CHAPTER VII
The lantern was out, that had burnt in the heart of the world.
Gareth was quite defenceless in face of this smashing thing which had occurred to him. He had no philosophy or religion to which to cling; no inner store of strength and pride. Nor was there any person to whom blindly he could turn, and say: "Help me!" He had not even the vicious satisfaction of feeling that his present misery was due payment for something tangible which had been his to enjoy; nothing had been his but moonshine, and moonshine is but poor stuff to feed on in retrospect.
Gareth, who had been hurt, looked about for somebody to hurt.
Kathleen's unnatural and feverish excitement, the prevailing atmosphere about her of impending happenings, stabbed him with a sense of unbearable injury. For sixteen years they had been unhappy together, he and she; since two and a half months, found each their separate happiness. And now his had evaporated—and hers remained. More, was obviously reaching its consummation.
Gareth had always been possessed of an instinctive understanding where Kathleen was concerned. Now he marked her sudden tremulous smiles; her abstracted moods, in which trivial mishaps mattered not at all; the state of mind in which she woke of a morning to a day which meant something, brought something nearer. All these tokens of an earth beatified, maddened him with the memory of his loss. Once, like a very human child, he cried out to whosoever was responsible: "If you could only have left me mine, I would havewantedeveryone to have theirs as well!" and then Kathleen hummed a little tune as she came in from an evening stroll; and Gareth said without looking up, "Where have you been?"
She lied carelessly. Went on lying, as he continued to question. The fact that she did not even labour to evolve a credible tissue of falsehood, that the web was full of holes and gaps whence any intelligent man might with ease tear the fabric to shreds, infuriated him more than anything else could have done; convinced him more than anything else how little he counted in her, in other people's eyes. "We needn't bother about Gareth. Gareth was always a weak fool!" ... he could hear Kathleen's scornful intonation, see Napier's flashing smile in response. And "Campbell's Young Men" caught up the tone and the laugh; till the world was one cruel casual voice that repeated "We needn't bother about Gareth."...
And the achievement which would have justified him—the book? Gareth was writing feverishly, neglecting his office-work, writing at every spare moment, early morning and late night. The hollows in his cheeks became more apparent; his eyes deeper sunken in their sockets. He was writing against time; writing against that thing which lay in the bottom drawer of his desk. The girl whose touch was cool came to him no more; the dusty black china cat watched him glassily from the mantelshelf. And Kathleen came in and out, and lied to him as if it were not worth while.
He guessed that her crisis was near at hand. From a certain crafty observance, newly and strangely acquired, he was able to deduce the date of the actual flight. Kathleen made no elaborate provisions that he should that evening be out of the way. She evidently intended to pack her trunk during the day, when he was at the office; send it in advance of her to Charing Cross; and trust to his amiability, stupidity—to let her depart without enquiries: "I'm going for a walk, Gareth." In anticipation he saw her eyes sparkling to an image beyond his bowed shoulders at the dining-room table; not caring if he heard her farewell or not. And he had drudged for her sixteen years.
After all, a certain amount was due to him on such an occasion. He was willing to let them go, yes; but could they not betray fear of being found out? take some pains to elude his vigilance? pay him tribute of stammering subterfuge and sidelong anxious looks? This drama of three had been performed so often—but this time two showed a disposition to cut out the part of the third altogether.
For the past fortnight, Kathleen had creamed her neck and arms every night before going to bed; and before the glass she brushed and brushed at her long black hair till the grey threads glittered; she also attempted to soften by massage the network of tiny winkles beneath her eyes, and the two drawn lines at each corner of the mouth. She was still a handsome woman, with the old suggestion of a wilder redder strain than the Saxon in her delicate aquiline nose, high cheekbones, and lithe body. But forty-three carries its mark. Gareth lay in bed and watched her efforts to remove them. She could not help that, since it was also his room. But he felt it a supreme insolence, this attempt before his very eyes at rejuvenescence for her lover. He wanted to tell her so ... knew there was some reason why he must pretend to be unaware of anything impending. What reason?... Why, yes, of course, he wanted her to go—but it required an effort to remember this, with nerves rasped to their present condition.
