Джон Голсуорси
The Dark Flower
No sound of her any more! Gone! It was unbearable; and, seizing his hat, he ran out. Which way? At random he ran towards the Square. There she was, over by the railings; languidly, irresolutely moving towards home.
XIV
But now that she was within reach, he wavered; he had given his word – was he going to break it? Then she turned, and saw him; and he could not go back. In the biting easterly wind her face looked small, and pinched, and cold, but her eyes only the larger, the more full of witchery, as if beseeching him not to be angry, not to send her away.
“I had to come; I got frightened. Why did you write such a tiny little note?”
He tried to make his voice sound quiet and ordinary.
“You must be brave, Nell. I have had to tell her.”
She clutched at his arm; then drew herself up, and said in her clear, clipped voice:
“Oh! I suppose she hates me, then!”
“She is terribly unhappy.”
They walked a minute, that might have been an hour, without a word; not round the Square, as he had walked with Oliver, but away from the house. At last she said in a half-choked voice: “I only want a little bit of you.”
And he answered dully: “In love, there are no little bits – no standing still.”
Then, suddenly, he felt her hand in his, the fingers lacing, twining restlessly amongst his own; and again the half-choked voice said:
“But you WILL let me see you sometimes! You must!”
Hardest of all to stand against was this pathetic, clinging, frightened child. And, not knowing very clearly what he said, he murmured:
“Yes – yes; it’ll be all right. Be brave – you must be brave, Nell. It’ll all come right.”
But she only answered:
“No, no! I’m not brave. I shall do something.”
Her face looked just as when she had ridden at that gravel pit. Loving, wild, undisciplined, without resource of any kind – what might she not do? Why could he not stir without bringing disaster upon one or other? And between these two, suffering so because of him, he felt as if he had lost his own existence. In quest of happiness, he had come to that!
Suddenly she said:
“Oliver asked me again at the dance on Saturday. He said you had told him to be patient. Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I was sorry for him.”
She let his hand go.
“Perhaps you would like me to marry him.”
Very clearly he saw those two going round and round over the shining floor.
“It would be better, Nell.”
She made a little sound – of anger or dismay.
“You don’t REALLY want me, then?”
That was his chance. But with her arm touching his, her face so pale and desperate, and those maddening eyes turned to him, he could not tell that lie, and answered:
“Yes – I want you, God knows!”
At that a sigh of content escaped her, as if she were saying to herself: ‘If he wants me he will not let me go.’ Strange little tribute to her faith in love and her own youth!
They had come somehow to Pall Mall by now. And scared to find himself so deep in the hunting-ground of the Dromores, Lennan turned hastily towards St. James’s Park, that they might cross it in the dark, round to Piccadilly. To be thus slinking out of the world’s sight with the daughter of his old room-mate – of all men in the world the last perhaps that he should do this to! A nice treacherous business! But the thing men called honour – what was it, when her eyes were looking at him and her shoulder touching his?
Since he had spoken those words, “Yes, I want you,” she had been silent – fearful perhaps to let other words destroy their comfort. But near the gate by Hyde Park Corner she put her hand again into his, and again her voice, so clear, said:
“I don’t want to hurt anybody, but you WILL let me come sometimes – you will let me see you – you won’t leave me all alone, thinking that I’ll never see you again?”
And once more, without knowing what he answered, Lennan murmured:
“No, no! It’ll be all right, dear – it’ll all come right. It must – and shall.”
Again her fingers twined amongst his, like a child’s. She seemed to have a wonderful knowledge of the exact thing to say and do to keep him helpless. And she went on:
“I didn’t try to love you – it isn’t wrong to love – it wouldn’t hurt her. I only want a little of your love.”
A little – always a little! But he was solely bent on comforting her now. To think of her going home, and sitting lonely, frightened, and unhappy, all the evening, was dreadful. And holding her fingers tight, he kept on murmuring words of would-be comfort.
Then he saw that they were out in Piccadilly. How far dared he go with her along the railings before he said good-bye? A man was coming towards them, just where he had met Dromore that first fatal afternoon nine months ago; a man with a slight lurch in his walk and a tall, shining hat a little on one side. But thank Heaven! – it was not Dromore – only one somewhat like him, who in passing stared sphinx-like at Nell. And Lennan said:
“You must go home now, child; we mustn’t be seen together.”
