“If it’s on business I must go, I suppose,” said Madge Vernon, rising from her chair.
“No, don’t go; stay!” said Clare, speaking with strange excitement.
As soon as she had uttered the words the visitor, Gerald Bradshaw, came in.
He was a handsome, “artistic” looking man, with longish brown hair and a vandyke beard. He was dressed in a brown suit, with a big brown silk tie. He came forward in a graceful way, perfectly at ease, and with a charming manner.
“How do you do, Mrs. Heywood?”
“Imustbe going,” said Madge. “Good-by, dear.”
“Oh,dostay,” whispered Clare.
“Impossible. I have to speak to-night.”
Although Madge Vernon had ignored the artist, he smiled at her and said:
“Don’t you speak by day as a rule?”
“Not until I am spoken to.... Good-night, Clare.”
“Well, if you must be going—” said Clare uneasily.
Madge Vernon stood for a moment at the door and smiled back at her friend. “You will remember, won’t you?”
“What?”
“The Eighth Year,” said Madge. With that parting shot she whisked out of the room.
Gerald Bradshaw breathed a sigh of relief. Then he went across to Clare and kissed her hands.
“I can’t stand that creature. A she-devil!”
“She is my friend,” said Clare.
“I am sorry to hear it,” said Gerald Bradshaw.
Clare Heywood drooped her eyelashes before his bold, smiling gaze.
“Why did you come again?” she asked. “I told you not to come.”
“That is why I came. May I smoke?”
He lit a cigarette before he had received he permission, and after a whiff or two said:
“Is the good man at the club?”
“You know he is at the club,” said Clare. “True. That is another reason why I came. Clare Heywood’s face flushed and her voice trembled a little.
“Gerald, if you had any respect for me——
“Respect is a foolish word,” said Gerald Bradshaw. “Hopelessly old-fashioned. Now adays men and women like or dislike, hate or love.”
“I think I hate you,” said Clare in a low voice.
Gerald smiled at her.
“No, you don’t. You are a little frightened of me. That is all.”
The woman laughed nervously, but there was a look of fear in her eyes.
“Why should I be frightened of you?”
“Because I tell you the truth. I don’t keep up the foolish old pretences by which men and women hide themselves from each other. You cannot hide from me, Clare.”
“You seem to strip my soul bare,” said Clare and when the man laughed at her she said: “Yes, I am frightened of you.”
“It is because you are like all suburban women,” said Gerald, “brought up in this environment of hypocritical virtue and false sentiment. You are frightened at the verities of life.”
Clare Heywood gave a deep, quivering sigh. “Life is a tragic thing, Gerald,” she said. “Life is a jolly thing if one makes the best of it, if one fulfils one’s own nature.”
“One’s own nature is generally bad.”
“Never mind,” said Gerald cheerfully. “It is one’s own. Bad or good, it must find expression instead of being smothered or strangled. Life is tragic only to those who are afraid of it. Don’t be afraid, Clare. Do the things you want to do.”
“There is nothing I want to do,” said Clare wearily. “Nothing except to find peace.”
“Exactly. Peace. How can you find peace, my poor Clare, in this stuffy life of yours—in this daily denial of your own nature? There are heaps of things you want.”
Clare laughed again, in a mirthless way. “How do you know?” she asked.
“Of course I know. Shall I tell you?”
“I think I would rather you didn’t,” said Clare.
“I will tell you,” said the man. “Liberty is one of them.”
“Liberty is a vague word.”
“Liberty for your soul,” said Gerald.
“Herbert objects to my having a soul.”
“Liberty for that beating heart of yours, Clare.”
The woman put both hands to her heart.
“Yes, it beats, and beats.”
“You want to escape, Clare.”
“Escape?”
She seemed frightened at that word. She whispered it.
“Escape from the deadening influence of domestic dulness.”
“I can’t deny the dulness,” said Clare.
“You want adventure. Your heart is seeking adventure. You know it. You know that I am telling you the truth.”
As the man spoke he came closer to her, and with his hands in his pockets stood in front of her, staring into her eyes.
“You make me afraid,” said Clare. All the color had faded out of her face and she was dead white.
“You need not be afraid, Clare. The love of a man for a woman is not a terrifying thing. It is a good thing. Good as life.”
He took her by the wrists and held them tight.
“Gerald!” said Clare. “For God’s sake.... I have a husband.”
“He bores you,” said the man. “He is your husband but not your mate. No woman finds peace until she finds her mate. It is the same with a man.”
“I will not listen to you. You make me feel a bad woman!”
She wrenched her hands free and moved toward the bell.
Gerald Bradshaw laughed quietly. He seemed amused at this woman’s fear. He seemed masterful, sure of his power over her.
“You know that you must be my mate. If not to-day, to-morrow. If not to-morrow, the next day. I will wait for you, Clare.”
Clare had shrunk back to the wall now, and touched the electric bell.
“You have no pity for me,” she said. “You play on my weakness.”
“Fear makes you strong to resist,” said the man. “But love is stronger than fear.”
He followed her across the room to where she stood crouching against the wall like a hunted thing.
“Don’t come so close to me,” she said.
“What on earth have you rung the bell for?” asked the man.
“Because I ought not to be alone with you.”
They stood looking into each other’s eyes. Then Clare moved quickly toward the sofa as Mollie came in.
