The Country House
PART II
CHAPTER III
THE SINISTER NIGHT
On the day of the big race at Kempton Park, in which the Ambler, starting
favourite, was left at the post, George Pendyce had just put his latch-key
in the door of the room he had taken near Mrs. Bellew, when a man,
stepping quickly from behind, said:
“Mr. George Pendyce, I believe.”
George turned.
“Yes; what do you want?”
The man put into George's hand a long envelope.
“From Messrs. Frost and Tuckett.”
George opened it, and read from the top of a slip of paper:
“'ADMIRALTY, PROBATE, AND DIVORCE. The humble petition of
Jaspar Bellew——'”
He lifted his eyes, and his look, uncannily impassive, unresenting,
unangered, dogged, caused the messenger to drop his gaze as though he had
hit a man who was down.
“Thanks. Good-night!”
He shut the door, and read the document through. It contained some precise
details, and ended in a claim for damages, and George smiled.
Had he received this document three months ago, he would not have taken it
thus. Three months ago he would have felt with rage that he was caught.
His thoughts would have run thus 'I have got her into a mess; I have
got myself into a mess. I never thought this would happen. This is the
devil! I must see someone— I must stop it. There must be a way out.'
Having but little imagination, his thoughts would have beaten their wings
against this cage, and at once he would have tried to act. But this was
not three months ago, and now——
He lit a cigarette and sat down on the sofa, and the chief feeling in his
heart was a strange hope, a sort of funereal gladness. He would have to go
and see her at once, that very night; an excuse—no need to wait in
here—to wait—wait on the chance of her coming.
He got up and drank some whisky, then went back to the sofa and sat down
again.
'If she is not here by eight,' he thought, 'I will go
round.'
Opposite was a full-length mirror, and he turned to the wall to avoid it.
There was fixed on his face a look of gloomy determination, as though he
were thinking, 'I'll show them all that I'm not beaten
yet.'
At the click of a latch-key he scrambled off the sofa, and his face
resumed its mask. She came in as usual, dropped her opera cloak, and stood
before him with bare shoulders. Looking in her face, he wondered if she
knew.
“I thought I'd better come,” she said. “I suppose
you've had the same charming present?”
George nodded. There was a minute's silence.
“It's really rather funny. I'm sorry for you, George.”
George laughed too, but his laugh was different.
“I will do all I can,” he said.
Mrs. Bellew came close to him.
“I've seen about the Kempton race. What shocking luck! I
suppose you've lost a lot. Poor boy! It never rains but it pours.”
George looked down.
“That's all right; nothing matters when I have you.”
He felt her arms fasten behind his neck, but they were cool as marble; he
met her eyes, and they were mocking and compassionate.
Their cab, wheeling into the main thoroughfare, joined in the race of cabs
flying as for life toward the East—past the Park, where the trees,
new-leafed, were swinging their skirts like ballet-dancers in the wind;
past the Stoics' and the other clubs, rattling, jingling, jostling
for the lead, shooting past omnibuses that looked cosy in the half-light
with their lamps and rows of figures solemnly opposed.
At Blafard's the tall dark young waiter took her cloak with
reverential fingers; the little wine-waiter smiled below the suffering in
his eyes. The same red-shaded lights fell on her arms and shoulders, the
same flowers of green and yellow grew bravely in the same blue vases. On
the menu were written the same dishes. The same idle eye peered through
the chink at the corner of the red blinds with its stare of apathetic
wonder.
Often during that dinner George looked at her face by stealth, and its
expression baffled him, so careless was it. And, unlike her mood of late,
that had been glum and cold, she was in the wildest spirits.
People looked round from the other little tables, all full now that the
season had begun, her laugh was so infectious; and George felt a sort of
disgust. What was it in this woman that made her laugh, when his own heart
was heavy? But he said nothing; he dared not even look at her, for fear
his eyes should show his feeling.
'We ought to be squaring our accounts,' he thought—'looking
things in the face. Something must be done; and here she is laughing and
making everyone stare!' Done! But what could be done, when it was
all like quicksand?
The other little tables emptied one by one.
“George,” she said, “take me somewhere where we can
dance!”
George stared at her.
“My dear girl, how can I? There is no such place!”
“Take me to your Bohemians!”
“You can't possibly go to a place like that.”
“Why not? Who cares where we go, or what we do?”
“I care!”
“Ah, my dear George, you and your sort are only half alive!”
Sullenly George answered:
“What do you take me for? A cad?”
But there was fear, not anger, in his heart.
“Well, then, let's drive into the East End. For goodness'
sake, let's do something not quite proper!”
They took a hansom and drove East. It was the first time either had ever
been in that unknown land.
“Close your cloak, dear; it looks odd down here.”
Mrs. Bellew laughed.
“You'll be just like your father when you're sixty,
George.”
And she opened her cloak the wider. Round a barrel-organ at the corner of
a street were girls in bright colours dancing.
She called to the cabman to stop.
“Let's watch those children!”
“You'll only make a show of us.”
Mrs. Bellew put her hands on the cab door.
“I've a good mind to get out and dance with them!”
“You're mad to-night,” said George. “Sit still!”
He stretched out his arm and barred her way. The passers-by looked
curiously at the little scene. A crowd began to collect.
“Go on!” cried George.
There was a cheer from the crowd; the driver whipped his horse; they
darted East again.
It was striking twelve when the cab put them down at last near the old
church on Chelsea Embankment, and they had hardly spoken for an hour.
And all that hour George was feeling:
'This is the woman for whom I've given it all up. This is the
woman to whom I shall be tied. This is the woman I cannot tear myself away
from. If I could, I would never see her again. But I can't live
without her. I must go on suffering when she's with me, suffering
when she's away from me. And God knows how it's all to end!'
He took her hand in the darkness; it was cold and unresponsive as a stone.
He tried to see her face, but could read nothing in those greenish eyes
staring before them, like a cat's, into the darkness.
When the cab was gone they stood looking at each other by the light of a
street lamp. And George thought:
'So I must leave her like this, and what then?'
She put her latch-key in the door, and turned round to him. In the silent,
empty street, where the wind was rustling and scraping round the corners
of tall houses, and the lamplight flickered, her face and figure were so
strange, motionless, Sphinx-like. Only her eyes seemed alive, fastened on
his own.
“Good-night!” he muttered.
She beckoned.
“Take what you can of me, George!” she said.