by Hugh Walpole
“It is not only this man!” he cried, “not only this! It is as though there were some larger conspiracy, something from Heaven itself. God has turned His face away from me when I have served Him faithfully all my days. No one has served Him more whole-heartedly than I. He has been my only thought, His glory my only purpose. Nine months ago I had health, I had friends, I had honour. I had my family — now my health is going, my friends have forsaken me, I am mocked at by the lowest men in the town, my son has left me, my — my...”
He broke off, bending his face in his hands.
The Bishop said: “My dear friend, you are not alone in this. We have all been tried, like this — tested — —”
“Tested!” Brandon broke out. “Why should I be tested? What have I done in all my life that is not acceptable to God? What sin have I committed! What disloyalty have I shown? But there is something more that I must tell you, my lord — the reason why I have come to you to-day. Canon Ronder and I — you must have known of whom I have been speaking — had a violent quarrel one afternoon on the way home after luncheon with you at Carpledon. This quarrel became, in one way or another, the town’s property. Ronder affected to like me, but it was impossible now for him to hide his real intentions towards me. This thing began to be an obsession with me. I tried to prevent this. I knew what the danger of such obsessions can be. But there was something else. My wife—” he paused — went on. “My wife and I, my lord, have lived together in perfect happiness for twenty years. At least it had seemed to me to be perfect happiness. She began to behave strangely. She was not herself. Undoubtedly the affair of our son disturbed her desperately. She seemed to avoid me, to escape from me when she could. This, coming with my other troubles, made me feel as though I were in some horrible dream, as though the very furniture of our home and the appearance of the streets were changing. I began to be afraid sometimes that I might be going mad. I have had bad headaches that have made it difficult for me to think. Then, only last night, a woman brought me a letter. I wish you most earnestly to believe, my lord, that I believe my wife to be absolutely loyal to me — loyal in every possible sense of the word. The letter purported to be in her handwriting. And in this matter also Canon Ronder had had some hand. The woman admitted that she had been first to Canon Ronder and that he had advised her to bring it to me.”
The Bishop made a movement.
“You will, of course, say nothing of this, my lord, to Canon Ronder. I have come privately to ask your prayers for me and to have your counsel. I am making no complaint against Canon Ronder. I must see this thing through by myself. But last night, when my mind was filled with this letter, I found myself suddenly next to Canon Ronder, and I had a murderous impulse that was so fierce and sudden in its power that I—” he broke off, shuddering. Then cried, suddenly stretching out his hands:
“Oh, my lord, pray for me, pray for me! Help me! I don’t know what I do — I am given over to the powers of Hell!”
A long silence followed. Then the Bishop said:
“You have asked me to say nothing to Canon Ronder, and of course I must respect your confidence. But the first thing that I would say to you is that I think that what you feared has happened — that you have allowed this thought of him to become an obsession to you. The ways of God are mysterious and past our finding out; but all of us, in our lives, have known that time when everything was suddenly turned against us — our work, those whom we love, our health, even our belief in God Himself. My dear, dear friend, I myself have known that several times in my own life. Once, when I was a young man, I lost an appointment on which my whole heart was set, and lost it, as it seemed, through an extreme injustice. It turned out afterwards that my losing that was one of the most fortunate things for me. Once my dear wife and I seemed to lose all our love for one another, and I was assailed with most desperate temptation — and the end of that was that we loved and understood one another as we had never done before. Once — and this was the most terrible period of my life, and it continued over a long time — I lost, as it seemed, completely all my faith in God. I came out of that believing only in the beauty of Christ’s life, clinging to that, and saying to myself, ‘Such a friend have I — then life is not all lost to me’ — and slowly, gradually, I came back into touch with Him and knew Him as I had never known Him before, and, through Him, once again God the Father. And now, even in my old age, temptation is still with me. I long to die. I am tempted often to look upon men and women as shadows that have no longer any connection with me. I am very weak and feeble and I wish to sleep.... But the love of God continues, and through Jesus Christ, the love of men. It is the only truth — love of God, love of man — the rest is fantasy and unreality. Look up, my son, bear this with patience. God is standing at your shoulder and will be with you to the end. This is training for you. To show you, perhaps, that all through life you have missed the most important thing. You are learning through this trouble your need of others, your need to love them, and that they should love you — the only lesson worth learning in life....”
The Bishop came over to Brandon and put his hand on his head. Strange peace came into Brandon’s heart, not from the old man’s words, but from the contact with him, the touch of his thin trembling hand. The room was filled with peace. Ronder was suddenly of little importance. The Cathedral faded. For a time he rested.
For the rest of that day, until evening, that peace stayed with him. With it still in his heart he came, late that night, into their bedroom. Mrs. Brandon was in bed, awake, staring in front of her, not moving. He sat down in the chair beside the bed, stretched out his hand, and took hers.
“Amy, dear,” he said, “I want us to have a little talk.”
Her little hand lay still and hot in his large cool one.