“Oh, Mollie,” said Clare, trying to steady her voice, “ask Mrs. Heywood to come in, will you? Tell her Mr. Bradshaw is here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Mollie. “But she knows that already.”
“Take my message, please,” said her mistress.
“I was going to, ma’am,” said Mollie, and she added in an undertone, as she left the room, “Strange as it may appear.”
Gerald laughed quite light-heartedly.
“Yes, you have won the trick this time. But I hold the trump cards, Clare; and I am very lucky, as a rule. I have a gambler’s luck. Of course if the old lady comes in I shan’t stay. She hates me like poison, and I can’t be polite to her. Insincerity is not one of my vices. Good-night, dear heart. I will come to you in your dreams.”
As he spoke this word, which brought a flush again to Clare Heywood’s face, Mrs. Hey-wood, her mother-in-law, came in. She glanced from one to the other suspiciously.
Gerald Bradshaw was not in the least abashed by her stern face.
“How do you do, Mrs. Heywood? I was just going. I hope I have not disturbed you?”
Mrs. Heywood answered him in a “distant” manner:
“Not in the least.”
“I am glad,” he said. “I will let myself out. Don’t trouble.”
At that moment there was a noise in the hall, and Clare raised her head and listened.
“I think I hear another visitor,” she said.
“In that ease I had better wait a moment,” said Gerald. “The halls of these flats are not cut out for two people at a time. I will light another cigarette if I may.”
“I thought I heard a latchkey,” said Mrs. Heywood. “Surely it can’t he Herbert back so early?”
“No, it can’t be,” said Clare.
Gerald spoke more to himself than to the ladies:
“I hope not.”
They were all silent when Herbert Heywood came in quietly.
“I didn’t go to the club after all,” he said. Then he saw Gerald Bradshaw, and his mouth hardened a little as he said, “Oh!... How do?”
“How are you?” asked Gerald, in his cool way.
“Been here long?” asked Herbert.
“Long enough for a pleasant talk with your wife.”
“Going now?”
“Yes. We have finished our chat. Goodnight. I can find my way out blindfolded. All these flats are the same. Rather convenient, don’t you think?”
He turned to Clare and smiled.
“Au revoir, Mrs. Heywood.”
She did not answer him, and he went out jauntily. A few moments later they heard the front door shut.
“What the devil does he come here for?” growled Herbert rather sulkily.
Clare ignored the question.
“Why are you home so early?”
“Yes, dear, why didn’t you go to the club?” asked Mrs. Heywood.
Herbert looked rather embarrassed.
“Oh, I don’t know. I felt a bit off. Besides——”
“What, dear?” asked his mother.
“I thought Clare was feeling a bit lonely to-night. Perhaps I was mistaken.”
“I am often lonely,” said Clare. “Even when you are at home.”
“Aren’t yougladI have come back?” asked Herbert.
“Why do you ask me?”
“I should be glad if you were glad.” Clare’s husband became slightly sentimental as he looked at her.
“I have been thinking itisrather rotten to gooffto the club and leave you here alone,” he said.
Mrs. Heywood was delighted with these words.
“Oh, you dear boy! How unselfish of you!”
“I try to be,” said Herbert.
“I am sure you are the very soul of unselfishness, Herbert, dear,” said the fond mother.
“Thanks, mother.”
He looked rather anxiously at Clare, and said—
“Don’t you think we might have a pleasant evening for once?”
“Oh, that would be delightful!” said Mrs. Heywood.
“Eh, Clare?”
“How do you mean?” said Clare.
“Like we used to in the old days? Some music, and that sort of thing.”
“I am sure that will beverynice,” said Mrs. Heywood.
“Eh, Clare?” said Herbert.
“If you like,” said Clare.
“Wait till I have got my boots off.” He spoke in a rather honeyed voice to his wife.
“Do you happen to know where my slippers are, darling?”
“I haven’t the least idea,” said Clare.
Herbert seemed nettled at this answer.
“In the old days you used to warm them for me,” he said.
“Did I?” said Clare. “I have forgotten. It was a long time ago.”
“Eight years.”
At these words Clare looked over to her husband in a peculiar way.
“Yes,” she said. “It is our eighth year.”
“Here are your slippers, dear,” said Mrs. Hey wood.
“Oh, thanks, mother.Youdon’t forget.”
There was silence while he took off his boots. Clare sat with her hands in her lap, staring at the carpet. Once or twice her mother-in-law glanced at her anxiously.
“Won’t you play something, Clare?” said the old lady, after a little while.
“If you like,” said Clare.
Herbert resumed his cheerful note.
“Yes, let’s have a jolly evening. Perhaps I will sing a song presently.”
“Oh, do, dear!” said Mrs. Heywood.
“Gad, it’s a long time since I sang ‘John Peel’!”
Clare looked rather anxious and perturbed.
“The walls of this flat are rather thin,” she said. “The neighbors might not like it.”
“Oh, confound the neighbors!” said Herbert.
“I will do some knitting while you two dears play and sing,” said the old lady.
She fetched her knitting from a black silk bag on one of the little tables, and took a chair near the fireplace. Clare Heywood went to the music-stool and turned over some music listlessly. She did not seem to find anything which appealed to her.
Her husband settled himself down in an arm-chair and loaded his pipe.
“Play something bright, Clare,” he said.
“All my music sounds melancholy when I play it,” said Clare.
“What, rag-time?”
“Even rag-time. Rag-time worst of all.”
