1
The blood flowed slowly back into Sally's face, and her heart, which
had leaped madly for an instant at the sound of his voice, resumed its
normal beat. The suddenness of the shock over, she was surprised to
find herself perfectly calm. Always when she had imagined this meeting,
knowing that it would have to take place sooner or later, she had felt
something akin to panic: but now that it had actually occurred it hardly
seemed to stir her. The events of the night had left her incapable of
any violent emotion.
“Hullo, Sally!” said Gerald.
He spoke thickly, and there was a foolish smile on his face as he
stood swaying with one hand on the door. He was in his shirt-sleeves,
collarless: and it was plain that he had been drinking heavily. His face
was white and puffy, and about him there hung like a nimbus a sodden
disreputableness.
Sally did not speak. Weighed down before by a numbing exhaustion, she
seemed now to have passed into that second phase in which over-tired
nerves enter upon a sort of Indian summer of abnormal alertness. She
looked at him quietly, coolly and altogether dispassionately, as if he
had been a stranger.
“Hullo!” said Gerald again.
“What do you want?” said Sally.
“Heard your voice. Saw the door open. Thought I'd come in.”
“What do you want?”
The weak smile which had seemed pinned on Gerald's face vanished. A tear
rolled down his cheek. His intoxication had reached the maudlin stage.
“Sally... S-Sally... I'm very miserable.” He slurred awkwardly over the
difficult syllables. “Heard your voice. Saw the door open. Thought I'd
come in.”
Something flicked at the back of Sally's mind. She seemed to have
been through all this before. Then she remembered. This was simply Mr.
Reginald Cracknell over again.
“I think you had better go to bed, Gerald,” she said steadily. Nothing
about him seemed to touch her now, neither the sight of him nor his
shameless misery.
“What's the use? Can't sleep. No good. Couldn't sleep. Sally, you don't
know how worried I am. I see what a fool I've been.”
Sally made a quick gesture, to check what she supposed was about
to develop into a belated expression of regret for his treatment of
herself. She did not want to stand there listening to Gerald apologizing
with tears for having done his best to wreck her life. But it seemed
that it was not this that was weighing upon his soul.
“I was a fool ever to try writing plays,” he went on. “Got a winner
first time, but can't repeat. It's no good. Ought to have stuck to
newspaper work. I'm good at that. Shall have to go back to it. Had
another frost to-night. No good trying any more. Shall have to go back
to the old grind, damn it.”
He wept softly, full of pity for his hard case.
“Very miserable,” he murmured.
He came forward a step into the room, lurched, and retreated to the safe
support of the door. For an instant Sally's artificial calm was shot
through by a swift stab of contempt. It passed, and she was back again
in her armour of indifference.
“Go to bed, Gerald,” she said. “You'll feel better in the morning.”
Perhaps some inkling of how he was going to feel in the morning worked
through to Gerald's muddled intelligence, for he winced, and his manner
took on a deeper melancholy.
“May not be alive in the morning,” he said solemnly. “Good mind to
end it all. End it all!” he repeated with the beginning of a sweeping
gesture which was cut off abruptly as he clutched at the friendly door.
Sally was not in the mood for melodrama.
“Oh, go to bed,” she said impatiently. The strange frozen indifference
which had gripped her was beginning to pass, leaving in its place a
growing feeling of resentment--resentment against Gerald for degrading
himself like this, against herself for ever having found glamour in the
man. It humiliated her to remember how utterly she had once allowed his
personality to master hers. And under the sting of this humiliation she
felt hard and pitiless. Dimly she was aware that a curious change had
come over her to-night. Normally, the sight of any living thing in
distress was enough to stir her quick sympathy: but Gerald mourning
over the prospect of having to go back to regular work made no appeal to
her--a fact which the sufferer noted and commented upon.
“You're very unsymp... unsympathetic,” he complained.
