Flowering Wilderness eotc-2

by John Galsworthy

  “Come to bed,” said Fleur; “you can’t help by doing that.”

  They talked a little in bed. It was Michael who fell asleep. Fleur lay wakeful. Big Ben struck twelve. The town murmured on, but the house was very still. A little crack now and then, as though some board were settling down after the day’s pressure of feet; the snuffle, not loud, of Michael’s breathing—such, and the whispering, as it were, of her own thoughts, were its only noises. From the room above not a sound. She began to think of where they should go in the long vacation. Scotland had been spoken of, and Cornwall; she herself wanted the Riviera for a month at least. To come back brown all over; she had never been properly sun-browned yet! With Mademoiselle and Nanny the children would be safe! What was that? A door closing. Surely the creaking of stairs! She touched Michael.

  “Yes?”

  “Listen!”

  Again that faint creaking.

  “It began above,” whispered Fleur; “I think you ought to see.”

  He got out of bed, put on his dressing-gown and slippers, and, opening the door quietly, looked out. Nothing on the landing, but the sound of someone moving in the hall! He slipped down the stairs.

  There was a dim figure by the front door, and he said gently:

  “Is that you, Dinny?”

  “Yes.”

  Michael moved forward. Her figure left the door, and he came on her sitting on the coat ‘sarcophagus.’ He could just see that her hand was raised, holding a scarf over her head and face.

  “Is there anything I can get you?”

  “No. I wanted some air.”

  Michael checked his impulse to turn the light up. He moved forward, and in the darkness stroked her arm.

  “I didn’t think you’d hear,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  Dared he speak of her trouble? Would she hate him for it or be grateful?

  “My dear,” he said, “anything that’ll do you good.”

  “It’s silly. I’ll go up again.”

  Michael put his arm round her; he could feel that she was fully dressed. After a moment she relaxed against him, still holding the scarf so that it veiled her face and head. He rocked her gently– the least little movement side to side. Her body slipped till her head rested against his shoulder. Michael ceased to rock, ceased almost to breathe. As long as she would, let her rest there!

  CHAPTER 35

  When Wilfrid left Adrian’s room at the Museum, he had no plan or direction in his mind, and walked along like a man in one of those dreams where the theme is repeated over and over, and the only end is awakening. He went down the Kingsway to the Embankment, came to Westminster Bridge, turned on to it, and stood leaning over the parapet. A jump, and he would be out of it! The tide was running down—English water escaping to the seas, nevermore to come back, glad to go! Escape! Escape from all those who made him think of himself. To be rid of this perpetual self-questioning and self-consciousness! To end this damned mawkish indecision, this puling concern as to whether one would hurt her too much! But of course one would not hurt her too much! She would cry and get over it. Sentiment had betrayed him once! Not again! By God! Not again!

  He stood there a long time, leaning on the parapet, watching the bright water and the craft creeping by; and every now and then a passing Cockney would stand beside him, as if convinced that he was looking out at something of sensational interest. And he was! He was seeing his own life finally ‘in the blue,’ unmoored, careering like the Flying Dutchman on far waters to the far ends of the world. But at least without need for bravado, kowtowing, appeal, or pretence, under his own flag, and that not at half-mast.

  “I’ve ‘eard,” said a voice, “that lookin’ at the water long enough will make ’em jump sometimes.”

  Wilfrid shuddered and walked away. God! How raw and jagged one had got! He walked off the bridge past the end of Whitehall into St. James’s Park, skirted the long water up to the geraniums and the large stone males, females, and fruits in front of the Palace, passed into the Green Park, and threw himself down on the dry grass. He lay there perhaps an hour on his back with his hand over his eyes, grateful for the sun soaking into him. When he got up he felt dizzy, and had to stand some minutes to get his balance before moving towards Hyde Park Corner. He had gone but a little way when he started and swerved off to the right. Coming towards him, nearer the riding track, were a young woman and a little boy. Dinny! He had seen her gasp, her hand go to her heart. And he had swerved and walked away. It was brutal, horrible, but it was final. So a man, who had thrust a dagger home, would feel. Brutal, horrible, but final! No more indecision! Nothing now but to get away as quick as ever he could! He turned towards his rooms, striding along as if possessed, his lips drawn back in such a smile as a man has in a dentist’s chair. He had stricken down the only woman who had ever seemed to him worth marrying, the only woman for whom he had felt what was worthy to be called real love. Well! Better strike her down like that than kill her by living with her! He was as Esau, and as Ishmael, not fit for a daughter of Israel. And a messenger boy turned and stared after him—the pace at which he walked was so foreign to the youth’s habitual feelings. He crossed Piccadilly with no concern whatever for its traffic, and plunged into the narrow mouth of Bond Street. It suddenly struck him that he would never see Scott’s hats again. The shop had just been shut, but those hats rested in rows, super-conventional hats, tropical hats, ladies’ hats, and specimens of the newest Trilby or Homburg, or whatever they called it now. He strode on, rounded the scent of Atkinson’s, and came to his own door. There he had to sit down at the foot of the stairs before he could find strength to climb. The spasmodic energy which had followed the shock of seeing her had ebbed out in utter lassitude. He was just beginning to mount when Stack and the dog came down. Foch rushed at his legs and stood against him, reaching his head up. Wilfrid crumpled his ears. To leave him once more without a master!