Yet she began to play softly one of Chopin’s preludes, in a dreamy way.
“Tell me when you want me to sing,” said Herbert.
“I will,” said Clare.
There was silence for a little while, except for Clare’s dream-music. Mrs. Heywood dozed over her knitting, and her head nodded on her chest. Presently Herbert rose from his chair and touched the electric bell. A moment later Mollie came in.
“Yes?” asked Mollie.
Herbert spoke quietly so that he should not interrupt his wife’s music.
“Bring meThe Financial Times, Mollie. It’s in my study.”
“Yes, sir,” said Mollie.
She brought the paper and left the room again. There was another silence, except for the soft notes of the music. Herbert turned over the pages ofThe Financial Times, and yawned a little, and then let the paper drop. His head nodded and then lolled sideways. In a little while he was as fast asleep as his mother, and snored, quietly at first, then quite loudly.
Clare stopped playing, and looked over the music-rest with a strange, tragic smile at her husband and her mother-in-law. She rose from the piano-stool, and put her hands to her head, and then at her throat, breathing quickly and jerkily, as though she were being stifled.
“A jolly evening!” she exclaimed in a whisper. “Oh, God!”
She stared round the room, with rather wild eyes.
“It is stuffy here. It is stifling.”
She moved toward the piano again, with her hands pressed against her bosom.
“I feel that somethingmusthappen. Somethingmustbreak.”
She took up a large china vase from the piano, moved slowly toward the window, hesitated for a moment, looked round at her sleeping husband, and then hurled the vase straight through the window. It made an appalling noise of breaking glass.
Herbert Heywood jumped up from his seat as though he had been shot.
“Good God!” he said. “What the devil!——”
Mrs. Heywood was equally startled. She sat up in her chair as though an earthquake had shaken the house.
“Good gracious! Whatever in the world——-”
At the same moment Mollie opened the door.
“Good ‘eavins, ma’am!” she cried. “Whatever ‘as ‘appened?”
Clare Heywood answered very quietly:
“I think something must have broken,” she said.
Then she gave a queer, strident laugh.
MRS. Heywood was arranging the drawingroom for an evening At Home, dusting the mantelshelf and some of the ornaments with a little hand broom. There were refreshments on a side table. Mollie was trying to make the fire burn up. Every now and then a gust of smoke blew down the chimney. Clare was sitting listlessly in a low chair near the French window, with a book on her lap, but she was not reading.
“Drat the fire,” said Mollie, with her head in the fireplace.
“For goodness’ sake, Mollie, stop it smoking like that!” said Mrs. Heywood. “It’s no use my dusting the room.”
“The devil is in the chimney, it strikes me,” said Mollie.
Mrs. Heywood expressed her sense of exasperation.
“It’s a funny thing that every time your mistress gives an At Home you are always behindhand with your work.”
Mollie expressed her feelings in the firegrate.
“It’s a funny thing people can’t mind their own business.”
“What did you say, Mollie?” asked Mrs. Heywood sharply.
“I said that the fire hasn’t gone right since the window was broke. Them Suffragettes have a lot to answer for.”
“I cannot understand how itdidget broken,” said Mrs. Heywood. “I almost suspect that woman, Miss Vernon.”
Clare looked up and spoke irritably.
“Nonsense, mother!”
“It’s no use saying nonsense, Clare,” said Mrs. Heywood, even more irritably. “You know perfectly well that Miss Vernon is a most dangerous woman.”
“Well, she didn’t break our window, anyhow,” said Clare, rather doggedly.
“How do you know that? It is still a perfect mystery.”
“Don’t be absurd, mother. How did the vase get through the window?”
Mrs. Heywood was baffled for an answer.
“Ah, that is most perplexing.”
“Well, leave it at that,” said Clare.
Mollie was still wrestling with the mysteries of light and heat.
“If it doesn’t burn now,” she said, “I won’t lay another finger on it—At Home or no At Home.”
She seized the dustpan and broom and, with a hot face, marched out of the room.
Clare pressed her forehead with the tips of her fingers.
“I wish to Heaven there were no such things as At Homes,” she said wearily. “Oh, how they bore me!”
“You used to like them well enough,” said Mrs. Heywood.
“I have grown out of them. I have grown out of so many things. It is as if my life had shrunk in the wash.”
“Nothing seems to please you now,” said the old lady. “Don’t you care for your friends any longer?”
“Friends? Those tittle-tattling women, with their empty-headed husbands?”
Mrs. Heywood was silent for a moment. Then she spoke bitterly.
“Do you think Herbert is empty-headed?”
“Oh, we won’t get personal, mother,” said Clare. “And we won’t quarrel, if you don’t mind.”
Mrs. Heywood’s lips tightened.
“I am afraid we shall if you go on like this.”
“Like what?” asked Clare.
“Hush!” said the old lady. “Here comes Herbert.”
Herbert came in quickly, and raised his eyebrows after a glance at his wife.
“Good Lord, Clare! Aren’t you dressed yet?”
“There’s plenty of time, isn’t there?” said Clare.
“No, there isn’t,” said Herbert. “You know some of the guests will arrive before eight o’clock.”
Clare looked up at the clock.
“It’s only six now.”
“Besides,” said Herbert, “I want you to look your best to-night. Edward Hargreaves is coming, with his wife.”
“What has that got to do with it?”
“Everything,” said Herbert. “He is second cousin to one of my directors. It is essential that you should make a good impression.”