“I'm sorry,” said Sally. She walked briskly to the door and gave it a
push. Gerald, still clinging to his chosen support, moved out into the
passage, attached to the handle, with the air of a man the foundations
of whose world have suddenly lost their stability. He released the
handle and moved uncertainly across the passage. Finding his own door
open before him, he staggered over the threshold; and Sally, having
watched him safely to his journey's end, went into her bedroom with the
intention of terminating this disturbing night by going to sleep.
Almost immediately she changed her mind. Sleep was out of the question.
A fever of restlessness had come upon her. She put on a kimono, and
went into the kitchen to ascertain whether her commissariat arrangements
would permit of a glass of hot milk.
She had just remembered that she had that morning presented the last
of the milk to a sandy cat with a purposeful eye which had dropped in
through the window to take breakfast with her, when her regrets for this
thriftless hospitality were interrupted by a muffled crash.
She listened intently. The sound had seemed to come from across the
passage. She hurried to the door and opened it. As she did so, from
behind the door of the apartment opposite there came a perfect fusillade
of crashes, each seeming to her strained hearing louder and more
appalling than the last.
There is something about sudden, loud noises in the stillness of the
night which shatters the most rigid detachment. A short while before,
Gerald, toying with the idea of ending his sorrows by violence, had
left Sally unmoved: but now her mind leapt back to what he had said,
and apprehension succeeded indifference. There was no disputing the fact
that Gerald was in an irresponsible mood, under the influence of
which he was capable of doing almost anything. Sally, listening in the
doorway, felt a momentary panic.
A brief silence had succeeded the fusillade, but, as she stood there
hesitating, the noise broke out again; and this time it was so loud and
compelling that Sally hesitated no longer. She ran across the passage
and beat on the door.
2
Whatever devastating happenings had been going on in his home, it was
plain a moment later that Gerald had managed to survive them: for there
came the sound of a dragging footstep, and the door opened. Gerald stood
on the threshold, the weak smile back on his face.
“Hullo, Sally!”
At the sight of him, disreputable and obviously unscathed, Sally's
brief alarm died away, leaving in its place the old feeling of impatient
resentment. In addition to her other grievances against him, he had
apparently frightened her unnecessarily.
“Whatever was all that noise?” she demanded.
“Noise?” said Gerald, considering the point open-mouthed.
“Yes, noise,” snapped Sally.
“I've been cleaning house,” said Gerald with the owl-like gravity of a
man just conscious that he is not wholly himself.
Sally pushed her way past him. The apartment in which she found herself
was almost an exact replica of her own, and it was evident that Elsa
Doland had taken pains to make it pretty and comfortable in a niggly
feminine way. Amateur interior decoration had always been a hobby
of hers. Even in the unpromising surroundings of her bedroom at
Mrs. Meecher's boarding-house she had contrived to create a certain
daintiness which Sally, who had no ability in that direction herself,
had always rather envied. As a decorator Elsa's mind ran in the
direction of small, fragile ornaments, and she was not afraid of
over-furnishing. Pictures jostled one another on the walls: china of all
description stood about on little tables: there was a profusion of lamps
with shades of parti-coloured glass: and plates were ranged along a
series of shelves.
One says that the plates were ranged and the pictures jostled one
another, but it would be more correct to put it they had jostled and
had been ranged, for it was only by guess-work that Sally was able
to reconstruct the scene as it must have appeared before Gerald had
started, as he put it, to clean house. She had walked into the flat
briskly enough, but she pulled up short as she crossed the threshold,
appalled by the majestic ruin that met her gaze. A shell bursting in the
little sitting-room could hardly have created more havoc.
The psychology of a man of weak character under the influence of alcohol
and disappointed ambition is not easy to plumb, for his moods follow one
another with a rapidity which baffles the observer. Ten minutes before,
Gerald Foster had been in the grip of a clammy self-pity, and it seemed
from his aspect at the present moment that this phase had returned. But
in the interval there had manifestly occurred a brief but adequate
spasm of what would appear to have been an almost Berserk fury. What had
caused it and why it should have expended itself so abruptly, Sally was
not psychologist enough to explain; but that it had existed there was
ocular evidence of the most convincing kind. A heavy niblick, flung
petulantly--or remorsefully--into a corner, showed by what medium the
destruction had been accomplished.
Bleak chaos appeared on every side. The floor was littered with every
imaginable shape and size of broken glass and china. Fragments of
pictures, looking as if they had been chewed by some prehistoric animal,
lay amid heaps of shattered statuettes and vases. As Sally moved slowly
into the room after her involuntary pause, china crackled beneath her
feet. She surveyed the stripped walls with a wondering eye, and turned
to Gerald for an explanation.
Gerald had subsided on to an occasional table, and was weeping softly
again. It had come over him once more that he had been very, very badly
treated.
“Well!” said Sally with a gasp. “You've certainly made a good job of
it!”
There was a sharp crack as the occasional table, never designed by its
maker to bear heavy weights, gave way in a splintering flurry of broken
legs under the pressure of the master of the house: and Sally's mood
underwent an abrupt change. There are few situations in life which do
not hold equal potentialities for both tragedy and farce, and it was
the ludicrous side of this drama that chanced to appeal to Sally at
this moment. Her sense of humour was tickled. It was, if she could have
analysed her feelings, at herself that she was mocking--at the feeble
sentimental Sally who had once conceived the absurd idea of taking this
preposterous man seriously. She felt light-hearted and light-headed, and
she sank into a chair with a gurgling laugh.
The shock of his fall appeared to have had the desirable effect of
restoring Gerald to something approaching intelligence. He picked
himself up from the remains of a set of water-colours, gazing at Sally
with growing disapproval.
“No sympathy,” he said austerely.
“I can't help it,” cried Sally. “It's too funny.”
“Not funny,” corrected Gerald, his brain beginning to cloud once more.
“What did you do it for?”
Gerald returned for a moment to that mood of honest indignation, which
had so strengthened his arm when wielding the niblick. He bethought him
once again of his grievance.
“Wasn't going to stand for it any longer,” he said heatedly. “A fellow's
wife goes and lets him down... ruins his show by going off and playing
in another show... why shouldn't I smash her things? Why should I stand
for that sort of treatment? Why should I?”
“Well, you haven't,” said Sally, “so there's no need to discuss it. You
seem to have acted in a thoroughly manly and independent way.”
“That's it. Manly independent.” He waggled his finger impressively.
“Don't care what she says,” he continued. “Don't care if she never comes
back. That woman...”
Sally was not prepared to embark with him upon a discussion of the
absent Elsa. Already the amusing aspect of the affair had begun to fade,
and her hilarity was giving way to a tired distaste for the sordidness
of the whole business. She had become aware that she could not
endure the society of Gerald Foster much longer. She got up and spoke
decidedly.
“And now,” she said, “I'm going to tidy up.”
Gerald had other views.
“No,” he said with sudden solemnity. “No! Nothing of the kind. Leave it
for her to find. Leave it as it is.”
“Don't be silly. All this has got to be cleaned up. I'll do it. You go
and sit in my apartment. I'll come and tell you when you can come back.”
“No!” said Gerald, wagging his head.
Sally stamped her foot among the crackling ruins. Quite suddenly the
sight of him had become intolerable.
“Do as I tell you,” she cried.
Gerald wavered for a moment, but his brief militant mood was ebbing
fast. After a faint protest he shuffled off, and Sally heard him go into
her room. She breathed a deep breath of relief and turned to her task.
A visit to the kitchen revealed a long-handled broom, and, armed with
this, Sally was soon busy. She was an efficient little person, and
presently out of chaos there began to emerge a certain order. Nothing
short of complete re-decoration would ever make the place look habitable
again, but at the end of half an hour she had cleared the floor, and
the fragments of vases, plates, lamp-shades, pictures and glasses were
stacked in tiny heaps against the walls. She returned the broom to the
kitchen, and, going back into the sitting-room, flung open the window
and stood looking out.
With a sense of unreality she perceived that the night had gone. Over
the quiet street below there brooded that strange, metallic light which
ushers in the dawn of a fine day. A cold breeze whispered to and fro.
Above the house-tops the sky was a faint, level blue.
She left the window and started to cross the room. And suddenly there
came over her a feeling of utter weakness. She stumbled to a chair,
conscious only of being tired beyond the possibility of a further
effort. Her eyes closed, and almost before her head had touched the
cushions she was asleep.
3
Sally woke. Sunshine was streaming through the open window, and with
it the myriad noises of a city awake and about its business. Footsteps
clattered on the sidewalk, automobile horns were sounding, and she could
hear the clank of street cars as they passed over the points. She could
only guess at the hour, but it was evident that the morning was well
advanced. She got up stiffly. Her head was aching.
She went into the bathroom, bathed her face, and felt better. The dull
oppression which comes of a bad night was leaving her. She leaned out
of the window, revelling in the fresh air, then crossed the passage and
entered her own apartment. Stertorous breathing greeted her, and she
perceived that Gerald Foster had also passed the night in a chair. He
was sprawling by the window with his legs stretched out and his head
resting on one of the arms, an unlovely spectacle.
Sally stood regarding him for a moment with a return of the distaste
which she had felt on the previous night. And yet, mingled with the
distaste, there was a certain elation. A black chapter of her life was
closed for ever. Whatever the years to come might bring to her, they
would be free from any wistful yearnings for the man who had once been
woven so inextricably into the fabric of her life. She had thought that
his personality had gripped her too strongly ever to be dislodged,
but now she could look at him calmly and feel only a faint half-pity,
half-contempt. The glamour had departed.
She shook him gently, and he sat up with a start, blinking in the strong
light. His mouth was still open. He stared at Sally foolishly, then
scrambled awkwardly out of the chair.
“Oh, my God!” said Gerald, pressing both his hands to his forehead and
sitting down again. He licked his lips with a dry tongue and moaned.
“Oh, I've got a headache!”
Sally might have pointed out to him that he had certainly earned one,
but she refrained.
“You'd better go and have a wash,” she suggested.
“Yes,” said Gerald, heaving himself up again.
“Would you like some breakfast?”
“Don't!” said Gerald faintly, and tottered off to the bathroom.
Sally sat down in the chair he had vacated. She had never felt quite
like this before in her life. Everything seemed dreamlike. The splashing
of water in the bathroom came faintly to her, and she realized that she
had been on the point of falling asleep again. She got up and opened the
window, and once more the air acted as a restorative. She watched the
activities of the street with a distant interest. They, too, seemed
dreamlike and unreal. People were hurrying up and down on mysterious
errands. An inscrutable cat picked its way daintily across the road. At
the door of the apartment house an open car purred sleepily.
She was roused by a ring at the bell. She went to the door and opened
it, and found Bruce Carmyle standing on the threshold. He wore a light
motor-coat, and he was plainly endeavouring to soften the severity of
his saturnine face with a smile of beaming kindliness.
“Well, here I am!” said Bruce Carmyle cheerily. “Are you ready?”
With the coming of daylight a certain penitence had descended on Mr.
Carmyle. Thinking things over while shaving and subsequently in his
bath, he had come to the conclusion that his behaviour overnight had not
been all that could have been desired. He had not actually been brutal,
perhaps, but he had undoubtedly not been winning. There had been an
abruptness in the manner of his leaving Sally at the Flower Garden which
a perfect lover ought not to have shown. He had allowed his nerves
to get the better of him, and now he desired to make amends. Hence a
cheerfulness which he did not usually exhibit so early in the morning.
Sally was staring at him blankly. She had completely forgotten that he
had said that he would come and take her for a drive this morning. She
searched in her mind for words, and found none. And, as Mr. Carmyle
was debating within himself whether to kiss her now or wait for a more
suitable moment, embarrassment came upon them both like a fog, and the
genial smile faded from his face as if the motive-power behind it had
suddenly failed.
“I've--er--got the car outside, and...”
At this point speech failed Mr. Carmyle, for, even as he began the
sentence, the door that led to the bathroom opened and Gerald Foster
came out. Mr. Carmyle gaped at Gerald: Gerald gaped at Mr. Carmyle.
The application of cold water to the face and head is an excellent thing
on the morning after an imprudent night, but as a tonic it only goes
part of the way. In the case of Gerald Foster, which was an extremely
serious and aggravated case, it had gone hardly any way at all. The
person unknown who had been driving red-hot rivets into the base of
Gerald Foster's skull ever since the moment of his awakening was still
busily engaged on that task. He gazed at Mr. Carmyle wanly.
Bruce Carmyle drew in his breath with a sharp hiss, and stood rigid. His
eyes, burning now with a grim light, flickered over Gerald's person
and found nothing in it to entertain them. He saw a slouching figure
in shirt-sleeves and the foundations of evening dress, a disgusting,
degraded figure with pink eyes and a white face that needed a shave. And
all the doubts that had ever come to vex Mr. Carmyle's mind since his
first meeting with Sally became on the instant certainties. So Uncle
Donald had been right after all! This was the sort of girl she was!
At his elbow the stout phantom of Uncle Donald puffed with satisfaction.
“I told you so!” it said.
Sally had not moved. The situation was beyond her. Just as if this had
really been the dream it seemed, she felt incapable of speech or action.
“So...” said Mr. Carmyle, becoming articulate, and allowed an impressive
aposiopesis to take the place of the rest of the speech. A cold fury
had gripped him. He pointed at Gerald, began to speak, found that he was
stuttering, and gulped back the words. In this supreme moment he was not
going to have his dignity impaired by a stutter. He gulped and found a
sentence which, while brief enough to insure against this disaster, was
sufficiently long to express his meaning.
“Get out!” he said.
Gerald Foster had his dignity, too, and it seemed to him that the time
had come to assert it. But he also had a most excruciating headache, and
when he drew himself up haughtily to ask Mr. Carmyle what the devil he
meant by it, a severe access of pain sent him huddling back immediately
to a safer attitude. He clasped his forehead and groaned.
“Get out!”
For a moment Gerald hesitated. Then another sudden shooting spasm
convinced him that no profit or pleasure was to be derived from a
continuance of the argument, and he began to shamble slowly across to
the door. Bruce Carmyle watched him go with twitching hands. There was
a moment when the human man in him, somewhat atrophied from long disuse,
stirred him almost to the point of assault; then dignity whispered more
prudent counsel in his ear, and Gerald was past the danger-zone and out
in the passage. Mr. Carmyle turned to face Sally, as King Arthur on
a similar but less impressive occasion must have turned to deal with
Guinevere.
“So...” he said again.
Sally was eyeing him steadily--considering the circumstances, Mr.
Carmyle thought with not a little indignation, much too steadily.
“This,” he said ponderously, “is very amusing.”
He waited for her to speak, but she said nothing.
“I might have expected it,” said Mr. Carmyle with a bitter laugh.
Sally forced herself from the lethargy which was gripping her.
“Would you like me to explain?” she said.
“There can be no explanation,” said Mr. Carmyle coldly.
“Very well,” said Sally.
There was a pause.
“Good-bye,” said Bruce Carmyle.
“Good-bye,” said Sally.
Mr. Carmyle walked to the door. There he stopped for an instant and
glanced back at her. Sally had walked to the window and was looking out.
For one swift instant something about her trim little figure and the
gleam of her hair where the sunlight shone on it seemed to catch at
Bruce Carmyle's heart, and he wavered. But the next moment he was strong
again, and the door had closed behind him with a resolute bang.
Out in the street, climbing into his car, he looked up involuntarily
to see if she was still there, but she had gone. As the car, gathering
speed, hummed down the street. Sally was at the telephone listening to
the sleepy voice of Ginger Kemp, which, as he became aware who it
was that had woken him from his rest and what she had to say to him,
magically lost its sleepiness and took on a note of riotous ecstasy.
Five minutes later, Ginger was splashing in his bath, singing
discordantly.