A Child of the Age (Adams)/Chapter 20
IV
Four days passed. Then it seemed to me to be best to put an end to this.
The reconciliation with Rosy was therefore effected, and then there came a flow of gentle tears, soft embracements, and the rest of it; all of which I endured in an actively passive sort of way, as being to the female mind the necessary sequence of a 'quarrel.'
The days sped on again. I was for the present content. Once or twice, I thought to myself that I should, perhaps, have been more content if I had not been content; for indifference was, I held, to be avoided. But there was always this inevitably undecided position of Rosy's and my relations towards one another. One interesting particular I one day learned, as it were, parenthetically, from Rosy. Her departure from No. 3 on that memorable evening, with head bent down and hands holding one another in front, was not, as I had supposed, to the streets, but to the house of a Mrs. Vincent, who owed her money for some work she had done. It was some sign of my philosophy (or indifference) that, on realising that the whole of this luckless connection of ours rested on a mistake, I did no more than remark to myself that it was a pity, and, after thinking about it for a few moments, dismissed it from my mind. Nevertheless it came back to me later on, and my philosophy was more dubious.
One afternoon we were having tea together in the study, both of us reading or skimming the last batch of illustrated boulevard newspapers, when I, hearing a ring at the bell, looked up, and said:
'What's that, I wonder?'
She suggested that it might be some things which she had got at the Bon Marché Magasins in the morning, and proceeded to explain that she had transferred her custom from the Louvre to the Bon Marché for some reason or other which I did not remark. There came a knock at the door. She said, Entrez! and Amélie came in with a letter on the letter-tray and towards me, saying that it was a letter for monsieur. Rosy inquired who had brought it up? As I had my upward hand on it, Amélie was answering that it was 'monsieur the concierge' who had brought it up that very moment, and had said that he was sorry to have overlooked it in the morning. A glance at the re-directed address had shown me that it was Rayne's handwriting. My heart went up to the bottom of my throat.
'Is it from Professor Strachan?' asked Rosy as Amélie was going out.
'No,' I said, striving to be full master of myself.
She refrained from further question, and I slowly opened the letter:
'Dear Bertram,—I should not have written to you, but that many things have come upon me. My little son is dead. God, in His great Love, saw fit to give him to me, as I thought, for my consoling; and He has seen fit, in His great Wisdom, to take him away from me again. God's ways are not as our ways.
'I do not say that my affliction is not hard, very hard to bear. At times I have doubted that I should ever see the good of it. I do not deny this. But I pray always for Faith in His Goodness, and Faith full and perfect, I am sure, will be given to me before the end. Yes, I am dying! Perhaps it is better so. And yet, I do not mean that. My head, you see, is not quite clear now. There is something I should like to say to you. Will you come to me? But yet do as you think you ought to, and remember, that any wish of mine is as nothing in comparison with your duty. I have written too much already. But you will understand. For my head is not clear now.
'My husband sends this. He has been very good to me. Remember about your duty. If I do not see you again, I ask God to bless and keep you and make you His at last, as I know He will.'
'Brave heart,' I said to myself, 'brave heart!'
My eyes stayed fixed on her name for a little: then I thought; till my thoughts turned to confusion. I half crumpled up the letter in my hands. Some one touched me on the arm. I had risen: was standing up, here, in the room. It was Rosy. I did not know she was here too.
I looked aside at her; her cheeks flushed red, a star-gleam in her eyes, her brows knit. A vixen.—What did she want?
'It is from her! I know … it is from her!—She wants you to go to her?' (She was panting out her words.)
'Yes,' I said.
'You will go?'
'Yes.'
'You shall not go! Oh, you shall not go!—I will not let you go!'
I passed slowly by her clenched, upraised hand: then, turning, found her close beside me.
'… My dear girl,' I said, smiling a little evilly, 'she is dying!'
I stood, thinking of Rayne.
'… Won't you say anything to me?' she cried, 'what does she want with you? What right has she with you? You are not hers!—She wants to take you away from me. I know her.—But she shall not!'
Suddenly she stepped to me and caught me by the arm, crying:
'I won't let you go to her! I will not! you shall not go! I will not let you go!'
'Hey?' I said, 'what are you talking about?'—and looked at her.
