The note of savage scorn in her voice made him reply coldly: “You’ve no cause to talk about taking people in. If ever I’ve been taken in, as you call it, it was by you, not by Clare!”
He saw her go suddenly white. He was half-sorry he had dealt her the blow, but as she went on to speak, her words, fiercer than ever now, stung him into gladness.
“All right! Trust her and pay for it! I could tell you things if I wished—but I’m not such a traitor to her as she’s been to me. I could tell you things that would make you gasp, you wretched little fool!”
“They wouldn’t make me gasp; they’d make me call you a damned liar. Helen, I can understand you hating Clare; I can understand, in a sense, the charge of traitor that you bring against her; but when you hint all sorts of awful secrets about her I just think what a petty, spiteful heart you must have! You ruin your own case by actions like that. They sicken me.”
“Very well, let them sicken you. You’ll not be more sickened than I am. But perhaps you think I can’t do more than hint. I can and I will, since you drive me to it. Next time you pay your evening visits to Clare ask her what she thinks of Pritchard!”
“Pritchard! Pritchard!—What’s he got to do with it?”
“Ask Clare.”
“Why should I ask her?”
“Because, maybe, on the spur of the moment she wouldn’t be able to think of any satisfactory lie to tell you.”
He felt anger rising up within him. He detested Pritchard, and the mention of his name in connection with Clare infuriated him. Moreover, his mind, always quick to entertain suspicion, pictured all manner of disturbing fancies, even though his reason rejected them absolutely. He trusted Clare; he would believe no evil of her. And yet, the mere thought of it was a disturbing one.
“I wouldn’t insult her by letting her think I listened to such gossip,” he said, rather weakly.
There followed a longish pause; he thinking of what she had said and trying to rid himself of the discomfort of associating Pritchard with Clare, and she watching him, mockingly, as if conscious that her words had taken root in his mind.
Then she went on: “So now you can suspect somebody else instead of me. And while we’re on the subject of Pritchard let me tell you something else.”
“Tell me!” The mere thought that there was anything else to tell in which Pritchard was concerned was sufficient to give his voice a note of peremptory harshness.
“I’m going to leave you.”
“So you’ve said before.”
“This time I mean it.”
“Well?”
“And you can divorce me.”
He stamped his foot with irritation. “Don’t be ridiculous, Helen. A divorce is absolutely out of the question.”
“Why? Do you think we can go on like this any longer?”
“That’s not the point. The point is that nothing in the circumstances provides any grounds for a divorce.”
“So that we’ve got to go on like this then, eh?”
“Not like this, I hope. I still hope—that some day—”
She interrupted him angrily. “You still hope! How many more secret visits to Clare do you think you’ll make,-how many more damnable lies do you think you’ll need to tell me—before you leave off still hoping? You hateful little hypocrite! Why don’t you be frank with me and yourself and acknowledge that you love Clare? Why don’t you run off with her like a man?”
He said: “So you think that’s what a man would do, eh?”
“Yes.”
“One sort of a man, perhaps. Only I’m not that sort.”
“I wish you were.”
“Possibly. I also wish that you were another sort of woman, but it’s rather pointless wishing, isn’t it?”
“Everything is rather pointless that has to do with you and me.”
Suddenly he said: “Look here, Helen. Let’s stop this talk. Just listen a minute while I try to tell you how I’m situated. You and I are married—”
“Really?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t be stupid about it! We’re married, and we’ve got to put up with it for better, for worse. I visit Clare in an entirely friendly way, though you mayn’t believe it, and your suspicions of me are altogether unfounded. All the same, I’m prepared to give up her friendship, if that helps you at all. I’m prepared to leave Millstead with you, get a job somewhere else, and start life afresh. We have been happy together, and I daresay in time we shall manage to be happy again. We’d emigrate, if you liked. And the baby—our baby—our baby that is to be—”
She suddenly rushed up to him with her arms raised and struck him with both fists on his mouth. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, stop that sort of talk! I could kill you when you try to lull me into happiness with those sticky, little sentimental words! Our baby! Good God, am I to be made to submit to you because of that? And all the time you talk of it you’re thinking of another woman! You’re not livable with! Something’s happened to you that’s made you cruel and hateful—you’re not the man that I married or that I ever would have married. I loathe and detest you—you’re rotten—rotten to the very root!”
He said, icily: “Do you think so?”
She replied, more restrainedly: “I’ve never met anybody who’s altered so much as you have in the last six months. You’ve sunk lower and lower—in every way, until now—everybody hates you. You’re simply a ruin.”
Still quietly he said: “Yes, that’s true.” And then watching to see the effect that his words had upon her; he added: “Clare said so.”
“What!” she screamed, frenzied again. “Yes, she knows! She knows how she’s ruined you! She knows better than anybody! And she taunted you with it! How I loathe her!”
“And me too, eh?”
She made no answer.
Then, more quietly than ever, he said: “Yes, Clare knows what a failure I’ve been and how low I’ve sunk. But she doesn’t think it’s due to her, and neither do I.”
