I Shall Not Want

by Norman Collins

  There was a pause, and Mrs. Marco drew one of her shawls closer about herself. Then in the manner of old people Mrs. Marco’s whole nature changed suddenly. She became pitiful and appealing.

  “You’ve got to help me,” she said. “I can’t stand not knowing.”

  “I shall do all I can to clear the matter up,” Mr. Tuke answered her. “I’ve prayed about it.”

  But Mrs. Marco ignored his prayers.

  “He hasn’t been the same since it happened,” she went on. “He hasn’t spoken to anyone. He’s just spent his evenings walking up and down in his room. Emmy’s seen him. And sometimes he goes out in the evenings. He’s out now.”

  “I can understand that it upset him,” Mr. Tuke said consolingly.

  “He isn’t upset,” Mrs. Marco answered, her old contempt returning for a moment. “It would take someone better than Mr. Kent to upset him. It’s his conscience that’s troubling him. That’s what it is: he’s got something on his conscience.”

  Mr. Tuke’s reply was interrupted by Hesther. She opened the door and stood there in the doorway as though listening.

  “What were you talking about?” she asked.

  “Oh nothing, nothing,” Mr. Tuke said hurriedly as he rose to say good-evening. “We were speaking of Mrs. Marco’s health.”

  “No, we weren’t,” said Mrs. Marco promptly. “We were talking about what Mr. Kent said about your husband.”

  “Need you worry her with it?” Hesther asked in that flat, quiet voice of hers.

  “Mrs. Marco began it,” Mr. Tuke replied. Then he realised that the answer was somehow below his dignity; it was schoolboyish. “I’m afraid,” he continued, “that tongues have been wagging. Idle gossip has been abroad again.”

  “Well we don’t want it here,” Hesther said. “We shut our ears to it.”

  “That’s right,” Mrs. Marco agreed in her high cracked voice. “We shut our ears to it.”

  Mr. Tuke shifted in his chair. He felt uncomfortable in the presence of these two women. They were somehow hostile to him; they misunderstood. He was an intruder from the outside world that was saying things about John Marco; and they resented him. The whole household—or at least the women in it—was on the defensive.

  “And I do more than shut my ears to it,” he replied. “I have threatened that if I find out the offenders I shall expose them.”

  Hesther made no reply. She went over to the window and parted the slats in the long Venetian blind. Then she stood there looking out into the street.

  Mr. Tuke coughed.

  “Is your husband likely to be long?” he asked.

  Hesther shrugged her shoulders; there was an air of complete helplessness about the gesture. It seemed to convey that she didn’t know where he had gone, why he had even gone at all. And in front of Mr. Tuke, his absence was a humiliation.

  “It’s most uncharitable weather to be out in,” Mr. Tuke observed. “Most uncharitable.”

  As he spoke a fresh cascade of water hit the window; it was as though someone outside were sluicing it with a bucket. Hesther shivered.

  “I can’t believe that he’ll remain out very long,” he went on. “Not on a night like this.”

  “He’ll be back in his own time,” Hesther replied.

  She left the window and came over to the fire. Then she stood there looking down on Mrs. Marco.

  “It’s time you were in bed,” she said. “You’ll be tired in the morning.”

  “But I wanted to see if John was all right ...” she began.

  “I shall be waiting up for him,” Hesther answered. “There’s no reason to have the whole house disturbed.”

  Mrs. Marco got reluctantly to her feet and began gathering her things together. She proceeded with the unhurried thoroughness of the aged.

  “I don’t like it,” she said. “He was never like this when he was at home.”

  “This is his home,” Hesther answered sharply.

  “I know,” said Mrs. Marco. “It’s not your fault. It’s just that he’s not at rest here.” She turned to Mr. Tuke. “Please say something to him,” she said. “You can: you’re a minister. Tell him it isn’t right for any husband . . .”

  But Hesther cut her short.

  “You’re over-tired,” she said. “You’ve been doing too much.”

  “I only wanted to ask Mr. Tuke to make it all right,” Mrs. Marco explained. “I only wanted him to . . .”