“You told me once that he was a complete ass,” said Clare.
“So he is.”
“Well, then,” said Clare, quietly but firmly, “I decline to make a good impression on him.”
“I must ask you to obey my wishes,” said Herbert.
Clare had rebellion in her eyes.
“I have obeyed you for seven years. It is now the Eighth Year.”
Herbert did not hear his wife’s remark. He was looking round the room with an air of extreme annoyance.
“Well, I’m blowed!” he exclaimed.
“What’s the matter, dear?” asked Mrs. Hey-wood anxiously.
“You haven’t even taken the trouble to buy some flowers,” said Herbert.
“I left that to Clare,” said the old lady.
“Haven’t you done so, Clare?”
“No,” said Clare. “I can’t bear flowers in this room. They droop so quickly.”
Herbert was quite angry.
“I insist upon having some flowers. The place looks like a barn without them. What will our visitors say?”
“Stupid things, as usual,” said Clare quietly.
“I must go out and get some myself, I suppose,” said Herbert, with the air of a martyr.
“Can’t you send Mollie, dear?” asked Mrs. Heywood.
“Mollie is cutting sandwiches. The girl is overwhelmed with work. And—Oh, my stars!”
His mother was alarmed by this sudden cry of dismay.
“Now what is the matter, dear?”
“There’s no whisky in the decanter.”
“No whisky?”
“Clare,” said Herbert, appealing to his wife, “there’s not a drop of whisky left.”
“Well,Ididn’t drink it,” said Clare. “You finished it the other night with one of your club friends.”
“So we did. Dash it!”
“Don’t be irritable, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood.
“Irritable! Isn’t it enough to make a saint irritable? These things always happen on our At Home nights. Nobody seems to have any forethought. Every blessed thing seems to go wrong.”
“That is why I wish one could abolish the institution,” said Clare.
“What institution?”
“At Homes.”
“Don’t talk rubbish, Clare,” said Herbert angrily; “you know I have them foryoursake.”
Clare laughed bitterly, as though she had heard a rather painful joke.
“For my sake! Oh, that is good!”
Herbert was distracted by a new cause of grievance as a tremendous puff of smoke came out of the fire-grate.
“What in the name of a thousand devils——”
“It’s that awful fire again!” cried Mrs. Hey-wood. “These flats seem to have no chimneys.”
“It’s nothing to do with the flat,” said Herbert. “It’s that fool Mollie. The girl doesn’t know how to light a decent fire!”
He rang the bell furiously, keeping his finger on the electric knob.
“The creature has absolutely nothing to do, and what she does she spoils.”
Mollie came in with a look of mutiny on her face.
“Look at that fire,” said Herbert fiercely.
“I am looking at it,” said Mollie.
“Why don’t you do your work properly? See to the beastly thing, can’t you?”
Mollie folded her arms and spoke firmly.
“If you please, sir, wild horses won’t make me touch it again.”
“It’s not a question of horse-power,” said Herbert. “Go and get an old newspaper and hold it in front of the bars.”
“I am just in the middle of the sandwiches,” said Mollie.
“Well, get out of them, then,” said Herbert.
Mollie delivered her usual ultimatum.
“If you please, sir, I beg to give a month’s notice.”
“Bosh!” said Herbert.
“Bosh indeed!” cried Mollie. “We’ll see if it’s bosh! If you want any sandwiches for your precious visitors you can cut ‘em yourself.”
With this challenge she went out of the room and slammed the door behind her.
Herbert breathed deeply, and after a moment’s struggle in his soul spoke mildly.
“Mother, go and pacify the fool, will you?”
“She is very obstinate,” said Mrs. Heywood.
“All women are obstinate.”
Suddenly the man’s self-restraint broke down and he became excited.
“Bribe her, promise her a rise in wages, but for God’s sake see that she cuts the sandwiches. We don’t want to be made fools of before our guests.”
“Very well, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood. She hesitated for a moment at the door, and before going out said: “But Mollie can be very violent at times.”
For a little while there was silence between the husband and wife. Then Herbert spoke rather sternly.
“Clare, are you or are you not going to get dressed?”
“I shall get dressed in good time,” said Clare quietly, “when I think fit. Surely you don’t want to dictate to me aboutthat?”
“Surely,” said Herbert, “you can see how awkward it will be if any of our people arrive and find you unprepared for them?”
Clare gave a long, weary sigh.
“Oh, Iamprepared for them. I have been trying to prepare myself all day for the ordeal of, them.”
“The ordeal? What the dickens do you mean?”
“I am prepared for Mrs. Atkinson Brown, who, when she takes off her hat in the bedroom, will ask me whether I am suited and whether I am expecting.”
“For goodness’ sake don’t be coarse, Clare,” said Herbert.
“It’s Mrs. Atkinson Brown who is coarse,” said Clare. “And I am prepared for Mr. Atkinson Brown, who will say that it is horrible weather for this time of year, and that business has been the very devil since there has been a Radical Government, and that these outrageous women who are breaking windows ought to be whipped. Oh, I could tell you everything that everybody is going to say. I have heard it over and over again.”
“It does not seem to make much effect on you,” said Herbert. “Especially that part about breaking windows.”
Clare smiled.
“So you have guessed, have you?”
“I knew at once by the look on your face.”
“I thought you agreed with your mother that some Suffragette must have flung a stone from the outside.”