He would not say more than that. He wondered if she would perceive the subtle innuendo which he half-meant and half did not mean; which he would not absolutely deny, and yet would not positively affirm; which he was prepared to hint, but only vaguely, because he was not perfectly sure himself.
Whether or not she did perceive it he was not able to discover. She was silent for some while and then said: “Well, I repeat what I said—I’m going to leave you so that you can get a divorce.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“You can leave me if you wish, but I shall not get a divorce.”
“Why not?”
“Because for one thing I shan’t be able to.”
“And why do you think you won’t?”
“Because,” he replied, coldly, “the law will not give me my freedom merely because we have lived a cat-and-dog life together. The law requires that you should not only leave me, but that you should run away with another man and commit misconduct with him.”
She nodded. “Yes, and that is what I propose to do.”
“What!”
A curious silence ensued. He was utterly astounded, horrified, by her announcement; she was smiling at him, mocking his astonishment. He shouted at her, fiercely: “What’s that!”
She said: “I intend to do what you said.”
“What’s that! You what?”
“I intend to do what you said. I shall run away with another man and commit misconduct with him!”
“God!” he exclaimed, clenching his teeth, and stamping the floor. “It’s absurd. You can’t. You wouldn’t dare. Oh, it’s impossible. Besides-good God, think of the scandals! Surely I haven’t driven you to that! Who would you run away with?” His anger began to conquer his astonishment. “You little fool, Helen, you can’t do it! I forbid you! Oh, Lord, what a mess we’re in! Tell me, who’s the man you’re thinking of! I demand to know. Who is he? Give me his name!”
And she said, cuttingly: “Pritchard.”
On top of his boiling fury she
added: “We’ve talked it over and he’s quite agreed to—to oblige me in the matter, so you see I really do mean things this time, darling Kenneth!”
And she laughed at him.
II
Out of Lavery’s he plunged and into the cold, frosty night of Milner’s. He had not stayed to hear the last echoes of her laughter dying away; he was mad with fury; he was going to kill Pritchard. He ran up the steps of Milner’s and gave the bell a ferocious tug. At last the porter came, half undressed, and by no means too affable to such a late visitor. “I want to see Mr. Pritchard on very important business,” said Speed. “Will it take long, sir?” asked the porter, and Speed answered: “I can’t say how long it will take.”—“Then,” said the porter, “perhaps you wouldn’t mind letting yourself out when you’ve finished. I’ll give you this key till to-morrow morning—I’ve got a duplicate of my own.” Speed took the key, hardly comprehending the instructions, and rushed along the corridor to the flight of steps along the wall of which was printed the name: “Mr. H. Pritchard.”
Arrived on Pritchard’s landing he groped his way to the sitting-room door and entered stealthily. All was perfectly still, except for one or two detached snores proceeding from the adjoining dormitory. In the starshine that came through the window he could see, just faintly, the outline of Pritchard’s desk, and Pritchard’s armchair, and Pritchard’s bookshelves, and Pritchard’s cap and gown hung upon the hook on the door of Pritchard’s bedroom. His bedroom! He crept towards it, turned the handle softly, and entered. At first he thought the bed was empty, but as he listened he could hear breathing—steady, though faint. He began to be ever so slightly frightened. Being in the room alone with Pritchard asleep was somehow an unnerving experience; like being alone in a room with a dead body. For, perhaps, Pritchard would be a dead body before the dawn rose. And again he felt frightened because somebody might hear him and come up and think he was in there to steal something—Pritchard’s silver wrist-watch or his rolled gold sleeve links, for instance. Somehow Speed was unwilling to be apprehended for theft when his real object was only murder.
He struck a match to see if it really was Pritchard in bed; it would be a joke if he murdered somebody else by mistake, wouldn’t it?…
Yes, it was Pritchard.
Then Speed, looking down at him, realised that he did not hate him so much for his disgraceful overtures to Helen as for the suspicion of some sinister connection with Clare.
Suddenly Pritchard opened his eyes.
“Good God, Speed!” he cried, blinking and sitting up in bed. “Whatever’s the matter! What’s—what’s happened? Anything wrong?”
And Speed, startled out of his wits by the sudden awakening, fell forward across Pritchard’s bed and fainted. So that he did not murder Pritchard after all…
III
Vague years seemed to pass by, and then out of the abyss came the voice of the Head booming: “Um, yes, Mr. Speed…I think, in the circumstances, you had better—um, yes, take a holiday at the seaside…You are very clearly in a highly dangerous—um—nervous state…and I will gladly release you from the rest of your term’s duties…No doubt a rest will effect a great and rapid improvement…My wife recommends Seacliffe—a pleasant little watering-place—um, yes, extremely so…As for the incidents during preparation last evening, I think we need not—um—discuss them at present…Oh yes, most certainly—as soon as convenient—in fact, an early train to-morrow morning would not incommode us…I—um, yes—I hope the rest will benefit you…oh yes, I hope so extremely…”
And he added: “Helen is—um—a good nurse.”
Then something else of no particular importance, and then: “I shall put Mr.—um—Pritchard in charge of-um—Lavery’s while you are absent, so you need not—um—worry about your House…”
Speed said, conquering himself enough to smile: “Oh, no, I shan’t worry. I shan’t worry about anything.”