For a moment he thought she was going to break down, refuse to leave him. Then she threw up her head, and for a second stood like that, quite motionless, looking in his face. Suddenly stripping off her glove, she thrust her warm, clinging hand into his. Her lips smiled faintly, tears stood in her eyes; then she drew her hand away and plunged into the traffic. He saw her turn the corner of her street and disappear. And with the warmth of that passionate little hand still stinging his palm, he almost ran towards Hyde Park.
Taking no heed of direction, he launched himself into its dark space, deserted in this cold, homeless wind, that had little sound and no scent, travelling its remorseless road under the grey-black sky.
The dark firmament and keen cold air suited one who had little need of aids to emotion – one who had, indeed, but the single wish to get rid, if he only could, of the terrible sensation in his head, that bruised, battered, imprisoned feeling of a man who paces his cell – never, never to get out at either end. Without thought or intention he drove his legs along; not running, because he knew that he would have to stop the sooner. Alas! what more comic spectacle for the eyes of a good citizen than this married man of middle age, striding for hours over those dry, dark, empty pastures – hunted by passion and by pity, so that he knew not even whether he had dined! But no good citizen was abroad of an autumn night in a bitter easterly wind. The trees were the sole witnesses of this grim exercise – the trees, resigning to the cold blast their crinkled leaves that fluttered past him, just a little lighter than the darkness. Here and there his feet rustled in the drifts, waiting their turn to serve the little bonfires, whose scent still clung in the air. A desperate walk, in this heart of London – round and round, up and down, hour after hour, keeping always in the dark; not a star in the sky, not a human being spoken to or even clearly seen, not a bird or beast; just the gleam of the lights far away, and the hoarse muttering of the traffic! A walk as lonely as the voyage of the human soul is lonely from birth to death with nothing to guide it but the flickering glow from its own frail spirit lighted it knows not where…
And, so tired that he could hardly move his legs, but free at last of that awful feeling in his head – free for the first time for days and days – Lennan came out of the Park at the gate where he had gone in, and walked towards his home, certain that tonight, one way or the other, it would be decided…
XV
This then – this long trouble of body and of spirit – was what he remembered, sitting in the armchair beyond his bedroom fire, watching the glow, and Sylvia sleeping there exhausted, while the dark plane-tree leaves tap-tapped at the window in the autumn wind; watching, with the uncanny certainty that, he would not pass the limits of this night without having made at last a decision that would not alter. For even conflict wears itself out; even indecision has this measure set to its miserable powers of torture, that any issue in the end is better than the hell of indecision itself. Once or twice in those last days even death had seemed to him quite tolerable; but now that his head was clear and he had come to grips, death passed out of his mind like the shadow that it was. Nothing so simple, extravagant, and vain could serve him. Other issues had reality; death – none. To leave Sylvia, and take this young love away; there was reality in that, but it had always faded as soon as it shaped itself; and now once more it faded. To put such a public and terrible affront on a tender wife whom he loved, do her to death, as it were, before the world’s eyes – and then, ever remorseful, grow old while the girl was still young? He could not. If Sylvia had not loved him, yes; or, even if he had not loved her; or if, again, though loving him she had stood upon her rights – in any of those events he might have done it. But to leave her whom he did love, and who had said to him so generously: “I will not hamper you – go to her” – would be a black atrocity. Every memory, from their boy-and-girl lovering to the desperate clinging of her arms these last two nights – memory with its innumerable tentacles, the invincible strength of its countless threads, bound him to her too fast. What then? Must it come, after all, to giving up the girl? And sitting there, by that warm fire, he shivered. How desolate, sacrilegious, wasteful to throw love away; to turn from the most precious of all gifts; to drop and break that vase! There was not too much love in the world, nor too much warmth and beauty – not, anyway, for those whose sands were running out, whose blood would soon be cold.
Could Sylvia not let him keep both her love and the girl’s? Could she not bear that? She had said she could; but her face, her eyes, her voice gave her the lie, so that every time he heard her his heart turned sick with pity. This, then, was the real issue. Could he accept from her such a sacrifice, exact a daily misery, see her droop and fade beneath it? Could he bear his own happiness at such a cost? Would it be happiness at all? He got up from the chair and crept towards her. She looked very fragile sleeping there! The darkness below her closed eyelids showed cruelly on that too fair skin; and in her flax-coloured hair he saw what he had never noticed – a few strands of white. Her softly opened lips, almost colourless, quivered with her uneven breathing; and now and again a little feverish shiver passed up as from her heart. All soft and fragile! Not much life, not much strength; youth and beauty slipping! To know that he who should be her champion against age and time would day by day be placing one more mark upon her face, one more sorrow in her heart! That he should do this – they both going down the years together!
