CHAPTER XVI.ASdays went on she became more than ever persuaded of the fatalism of those suggestive, common words, “Yer never knows nothin’, do yer?” That woman, with the soiled red lining to her kicked-up petticoat—that woman, with the loosely sensuous mouth, big tongue, and rolling bright eyes, had emerged from the gray routine of her particular suburban corner, merely as a warning. Those comically meaningless words became a gospel. She was always saying them, puzzling over them. They were on her pale lips as she looked questioningly into Edred’s face. Once she woke up and found herself saying them in her sleep. It was too stupid. But, if only that persistent quoting of them, in silence, that continual battering of them at the door of her distracted brain, would bring solution! If she could take hold of some slight clew! She found herself constantly longing for proof of Edred’s unfaithfulness. That, she thought, would end her love—her reckless, shameful love for an unworthy object: love that blows, terrible suggestions, the cruelest words and looks could not kill. If she could free herself from that horrid, paralyzing coil of Love!She used to dog his steps with the patient sleuth-like tread of an intent panther. She followed himinto strange places often enough—unseen. She was always watching, waiting. Other wives waited and watched, hoping all the time that nothing was wrong, that they still had faithful husbands, might still keep their homes together with honor. But Pamela dogged Edred desperately—much more desperately than she would have done had there been the smallest chance of happiness left for them. She only fiercely prayed that there might be some entanglement, that there was some other woman—weak, innocent, or criminal—in the background. It meant so much more to her than mere conjugal peace and trust; her experience had made her bitterly scornful of married life: you could never successfully blend romance and joint housekeeping. She was playing for a much higher, nobler stake—her own independence. A wife was an individual first, a mere married woman afterward. She was conscious from time to time of the absolute isolation of each human being who treads the world.One flesh! Bare hearts! What empty jargon! One could look into the other one’s eyes and be breeding murder, worse than murder, all the time. This life, the beings with whom we were accidentally thrown in contact during our half-conscious sojourn—mere detail! There was a splendid, terrifying isolation about everyone. Each alone! She used to look at them curiously, speculatively; figures moving along the yellow streets at night, in tender twos, in merry companies—and yet alone. Each one shut in, cut off from all perfect communion, by the film of his own individuality. Each brain itsown secret world. Each body, under such varying garments, absolutely its own, in spite of vows, ardent protestations, respectable and legal shackles.She used to brood thus, a little at random, as she warily trod the streets behind that slim, carefully-dressed figure. She had become a strange perversion. She loved her husband still, in a headlong, fierce way. Yet she longed for him to commit himself, so that her love might puff away, become impalpable, like smoke rising in a clear sky. There was no chance for her, no freedom, no self-respect until she became callous, until that hot, wayward heart of hers was dammed up. She had read—in a girl’s superficial way—of first love as a potent thing. She hadn’t known then that it could be such a sweeping, crowning, involuntary thing—hadn’t dreamed that it could hold you in such grim, iron grasp. She couldn’t get away from the magnetism of—the first. She despised him; sometimes, for a clear moment, she loathed him. She remembered that on one occasion it had been a keen struggle to throw down the bread knife on the wooden platter instead of slitting it through his long lean throat.And yet! He had only to call the old playful, indulgent light into his lazy eyes, only to carelessly flip at her some gesture or word of the past, to bring her under his heel—quivering body, small subject soul. It was horrible to be in such bondage to a man—just because he had been first. Only because!One night near Holywell Street she saw him meet a woman. She followed them down theStrand, an odd, glad singing in her head. The moment had come.She studied that woman with a woman’s minute, critical eye. She wasn’t satisfied. The woman was respectable, obviously, insolently respectable. She looked like the mistress of a maid-of-all-work and a flawless little house.She hadn’t the right atmosphere. She took Edred’s arm, hanging on it stolidly and looking at other women on the pavements with a sort of virtuous sneer, seeming to say, “I have a perfect right; can any of you say as much?” They might have been an aggressively respectable married couple from South London going to dine at a restaurant by way of dissipation.As a matter of fact they turned in at one. Pamela watched Edred push back the heavy door and gravely stand aside for his companion to pass in first. There was no eagerness in his attitude; he seemed quite used to it, not exactly weary, but coldly stolid. He wore the settled air of a married man—the mild, contented, resigned air of doom, which so many husbands wear. He was neither unhappy nor happy; he took this evening meal in the crush and steam and the hurry of waiters as a matter of