CHAPTER VII
I havenever yet determined to my satisfaction whether Life be merely the spinning of a coin or a great scheme working itself towards completion by a series of steps, undeviating in their perfect arithmetical progression.
I know it matters little, one way or the other. The thought only recurred to my mind by reason of the fact that had that bell been rung only four times, I should not have answered it. But it was rung five, whereupon it came to me in speculation that no tradesman would have such patience as that and, rising from my chair, I went into the hall. When I opened the door, there stood Clarissa.
I suppose it was amazement that deprived me of speech. For a moment I could but stand and gaze at her. There was not merely the astonishment in my mind at finding that it was she; there was bewilderment also at the change which had taken place in her. She looked ill. But it was not only that; she looked somehow in need of food. There was that nameless suggestion in her appearance as when a woman has ceased to care for her looks. It was apparent notwithstanding that her clothes were well made and costly. I knew that something had happened, but what with the amazement of seeing her there and the bewilderment at finding her as she was, between the two I was at a loss for words. It must have been half a minute that I stood waiting in silence, still holding to the handle of the door.
"What's the matter?" I asked at last.
"I want to see you," said she.
I held the door wide open for her to pass through, and as I realized from what her coming had saved me, all my body fell to shaking as though a fit of ague were upon me. I felt like one who, calm though he may have been when danger threatened, is made suddenly aware of it when it has passed.
"Go into my sitting-room," said I, and a moment later, when I had pulled myself together, I followed her.
She was sitting timidly on the edge of a chair near the fire and her whole attitude was a mute apology for her presence in my room. All through her body, I knew she was shivering. There was no outward sign of it, but by the way she held to the arm of the chair, by the very posture she had adopted, it was plainly to be seen that all her nerves were trembling with vibration after a great strain. I closed the door.
"I don't know what you think of me for coming here after that letter I returned—after—"
She began that way; then almost all sound went out of her voice. I saw her lips move, but could hear no more than a pathetic murmuring of words.
"I can't quite make it out," I admitted quickly, "but does that matter? You needn't think about the letter—that was a month ago. You've come to tell me what's happened since. What has happened?"
I drew up my chair to the fire. "It will give her the impression," I said to myself, "that we have talked like this a hundred times before." Of course, it may not have done so at all. I only know that women are susceptible to such little matters as these. Doubtless they make life easier. I am certain that the absence of them makes it more difficult. Yet in this instance it seemed not to help Clarissa at all. She just looked up at me with her big eyes, which I shall ever remember best of all when they were full of anger, but still she could not answer. It seemed as though the weight of all she had to tell was too heavily laid upon her for speech. But knowing nothing, how could I help her? And so we might have continued had I not thought suddenly of that look of hunger which I imagined I had seen in her face when I first opened the door.
"Wait a minute," said I, and I spoke easily, quickly, as though I would interrupt her, "let's have tea first. Wouldn't you like some tea?"
The very sound of it brought a different look into her eyes. I swear to Heaven, I believed then I could have made her happy. It is knowing these little things about women that count so much, and a long day is full of them. I do not know how I have learnt them. It is not from experience. But it would seem that I have grown up with the knowledge that to anticipate her needs is a finer jewel to a woman than any diamond set in platinum. The fact that she would choose the diamond is no proof that she must like it best.
Directly I saw that expression in Clarissa's face I rose and rang the bell for my housekeeper who, in Moxon's absence, was looking after me.
"Now what shall we have to eat?" said I. "What would you like—hot buttered toast, muffins, tea-cakes, scones?"
It pleases them also to know that there is a lot to choose from. They love being unable to make up their minds amidst a galaxy of riches. They like you to select for them, just so that they may realize how your selection has eliminated the very thing they did not want.
We went through it all—every stage. She left it to me to choose.
"Tea-cake," said I, because I knew that we should have to send out to buy them, and I wanted to buy something for her. I have said it before; I envy the men who buy things for women. She looked doubtful.
"Scones," I suggested. We should have had to send out for scones, too. But she chose hot buttered toast. That is just the way these things go. When Mrs. Bullwell answered the bell, I told her to bring the whole business as quick as she could.
"What made you think of tea?" asked Clarissa.
"It's the time," said I, "nearly five."
"I'm glad you did think of it."
"Why?"
"I'm hungry."
"Yes—I knew you were," I said quickly. "I saw it in your face. You haven't had any lunch."
"I haven't had anything to-day."
"Good Lord! Why not?"
She looked at me nervously, as though I ought to know all about it; as if I were asking these questions solely in order to put her to the pain of telling me.
"Do you mean to say," I repeated, "that you haven't had one morsel of food to-day?"
When she shook her head two or three times, I went straight to the door and called for Mrs. Bullwell.
"What's it to be?" I asked. "Don't say a chop because it's the first thing that comes into your head. Will you have some eggs or—?"