“Um—no, I hope not. I—I hope not…My wife and I—um—we both hope that you will not—um—worry…”
Then Speed noticed, with childish curiosity, that the Head was attired in a sky-blue dressing-gown and pink-striped pyjamas…
Where was he, by the way? He looked round and saw a tiny gas-jet burning on a wall bracket; near him was a bed…Pritchard’s bed, of course. But why was the Head in Pritchard’s bedroom, and why was Clanwell there as well?
Clanwell said sepulchrally: “Take things easy, old man. I thought something like this would happen. You’ve been overdoing it.”
“Overdoing what?” said Speed.
“Everything,” replied Clanwell.
The clock on the dressing-table showed exactly midnight.
“Good-bye,” said Speed.
Clanwell said: “I’m coming over with you to Lavery’s.”
The Head departed, booming his farewell. “Good night…My—um—my best wishes, Speed…um, yes—most certainly…Good night.”
Then Pritchard said: “Perhaps I can sleep again now. Enough to give me a breakdown, I should think. Good night, Speed. And good luck. I wish they’d give me a holiday at Seacliffe…Good night, Clanwell.”
As they trod over the soft turf of the quadrangle they heard old Millstead bells calling the hour of midnight.
Speed said: “Clanwell, do you remember I once told you I could write a novel about Millstead?”
“Yes, I remember it.”
“Well, I might have done it then. But I couldn’t now. When I first came here Millstead was so big and enveloping-it nearly swallowed me up. But now—it’s all gone. I might be living in a slum tenement for all it means to me. Where’s it all gone to?”
“You’re ill, Speed. It’ll come back when you’re better.”
“Yes, but when shall I be better?”
“When you’ve been away and had a rest.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of. course I’m sure. You don’t suppose you’re dying, do you?”
“No. But there are times when I could suppose I’m dead.”
“Nonsense, man. You’re too morbid. Why don’t you go for a sea voyage? Pull yourself together, man, and don’t brood.”
Clanwell added: “I’m damned sorry for you—what can I do? Would you like me to come in Lavery’s with you for a while? You’re not nervous of being alone, are you?”
“Oh no. And besides, I shan’t be alone. My wife’s there.”
“Of course, of course. Stupid of me. I was for the moment forgetting—forgetting—”
“That I was married, eh?”
“No, no, not exactly—I had just forgotten—well, you know how even the most obvious things sometimes slip the memory…Well, here you are. Have you the key? And you’ll be all right, eh? Sure? Well, now, take a long rest and get better, won’t you? Good night—Good night—sure you’re all right? Good night!”
Clanwell raced back across the turf to his own House and Speed admitted himself to Lavery’s and sauntered slowly down the corridor to his room.
Helen was sitting in front of the fire, perfectly still and quiet.
He said: “Helen!”
“Well!” She spoke without the slightest movement of her head or body.
“We’ve got to go away from Millstead.”
He wondered how she would take it. It never occurred to him that she was prepared. She answered: “Yes. Mother’s been over here to tell me all about it. We’re going to Seacliffe in the morning. Catching the 9.5. What were you doing in Pritchard’s bedroom?”
“Didn’t they tell you?” he enquired sarcastically.
“How could they? They didn’t know. They found you fainting across the bed, and Pritchard said he woke up and found you staring at him.”
“And you can’t guess why I went there?”
“I suppose you wanted to ask him if it were true that he and I were going away together.”
“No, not quite. I wanted to murder him so that it could never be true.”
“What!”
“Yes. What I sai
d.”
She made no answer, and after a long pause he said: “You’re not in love with Pritchard, are you?”
She replied sorrowfully: “Not a little bit. In fact, I rather dislike him. You’re the only person I love.”
“When you’re not hating me, eh?”
“Yes, that’s right. When I’m not hating you.”
Then after a second long pause he suddenly decided to make one last effort for the tranquillising of the future.
“Helen,” he began pleadingly, “Can’t you stop hating me? Is it too late to begin everything afresh? Can’t we—”
Then he stopped. All the eloquence went out of him suddenly, like the air out of a suddenly pricked balloon. His brain refused to frame the sentences of promise and supplication that he had intended. His brain was tired—utterly tired. He felt he did not care whether Helen stayed with him or not, whether she ran away with Pritchard or not, whether his own relationship with her improved, worsened, or ceased altogether, whether anything in the world happened or did not happen. All he wanted was peace—peace from the eternal torment of his mind.
She suddenly put her arms round him and kissed him passionately. “We will begin again, Kenneth,” she said eagerly. “We will be happy again, won’t we? Oh, yes, I know we will. When we get to Seacliffe we’ll have a second honeymoon together, what do you think, darling?”
“Rather,” he replied, with simulated enthusiasm. In reality he felt sick—physically sick. Something in the word “honeymoon” set his nerves on edge. Poor little darling Helen—why on earth had he ever married such a creature? They would never be happy together, he was quite certain of that. And yet…well, anyway, they had to make the best of it. He smiled at her and returned her kisses, and then suggested packing the trunk in readiness for the morning.