course. Why not?She didn’t pretend to understand him—or her. They were an odd couple. Nothing stealthy, illicit, ecstatic about them, when there should have been a suggestion of all three emotions!The woman wore brown—the frump’s unfailing refuge: it was a hot, reddish sort of brown; her hat,anxious to be in the fashion, was painfully skewered to her head by many pins. There were fresh touches of pink about her at ridiculously unwanted spots. She looked pleased, shy; like a child dressed for a party.Pamela followed them up between the line of tables, between the greedy line of eaters, some gluttonously bending over the plates, some waiting with an air of impatience, some replete and leaning back, quizzing and smoking. In the long mirrors she could see the reflection of all three—such a dramatic three: Edred, with his sheepish, sleepy air; the strange woman, all pink and brown and narrow airs of virtue as she looked at—and apparently suspected—every other woman a little smarter than herself. Last of the three Pamela saw her own tall figure, stylishly attired, the abundant dull hair bunching out beneath her toque with the big ostrich plumes. The set and selection of her gown was in such good, if rather striking, taste, that the over-fed and quickly-feeding men looked after her, their faces lighting up.The intangible feeling of shame, of smirching, which was becoming common to her, caught at her then. She fancied she read insult in the admiration of these many strange men.She looked at herself again and was bound to admit that there was not so very much difference between her costume, her carriage, and the carriage and costume of others present whose vocation was unmistakable. The ultra-fashionable woman sails perilously near the wind in appearance. She feltquite angry with her expensive garments. She followed still, through the glass, the movements of the woman in pink and brown. She seemed to shout, in every seam of her dowdy frock, in every gleaming button of her badly-cut gloves, “respectable married virtue.” She!—she!The world was whirling round the wrong way.She followed her quarry, every sense alert so that Edred might not discover her. When the two settled at a table she deftly slipped aside and took the one immediately behind them. So that they were sitting back to back, she and that shameful woman with the perplexing insolent air of calm virtue. The back of her beautifully-cut and braided heliotrope coat was within a few inches of the contemptible little brown bodice with the crisp pink bow at the neck and the pink-lined ends, like lopping rabbit-ears, at the waist.The waiter came up. Beneath her breath and mechanically she ordered a steak, her ears strained all the time to hear what they would order. Edred said:“Calves’-head? You have never tasted it—as they serve it here.”“It’s rather rich,” came a common voice dubiously.Odd! Her voice, like her frock, like her little pursed mouth and hard eyes, was respectable. Aggressively respectable! Women like that had no right to appear respectable; to do so was an additional aggravation. Wasn’t theirexistenceenough? The jealous fire was rising, was alreadyburning, a steady white light, at her heart. But she was very glad, of course. Confused, conflicting thoughts kept running in her head.When the steak came she could not eat it; there was enough for two men. She just played with her knife and fork, dipping deeply into the bottle of red wine she had ordered.“I knew it would be too rich,” the voice of the brown woman said reproachfully. “It’s too bad of you to spoil my dinner, when you know my stomach’s not strong. Nasty, bilious stuff! I can’t touch another bit.”Well! He might have chosen a handsomer, a more refined woman. Little common narrow creature! He might have given her a more worthy rival while he was about it.“Where did I put my gloves? No, I couldn’t look at pudding; it would just about finish me. Cheese? Ifyoulike—not for me. I’ll have a liqueur by and by; not that beastly green stuff we had last time. Cherry brandy. I can’t have lost the gloves.”She twirled round suddenly, putting her hands behind her and anxiously fumbling. Pamela wheeled round too, grasping the handle of her umbrella by way of excuse. Their eyes met. The quick, respectable, scandalized expression shot into those of the brown woman.Pamela flinched and flushed. It wasn’t pleasant to be mistaken—by her, too. The wretch—the little, common, hypocritical wretch! How dare she? Their eyes met: the malevolent stare in thepink and brown woman’s, the eager, wide look in Pamela’s. She photographed on her alert brain every line of that face—the face which Edred found more comely than hers. It was long and thin, but quite youthful; she judged her to be about twenty-five. The eyes were hot brown, like the gown, and set close together. They were restless eyes, curiously restless. They roved about perpetually, seeming miserably to search for something which never came. It was like a monkey’s face—a pink, unlined monkey face. There was cunning in it, spite, and a kind of dumb pathos. A very curious woman for a rival!She fished up the ginger-colored gloves. They were shamefully new; one or two of the buttons were still covered with tissue-paper.Edred had finished his meal; he was smoking, his head back, his eyes dreamy. Pamela knew the attitude very well; it usually followed a good dinner. Her heart ached for herself. The little woman fussily put on her gloves, drew down her veil, settled her fluttering ends of pink satin. Then she, too, fell back on the red seat and began to look idly about her, passing audible comments on people whose appearance invited the acid of her tongue.