  “I’m off early tomorrow morning, Stack. To Siam. I probably shan’t be coming back.”

  “Not at all, sir?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Would you like me to come too, sir?”

  Wilfrid put his hand on the henchman’s shoulder.

  “Jolly good of you, Stack; but you’d be bored to death.”

  “Excuse me, sir, but you’re hardly fit to travel alone at present.”

  “Perhaps not, but I’m going to.”

  The henchman bent his eyes on Wilfrid’s face. It was a grave intent gaze, as if he were committing that face finally to heart.

  “I’ve been with you a long time, sir.”

  “You have, Stack; and nobody could have been nicer to me. I’ve made provision in case anything happens to me. You’d prefer to go on here, I expect, keeping the rooms for when my father wants them.”

  “I should be sorry to leave here, if I can’t come with you. Are you sure about that, sir?”

  Wilfrid nodded. “Quite sure, Stack. What about Foch?”

  Stack hesitated, then said with a rush: “I think I ought to tell you, sir, that when Miss Cherrell was here last—the night you went off to Epping—she said that if you was to go away at any time, she would be glad to have the dog. He’s fond of her, sir.”

  Wilfrid’s face became a mask.

  “Take him his run,” he said, and went on up the stairs.

  His mind was once again in turmoil. Murder! But it was done! One did not bring a corpse to life with longing or remorse. The dog, if she wanted him, was hers, of course! Why did women cling to memories, when all they should wish should be to forget? He sat down at his bureau and wrote:

  “I am going away for good. Foch comes to you with this. He is yours if you care to have him. I am only fit to be alone. Forgive me if you can, and forget me.—WILFRID.”

  He addressed it, and sat on at the bureau slowly turning his head and looking round the room. Under three months since the day he had come back. He felt as if he had lived a lifetime. Dinny over there at the hearth, after her father had been! D
inny on the divan looking up at him! Dinny here, Dinny there!

  Her smile, her eyes, her hair! Dinny, and that memory in the Arab tent, pulling at each other, wrestling for him. Why had he not seen the end from the beginning? He might have known himself! He took a sheet of paper and wrote:

  “MY DEAR FATHER,—

  “England doesn’t seem to agree with me, and I am starting tomorrow for Siam. My bank will have my address from time to time. Stack will keep things going here as usual, so that the rooms will be ready whenever you want them. I hope you’ll take care of yourself. I’ll try and send you a coin for your collection now and then. Good-bye.

  “Yours affectionately,

  “WILFRID.”

  His father would read it and say: “Dear me! Very sudden! Queer fellow!” And that was about all that anyone would think or say– except—!

  He took another sheet of paper and wrote to his bank; then lay down, exhausted, on the divan.

  Stack must pack, he hadn’t the strength. Luckily his passport was in order—that curious document which rendered one independent of one’s kind; that password to whatever loneliness one wanted. The room was very still, for at this hour of lull before dinner traffic began there was hardly any noise from the streets. The stuff which he took after attacks of malaria had opium in it, and a dreamy feeling came over him. He drew a long breath and relaxed. To his half-drugged senses scents kept coming—the scent of camels’ dung, of coffee roasting, carpets, spices, and humanity in the Suks, the sharp unscented air of the desert, and the foetid reek of some river village; and sounds—the whine of beggars, a camel’s coughing grunts, the cry of the jackal, Muezzin call, padding of donkeys’ feet, tapping of the silversmiths, the creaking and moaning of water being drawn. And before his half-closed eyes visions came floating; a sort of long dream-picture of the East as he had known it. Now it would be another East, further and more strange!… He slipped into a real dream…

  CHAPTER 36

  Seeing him turn away from her in the Green Park, Dinny had known for certain it was all over. The sight of his ravaged face had moved her to the depths. If only he could be happy again she could put up with it. For since the evening he left her in his rooms she had been steeling herself, never really believing in anything but this. After those moments with Michael in the dark hall she slept a little and had her coffee upstairs. A message was brought her about ten o’clock that a man with a dog was waiting to see her.

