But a man must eat, in spite of storms and the pageantry of Nature, and he got up to get his supper. It was a very male meal, and of the simplest—bread and cheese and beer, necessitating the washing up of one plate, one glass, one knife. His cheese—a wedge of Cheshire—lived in an old biscuit tin, and he had cut himself a portion and was putting the tin back in the cupboard when he heard the voice. It came to him in a kind of wild whisper through the rush of the rain.
“Mr. Luce, Mr. Luce.”
He went to the window, leaned out and found no one. The voice had passed like the cry of a winging bird. A woman’s voice,—hers? Had he imagined it? Nonsense! A sane man cutting himself a hunk of cheese did not imagine such things; nor was the rain beating on the back of his head imaginary.
He drew back, looking out into the grey-green gloom. And then he heard the rat-tat of the brass knocker on the tower door, just two notes, abrupt, poignant.
He went quickly into the vestibule and opened the door.
“Mrs. Ballard!”
He had opened the door wide, and she seemed to glide in like a shadow. She stood leaning against the wall, panting, hands hanging. Her hair and her clothes were drenched, her face the colour of milk. Her dark eyes had a wildness.
Looking down at her as she stood huddled against the wall he saw that she was wearing no shoes, and that her stockinged feet were covered with what looked like black mud. He was filled with a sudden consciousness of some horror. The green twilight, the rushing rain, her limp figure and tragic face!
He was about to speak, when her lips moved.
“Mr. Luce,—I have killed my husband.”
2
He remembered closing the door. The edge of it just cleared her body. There was very little light in the vestibule, and her face was like a dim mask. He was aware of her looking at him with big, blind eyes. Was she waiting for him to say something? What could one say to a woman who came to you with such a confession?
Again her lips moved.
“It was—the dog. You see, he was cruel, cruel to everything.”
“How did it happen?”
“His gun. He had left it against the wall.”
Suddenly, she began to shiver, and this trembling seemed to pass beyond her power of self-control. She stood there shaking; he could hear the chattering of her teeth, and this terrible trembling moved him to profound pity. She made him think of some wind-buffeted and bewildered bird blown in through an open window.
He said: “You’re wet through.”
She did not confess at the moment that she had tried to drown herself, that she had waded into the farm pond, and that the suck of the mud had become a horror. Her will to die had failed her, and she had left her shoes in that slime. He was conscious only of the urge of his compassion. He took her gently by the arm and drew her into the room.
“Sit down, my dear.”
Mutely she obeyed him. He had pushed a chair in front of the empty grate, and he stood looking down at her like a man confounded by the distractions of some problem. Those wet clothes of hers? And a fire? His consciousness found relief in action. He rushed up the stairs to his bedroom, pulled the blanket and quilt from the bed, and bundling them up, returned to the lower room.
“I’m going to get wood for a fire. Take your clothes off. Wrap these things round you.”
Her eyes were strangely vacant.
“Yes, Mr. Luce.”
A previous tenant had left a few logs and some kindling in one of the unused rooms of the annexe. Also, into the same room Luce had tumbled a packing-case and two or three wooden boxes. He went down and filled one of the boxes with wood and carried it on his shoulder to the vestibule.
“May I come in?”
“Yes, Mr. Luce.”
Opening the door he saw her sitting in a basket-chair with the blanket and quilt wrapped round her, her wet clothes lying in a little heap on the floor. She looked so very small, just like a sick child who had been allowed out of bed.
“That’s better.”
She glanced up at him almost shrinkingly.
“I—was so cold.”
Luce put his box down and looked about him for paper with which to start his fire, and in the cupboard he found a copy of The Times. His glance fell on a whisky bottle tucked away in a corner. A couple of ounces of whisky might help to warm her, and he poured some into a glass.
“Sip this—slowly. We’ll have a fire in no time.”
Going down on his knees in front of the grate he began to lay his fire. Her trembling had ceased. Sitting huddled up in the chair she watched his large and deliberate hands at work and their movements seemed to soothe her.
“I think I could tell you now, Mr. Luce.”
Kneeling there feeding the fire he listened to her voice, and seemed to see beyond the little, leaping flames the happenings she described. Her husband had been out with his gun. He had been caught by the storm, and had come back drenched and surly. Her poor dog had been the cause of it all. As she described it, Luce could see the beast slinking away and being called back by Ballard. “Come here, damn you.” Peter, hunted into the passage and driven into a corner, had turned on the man, and Ballard had used a boot. She confessed that his savaging of the dog had made her lose her self-control. She had rushed into the passage to rescue the dog. And then his vile temper had turned on this other victim. He had struck her, driven her back with blows into the room. Ballard had left his gun leaning against the wall. She confessed that she had felt like a wild thing driven into a corner. She had picked up his gun. “If you try to touch me—again——” He had shouted at her. “Put down that gun, you bloody little fool.” She had put the table between herself and this raving man, and suddenly he had pushed the table against her, and sent her staggering back against the wall. She said that she had been conscious of nothing but his furious face, and those menacing hands. He had been advancing round the table at her when she had fired. The noise of the explosion had shattered something in her. His face—No; she had not dared to look at it as he lay there.