“And there’s that woman behind,” she said presently, in a distinct whisper. “Just behind me. Look—when she isn’t looking. How silly you are! Always looking the wrong way. Didn’t I saybehind?”“Never mind. I’ll take your word for her,” he returned.“But do look. I’m sure she’s—you know. Half of them are in this place. Disgraceful, overdressed things!”He turned with sudden curiosity. Pamela was still twisted round on the seat. She was staring savagely at that impudent brown hat, with the ferocious spiked pins which stuck out in all directions. Edred turned. He saw her—saw her haggard face peering through the smoke and vulgar glitter of the place. As, for that one supreme moment, they stared spellbound at each other, the second woman said impatiently:“Come on. We shall be late. The last time you took me to the theater we were late.”Pamela started up, slipped past the tables, past the rows of diners. Near the door the waiter stood in her path. She dropped a coin in his hand and hurried on. Once outside the door of that place, under the cool sky in a dark side street, she took to her heels like a pickpocket. She was afraid of Edred, more afraid than she had ever been. There had been a new, ugly threat on his face. It would be something more than words this time. After all, words were not the worst. Her flesh was tender; she dreaded that he would beat her.She turned, panting like a closely-pressed hare, into the Strand, held up her umbrella to the first hansom, and hustled in.“Marquise Mansions,” she called up to the driver. “I’ll give you double fare if you drive very quickly.”The horse seemed to fly through the moving,brilliant streets. Before her heart ceased its mad, quick beat of terror and apprehension, the crude red wall of Marquise Mansions was in sight.She went up to the flat, locked herself in her bedroom, dragged off her tight gown, kicked away her shoes, unfastened the piquant hat from her fair hair—and hid everything. She rolled the things in a rough bundle and shot them far under the bed.When Edred burst in ten minutes later, she was half lying in a low chair by the drawing-room window, with a novel in her hands. The lace and cashmere of her tea-gown spread softly about her ankles like the delicate tail of some exquisite foreign bird.
ASdays went on she became more than ever persuaded of the fatalism of those suggestive, common words, “Yer never knows nothin’, do yer?” That woman, with the soiled red lining to her kicked-up petticoat—that woman, with the loosely sensuous mouth, big tongue, and rolling bright eyes, had emerged from the gray routine of her particular suburban corner, merely as a warning. Those comically meaningless words became a gospel. She was always saying them, puzzling over them. They were on her pale lips as she looked questioningly into Edred’s face. Once she woke up and found herself saying them in her sleep. It was too stupid. But, if only that persistent quoting of them, in silence, that continual battering of them at the door of her distracted brain, would bring solution! If she could take hold of some slight clew! She found herself constantly longing for proof of Edred’s unfaithfulness. That, she thought, would end her love—her reckless, shameful love for an unworthy object: love that blows, terrible suggestions, the cruelest words and looks could not kill. If she could free herself from that horrid, paralyzing coil of Love!
She used to dog his steps with the patient sleuth-like tread of an intent panther. She followed himinto strange places often enough—unseen. She was always watching, waiting. Other wives waited and watched, hoping all the time that nothing was wrong, that they still had faithful husbands, might still keep their homes together with honor. But Pamela dogged Edred desperately—much more desperately than she would have done had there been the smallest chance of happiness left for them. She only fiercely prayed that there might be some entanglement, that there was some other woman—weak, innocent, or criminal—in the background. It meant so much more to her than mere conjugal peace and trust; her experience had made her bitterly scornful of married life: you could never successfully blend romance and joint housekeeping. She was playing for a much higher, nobler stake—her own independence. A wife was an individual first, a mere married woman afterward. She was conscious from time to time of the absolute isolation of each human being who treads the world.
One flesh! Bare hearts! What empty jargon! One could look into the other one’s eyes and be breeding murder, worse than murder, all the time. This life, the beings with whom we were accidentally thrown in contact during our half-conscious sojourn—mere detail! There was a splendid, terrifying isolation about everyone. Each alone! She used to look at them curiously, speculatively; figures moving along the yellow streets at night, in tender twos, in merry companies—and yet alone. Each one shut in, cut off from all perfect communion, by the film of his own individuality. Each brain itsown secret world. Each body, under such varying garments, absolutely its own, in spite of vows, ardent protestations, respectable and legal shackles.
