passion for Margot had not yet drawnme down to weakness; it had raised me up to strength. The faint fearof her, which I had felt almost without knowing it more than once, diedwithin me. The desire of the conqueror elevated me. There was somethingfor me to win. My paralysis passed away, and I turned toward the house.
And now a strange thing happened. I walked into the dark hall, closedthe outer door, shutting out the dull murmur of the night, and felt inmy pocket for my matchbox. It was not there. I must inadvertently havelaid it down in my dressing-room and left it. I searched about in thedarkness on the hall table, but could find no light. There was nothingfor it, then, but to feel my way upstairs as best I could.
I started, keeping my hand against the wall to guide me. I gained thetop of the stairs, and began to traverse the landing, still with my handupon the wall. To reach my dressing-room I had to pass the apartmentwhich had been my grandmother's sitting-room.
When I reached it, instead of sliding along a closed door, as I hadanticipated, my hand dropped into vacancy.
The door was wide open. It had been shut, like all the other doorsin the house, when I had descended the stairs--shut and locked, as italways was at night-time. Why was it open now?
I paused in the darkness. And then an impulse seized me to walk forwardinto the room. I advanced a step; but, as I did so, a horrible low crybroke upon my ears out of the darkness. It came from immediately infront of me, and sounded like an expression of the most abject fear.
My feet rooted themselves to the ground.
"Who's there?" I asked.
There came no answer.
I listened for a moment, but did not hear the minutest sound. The desirefor light was overpowering. I generally did my writing in this room,and knew the exact whereabouts of everything in it. I knew that on thewriting-table there was a silver box containing wax matches. It lay onthe left of my desk. I moved another step forward.
There was the sound of a slight rustle, as if someone shrank back as Iadvanced.
I laid my hand quickly on the box, opened it, and struck a light. Theroom was vaguely illuminated. I saw something white at the far end,against the wall. I put the match to a candle.
The white thing was Margot. She was in her dressing-gown, and wascrouched up in an angle of the wall as far away from where I stoodas possible. Her blue eyes were wide open, and fixed upon me with anexpression of such intense and hideous fear in them that I almost criedout.
"Margot, what is the matter?" I said. "Are you ill?"
She made no reply. Her face terrified me.
"What is it, Margot?" I cried in a loud, almost harsh voice, determinedto rouse her from this horrible, unnatural silence. "What are you doinghere?"
I moved towards her. I stretched out my hands and seized her. As I didso, a sort of sob burst from her. Her hands were cold and trembling.
"What is it? What has frightened you?" I reiterated.
At last she spoke in a low voice.
"You--you looked so strange, so--so cruel as you came in," she said.
"Strange! Cruel! But you could not see me. It was dark," I answered.
"Dark!" she said.
"Yes, until I lit the candle. And you cried out when I was only in thedoorway. You could not see me there."
"Why not? What has that got to do with it?" she murmured, stilltrembling violently.
"You can see me in the dark?"
"Of course," she said. "I don't understand what you mean. Of course Ican see you when you are there before my eyes."
"But----" I began; and then her obvious and complete surprise at myquestions stopped them. I still held her hands in mine, and theirextreme coldness roused me to the remembrance that she was unclothed.
"You will be ill if you stay here," I said. "Come back to your room."
She said nothing, and I led her back, waited while she got into bed, andthen, placing the candle on the dressing-table, sat down in a chair byher side.
The strong determination to take prompt action, to come to anexplanation, to end these dreary mysteries of mind and conduct, wasstill upon me.
I did not think of the strange hour; I did not care that the night wasgliding on towards dawn. I was self-absorbed. I was beyond ordinaryconsiderations.
Yet I did not speak immediately. I was trying to be quite calm, tryingto think of the best line for me to take. So much might depend upon ourmere words now. At length I said, laying my hand upon hers, which wasoutside the coverlet:
"Margot, what were you doing in that room at such a strange hour? Whywere you there?"
She hesitated obviously. Then she answered, not looking at me:
"I missed you. I thought you might be there--writing."
"But you were in the dark."
"I thought you would have a light."
I knew by her manner that she was not telling me the truth, but I wenton quietly:
"If you expected me, why did you cry out when I came to the door?"
She tried to draw her hand away, but I held it fast, closing, my fingersupon it with even brutal strength.
"Why did you cry out?"
"You--you looked so strange, so cruel."
"So cruel!"
"Yes. You frightened me--you frightened me horribly."
She began suddenly to sob, like one completely overstrained. I liftedher up in the bed, put my arms round her, and made her lean against me.I was strangely moved.
"I frightened you! How can that be?" I said, trying to control a passionof mingled love and anger that filled my breast. "You know that I loveyou. You must know that. In all our short married life have I ever beeneven momentarily unkind to you? Let us be frank with one another. Ourlives have changed lately. One of us has altered. You cannot say that itis I."
She only continued to sob bitterly in my arms. I held her closer.
"Let us be frank with one another," I went on. "For God's sake let ushave no barriers between us. Margot, look into my eyes and tell me--areyou growing tired of me?"
She turned her head away, but I spoke more sternly:
"You shall be truthful. I will have no more subterfuge. Look me in theface. You did love me once?"
"Yes, yes," she whispered in a choked voice.
"What have I done, then, to alienate you? Have I ever hurt you, evershown a lack of sympathy, ever neglected you?"
"Never--never."
"Yet you have changed to me since--since----" I paused a moment, tryingto recall when I had first noticed her altered demeanour.
She interrupted me.
"It has all come upon me in this house," she sobbed. "Oh! what is it?What does it all mean? If I could understand a little--only a little--itwould not be so bad. But this nightmare, this thing that seems such amadness of the intellect----"
Her voice broke and ceased. Her tears burst forth afresh. Such mingledfear, passion, and a sort of strange latent irritation, I had never seenbefore.
"It is a madness indeed," I said, and a sense almost of outrage made myvoice hard and cold. "I have not deserved such treatment at your hands."
"I will not yield to it," she said, with a sort of desperation, suddenlythrowing her arms around me. "I will not--I will not!"
I was strangely puzzled. I was torn with conflicting feelings. Love andanger grappled at my heart. But I only held her, and did not speak untilshe grew obviously calmer. The paroxysm seemed passing away. Then Isaid:
"I cannot understand."
"Nor I," she answered, with a directness that had been foreign to herof late, but that was part and parcel of her real, beautiful nature. "Icannot understand. I only know there is a change in me, or in you tome, and that I cannot help it, or that I have not been able to help it.Sometimes I feel--do not be angry, I will try to tell you--a physicalfear of you, of your touch, of your clasp, a fear such as an animalmight feel towards the master who had beaten it. I tremble then atyour approach. When you are near me I feel cold, oh! so cold and--andanxious; perhaps I ought to say apprehensive. Oh, I am hurting you!"
&nb
sp; I suppose I must have winced at her words, and she is quick to observe.
"Go on," I said; "do not spare me. Tell me everything. It is madnessindeed; but we may kill it, when we both know it."
"Oh, if we could!" she cried, with a poignancy which was heart-breakingto hear. "If we could!"
"Do you doubt our ability?" I said, trying to be patient and calm. "Youare unreasoning, like all women. Be sensible for a moment. You do me awrong in cherishing these feelings. I have the capacity for cruelty inme. I may have been--I have been--cruel in the past, but never to you.You have no right to treat me as you have done lately. If you examineyour feelings, and compare them with facts, you will see theirabsurdity."
"But," she interposed, with a woman's fatal quickness, "that will