“I’ve been very unhappy,” he went on with difficulty, “lately about you — I have seen that you yourself are not happy. I want you to be. I will do anything that is in my power to make you so!”
“You would not,” she said, without looking at him, “have troubled to think of me had not your own private affairs gone wrong and — had not Falk left us!”
The sound of her hostility irritated him against his will; he beat the irritation down. He felt suddenly very tired, quite exhausted. He had an almost irresistible temptation to go down into his dressing-room, lie on his sofa there, and go instantly to sleep.
“That’s not quite fair, Amy,” he said. “But we won’t dispute about that. I want to know why, after our being happy for twenty years, something now has come in between us or seems to have done so; I want to clear that away if I can, so that we can be as we were before.”
Be as they were before! At the strange, ludicrous irony of that phrase she turned on her elbow and looked at him, stared at him as though she could not see enough of him.
“Why do you think that there is anything the matter?” she asked softly, almost gently.
“Why, of course I can see,” he said, holding her hand more tightly as though the sudden gentleness in her voice had touched him. “When one has lived with some one a long time,” he went on rather awkwardly, “one notices things. Of course I’ve seen that you were not happy. And Falk leaving us in that way must have made you very miserable. It made me miserable too,” he added, suddenly stroking her hand a little.
She could not bear that and very quietly withdrew her hand.
“Did it really hurt you, Falk’s going?” she asked, still staring at him.
“Hurt me?” he cried, staring back at her in utter astonishment. “Hurt me? Why — why — —”
“Then why,” she went on, “didn’t you go up to London after him?”
The question was so entirely unexpected that he could only repeat:
“Why?...”
“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter now,” she said, wearily turning away.
“Perhaps I did wrong. I think perhaps I’ve done wrong in many ways during these last years. I am seeing many things for the first time. The truth i
s I have been so absorbed in my work that I’ve thought of nothing else. I took it too much for granted that you were happy because I was happy. And now I want to make it right. I do indeed, Amy. Tell me what’s the matter.”
She said nothing. He waited for a long time. Her immobility always angered him. He said at last more impatiently.
“Please tell me, Amy, what you have against me.”
“I have nothing against you.”
“Then why are things wrong between us?”
“Are things wrong?”
“You know they are — ever since that morning when you wouldn’t come to Holy Communion.”
“I was tired that morning.”
“It is more than tiredness,” he said, with sudden impatience, beating upon the counterpane with his fist. “Amy — you’re not behaving fairly. You must talk to me. I insist on it.”
She turned once more towards him.
“What is it you want me to say?”
“Why you’re unhappy.”
“But if I am not unhappy?”
“You are.”
“But suppose I say that I am not?”
“You are. You are. You are!” he shouted at her.
“Very well, then, I am.”
“Why are you?”
“Who is happy really? At any rate for more than a moment. Only very thoughtless and silly people.”
“You’re putting me off.” He took her hand again. “I’m to blame, Amy — to blame in many ways. But people are talking.”
She snatched her hand away.
“People talking? Who?...But as though that mattered.”
“It does matter. It has gone far — much farther than I thought.”
She looked at him then, quickly, and turned her face away again.
“Who’s talking? And what are they saying?”
“They are saying — —” He broke off. What were they saying? Until the arrival of that horrible letter he had not realised that they were saying anything at all.
“Don’t think for a single moment, Amy, that I pay the slightest attention to any of their talk. I would not have bothered you with any of this had it not been for something else — of which I’ll speak in a moment. If everything is right between us — between you and me — then it doesn’t matter if the whole world talks until it’s blue in the face.”
“Leave it alone, then,” she said. “Let them talk.”
Her indifference stung him. She didn’t care, then, whether things were right between himself and her or no? It was the same to her. She cared so little for him.... That sudden realisation struck him so sharply that it was as though some one had hit him in the back. For so many years he had taken it for granted...taken something for granted that was not to be so taken. Very dimly some one was approaching him — that dark, misty, gigantic figure — blotting out the light from the windows. That figure was becoming day by day more closely his companion.
Looking at her now more intently, and with a new urgency, he said:
“Some one brought me a letter, Amy. They said it was a letter of yours.”
She did not move nor stir. Then, after a long silence, she said, “Let me see it.”
He felt in his pocket and produced it. She stretched out her hand and took it. She read it through slowly. “You think that I wrote this?” she asked.
“No, I know that you did not.”
“To whom was it supposed to be written?”
“To ‘Morris of St. James’.”
She nodded her head. “Ah, yes. We’re friends. That’s why they chose him. Of course it’s a forgery,” she added— “a very clever one.”
“What I don’t understand,” he said eagerly, at his heart the strangest relief that he did not dare to stop to analyse, “is why any one should have troubled to do this — the risk, the danger — —”
“You have enemies,” she said. “Of course you know that. People who are jealous.”
“One enemy,” he answered fiercely. “Ronder. The woman had been to him with this letter before she came to me.”
“The woman! What woman?
“The woman who brought it to me was a Miss Milton — a wretched creature who was once at the Library.”