As he stood there holding his breath, bending to look at her, that slurring swish of the plane-tree branch, flung against and against the window by the autumn wind, seemed filling the whole world. Then her lips moved in one of those little, soft hurrying whispers that unhappy dreamers utter, the words all blurred with their wistful rushing.
And he thought: I, who believe in bravery and kindness; I, who hate cruelty – if I do this cruel thing, what shall I have to live for; how shall I work; how bear myself? If I do it, I am lost – an outcast from my own faith – a renegade from all that I believe in.
And, kneeling there close to that face so sad and lonely, that heart so beaten even in its sleep, he knew that he could not do it – knew it with sudden certainty, and a curious sense of peace. Over! – the long struggle – over at last! Youth with youth, summer to summer, falling leaf with falling leaf! And behind him the fire flickered, and the plane-tree leaves tap-tapped.
He rose, and crept away stealthily downstairs into the drawing-room, and through the window at the far end out into the courtyard, where he had sat that day by the hydrangea, listening to the piano-organ. Very dark and cold and eerie it was there, and he hurried across to his studio. There, too, it was cold, and dark, and eerie, with its ghostly plaster presences, stale scent of cigarettes, and just one glowing ember of the fire he had left when he rushed out after Nell – those seven hours ago.
He went first to the bureau, turned up its lamp, and taking out some sheets of paper, marked on them directions for his various works; for the statuette of Nell, he noted that it should be taken with his compliments to Mr. Dromore. He wrote a letter to his banker directing money to be sent to Rome, and to his solicitor telling him to let the house. He wrote quickly. If Sylvia woke, and found him still away, what might she not think? He took a last sheet. Did it matter what he wrote, what deliberate lie, if it helped Nell over the first shock?
“DEAR NELL,
“I write this hastily in the early hours, to say that we are called out to Italy to my only sister, who is very ill. We leave by the first morning boat, and may be away some time. I will write again. Don’t fret, and God bless you.
“M. L.”
He could not see very well as he wrote. Poor, loving, desperate child! Well, she had youth and strength, and would soon have – Oliver! And he took yet another sheet.
“DEAR OLIVER,
“My wife and I are obliged to go post-haste to Italy. I watched you both at the dance the other night. Be very gentle with Nell; and – good luck to you! But don’t say again that I told you to be patient; it is hardly the way to make her love you.
“M. LENNAN.”
That, then, was all – yes, all! He turned out the little lamp, and groped towards the hearth. But one thing left. To say good-bye! To her, and Youth, and Passion! – to the only salve for the aching that Spring and Beauty bring – the aching for the wild, the passionate, the new, that never quite dies in a man’s heart. Ah! well, sooner or later, all men had to say good-bye to that. All men – all men!
He crouched down before the hearth. There was no warmth in that fast-blackening ember, but it still glowed like a dark-red flower. And while it lived he crouched there, as though it were that to which he was saying good-bye. And on the door he heard the girl’s ghostly knocking. And beside him – a ghost among the ghostly presences – she stood. Slowly the glow blackened, till the last spark had faded out.
Then by the glimmer of the night he found his way back, softly as he had come, to his bedroom.
Sylvia was still sleeping; and, to watch for her to wake, he sat down again by the fire, in silence only stirred by the frail tap-tapping of those autumn leaves, and the little catch in her breathing now and then. It was less troubled than when he had bent over her before, as though in her sleep she knew. He must not miss the moment of her waking, must be beside her before she came to full consciousness, to say: “There, there! It’s all over; we are going away at once – at once.” To be ready to offer that quick solace, before she had time to plunge back into her sorrow, was an island in this black sea of night, a single little refuge point for his bereaved and naked being. Something to do – something fixed, real, certain. And yet another long hour before her waking, he sat forward in the chair, with that wistful eagerness, his eyes fixed on her face, staring through it at some vision, some faint, glimmering light – far out there beyond – as a traveller watches a star…