at the hairdresser's in Chancery Lane
where he used to get shaved--pretty creature, like a wild rose. He had
asked of her a kiss for payment. What queer emotion when she put her
face forward to his lips--a sort of passionate tenderness and shame,
at the softness and warmth of that flushed cheek, at her beauty and
trustful gratitude. She would soon have given herself to him--that one!
He had never gone there again! And to this day he did not know why he
had abstained; to this day he did not know whether he were glad or sorry
not to have plucked that rose. He must surely have been very different
then! Queer business, life--queer, queer business!--to go through it
never knowing what you would do next. Ah! to be like Keith, steady,
buttoned-up in success; a brass pot, a pillar of society! Once, as a
boy, he had been within an ace of killing Keith, for sneering at
him. Once in Southern Italy he had been near killing a driver who was
flogging his horse. And now, that dark-faced, swinish bully who had
ruined the girl he had grown to love--he had done it! Killed him! Killed
a man!
He who did not want to hurt a fly. The chemist's window comforted him
with the sudden thought that he had at home that which made him safe, in
case they should arrest him. He would never again go out without some
of those little white tablets sewn into the lining of his coat. Restful,
even exhilarating thought! They said a man should not take his own life.
Let them taste horror--those glib citizens! Let them live as that girl
had lived, as millions lived all the world over, under their canting
dogmas! A man might rather even take his life than watch their cursed
inhumanities.
He went into the chemist's for a bromide; and, while the man was
mixing it, stood resting one foot like a tired horse. The “life” he had
squeezed out of that fellow! After all, a billion living creatures gave
up life each day, had it squeezed out of them, mostly. And perhaps
not one a day deserved death so much as that loathly fellow. Life! a
breath--aflame! Nothing! Why, then, this icy clutching at his heart?
The chemist brought the draught.
“Not sleeping, sir?”
“No.”
The man's eyes seemed to say: 'Yes! Burning the candle at both ends--I
know!' Odd life, a chemist's; pills and powders all day long, to hold
the machinery of men together! Devilish odd trade!
In going out he caught the reflection of his face in a mirror; it seemed
too good altogether for a man who had committed murder. There was a
sort of brightness underneath, an amiability lurking about its shadows;
how--how could it be the face of a man who had done what he had done?
His head felt lighter now, his feet lighter; he walked rapidly again.
Curious feeling of relief and oppression all at once! Frightful--to long
for company, for talk, for distraction; and--to be afraid of it! The
girl--the girl and Keith were now the only persons who would not give
him that feeling of dread. And, of those two--Keith was not...! Who
could consort with one who was never wrong, a successful, righteous
fellow; a chap built so that he knew nothing about himself, wanted to
know nothing, a chap all solid actions? To be a quicksand swallowing
up one's own resolutions was bad enough! But to be like Keith--all
willpower, marching along, treading down his own feelings and
weaknesses! No! One could not make a comrade of a man like Keith, even
if he were one's brother? The only creature in all the world was the
girl. She alone knew and felt what he was feeling; would put up with him
and love him whatever he did, or was done to him. He stopped and took
shelter in a doorway, to light a cigarette. He had suddenly a fearful
wish to pass the archway where he had placed the body; a fearful wish
that had no sense, no end in view, no anything; just an insensate
craving to see the dark place again. He crossed Borrow Street to the
little lane. There was only one person visible, a man on the far side
with his shoulders hunched against the wind; a short, dark figure which
crossed and came towards him in the flickering lamplight. What a face!
Yellow, ravaged, clothed almost to the eyes in a stubbly greyish growth
of beard, with blackish teeth, and haunting bloodshot eyes. And what
a figure of rags--one shoulder higher than the other, one leg a
little lame, and thin! A surge of feeling came up in Laurence for this
creature, more unfortunate than himself. There were lower depths than
his!
“Well, brother,” he said, “you don't look too prosperous!”
The smile which gleamed out on the man's face seemed as unlikely as a
smile on a scarecrow.
“Prosperity doesn't come my way,” he said in a rusty voice. “I'm a
failure--always been a failure. And yet you wouldn't think it, would
you?--I was a minister of religion once.”
Laurence held out a shilling. But the man shook his head.
“Keep your money,” he said. “I've got more than you to-day, I daresay.
But thank you for taking a little interest. That's worth more than money
to a man that's down.”
“You're right.”
“Yes,” the rusty voice went on; “I'd as soon die as go on living as
I do. And now I've lost my self-respect. Often wondered how long a
starving man could go without losing his self-respect. Not so very long.
You take my word for that.” And without the slightest change in the
monotony of that creaking voice he added:
“Did you read of the murder? Just here. I've been looking at the place.”
The words: 'So have I!' leaped up to Laurence's lips; he choked them
down with a sort of terror.
“I wish you better luck,” he said. “Goodnight!” and hurried away. A sort
of ghastly laughter was forcing its way up in his throat. Was everyone
talking of the murder he had committed? Even the very scarecrows?