Luce, putting wood upon the fire, was aware of her pausing. She sat in stark silence, confronting reality, and compelling herself to honour it.
“I did it—wilfully. Something made me kill him.”
Luce stared at the fire. Were not evil beasts better dead? He said, “Who can blame you?”
Did he blame her? Strange that he should be asking himself that question! What did it involve? This essentially gentle creature was what the world called a murderess. No, he would not allow that word its fitness. He drew aside from the fire so that the blaze should warm her.
“Come nearer, my dear.”
She made no movement, and rising, he gently pushed her and her chair nearer to the fire. He noticed that she had not touched the whisky.
“Drink that down.”
“Must I?”
“Would you like a little water?”
“Please.”
He fetched a jug and diluted the spirit, and watched her put the glass to her lips. Then he knelt down again beside the fire.
“Are you sure—that he——?”
She understood his meaning. She shivered.
“Yes, O—terribly sure.”
“And then?”
She told him how she had put the gun down on the table and run wildly out of the house. Her impulse had been to kill herself. She had thought of the pond, and had waded into it, but with the mud sucking at her feet a horror of the thing had seized her. She had flinched from the mud and the water, leaving her shoes behind. And, all the while the rain had been coming down. She said that she had felt herself going mad. Her one impulse was to tell someone. The farm was deserted, for the men had gone home. And then she had thought of Luce.
“You had been kind to me. You seemed to be different. I felt that if I told someone—you, I shouldn’t go mad.”
Again she was silent, staring at the fire, and Luce, rising with a kind of gentle stealth, went and with a deliberate hand locked the outer door.
3
He stood by the open window. Dusk had fallen, and the rain was still coming down. Behind him the fire was throwing a flicker of light and shadow about the room. He closed the window.
Voices? Voices could be overheard.
The window was more than ten feet from the ground. No one could see into the room unless a ladder was brought to it, or a tree climbed. The window had neither blind nor curtains; he had not bothered about such fittings in this solitary place. Should he light the lamp? Or would she prefer the firelight? And what next? Probably, he had not realized as yet his involvement with her in this tragedy.
He said, “I was having supper—when you came. Have you had anything to eat?”
Yes, she had had her tea. And she was not hungry. How could she be hungry?
“Please, Mr. Luce, do finish your supper.”
Was it just a question of bread and cheese? But to satisfy her, and because in such a crisis simple things may make for sanity, he humoured her. But, already, his mind was working, not as a mere separate entity, but on her behalf.
“Those clothes of yours.”
Yes, that poor little pile of wet clothes, they too needed the fire, and Luce placed his two Windsor chairs in front of the blaze and hung her clothes upon them. She watched him as a child might have watched the wise and practical activities of a kindly nurse. The wet clothes steamed. Leaning against the mantelpiece he began to fill a pipe, and his wits were working like his fingers. The pipe was filled and lit, but the deep tangle of her tragedy was to take more kindling.
“Is it still raining, Mr. Luce?”
Now why did she ask that? He went to the window, raised the lower sash a foot and put out a hand.
“Yes.”
“It is so heavy, it can’t last.”
He saw her lean forward and touch those wet clothes. What was in her mind? Was she wondering how soon they would be dry, and she be able to resume them?
“Not safe—for a long time yet.”
“No, Mr. Luce.”
She sank back in the chair, and he returned to his place beside the fire, and with an elbow resting on the shelf, stood smoking and watching the flames. More wood would be needed very soon, and he had only three or four logs left. Obviously, he would have to break up those packing cases and sacrifice them to her necessity.
“What time is it, Mr. Luce?”
He had to strike a match to light the face of the clock.
“Twenty-two minutes past nine.”
“As late as that.”
The match went out and he dropped the charred stick into the fire.
“Don’t worry about the time.”
“But—they will be asleep—if I am too late.”
He glanced at her dim face.
“Who?”
“At West Brandon. I must go to West Brandon, mustn’t I? I must give myself up.”
He stood rigid, staring down at her.
“Will you come with me, Mr. Luce? I—shan’t be so afraid—if you will come with me.”
4
He did not answer her for a moment, perhaps because he found himself resisting the idea of her surrender. So, she was ready to give herself up. Well, what else could she do? Her to-morrow was as clear and cold as a stretch of sky after rain. She would put on those bedraggled clothes and walk through the wet woods to her fate.
“I have killed my husband.”
The sleepy and astonished face of a village policeman, symbolizing the face of convention. “I beg your pardon, m’am, did I understand you to say——?” Yes, he could hear her making the confession with a kind of simple serenity. She would be taken away, questioned—and her statement recorded. They would lock her up.—And then? The inevitable processes of the machine, all the legal ritual. Machinery could be so merciless. Would they hang her? No, that—of course—was unthinkable. She had suffered great provocation. She could plead fear of her husband. An able advocate could put up an eloquent defence. But, even if justice did not condemn her to death, it would—no doubt—demand some penalty. For how long would society shut her up in the cage, for five years, ten years, twenty years? But might not that depend upon her candour?