“I hid the truth from mother,” said Herbert. “She would think you were mad. What on earth made you do it?Wereyou mad or what?”
Clare brushed her hair back from her forehead.
“Sometimes I used to think I was going a little mad. But now I know what is the matter with me.”
Herbert spoke more tenderly.
“Whatisthe matter, Clare? If it is a question of a doctor——”
“It’s the Eighth Year,” said Clare.
“The Eighth Year?”
“Yes, that’s what is the matter with me.”
“What on earth do you mean?” asked Herbert.
“Why, don’t you know? It was Madge Vernon who told me.”
“Told you what?”
“She seemed to think that everybody knew.”
“Knew what?” asked Herbert, exasperated beyond all patience.
“About the Eighth Year.”
“What about it?”
“It’s well known, she says, that the Eighth Year is the most dangerous one in marriage. It is then that the pull comes, when the wife has found out her husband.”
“Found out her husband?”
“And found out herself.”
Herbert spoke roughly. He was not in a mood for such mysteries.
“Look here,” he said. “I can’t listen to all this nonsense. Go and dress yourself.”
“I want to talk to you, Herbert,” said Clare very earnestly. “I must talk to you before it’s too late.”
“It’s too late now,” said Herbert. “Halfpast six. I must fetch that whisky and buy a few flowers. I shall have to put on my boots again and splash about in the mud in these trousers. Confound it!”
“Before you go you must listen, Herbert,” said Clare, with a sign of emotion. “Perhaps you won’t have another chance.”
“Thank Heaven for that.”
“When I broke that window something else broke.”
“One of my best vases,” said Herbert with sarcasm.
“I think something in my own nature broke too. My spirit has broken out of this narrow, deadening little life of ours, out of the smug snobbishness and stupidity which for so long kept me prisoner, out of the belief that the latest sentimental novel, the latest romantic play, the latest bit of tittle-tattle from my neighbors might satisfy my heart and brain. When I broke that window I let a little fresh air into the stifling atmosphere of this flat, where I have been mewed up without work, without any kind of honest interest, without any kind of food for my brain or soul.”
Herbert stared at his wife, and made an impatient gesture.
“If you want work, why don’t you attend to your domestic duties?”
“I have no domestic duties,” said Clare. “That is the trouble.”
Herbert laughed in an unpleasant way.
“Why, you haven’t even bought any flowers to decorate your home! Isn’t that a domestic duty?”
Clare answered him quickly, excitedly.
“It’s just a part of the same old hypocrisy of keeping up appearances. You know you don’t care for flowers in themselves, except as they help to make a show. You want to impress our guests. You want to keep up the old illusion of the woman’s hand in the home. The woman’s touch. Isn’t that it?”
“Yes, I do want to keep up that illusion,” said Herbert; “and by God, I find it very hard! You say you want an object in life. Isn’t your husband an object?”
Clare looked at him with a queer, pitiful smile.
“Yes, he is,” she said slowly.
“Well, what more do you want?”
“Lots more. A woman’s life is not centered for ever in one man.”
“It ought to be,” said Herbert. “If you had any religious principles——”
“Oh,” said Clare sharply, “but you object to my religion!”
“Well, of course I mean in moderation.”
“You have starved me, Herbert, and oh, I am so hungry!”
Herbert answered her airily.
“Well, there will be light refreshments later.”
“Yes, that is worthy of you,” cried Clare. “That is your sense of humor! You have starved my soul and starved my heart and you offer me—sandwiches. I am hungry for life and you offer me—the latest novel.”
Herbert paced up and down the room. He was losing control of his temper.
“That is the reward for all my devotion!” he said. “Don’t I drudge in the city every day to keep you in comfort?”
“I don’t want comfort!” said Clare.
“Don’t I toil so that you may have pretty frocks?”
“I don’t want pretty frocks.”
“Don’t I scrape and scheme to buy you little luxuries?”
“I don’t want little luxuries,” said Clare.
“Is there anything within my means that you haven’t got?”
Clare looked at him in a peculiar way, and answered quietly—
“I haven’t a child,” she said.
“Oh, Lord,” said Herbert uneasily. “Whose fault is that? Besides, modern life in small flats is not cut out for children.”
“And modern life in small flats,” said Clare, “is not cut out for wives.”
“It isn’t my fault,” said Herbert. “I am not the architect—either of fate or flats.”
“No, it isn’t your fault, Herbert. You can’t help your character. It isn’t your fault that when you come home from the city you fall asleep after dinner. It isn’t your fault that when you go to the club I sit at home with my hands in my lap, thinking and brooding. It isn’t your fault that your mother and I get on each other’s nerves. It isn’t your fault that you and I have grown out of each other, that we bore each other and have nothing to say to each other—except when we quarrel.”
“Well, then,” said Herbert, “whose fault is it?”
“I don’t know,” said Clare. “I suppose it’s a fault of the system, which is spoiling thousands of marriages just like ours. It’s the fault which is found out—in the Eighth Year.”
“Oh, curse the Eighth Year,” said Herbert violently. “What is that bee you have got in your bonnet?”
“It’s a bee which keeps buzzing in my brain. It’s a little bee which whispers queer words to me—tempting words. It says you must break away from the system or the system will break you. You must find a way of escape or die. You must do it quickly, now, to-night, or it will be too late. Herbert, a hungry woman will do desperate things to satisfy her appetite, and I am hungry for some stronger emotion than I can find within these four walls. I am hungry for love, hungry for work, hungry for life. If you can’t give it to me, I must find it elsewhere.”