On the eve of the decisive Friday, Gareth returned early from the office, shivering from head to foot, racking pains just above his eyes, hands burning, and with an insistent dry cough from his chest. His chest, never strong, had not been sufficiently wrapped up in view of the recent October mists.
"I'm not well," he muttered, as he walked swayingly up the stairs to the bedroom. "Not well," and sat on the edge of the bed, and pressed his hot fingers to his hot eyelids, and repeated a great many times "Her touch is as cold as the sand in a cave ... her touch is as cold as the sand in a cave."... Oh, why did she never come to him now, his dream-girl? Never since that pile of manuscript lay buried in the bottom drawer of his desk. He could not afford to be ill—suddenly starting to his feet; he had to finish his book; at any moment Pat O'Neill might walk in and demand to know what had become of "The Reverse of the Medal"? Gareth's days at the office were haunted by the swinging of the glass door, perpetual fear of who might be the entering figure. So many strangers came to the firm of Leslie Campbell. And now, when his pen might be licking up the yards and miles of words he saw stretching ahead of him till the last chapter be reached—now he was ill, and had to waste the precious moments sitting on the edge of the bed, and coughing—coughing.
Kathleen entered, her arms laden with parcels. She started and dropped the largest of them, seeing Gareth.
"You! home so early!"
"I'm not well," he explained piteously. He noticed the parcels; guessed at their contents. She must have passed a delicious afternoon, spending all her little store of money. He guessed, too, that she was eager to unpack them, toy with the contents, try on the dainty feminine apparel by which she sought to hide her years from that other. Well, she could just attend to his wants instead; it would not be for many hours longer.
"You'd better go to bed," said Kathleen.
"Yes." He did not move.
"Come along then. This is only one of your usual chills. You'll be better to-morrow."
"I don't suppose I shall be well enough to go to the office."
He marked her quick start of dismay, and a tiny streak of comfort crept into his desolation. So at last he was proving slightly inconvenient, was he?
"Do you think I shall be well enough, Kathleen?"
"Not unless you get at once between the blankets." She wondered how much longer he would sit motionless on the edge of the bed, looking at her. Not that Gareth's doings really counted for much, entirely swamped as she was in her obsession of late love—but how like Gareth just at this time to catch a chill; she did not know whether to be amused or impatient at the intrusion of poultice and syrup on the gold-shot sublimity of her thoughts. She attended to the patient; he recognizing in her every movement an insistent determination to cure him sufficiently that he should leave the coast clear on the morrow. He was glad to be causing her trouble at last. Of course she must be allowed to go—through all his fever and irritation and muddle of desire, he strove to cling to that. He wanted her to go. It was as well that the drama was to be soon played to the finish; he was not at all certain how long he could retain his attitude of utter passivity.
Kathleen lay wide awake all through the night. At intervals she heard Gareth cough; could not tell if he slept or not; hoped for the best; it had not before occurred to her to take Gareth into consideration. But it was essential that no hitch should occur in her plan of escape. An hysterical fatalism brooded over her passion for Napier Kirby. She knew that if she hesitated once, paused to debate or analyse, looked beyond the actual moment of flight, or looked back to responsibility, habit, sentiment, then the sequence of events which had rushed to ten-thirty, Charing Cross, Friday evening, would pass by that single pin-point moment of action, never to touch it again. And she would be left. Forty-three cannot shatter and re-form her life, lose opportunities and find others, toss love aside and gather up love, as eighteen might do, as twenty-seven had done.
Gareth was not asleep; he tossed and coughed throughout that endless night, and wished he were alone, and that his head had not made every corner of the pillow such a burning discomfort.... "Her touch is as cold as the sand in a cave"—perhaps, when Kathleen had gone, leaving the room and the house empty, perhaps then his cool girl would return to him, bringing with her the old dreams of peace. Kathleen was going to-morrow.
He appeared rather better in the morning, but still feverish. Quite out of the question to breathe the raw gusty air outside, awhirl with crackling dancing leaves from the half-stripped branches.