  She finished dressing quickly, put on her hat, and went down.

  It could only be Stack.

  The henchman was standing beside the ‘sarcophagus,’ holding Foch on a lead. His face, full of understanding as ever, was lined and pale, as if he had been up all night.

  “Mr. Desert sent this, miss.” He held out a note.

  Dinny opened the door of the drawing-room.

  “Come in here, please, Stack. Let’s sit down.”

  He sat down and let go of the lead. The dog went to her and put his nose on her knee. Dinny read the note.

  “Mr. Desert says that I may have Foch.”

  Stack bent his gaze on his boots. “He’s gone, miss. Went by the early service to Paris and Marseilles.”

  She could see moisture in the folds of his cheeks. He gave a loud sniff, and angrily brushed his hand over his face.

  “I’ve been with him fourteen years, miss. It was bound to hit me. He talks of not coming back.”

  “Where has he gone?”

  “Siam.”

  “A long way,” said Dinny with a smile. “The great thing is that he should be happy again.”

  “That is so, miss. I don’t know if you’d care to hear about the dog’s food. He has a dry biscuit about nine, and shin of beef or sheep’s head, cooked, with crumbled hound-meal, between six and seven, and nothing else. A good quiet dog, he is, perfect gentleman in the house. He’ll sleep in your bedroom if you like.”

  “Do you stay where you are, Stack?”

  “Yes, miss. The rooms are his lordship’s. As I told you, Mr. Desert is sudden; but I think he means what he says. He never was happy in England.”

  “I’m sure he means what he says. Is there anything I can do for you, Stack?”

  The henchman shook his head, his eyes rested on Dinny’s face, and she knew he was debating whether he dared offer sympathy. She stood up.

  “I think I’ll take Foch a walk and get him used to me.”

  “Yes, miss. I don’t let him off the lead except in the parks. If there’s anything you want to know about him any time, you have the number.”

  Dinny put out her hand.

  “Well, good-bye, Stack, and best wishes.”

  “The same to you, miss, I’m sure.” His eyes had what was more than understanding in them, and the grip of his hand had a spasmodic strength. Dinny continued to smile till he was gone and the door closed, then sat down on the sofa with her hands over her eyes. The dog, who had followed Stack to the door, whined once, and came back to her. She uncovered her eyes, took Wilfrid’s note from her lap, and tore it up.

  “Well, Foch,” she said, “what shall we do? Nice walk?”

  The tail moved; he again whined slightly.

  “Come along, then, boy.”

  She felt steady, but as if a spring had broken. With the dog on the lead she walked towards Victoria Station, and stopped before the statue. The leaves had thickened round it, and that was all the change. Man and horse, remote, active, and contained– ‘workmanlike’! A long time she stood there, her face raised, dry-eyed, thin and drawn; and the dog sat patiently beside her.

  Then, with a shrug, she turned away and led him rapidly towards the Park. When she had walked some time, she went to Mount Street and asked for Sir Lawrence. He was in his study.

  “Well, my dear,” he said, “that looks a nice dog; is he yours?”

  “Yes. Uncle Lawrence, will you do something for me?”

  “Surely.”

  “Wilfrid has gone. He went this morning. He is not coming back. Would you be so very kind as to let my people know, and Michael, and Aunt Em, and Uncle Adrian. I don’t want ever to have to speak of it.”

  Sir Lawrence inclined his head, took her hand and put it to his lips. “There was something I wanted to show you, Dinny.” He took from his table a little statuette of Voltaire. “I picked that up two days ago. Isn’t he a delightful old cynic? Why the French should be so much pleasanter as cynics than other people is mysterious, except, of course, that cynicism, to be tolerable, must have grace and wit; apart from those, it’s just bad manners. An English cynic is a man with a general grievance. A German cynic is a sort of wild boar. A Scandinavian cynic is a pestilence. An American jumps around too much to make a cynic, and a Russian’s state of mind is not constant enough. You might get a perfectly good cynic in Austria, perhaps, or northern China—possibly it’s a question of latitude.”