“Clare,” said Herbert, with deliberate self-restraint, “I must again remind you that time is getting on and you are not yet dressed. In a little while our guests will be here. I hope you don’t mean to hold me up to the contempt of my friends. I at least have some sense of duty.... I am going to fetch the whisky.” As he strode toward the door he started back at the noise of breaking china.
“What’s that?” asked Clare.
“God knows,” said Herbert. “I expect mother has broken a window.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth before Mrs. Heywood came in in a state of great agitation.
“Herbert, I must really ask you to come into the kitchen.”
“What’s the matter now?” asked Herbert, prepared for the worst.
“Mollie has deliberately broken our best coffee-pot.”
Herbert stared at his wife.
“Didn’t I tell you so!” he said.
“Why has she broken the coffee-pot?” asked Clare.
“She was most insolent,” said Mrs. Heywood, “and said my interference got on her nerves.”
“Well, even a servanthasnerves,” said Clare.
“But it was thebestcoffee-pot, Clare. Surely you are not going to take it so calmly?”
“Like mistress like maid!” said Herbert. “Oh, my hat! Why on earth did I marry?”
“Don’t you think you had better fetch the whisky?” said Clare gently.
Herbert became excited again.
“I have been trying to fetch the whisky for the last half hour. There is a conspiracy against it. Confound it, Iwillfetch the whisky.”
He strode to the door, as though he would get the whisky or die in the attempt.
“I think you ought to speak to Mollie first,” said Mrs. Heywood.
Herbert raised his hands above his head.
“Damn Mollie!” he shouted wildly. Then he strode out of the room. “Damn everything!”
“Poor dear,” said Mrs. Heywood. “I wish he didn’t get so worried.”
“Clare, won’t you come and speak to Mollie?”
“Haven’t you spoken to her?” asked Clare wearily.
“I am always speaking to her.”
“PoorMollie!” said Clare.
Mrs. Heywood was hurt at the tone of pity. She flushed a little and then turned to her daughter-in-law with reproachful eyes.
“I am an old woman, Clare, and the mother of your husband. Because my position forces me to live in this flat, I do not think you ought to insult me.”
“I’m sorry,” said Clare with sincerity.
“Mollie is right. We all get on each other’s nerves. It can’t be helped, I suppose. It’s part of the system.”
“I can’t help being your mother-in-law, Clare.”
“No, it can’t he helped,” said Clare.
Mrs. Heywood came close to her and touched her hand.
“You think I do not understand. You think you are the only one who has any grievance.”
“Oh, no!” said Clare. “I am not so egotistical.”
Mrs. Heywood smoothed down her dress with trembling hands.
“You think I haven’t been watching you all these years. I have watched you so that I know your thoughts behind those brooding eyes, Clare. I know all that you have been thinking and suffering, so that sometimes you hate me, so that my very presence here in the room with you makes you wish to cry out, to shriek, because I am your mother-in-law, and the mother of your husband. The husband always loves his mother best, and the wife always knows it. That is the eternal tragedy of the mother-in-law. Because she is hated by the wife of her son, and is an intruder in her home. I know that because I too suffered from a mother-in-law. Do you think I would stay here an hour unless I was forced to stay, for a shelter above my old head, for some home in which I wait to die? But while I wait I watch... and I know that you have reached a dangerous stage in a woman’s life, when she may do any rash thing. Clare, I pray every night that you may pass that stage in life without doing anything—rash. This time always comes in marriage, it comes——”
“In the Eighth Year?” asked Clare eagerly. “Somewhere about then.”
“Ah! I thought so.”
“It came to me, my dear.”
“And didyoudo anything rash?”
Mrs. Heywood hesitated a moment before replying.
“I gave birth to Herbert,” she said.
“Good Heavens!” said Clare.
“It saved me from breaking——”
“Windows, mother?”
“No, my own and my husband’s heart,” said Mrs. Heywood. “Well, I will go and speak to Mollie again. Goodness knows how we shall get coffee to-night.”
She went out of the room with her head shaking a little after this scene of emotion.
Clare spoke to herself aloud. She had her hands up to her throat.
“I don’t want coffee to-night. I want stronger drink. I want to get drunk with liberty of life.”
Suddenly there was a noise at the window and the woman looked up, startled, and cried, “Who is there?”
Gerald Bradshaw appeared at the open French window leading on to the balcony, and he spoke through the window.
“It is I, Clare? Are you alone?”
Clare had risen from her chair at the sound of his voice, and her face became very pale.
“Gerald... How did you come there?”
Gerald Bradshaw laughed in his lighthearted way.
“I stepped over the bar that divides our balconies. It was quite easy. It was as easy as it will be to cross the bar that divides you and me, Clare.”
Clare spoke in a frightened voice.
“Why do you come here, at this hour?”
“Why do I ever come?” asked Gerald Bradshaw.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s because I want you. I want you badly to-night, Clare. I can’t wait for you any longer.”
Clare spoke pleadingly.
“Gerald... go away... it’s so dangerous... I daren’t listen to you.”
“I want you to listen,” said Gerald Bradshaw.
“Go away... I implore you to go away.”
He laughed at her. He seemed very much amused.
“Not before I have said what I want to say.”
“Say it quickly,” said Clare. “Quickly!”