"A chop," said she.
I persuaded Mrs. Bullwell to promise it in ten minutes.
"And open a bottle of that claret," said I, as she departed. "We sha'n't want any tea now. Well—I'll have some, but you can get it afterwards."
Then I closed the door and came back to Clarissa.
"What does all this mean?" said I. I know I tried to speak as a father speaks to his child. I tried to forget how I cared for her. It is not to the man who is hopelessly wasting his heart on her that a woman gives her confidence. "Something has happened to you," I added. "What is it?"
She pulled off her gloves. She pulled them off in that nervous way by which you knew that she was quite unconscious of her action. Then her lip quivered. I felt the struggle in her heart to keep back the tears. In a vain way I strove with her, too. For what should I have done had she wept then? In all conscience it had been difficult enough on the cliffs at Ballysheen; but now, when I knew how much she was to me, when I saw quite clearly from what her coming had saved me, tears in her eyes then would have been my certain undoing. For undoubtedly it was Clarissa who had saved me. But for her, I should by this time have been set forth upon my great adventure. It was so utterly impossible now. Some woman at last had come to me in trouble. Some woman! It was the very woman in all the world whose trouble I would most easily have borne.
When I saw the tightness set firm upon her lips once more, for there was well a moment while she struggled with its quivering, then I leant forward. I knew I must drag the story from her; so I felt my way with guessing, half knowing what had happened, leaving her, in little broken syllables, to tell me all the rest.
"Come," said I, gently, "you must tell me. Has he been cruel to you?"
She bent her head in silence.
"But how? How cruel? In what way? Where is he now?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know? When did you see him last?"
"Three weeks ago."
"Where?"
"Where he lived."
"Three weeks ago? Has he gone away?"
"I can't tell you. I've been back to the flat once or twice, but he won't see me."
"You'vebeen back? Then he's there? Where have you been living, then?"
"I had a little room in Notting Hill. It's because I've got no money to pay for my lodging—"
Her lip began its quivering once more.
"That you came to me? Because you've got no money? Where is all your money?"
"It's spent. He says there is no more."
I could sit still no longer. It was only possible to hear her story as I walked up and down the room.
"But why did he send you away?" I continued. "You're his wife. He must keep you; he must support you; a thousand times more now that he has spent every farthing that you have. He must go and work his fingers to the bone. He must slave like a dog now—give his whole life up to the reparation of the loss he's brought you. You've every cause to insist upon it. Youmustinsist upon it. It's your right—your common right. Good Lord, you're his wife!"
She looked very straightly in my face. Her own was pale as though all anger in it had burnt to whitened ashes. The deep hollows of her eyes were filled with ominous shadows. At that gaze of hers, I thought: "Supposing she might die." I cannot tell why it came into my mind, for how could I have known? A month ago I had seen her well—in a forced gaiety of spirits. How could I have dreamed she was so near the very climax of her suffering? So I let the thought pass on and felt it shudder through me. I misread that steady gazing of her eyes. I never guessed that she was asking of me more understanding than a man can give. How should I have understood? And yet a woman would have known. Long before this a woman would have taken the knowledge that was being withheld from her. But in my blind innocence I struggled on, dragging her to the very pinnacle of her shame.
"Don't you realize the rights of a wife?" I persisted. "Your husband can't cast you off like this. He can't despoil you of everything you have and then fling you aside. You're flesh and blood—you're not a garment that is threadbare."
And when I saw her poor white face staring into mine, I gave the wrench its final turn to make her agony of mind more sure. God knows I little thought.
"You're treating yourself as though you were a worthless woman, as though you were property he had bought and might chuck away at will. But you're his wife and if you never see him again—you might thank God if you didn't—you must make him support you with the last penny he has."
It was then she said it—said it in a voice that was colorless and dead; in a voice as when a prisoner pleads guilty to the vilest possibility of crime.
"I'm not his wife," she murmured.
Her voice was low, almost to a whisper and yet, had she shouted it, the silence coming after could not have been so great. The whole house in one moment was made quiet. Even a hansom jangling down the street came to my ears as such a sound is meant to reach you in play.
"I shall remember afterwards," I said to myself, "that I heard a hansom rattling down the street." And I have remembered it; but that thought is the only one that returns to my mind. I can see things as they were. I can see her eyes trying to reach to mine, then falling till her hands had covered them. I can see the little, huddled-up figure, full of pathos, that she presented to my eyes. I can see Mrs. Bullwell coming in through the door with her tray of things, the uncorked bottle of claret standing high and black above the dishes.
But she came too late. As she closed the door behind her, the pathetic little figure before me crumpled up like a garment that can no longer stand upon the firmness of its texture. With a weary sigh that drove a sickness to my throat, Clarissa tumbled from her chair. I found her curled, as Dandy curls himself, into a circle at my feet. But she was so still. Her body was stiller than if she slept.