He was biting hard on the stem of his pipe.
“You are not going to Brandon to-night.”
Her eyes were two dark hollows.
“But—I must.”
“Why should you? Those clothes won’t be dry till the morning.”
“Does it matter, Mr. Luce?”
“Of course it matters. You are not fit to go.”
He did not question his own determination that she should not go.
“You can sleep here. I’ll make up a bed for you. I can manage.”
He heard her sigh.
“My mind is made up now.”
“You mean?”
“I want to tell them.”
“The whole truth?”
She answered with a little movement of the head, and he began to appreciate her almost childlike candour. Was she wise? No doubt she was. She had done this thing and would accept its consequences.—Such consequences!
“Why tell them that?”
“But—I must.”
“Is that how you feel?”
“I did it—knowingly.”
He walked to the window and stood there confronting some new, insurgent force within himself. Of course, there might be less deadly peril for her if she told the truth. Her sincerity would provoke sympathy. But—the afterwards, those dead, inevitable years?
“Did you know? I wonder? I should have said, my dear, that it was—blind impulse,—some twitch of your frightened hand.”
She shivered slightly in her chair.
“No,—I knew. It is the truth. I shall tell them. Something in me made me kill him.”
“My dear, you are too good.”
His pipe had gone out, and he felt in his pocket for his matches.
“Now, wait. I want you to try and get some sleep.”
Sleep! Again, that little, hopeless sigh, a sound that moved him most strangely.
“How can I sleep?”
“I am not going to let you face—any more, to-night. There’s a bed for you here.”
A candle stood on the mantelpiece. He lit it, and his hand was as steady as his voice. She sat there watching him, and the movements of his big, deliberate body. She let herself be dominated for the moment, relaxing into a surrender that was strange and soothing.
“I shan’t sleep, Mr. Luce.”
“You’ll try, my dear. I’m going up to make your bed.”
VIII
She could hear him moving in the room above.
Strange ministrations! Placing the candle on the table, he had stood for a moment as though considering his problem. This room was to change its temper for a night, and in ceasing to be his, was to become hers. Yes, the bed, a mere camp-bed of green canvas, that was the first consideration. He had one spare set of sheets and blankets stowed away in an old trunk, and he got them out, and with the experienced hands of a camper remade the bed. The pillow was given a clean slip. Then, he proceeded to remove all the male gear from the room, pyjamas, shaving-brush and razor, washing-things, towels, clothes, using the next flight of stairs as a series of shelves. He put out a clean towel and a fresh cake of soap. But, what an improvisation for them both, though less so for him than for her! He could manage, doss down on the sitting-room floor, but she—had nothing, nothing but those wet clothes. Well, well, but did one boggle over such details in the face of such a tragedy? Poor kid! And then, with immense seriousness he placed on the bed a clean pair of his pyjamas, blue and white striped over-size creations in cotton.
Below, she sat huddled in front of the fire behind the screen of wet clothes. What a long time he was! Her fear returned, her horror of being alone, fear of the half darkness and the shadows. What was she doing here? Hiding? What was the use of hiding? Even his very kindness made her afraid. What was she doing here? Clinging to some impossible hope,
allowing herself a little, sweet, shivering anguish? And, suddenly, she stood up, her hands clasping the blanket. She let it fall. She was not conscious of being naked. Her hands clutched at those steaming clothes; she would put them on, take her fate with them and run. Was it that she could not bear his kindness? After all, she had told him, satisfied something in herself. She would go to West Brandon and give herself up.
She dragged a wet skirt from the back of a chair. And then, she heard him coming down the stairs. Too late! He would find her naked. With a little gesture of despair she flung the thing back upon the chair, dragged the blanket round her, and subsided into the shadows.
She was very conscious of him there behind her. She was no longer afraid, or afraid of the same things or in the same way. His larger and more measured rhythm seemed to tranquillize her.
“Your room’s ready, Rachel.”
It was the first time that he had used her Christian name, and she could not remember telling him her name.
“Must I go?”
“Afraid of the dark, my dear?”
“Yes.”
“I left a candle up there. It’s so easy to say,—‘Don’t be afraid.’ I shall be here.”
She made a movement in the chair as of gathering the blanket round her. Would she be able to walk in this trailing thing? And if she took his room where was he going to sleep?
“And you, John?”
He was standing close to her chair.
“Don’t you worry about me. Wrap that blanket round you. That’s right. I’m going to carry you up.”
“O, no, you mustn’t.”
“I shall.”
He bent down and had her out of the chair, and his strength was so deliberate and easy that she felt her whole self relax. How beautiful to be so held and carried. If life had been more like his arms and shoulders with their succouring and supporting strength, would it not have transcended tragedy? Her head lay against his left shoulder. She had to make no effort, but just lie there and draw her breath.
The stairs were steep and narrow, and though he had left the door of the upper room open, the light of a solitary candle did not penetrate far. He moved very slowly, step by step, feeling his way, taking care to keep her head and feet from the wall. She was very conscious of his gradual ascent; it gave a sense of being shielded and supported. She shut her eyes, and lay still.
The Woman at The Door Page 8