“And she had been with this to Canon Ronder before she came to you?”
“Yes.”
“Ah!”
Then she said very quietly:
“And what do you mean to do about the letter?”
“I will do whatever you wish me to do. What I would like to do is to leave no step untaken to bring the authors of this forgery to justice. No step. I will — —”
“No,” she broke in quickly. “It is much better to leave it alone. What good can it do to follow it up? It only tells every one about it. We should despise it. The thing is so obviously false. Why you can see,” suddenly holding the letter towards him, “it isn’t even like my writing. My s’s, my m’s — they’re not like that — —”
“No, no,” he said eagerly. “I see that they are not. I saw that at once.”
“You knew at once that it was a forgery?”
“I knew at once. I never doubted for an instant.”
She sighed; then settled back into the pillow with a little shudder.
“This town,” she said; “the things they do. Oh! to get away from it, to get away!”
“And we will!” he cried eagerly. “That’s what we need, both of us — a holiday. I’ve been thinking it over. We’re both tired. When this Jubilee is over we’ll go abroad — Italy, Greece. We’ll have a second honeymoon. Oh, Amy, we’ll begin life again. I’ve been much to blame — much to blame. Give me that letter. I’ll destroy it. I know my enemy, but I’ll not think of him or of any one but our two selves. I’ll be good to you now if you’ll let me.”
She gave him the letter.
“Look at it before you tear it up,” she said, staring at him as though she would not miss any change in his features. “You’re sure that it is a forgery?”
“Why, of course.”
“It’s nothing like my handwriting?”
“Nothing at all.”
“You know that I am devoted to you, that I would never be untrue to you in thought, word or deed?”
“Why, of course, of course. As though I didn’t know — —”
“And that I’ll love to come abroad with you?”
“Yes, yes.”
“And that we’ll have a second honeymoon?”
“Yes, yes. Indeed, Amy, we will.”
“Look well at that letter. You are wrong. It is not a forgery. I did write it.”
He did not answer her, but stayed staring at the letter like a boy detected in a theft. She repeated:
“The woman was quite right. I did write that letter.”
Brandon said, staring at her, “Don’t laugh at me. This is too serious.”
“I’m not laughing. I wrote it. I sent it down by Gladys. If you recall the day to her she’ll remember.”
She watched his face. It had turned suddenly grey, as though some one had slipped a grey mask over the original features.
She thought, “Now perhaps he’ll kill me. I’m not sorry.”
He whispered, leaning quite close to her as though he were afraid she would not hear.
“You wrote that letter to Morris?”
“I did.” Then suddenly springing up, half out of bed, she cried, “You’re not to touch him. Do you hear? You’re not to touch him! It’s not his fault. He’s had nothing to do with this. He’s only my friend. I love him, but he doesn’t love me. Do you hear? He’s had nothing to do with this!”
“You love him!” whispered Brandon.
“I’ve loved him since the first moment I saw him. I’ve wanted some one to love for years — years and years and years. You didn’t love me, so then I hoped Falk would, and Falk didn’t, so then I found the first person — any one who would be kind to me. And he was kind — he is kind — the kindest man in the world. And he saw that I was lonely, so
he let me talk to him and go to him — but none of this is his doing. He’s only been kind. He—”
“Your letter says ‘Dearest’,” said Brandon. “If you wrote that letter it says ‘Dearest’.”
“That was my foolishness. It was wrong of me. He told me that I mustn’t say anything affectionate. He’s good and I’m bad. And I’m bad because you’ve made me.”
Brandon took the letter and tore it into little pieces; they scattered upon the counterpane.
“You’ve been unfaithful to me?” he said, bending over her.
She did not shrink back, although that strange, unknown, grey face was very close to her. “Yes. At first he wouldn’t. He refused anything. But I would.... I wanted to be. I hate you. I’ve hated you for years.”
“Why?” His hand closed on her shoulder.
“Because of your conceit and pride. Because you’ve never thought of me. Because I’ve always been a piece of furniture to you — less than that. Because you’ve been so pleased with yourself and well-satisfied and stupid. Yes. Yes. Most because you’re so stupid. So stupid. Never seeing anything, never knowing anything and always — so satisfied. And when the town was pleased with you and said you were so fine I’ve laughed, knowing what you were, and I thought to myself, ‘There’ll come a time when they’ll find him out’ — and now they have. They know what you are at last. And I’m glad! I’m glad! I’m glad!” She stopped, her breast rising and falling beneath her nightdress, her voice shrill, almost a scream.
He put his hands on her thin bony shoulders and pushed her back into the bed. His hands moved to her throat. His whole weight, he now kneeling on the bed, was on top of her.
“Kill me! Kill me!” she whispered. “I’ll be glad.”
All the while their eyes stared at one another inquisitively, as though they were strangers meeting for the first time.
His hands met round her throat. His knees were over her. He felt her thin throat between his hands and a voice in his ear whispered, “That’s right, squeeze tighter. Splendid! Splendid!”