She used to brood thus, a little at random, as she warily trod the streets behind that slim, carefully-dressed figure. She had become a strange perversion. She loved her husband still, in a headlong, fierce way. Yet she longed for him to commit himself, so that her love might puff away, become impalpable, like smoke rising in a clear sky. There was no chance for her, no freedom, no self-respect until she became callous, until that hot, wayward heart of hers was dammed up. She had read—in a girl’s superficial way—of first love as a potent thing. She hadn’t known then that it could be such a sweeping, crowning, involuntary thing—hadn’t dreamed that it could hold you in such grim, iron grasp. She couldn’t get away from the magnetism of—the first. She despised him; sometimes, for a clear moment, she loathed him. She remembered that on one occasion it had been a keen struggle to throw down the bread knife on the wooden platter instead of slitting it through his long lean throat.
And yet! He had only to call the old playful, indulgent light into his lazy eyes, only to carelessly flip at her some gesture or word of the past, to bring her under his heel—quivering body, small subject soul. It was horrible to be in such bondage to a man—just because he had been first. Only because!
One night near Holywell Street she saw him meet a woman. She followed them down theStrand, an odd, glad singing in her head. The moment had come.
She studied that woman with a woman’s minute, critical eye. She wasn’t satisfied. The woman was respectable, obviously, insolently respectable. She looked like the mistress of a maid-of-all-work and a flawless little house.
She hadn’t the right atmosphere. She took Edred’s arm, hanging on it stolidly and looking at other women on the pavements with a sort of virtuous sneer, seeming to say, “I have a perfect right; can any of you say as much?” They might have been an aggressively respectable married couple from South London going to dine at a restaurant by way of dissipation.
As a matter of fact they turned in at one. Pamela watched Edred push back the heavy door and gravely stand aside for his companion to pass in first. There was no eagerness in his attitude; he seemed quite used to it, not exactly weary, but coldly stolid. He wore the settled air of a married man—the mild, contented, resigned air of doom, which so many husbands wear. He was neither unhappy nor happy; he took this evening meal in the crush and steam and the hurry of waiters as a matter of course. Why not?
She didn’t pretend to understand him—or her. They were an odd couple. Nothing stealthy, illicit, ecstatic about them, when there should have been a suggestion of all three emotions!
The woman wore brown—the frump’s unfailing refuge: it was a hot, reddish sort of brown; her hat,anxious to be in the fashion, was painfully skewered to her head by many pins. There were fresh touches of pink about her at ridiculously unwanted spots. She looked pleased, shy; like a child dressed for a party.
Pamela followed them up between the line of tables, between the greedy line of eaters, some gluttonously bending over the plates, some waiting with an air of impatience, some replete and leaning back, quizzing and smoking. In the long mirrors she could see the reflection of all three—such a dramatic three: Edred, with his sheepish, sleepy air; the strange woman, all pink and brown and narrow airs of virtue as she looked at—and apparently suspected—every other woman a little smarter than herself. Last of the three Pamela saw her own tall figure, stylishly attired, the abundant dull hair bunching out beneath her toque with the big ostrich plumes. The set and selection of her gown was in such good, if rather striking, taste, that the over-fed and quickly-feeding men looked after her, their faces lighting up.
The intangible feeling of shame, of smirching, which was becoming common to her, caught at her then. She fancied she read insult in the admiration of these many strange men.
She looked at herself again and was bound to admit that there was not so very much difference between her costume, her carriage, and the carriage and costume of others present whose vocation was unmistakable. The ultra-fashionable woman sails perilously near the wind in appearance. She feltquite angry with her expensive garments. She followed still, through the glass, the movements of the woman in pink and brown. She seemed to shout, in every seam of her dowdy frock, in every gleaming button of her badly-cut gloves, “respectable married virtue.” She!—she!
The world was whirling round the wrong way.
She followed her quarry, every sense alert so that Edred might not discover her. When the two settled at a table she deftly slipped aside and took the one immediately behind them. So that they were sitting back to back, she and that shameful woman with the perplexing insolent air of calm virtue. The back of her beautifully-cut and braided heliotrope coat was within a few inches of the contemptible little brown bodice with the crisp pink bow at the neck and the pink-lined ends, like lopping rabbit-ears, at the waist.
The waiter came up. Beneath her breath and mechanically she ordered a steak, her ears strained all the time to hear what they would order. Edred said:
“Calves’-head? You have never tasted it—as they serve it here.”