"I'll have a fire put in the dining-room, Gareth. You'll be more comfortable there than here."
He shook with a queer desire to startle her by saying "Don't let my presence hinder your packing, my dear." Her crude attempts to remove him from the bedroom were an insult to his intelligence. She would lose that proneness to look through and beyond him, if he said "Don't let my presence ..." for fear of saying it, he shuffled into his worn dressing-gown, and went hastily downstairs; sat in the arm-chair, and looked at the black china cat, and listened to Kathleen's footsteps to and fro in the room above; opening drawers and cupboards; a pause while she folded a garment; movement of carrying it to the trunk. He made an effort to write at the book, but his head swam and he gave up trying. The day dragged on. Once he called for the servant to bring some more coal. Kathleen answered the summons, and attended to the fire abstractedly. Her cheeks were stained a rich carmine.
"Where's Maggie?"
"Maggie? Oh, I gave her permission to go out."
"Why? It isn't her day."
"She looked pale. I thought it would do her good."
"You mean," said Gareth—nearly—"that you sent her out to be rid of her while you pack."
He just withheld the speech; but with a sense that he was all the while being robbed of a privilege. Kathleen's manner was goading him to frenzy. He wanted her to know—know—knowthat he knew; that he could, if he wished, reveal her every falsehood, make her look the fool instead of himself. As it was, she would leave the house thinking him the dupe; continue always to think so.... Gareth writhed impotently. Somewhere in this old tired conjunction of one and two, was a magnificent effect for the third: at the eleventh hour to fling off pretence of ignorance, denounce the culprits, and claim his—property. "You mustn't! You mustn't!" twanged the last coherent fibre of his brain. But surely any after-forfeits would be worth the paying, just to stamp that superior exalted smile from Kathleen's lips; make her realize the fact of him, his existence and his claims.
She talked rapidly and jerkily at supper, but ate nothing. She might have been talking to anyone. Gareth said, "Can you give me a glass of something hot, Kath, when I'm in bed to-night? I want to be well by to-morrow."
"Yes, of course. I wouldn't go to bed too early if I were you"—no, not while her trunk stood packed in the room!—"or you'll find it hard to sleep."
"... What does that matter to you, since you won't be here?" Some demon surely was prompting him with all these sentences that he might not utter; he threw a swift furtive look towards the black cat with yellow eyes.
Kathleen rose and went to her room. Towards half-past nine, listening intently, he heard wheels that stopped a little way down the road. The cab!—he sat with fingers tightly gripping the chair. Heavy steps crunching to the front door. Kathleen, running softly downstairs to meet the cabman, shut, in passing, the dining-room door.
"Kathleen!"
She looked in. "Yes?"
"Why did you do that?" querulously.
"I don't want you to feel a draught."
"Who's there?"
She made vague response, "Man about the bathroom tap"; and closed the door again.
"Bathroom tap" ... Gareth laughed ironically. Then stopped laughing, confronted of a sudden by the utter ignominy of a man who sat and drowsed in a dressing-gown over the fire, while his mate was in the very act of leaving him. Straining forward in his chair, he heard the cabby lurch downstairs with the trunk on his shoulder. A pause. Then Kathleen again entered, in hat and coat.
"I'm going out, Gareth."
He did not turn. "At this time? Why?"
... Just a minute longer. If he can hang on to silence a minute longer.... The half-dead fire shifted. He felt her stop on the threshold to answer his question.
"It's such a fine night. I wanted a stroll."
A screaming gust of wind and rain shook and rattled at the panes—and a fibre of Gareth's brain seemed to twitch and snap. A fine night ... what sort of an idiot did she take him for? He would show her.
"You lie. You were going to join your lover."
... Not even now was he sure if he had said it, or if that absurd little black china cat were still playing its tricks. His back was to the door. He waited to hear it close behind her. That would indicate that all was well, and that she had gone. No sound. He turned ... saw from her face that it had not been the black china cat who had spoken the words:
"You lie. You were going to join your lover."