Realising her to be there,—her, the tool demoniac Circumstance had chosen to undo me with, the plague of a mistake,—her, the red rag flaunted in my face by the thing that fleered and jeered because I could not gore horse or man again,—I concentrated, sudden, unutterable hate in my look at her. She shrank back.
'Ah,' she whispered, shivering, 'don't! Don't Don't. I will let you go. Yes: really, truly, indeed, now, now! Only don't look like that, or I shall shriek.' I turned away my face, indifferent: and thought again.
'… But you will come back?' pleaded she.
'I have told you,' I said, 'yes.'
'You have told me nothing! Promise me that you will come back. Swear to me'
I went to the paper-cupboard; opened it, and stood looking for the time-table. She touched me on the arm. She had come after me. I turned to her and said:
'I tell you that I will come back. Now, do not trouble me. You see that I don't want to be troubled.'
'Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do? You will leave me! And I shall never see you again! You will never be the same to me again.—I hate her!'
'She is dying,' I said, smiling again, 'you won't have to hate her long.'
'You love her!'
'I do not.'
'You do, you know you do!' (She caught my hand in hers up to her lips.) 'I can't let you go?' she sobbed.
I comforted her in a quiet way, stroking her hair back:
'Come,' I said, 'Come, come!' And went on, till all at once it occurred to me that I ought to have looked out the time the night-mail went, and paused. The clock struck six.
I turned and began rummaging in the cup-board till I had found the time-table. I opened and began to study it.
A pause.
'I am … very sorry,' said her soft voice by me. 'I didn't mean to vex you. Will you for-give me?'
'I have nothing to forgive you for.'
'And may I pack your things?'
'You are kind.'
'Don't say that,' she pleaded, don't say that! Will you give me a kiss, and be friends again?'
I turned round and, with my arm about her back, gave her a kiss on the cheek. I was surprised at her child's woebegone face. Then, leaving her, I went to the window and at last found out the time of the night-mail. I took to walking up and down the room in front of the fire. I saw the envelope of the letter with the newspapers on the floor at the foot of the easy-chair. I picked it up and considered it. A horrible thought came to me: She might be dead!
I looked at the postmarks. The letter had taken four days to get to me. I cursed Mrs. Herbert to hell. Where was the letter?
I found it it my waistcoat pocket, put there I did not know when.
Marie opened the door. I told her to tell Amélie to be as quick with dinner as possible, as I wanted to catch a train. Marie agreed and went back, closing the door. 'I have found your small port-manteau,' said Rosy, coming into the dining-room doorway with a noise of the opening curtain-rings. 'Will you come and choose the things you want, because I'm not sure?
We went together.
When we, or rather I, had finished packing the portmanteau, we returned to dinner. The portmanteau was to be taken down by the back staircase.
'I forgot the flask. Do you know where it is? You'd like to take the flask with some cognac in it? It's such a pretty flask, and you've never used it!' (She had given it me.)
'Yes,' I said, 'to be sure.' And told Marie to go and bring it.
Marie brought it, and then came the question of the cognac. There was none in the house; which had not struck any of us before. I was for not minding about it, till I saw that Rosy would be hurt if her flask was not used; so Marie was sent down to get some cognac, while Rosy and I went into the study again, not caring for more dinner.
Then Marie returned with the flask filled, which Rosy took from me, and reaching, put on the table. It was not yet time to start. We sat in silence, till I turned my head to look at her seated there with large upward eyes whose gaze was far away somewhere.
'Are you all right now?' I asked.
'Yes,' she said, 'I'm all right.'
I was sorry for her: somehow as I had been sorry for her sitting on the hearth-rug in the fire-lit room waiting for me who stood at the small window. I could not help thinking of the pity of it, that that mistake had been made to give me to her and her to me.
I put my arm round her neck and drew her cheek to meet my lips:
'Rosebud,' I said, 'Rosebud!'
Then I felt the tears coming soft from her eyes: and the memory of a scene rose before me, when I said:
'Why, little Rosebud, you mustn't mind like that! I'll come back again some day!'
Ah, I had come back again, and had brought her, not a bonnet with blue ribbons and a flower that should look so real that the butterflies should settle on it, but what she wanted—myself; and also what I had promised with myself, some grapes and bon-bons; and also what I had not promised with myself, some thorns and nettles. Alas, alas, was she not indeed 'alone in the world, quite alone, as if nobody else belonged to her.…' 'Good-night Rosebud. Good-night!'