“There’s time enough,” said Bradshaw. “This is what I want to say. You are a lonely woman and I am a lonely man, and only an iron bar divides us. It’s the iron bar of convention, of insincerity, of superstition. It seems so difficult to cross. But you see one step is enough. I want you to take that step—to-night.”
Clare answered him in a whisper.
“Go away!”
“I am hungry for you,” said Bradshaw, with a thrill in his voice. “I am hungry for your love. And you are hungry for me. I have seen it in your eyes. You have the look of a famished woman. Famished for love. Famished for comradeship.”
Clare raised her hands despairingly.
“If you have any pity, go away.”
“I have no pity. Because pity is weakness, and I hate weakness.”
“You are brutal,” said Clare.
He laughed at her. He seemed to like those words.
“Yes, I have the brutality of manhood. Man is a brute, and woman likes the brute in him because that is his nature, and woman wants the natural man. That is why you want me, Clare. You can’t deny it.”
Clare protested feebly.
“I do deny it. Imustdeny it.”
“It’s a funny thing,” said Gerald Bradshaw. “Between you and me there is a queer spell, Clare. I was conscious of it when I first met you. Something in you calls to me. Something in me calls to you. It is the call of the wild.”
Clare was scared now. These words seemed to make her heart beat to a strange tune.
“What do you mean?” she said.
“It is the call of the untamed creature. Both you and I are untamed. We both have the spirit of the woods. I am Pan. You are a wood nymph, imprisoned in a cage, upholstered by maple, on the hire system.”
“What do you want with me?” asked Clare. It was clear that he was tempting her.
“I want to play with you, like Pan played. You and I will hear the pipes of Pan to-night—the wild nature music.”
“To-night?”
“To-night. I have waited too long for you, and now I’m impatient. I am alone in my flat waiting for you. I ask you to keep me company, not to-night only, but until we tire of each other, until perhaps we hate each other. Who knows?”
“Oh, God!” said Clare. She moaned out the words in a pitiful way.
“You have only to slip down one flight of stairs and steal up another, and you will find me at the door with a welcome. It will need just a little care to escape from your prison. You must slip on your hat and cloak as though you were going round to church, and then come to me, to me, Clare! Only a wall will divide you from this flat, but you will be a world away. For you will have escaped from this upholstered cage into a little world of liberty. Into a little world of love, Clare. Say you will come!”
“Oh, God!” moaned Clare.
“You will come?”
“Are you the Devil that you tempt me?” said Clare.
Gerald gave a triumphant little laugh.
“You will come! Clare, my sweetheart, I know you will come, for your spirit is ready for me.”
As he spoke these words there was the sound of a bell ringing through the flat, and the noise of it struck terror into Clare Heywood.
“Go away,” she whispered. “For God’s sake go! Some one is ringing.”
“I will cross the bar again,” said Bradshaw. “But I shall be waiting at the door. You will not be very long, little one?”
Clare sank down with her face in her hands. And Gerald stole away from the window just as Mollie showed in Madge Vernon.
“It’s our At Home night,” said Mollie, as she came in, “and they’ll be here presently.”
“All right, Mollie,” said Miss Vernon, smiling. “I shan’t stay more than a minute. I know I have come at an awkward time.”
“Shewouldcome in, ma’am,” said Mollie, as though she were not strong enough to thwart such a determined visitor.
As soon as the girl had gone Madge Vernon came across to Clare, very cheerfully and rather excitedly.
“Clare, are you coming?”
“Coming where?” asked Clare, trying to hide her agitation.
“To the demonstration,” said Madge Vernon. “You know I told you all about it! It begins at eight. It will be immense fun, and after your window-smashing exploit you are one of us. Good Heavens, I think you have beaten us all. None of us have ever thought of breaking our own windows.”
“It’s my At Home night,” said Clare.
“Oh, bother the At Home. Can’t your husband look after his friends for once? I wanted you to join in this adventure. It would be your enrolment in the ranks, and it will do you a lot of good, in your present state of health.”
“In any case——” said Clare.
“What?”
Clare smiled in a tragic way.
“I have received a previous invitation.”
“Oh, drat the invitation.”
“Of course I should have liked to come,” said Clare, “but——”
Madge Vernon was impatient with her. “But what? I hate that word ‘but.’”
“The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak,” said Clare, speaking with a deeper significance than appeared in the words.
“There is no weakness about you. You have the courage of your convictions. Have you had the window mended yet?”
She laughed gaily and then listened with her head a little on one side to the sound of a bell ringing in the hall.
“That must be Herbert,” said Clare. “I think you had better go.”
“Yes, I think I had better,” said Madge, laughing again. “If looks could kill——”
She went toward the door and opened it, but I stood on the threshold looking back.
“Won’t you come? Eight o’clock, you know.”
Clare smiled weakly.
“I am in great demand to-night.”
The two women listened to Herbert’s voice in the hall saying—
“Of course all the shops were shut.”
“Oh, Lord!” said Madge, “I must skedaddle.” She went out of the room hurriedly, leaving Clare alone.
And after a moment or two Clare spoke aloud, with her hands clasped upon her breast.
“I wonder if the Devil is tempting me tonight?” she said.
Then Herbert entered with two whisky bottles.
“I had to hunt all over the place,” he said.
Then he saw that his wife was still in her afternoon frock, and his face flushed with anger.