Her smile had slipped away—and quite right that it should!—smile that belonged to eighteen, not to forty-three. And she was aware of him now, Gareth noted exultantly; was waiting in stunned amaze for his next utterance. Well, since he had once broken bounds, it might come in full force, dramatic recrimination he had all this while suppressed. He had lost all sense of consequences, of the ultimate issue at stake; seized, for the second time in his life, by an irresistible storm of action. Just on and on, not seeing whether he was going—and who could now assert that Gareth Temple wasn't a strong man!
"You thought I saw nothing, did you? thought I swallowed all your stupid little lies; held me for stupider than the lies, did you? Well, I know. You were going to-night—not coming back—packing your clothes ... all those weeks you've been plotting it, you—with that smile forever on your face, and making yourself beautiful, for him; and buying clothes, for him. And I knew! I knew! For every falsehood you gave me, I gave you back another with my silence. Not—not quite such a fool as you took me to be, Kathleen...."
He was forced to stop, overtaken by a spasm of coughing; clutched for support at the corner of the table.
Kathleen had time to recover from her first numbness of surprise. The expected hitch to her plans had occurred. No matter! she could cope with more than this for the attainment of El Dorado. Gareth could not prevent her departure; let him but have his say, so it be a quick one; and then——
A noisy rapping at the front door indicated that the cabby had deposited his load on the vehicle, and was waiting to take his fare. Still coughing, Gareth brushed past Kathleen, and into the hall.
"You can bring the box back here," she heard him say. "You won't be wanted to-night after all."
She made no movement to contradict. Short of undignified strugglings and vituperations on her part, she saw that for the moment he controlled the situation. She did not for an instant waver in her stubborn confidence still to reach Charing Cross that night in time for the ten-thirty. But that Gareth should dare thwart her; Gareth of all people; Gareth, the urging of whom to initiative had well-nigh sapped her of her own, now by initiative to shatter and frustrate her hopes; Gareth's interference was unbearable.
He re-entered the room, well-pleased with the decisive action he had just taken. Her eyes snapped fire at him from the shadow of her youthful, too youthful, brown picture-hat.
"Have I been so happy with you?"
"That's beside the point," sternly.
"Is it? Is it?"
"You happen to be mine."
"You can't stop me, if I wish to go."
She heard the cab rattling down the street, dying to silence. She would have to walk till she found another—scarce in that neighbourhood. Supposing that by the time she reached Charing Cross, the ten-thirty would have throbbed out of the station, and Napier with it; Napier, thinking her trust had at the last moment failed. A bitter foreboding of loss clouded her eyes ... the chance would not come to her again. Gareth, watching, thought it was thus he must have looked when the other book had crashed across his dream. And now they were both unhappy again, he and she, as they had always been; he would not have to hear her hum that maddening little tune to-night, while she creamed her arms and shoulders. To-night ... then she would still be here! ... a chill misgiving struck at his satisfaction. He lashed himself up again.
"You seem to have no sense of shame," he flung at her.
"He wanted me." And for a fleeting instant she was again happy, thinking so. Gareth marked the beginning of—that smile.
"Are you sure?" he remarked slowly. "Of course I know little of the man—and wish to know less. But he struck me as being rather dangerously in love with his own wife. You and I ... we are neither of us very young any more, Kathleen. He may have flattered you, played with you, but——"
"She didn't care for him—didn't care...."
"That's why. You cared too much."
She cut in, fearing the next: "If he hadn't wanted me, would he have asked me to go South with him?"
"Didhe ask? Didn't you rather drive it through, doggedly, blindly, because you yourself so much desired it? Thrash it through and flog it, and force it? The man ... I've seen you force things through, Kathleen."
He had said it, what she had all the time endeavoured to hide from herself. And now there was no question of El Dorado. Gareth again! destroying even the aftermath, so that she could never dwell on the episode, on memory of Napier's voice and caresses, without hot stinging shame. To cheapen herself, give herself where she was not ardently desired.... Kathleen withdrew the pins from her hat, and laid the broad-brimmed felt upon the table. Then she sat down; and Gareth sat down opposite; and the black china cat prepared itself for some innocent enjoyment. There were things to be said which had remained unspoken for years. It would be good to clear the air. And they were both out to wound, wound and hack and tear. It is not a pleasant frame of mind which visits a man and a woman from whom the last dreams have been wantonly snatched.
"It was perfect at Alpenruh, wasn't it?" said Kathleen, rending the first veil.
"And never since."
"You loved me then—or didn't you?"
"Perhaps. Calf-love, moon-love, flimsy stuff that couldn't stand the years. We should not have tried to keep it up."
"I told you so, beforehand."
"I stuck to it, at least. You were running away—to another man."
"No woman could wish to stay with you. You can'tdothings; something rotten always gives way in you at the critical moment. One can't even lean on you, because you sway, sway and totter."... Quick revenge this, on Gareth, who had pointed out her humiliation. She went on: "Other men have passed you, again and again; young men, men with energy, men with genius. You've got left behind—you, weak on the chest, weak in the knees, weak everywhere. And you're always there, that's the worst of you—always there. Why shouldn't I have tried to leave you? You have brought me nothing, not even the right to be proud of you. It must be wonderful for a woman to be proud of her man's strength."
And quivering from the stripes her tongue inflicted, he stammered in answer to the final word of abuse.
"But I stopped you to-night—I stopped you——" Then hadn't he even here shown a man's strength? Had he botched this triumph as well? The child in him wailed its disappointment.
"You stopped me, yes," she gave a hard little laugh; "but not because you sent the cab away, my friend, so don't you believe it." And lest she might ever have to hear a repetition of his insinuation that she had "forced things through," Kathleen added: "I don't think to-night need be mentioned again, between us two."
"But——"
Maggie, the general servant, tapped at the door and entered, in Sunday hat and jacket.
"Please, ma'am," eyes round with astonishment, "there's your trunk a-standing in the passage. Stumbled over it, I did, when I come in from outside. An' I wondered——"
"It can go up to the bedroom." Kathleen disdainfully withheld explanation. "It isn't heavy, Maggie. I'll give you a hand with it."
Maggie backed.
"Oh, and Maggie, put on some hot milk, will you, for the master? and pour a little brandy into it; a teaspoonful."
Gareth stood listening to the bumping on the stairs, as the box was carried back to its old quarters. The fever of his mood had ebbed, till nothing remained of the glow and the exhilaration. He only knew he was tired and rather chilly; that Kathleen had not gone—would still be with him to-morrow, and all the days; between them that new barrier of silence, denser even than the old they had in their recent anger battered down.... "I don't think to-night need be mentioned again."
If he had waited one half-minute longer. Certainly it had been a good hour. But had he realized that his burden would in consequence be fastened on him for the rest of his life, he might perhaps have waited that half-minute longer....
In the bedroom upstairs, Kathleen stood at the window; behind her, the locked trunk and the untidy litter of packing. The dark wind whistled dismally, tore at the branches that swayed and bent and creaked resistance. The air was a whirl with fluttering patches and tatters. Kathleen shivered as she felt the malevolent draughts blowing in between the chinks, and down the chimney and under the door. What a restless shrieking tormented world, this last night of October!
Kathleen shivered.... "Shadders risin' 'twixt you an' me"—croaked an echo of the raucous tones of the street-singer outside Napier's rooms.... Was Napier on his way South?
She heard Gareth coughing below.
Then she moved away from the window, and her eye caught the calendar hanging on the wall; a cheap calendar, containing a picture of kittens playing, and under it the date—November 30th.
November 30th?... In the defiant joy of departure, she had that morning ripped off from the block a whole handful of leaves; since what mattered the time of year, when she would be in warm lands?
Panic-stricken, she now tore at the little strip of paper, and the one beneath it, and then several at a time ... December—December 20th—only to get through till the summer months came round again—December 31st—that was the last one, gummed to the cardboard; she could not remove it ... December 31st.
And the winter-fear was on her.