“It’s rather rich,” came a common voice dubiously.
Odd! Her voice, like her frock, like her little pursed mouth and hard eyes, was respectable. Aggressively respectable! Women like that had no right to appear respectable; to do so was an additional aggravation. Wasn’t theirexistenceenough? The jealous fire was rising, was alreadyburning, a steady white light, at her heart. But she was very glad, of course. Confused, conflicting thoughts kept running in her head.
When the steak came she could not eat it; there was enough for two men. She just played with her knife and fork, dipping deeply into the bottle of red wine she had ordered.
“I knew it would be too rich,” the voice of the brown woman said reproachfully. “It’s too bad of you to spoil my dinner, when you know my stomach’s not strong. Nasty, bilious stuff! I can’t touch another bit.”
Well! He might have chosen a handsomer, a more refined woman. Little common narrow creature! He might have given her a more worthy rival while he was about it.
“Where did I put my gloves? No, I couldn’t look at pudding; it would just about finish me. Cheese? Ifyoulike—not for me. I’ll have a liqueur by and by; not that beastly green stuff we had last time. Cherry brandy. I can’t have lost the gloves.”
She twirled round suddenly, putting her hands behind her and anxiously fumbling. Pamela wheeled round too, grasping the handle of her umbrella by way of excuse. Their eyes met. The quick, respectable, scandalized expression shot into those of the brown woman.
Pamela flinched and flushed. It wasn’t pleasant to be mistaken—by her, too. The wretch—the little, common, hypocritical wretch! How dare she? Their eyes met: the malevolent stare in thepink and brown woman’s, the eager, wide look in Pamela’s. She photographed on her alert brain every line of that face—the face which Edred found more comely than hers. It was long and thin, but quite youthful; she judged her to be about twenty-five. The eyes were hot brown, like the gown, and set close together. They were restless eyes, curiously restless. They roved about perpetually, seeming miserably to search for something which never came. It was like a monkey’s face—a pink, unlined monkey face. There was cunning in it, spite, and a kind of dumb pathos. A very curious woman for a rival!
She fished up the ginger-colored gloves. They were shamefully new; one or two of the buttons were still covered with tissue-paper.
Edred had finished his meal; he was smoking, his head back, his eyes dreamy. Pamela knew the attitude very well; it usually followed a good dinner. Her heart ached for herself. The little woman fussily put on her gloves, drew down her veil, settled her fluttering ends of pink satin. Then she, too, fell back on the red seat and began to look idly about her, passing audible comments on people whose appearance invited the acid of her tongue.
“And there’s that woman behind,” she said presently, in a distinct whisper. “Just behind me. Look—when she isn’t looking. How silly you are! Always looking the wrong way. Didn’t I saybehind?”
“Never mind. I’ll take your word for her,” he returned.
“But do look. I’m sure she’s—you know. Half of them are in this place. Disgraceful, overdressed things!”
He turned with sudden curiosity. Pamela was still twisted round on the seat. She was staring savagely at that impudent brown hat, with the ferocious spiked pins which stuck out in all directions. Edred turned. He saw her—saw her haggard face peering through the smoke and vulgar glitter of the place. As, for that one supreme moment, they stared spellbound at each other, the second woman said impatiently:
“Come on. We shall be late. The last time you took me to the theater we were late.”
Pamela started up, slipped past the tables, past the rows of diners. Near the door the waiter stood in her path. She dropped a coin in his hand and hurried on. Once outside the door of that place, under the cool sky in a dark side street, she took to her heels like a pickpocket. She was afraid of Edred, more afraid than she had ever been. There had been a new, ugly threat on his face. It would be something more than words this time. After all, words were not the worst. Her flesh was tender; she dreaded that he would beat her.
She turned, panting like a closely-pressed hare, into the Strand, held up her umbrella to the first hansom, and hustled in.
“Marquise Mansions,” she called up to the driver. “I’ll give you double fare if you drive very quickly.”
The horse seemed to fly through the moving,brilliant streets. Before her heart ceased its mad, quick beat of terror and apprehension, the crude red wall of Marquise Mansions was in sight.
She went up to the flat, locked herself in her bedroom, dragged off her tight gown, kicked away her shoes, unfastened the piquant hat from her fair hair—and hid everything. She rolled the things in a rough bundle and shot them far under the bed.
When Edred burst in ten minutes later, she was half lying in a low chair by the drawing-room window, with a novel in her hands. The lace and cashmere of her tea-gown spread softly about her ankles like the delicate tail of some exquisite foreign bird.