“What, aren’t you dressedyet?... I think you might show some respect for my wishes, Clare.”
“I am going to dress now,” said Clare, and she rose and went into the bedroom.
“Women are the very devil,” said Herbert, unwrapping the whisky bottles.
While he was busy with this his mother came in, having changed her dress.
“Oh, I am glad you managed to get the whisky,” she said.
“Of course nearly every blessed shop was shut,” said Herbert. “They always are when I run out of everything. It’s this Radical Government, with its beastly Acts.”
Mrs. Heywood hesitated and then came across to her son and touched him on the arm.
“I think you had better come into the kitchen a moment, dear, and look after Mollie.”
“She hasn’t broken anything else, has she?” said Herbert anxiously.
“No, dear. But she has just cut her finger rather badly. She got in a temper with the sandwiches.”
Herbert raised his hands to heaven.
“Why do these things always happen when Clare gives an At Home? I shall abolish these evenings altogether. They will drive me mad.”
“Oh, they’re very pleasant when they once begin,” said Mrs. Heywood.
“I’m glad you think so, mother. I am damned if I do. I was only saying to Clare to-night——”
He stalked out of the room furiously.
Mrs. Heywood stood for a few moments staring at the carpet. Her lips moved and her worn old hands plucked at her skirt.
“Every time there is an At Home at this flat,” she said, “I get another white hair.”
She moved toward the door and went out of the room, so that it was left empty.
Outside in the street a piano-organ was playing a rag-time tune with a rattle of notes, and motor-cars were sounding their horns.
In this little drawing-room in Intellectual Mansions, Battersea Park, there was silence, except for those vague sounds from without. There was no sign here of Fate’s presence, summoning a woman to her destiny. No angel stood with a flaming sword to bar the way to a woman with a wild heart. The little ormolu clock ticking on the mantel-shelf did not seem to be counting the moments of a tragic drama. It was a very commonplace little room, and the flamboyant chintz on the sofa and chairs gave it an air of cheerfulness, as though this were one of the happy homes of England.
Presently the bedroom door opened slowly, and Clare Heywood stood there looking into the drawing-room and listening. She was very pale, and was dressed in her outdoor things, as Gerald Bradshaw had asked her to dress, in her hat and cloak, so that she might slip out of the flat which he had called her prison.
She came further into the room, timidly, like a hare frightened by the distant baying of the hounds.
She raised her hands to her bosom, and spoke in a whisper:
“God forgive me!”
Then she crossed the floor, listened for a moment intently at the door, and slipped out. A moment or two later one’s ears, if they had been listening, would have heard the front door shut.
Clare Heywood had escaped.
A little while later Mrs. Heywood, her mother-in-law, came into the room again and went over to the piano to open it and arrange the music.
“I do hope Clare is getting dressed,” she said, speaking to herself.
Then Herbert came in, carrying a tray with decanter and glasses.
“Isn’t Clare ready yet?” he asked.
“No, dear. She won’t be long.”
“I can’t find the corkscrew,” said Herbert, searching round for it, but failing to discover its whereabouts.
“Isn’t it in the kitchen, dear?” asked Mrs. Heywood.
“Not unless Mollie has swallowed it. It’s just the sort of thing she would do—out of sheer spite.”
“Didn’t you use it the other day to open a tin of sardines?” asked the old lady, cudgelling her brains.
“Did I?” said Herbert. “Oh, Lord, yes! I left it in the bathroom.”
He went out of the room to find it.
Mrs. Heywood crossed over to the fire and swept up the grate.
“Clare is a very long time to-night,” she said.
Then Mollie came in carrying a tray with some plates of sandwiches. One of her fingers was tied up with a rag.
“It’s a good job the guests is late to-night,” she remarked.
“Yes, we are all very behind-hand,” said Mrs. Heywood.
Mollie dumped down the tray and gave vent to a little of her impertinent philosophy:
“I’ll never give an At Home when I’m married. Blest if I do. Social ‘ipocrisy, I call them.”
Mrs. Heywood rebuked her sharply:
“We don’t want your opinion, Mollie, thank you.”
“I suppose I canhavea few opinions, although Iamin service,” said Mollie. “There’s plenty of time for thought even in the kitchen of a flat like this. I wonder domestic servants don’t write novels. My word, what a revelation it would be! I’ve a good mind to write one of them serials in theDaily Mail.”
“If I have any more of your impudence, Mollie——”
“It’s not impudence,” said Mollie. “It’s aspirations.”
The girl was silent when her master came into the room with the corkscrew.
“It wasn’t in the bathroom,” he explained. “I remember now, I used it for cleaning out my pipe.”
“I could have told you that a long time ago, sir,” said Mollie.
“Well, why the dickens didn’t you?” asked Herbert.
“You never asked me, sir.”
Mollie retired with the air of having scored a point.
“Well, as long as you’ve found it, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood.
“Unfortunately, I broke the point. However, I daresay I can make it do.”
He pulled one of the corks out of the whisky bottle and filled the decanter.
“Hasn’t Clare finished dressing yet?” he said presently. “What on earth is she doing?”
“I expect she wants her blouse done up at the back,” said Mrs. Heywood.
Herbert jerked up his head.
“And then she complains because I can’t tie my own tie I Just like women.”
He drew out another cork rather violently and said:
“Well, go and see after her, mother.”
Mrs. Heywood went toward the bedroom door and called out in her silvery voice: