THE LIMIT
Romer went back to his hotel that evening feeling happier than he had
ever expected to be again. He felt sure now that everything would be
perfectly right. He refused to allow himself to dwell for a moment on
possibilities, and on what had been, or on what might have been. But he
was like a man who had been slightly stunned by a blow on the head and
was beginning to feel the pain the next day. Yet the pain was not very
acute; he did not quite realise it, but, unconsciously, it made him
feverish. And he was still a little stupefied. It did not occur to him
to go to the Club, or to look up any friends, and he remained in the
little hotel in Jermyn Street, filled at this time of the year
principally by Americans, and he dined alone there--dined well, and
smoked a long cigar. Then he went for a walk. London at the beginning of
August was not empty, but stale, crowded, untidy, hot--unlike itself. He
tried not to think of the garden of the Green Gate. Suddenly, with a
stab, he imagined Harry and Valentia; probably now he was telling her
that the engagement was broken off, and she was smiling and happy. Well!
it was what he wished. Since what had happened he felt his great love
for Valentia was much less vivid than it had been. He cared for her more
remotely. She seemed at a great distance. He thought that he felt more
to her as if she were a dear sister and living far away. Yes, that was
it; he loved her now like a sister.
Surprised at his own calm, and much pleased with his behaviour in the
matter, he retired to bed. The instant he had closed his eyes he seemed
to see, with the clearness of an hallucination, Harry's head bending low
over the writing-table, and, hanging above him on the wall of the
studio, the curious dagger; a Japanese weapon that was one of Harry's
treasures. And Romer felt again precisely the same horrible longing that
he had felt that morning at the studio--the sudden longing to plunge it
into Harry's neck. Horrified at the fancy and at himself, he turned up
the light and tried to read. He could not fix his attention on a word of
the article "Silk and Stuff" in the _Pall Mall_....
Of course he was not angry with Valentia; how could she help it? She
must be made happy. But she seemed dim, distant, remote. It was an
effort to recall her face.... Harry--Harry did not seem very real to him
either. It was all unreal. But he, Romer, had done the right thing.
Harry would never make her cry again.
Everything would go on as before. And _he_ had never said a word that it
would be painful for them both to remember. There was nothing
uncomfortable between them. He felt she would grow tired of Harry of her
own accord, and would then return to him, Romer, with no disagreeable
recollection of scenes, nor of their having said horrible things to one
another. Yes, he had been quite right. Yet she did not seem to him so
near as she used to be. He was not angry with her.... No, of course not.
He was not jealous. Perhaps she seemed more remote, more distant,
because he felt a certain coldness, and--yes--the coldness was there
because he was a little hurt perhaps.... And then he tried to go to
sleep again. But instantly his insane vision came back, and he got up
and walked round the room and tried to banish it.... At last he really
went to sleep, and awoke trembling with horror. He had had a horrible
dream. He dreamt that Harry was writing a letter, and that he had taken
the dagger from the wall of the studio and killed him. This was simply
horrible.
Then he began to realise the reason. It was subconscious jealousy. Then
he saw that he had set himself a task too big for him, and that he could
not endure to see Harry with Valentia now. It would be impossible to
bear it. He would have to tell him to go. He had mistaken his own
feelings. What he had heard on the verandah, what he had imagined, could
never be obliterated. Indeed, he saw clearly that if he tried to endure
it he would break down. The effort would lead to madness.--It was
impossible.... He had sent Harry back to her! He had actually sent him;
it was unbearable.
He would go back the next day, take Harry aside, and tell him that he
had found he couldn't bear it, and that on some pretext he must go away.
He would tell him that he had reached the limit of his endurance and
could bear no more. He would never speak of it to Valentia. Valentia
would be sad--but that could not be helped. He knew, now, that he could
not endure the sight of Harry again.
Having made this resolution, he became much calmer. But the dream
recurred each time he went to sleep until, in dread of it, he resolved
to sleep no more. His nerves felt shattered.
And then, he began to count the minutes till he could be back at the
Green Gate. To see Valentia again and to banish Harry for ever! And all
the obvious, human feelings that he thought he was free from had come
back. He broke down; bitter tears of self-pity, of sentiment, and of
heartbroken humiliation fell from his eyes. He remembered their
engagement and their honeymoon, and then the eternal and everlasting
amusing cousin; Harry, and his sickening good looks and ceaseless
chatter. No more of it, by heaven! It would be something worth having
lived for to have no more of the brilliant Harry. He saw now that he had
always been subconsciously jealous of him--that he had always loathed
and hated him. And rightly, by instinct; for not only had he done the
most unpardonable injury one friend can do to another, without a scruple
and without a hesitation, but he had shown the same baseness to her. He
made her unhappy. He made her cry. He wanted to marry for money and come
back again, treacherous to every one--hard, heartless, selfish, vulgar
in mind and in attitude to life. Romer hated him.
Well! Romer would tell him that very day that he had changed his mind
and that he was to go anywhere--anyhow--only to go. Neither he nor
Valentia should ever see him again.
Valentia seemed a long way off. She seemed remote and distant. That was
because he was still hurt and angry. When Harry had once gone, perhaps
she would seem near again.