Well, I said to myself, there is no good in this.
"The cocks they crew, and the horns blew.
And the lions took the hill;
And Willie he gaed hame again.
To his hard task and till.
—I must be off, pippin,' I said aloud, 'or I shall miss the train.' And got up and went across the room and turned, looking at her.
She rose and, saying 'I will fetch your coat,' went out through the doorway, leaving me with my mental stretching and rubbing of limbs that had been asleep and wakened up to the feeling that their blood was sluggish.
Presently she returned with my greatcoat, which I took with thanks from her, and then I felt that she felt that the final embrace was coming. In a moment it was come. She was in my arms, pressing up with a poor little tearful face for the soft lips' kiss. None other kiss than that now, none other kiss than that! Oh Rosebud, Rosebud! Then our beings, scarce met, parted again; and I had left her.
I went down.
As I got into the cab opposite the door, I looked up at our balcony half hoping to see her there. No. Nor at the window.
Once more, as we drove away, I looked up at balcony and window. No. I was a fool.
I thought much on my way to the Gare du Nord.
When I arrived there I found that I had abundance of time. I began to walk up and down the hall, still thinking profoundly. At last this came: 'The next evening I met the Professor at the Gare du Nord as we had arranged, and (he, at the end of our walk up and down in the hall There we turned, there he began to speak—commending Rosy to my care as a last sudden thought that …'
Sudden thoughts came quickly now. I paced up and down. A porter with my portmanteau came to me to remind me that it was time to be getting my luggage weighed and myself on to the platform. We went up the hall together. I looked at the clock. He was right. I made one big step forward, and stopped. He passed me, and stopped too, but not as I had done.
'Thanks,' I said, 'I shall not go to-night.'
'Good, sir,' he said.
'If you will put that into a cab,' I said, 'I will be back in a moment.'
'Very well, sir,' he said.
'I went off to the telegraph office, where I wrote on a form: Lady Gwatkin, 22 Balmoral Street, London, and B. Leicester, Paris, and (in French) I cannot come. Then, when the clerk had shown me that he understood it aright, I returned to my porter and the portmanteau in the cab.
When I arrived at the Avenue de Fontenoi, I did not look up at either balcony or window, but got down with my portmanteau and, having paid the man, went slowly in. As the impulse to look up had been denied, so was that to ask at the concierge's if she had gone out. But the concierge came forth to proffer carrying up the portmanteau; and I surrendered it to him. Up, then, I went slowly, deliberately, with mechanical limping foot. At the second story some one came out, a man, and descended upon me: when, through the mutual choosing of first one side and then the other, there was a moment's delay. I cared not. Up I went again slowly, deliberately, with mechanical limping foot; till I reached our third story, and the door, and had unlocked it, and gone in, and drawn it to quietly. What then? The passage in the red light of the hanging oil lamp's little floating redder core-flame. . . . No: not to look in at the small window!—In here, into the study. Almost dark: no one here.
Now into the salon. Almost dark too: no one here. Don't call for her, or your voice will unnerve you as a concession to ghostliness.
In the morning-room. Almost dark: no one.
In the bedroom: no one.
Will you go into the bath-room? Yes. No one.—Stand and think a little.
Now go back through all those almost dark and empty rooms, restraining that cry that is in the top of your beating heart. And, going back, what an emptiness there is in the place!
It is foolish to feel the presence of the ghostly or something visibly unseen here. The matches are on the mantelpiece behind the jar. Don't knock it over, groper . . . Light? No: darkness! These thin contraband matches are better than the stinking sulphers, but still . . . Out again. Damn!
Now be careful this time. Light the candle.
It is lit.
What is the time? A quarter to nine. Now A letter on the table.
She is gone!
Open and read the letter. Here:
'Mr. Leicester,—I see it all now. I told you I would go away when it came. The last thing I ask from you is for me never to see you again. You will find everything in the house. I have only taken the clothes I have on and £2 7s., which I had when I went with you. You are not to try to find me. If you do, you are a coward and no gentleman. I pray God will forgive me for my wickedness; He knows I did not do it for gain, but for pure love for you; that is the only comfort I have within myself. I loved you, but what is love and how strong when through suffering hate takes the place of that love. I hate you and I always shall.
I sat down and, with my elbows on my knees and my head between my hands, tried vainly to understand it all.