  “You can tell him some other time,” Hesther replied. “You’ll only be having another of your fainting attacks if you go on now.”

  The suggestion of one of these attacks seemed to frighten Mrs. Marco: she put her hand on her bosom over her heart.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” she said feebly. “It’s always hammering. Perhaps I ought to lie down.”

  She gathered her skirts together. Then she picked up her reticule and her spectacle cases, her extra shawls and her bottle of tablets. There was something practised and precise about the way she loaded herself with her belongings; it was evidently a part of some invariable bed-time ritual in which she would let no one help her. Then, when she was ready, she beckoned for Hesther to come over. And leaning heavily on her arm she prepared for the ordeal of the stairs.

  Left alone in the room, Mr. Tuke felt drowsy. The air was close and oppressive, and after a few minutes when Hesther had not returned, he sat back and shut his eyes. He did not actually drop off: of that he was certain. He was not the sort of man to indulge in cat-naps. But when he sat up again and opened his eyes, he saw John Marco standing there. It was as though, invisible when he had entered, John Marco had suddenly and silently materialised in front of Mr. Tuke’s chair.

  And he presented a strange figure. His clothes were drenched and his trousers, too, were clinging to his legs; they seemed to have been splashed by every passing vehicle. Even his face was spattered by the rain.

  Mr. Tuke started forward.

  “Ah!” he began. “So the wanderer has returned.”

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “That’s what I came for,” Mr. Tuke told him.

  “On Chapel business?”

  “On private business.”

  “It’s very late for private business,” John Marco answered.

  “But this is important,” Mr. Tuke replied. “Very important.”

  John Marco did not move; in the warmth of the room his clothes were steaming, but he did not seem to notice their wetness.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “It’s about that little aifair at the vestry meeting the other night,” he began.

  “Is that all you wanted to see me about?” he asked.

  “Isn’t it enough?” Mr. Tuke asked in astonishment. “Isn’t your good name at stake?”

  “It’s over and done with,” John Marco answered slowly. “It’s better forgotten.”

  “But you’re an Elder remember,” Mr. Tuke told him. “People are bound to talk.”

  “Then they must talk.”

  Mr. Tuke came over and put his hand on Mr. Marco’s arm.

  “Why not tell me everything?” he asked. “Why not let the sunlight in?”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” John Marco answered.

  The tone of his voice startled Mr. Tuke; it sounded so hard and bitter. He dropped his hand.

  “It’s very sad,” he said, “when people harden their hearts.” He paused and gave what might have been a little sigh as though to show that the formal object of the visit was over. “I saw Mr. Kent to-day,” he added by way of conversation. “His daughter’s back, you know.”

  For the first time John Marco’s air of reserve slipped from him.

  “Was she there?” he asked. “Have you seen her?” Mr. Tuke nodded.

  “Yes, she was there,” he answered. “And she’s grown into a very fine young woman. I remember her as scarcely more than a child.”

  John Marco was walking up and down the room by now; crossing and re-crossing between the door and the window.
Mr. Tuke was watching him out of the corner of his eye; he thought that he had never seen anyone so restless.

  “Did you find out why she’s come back?” John Marco asked suddenly.

  “I did,” Mr. Tuke replied. “Her parents told me. She’s come back to get married.”

  John Marco stopped. He stood motionless, facing Mr. Tuke.

  “Are . . . are you sure of this?” he asked.

  “Perfectly sure,” Mr. Tuke assured him, a trifle coldly. “I’ve been introduced to her intended. A most estimable young man.”

  “But what’s he like?” John Marco came up close to Mr. Tuke as he spoke. He was peering into his face.

  Mr. Tuke raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  “Really,” he said. “I couldn’t tell you. I only saw him for a moment. I believe him to be a chemist’s assistant.”

  “Does she seem happy?” John Marco asked. “Could you tell that?”

  “People in love always seem happy,” Mr. Tuke replied.

  John Marco made no answer. He began walking up and down the room again.

  “When are they marrying?” he asked at length.

  “Sometime after Easter,” Mr. Tuke answered. “I’m putting up the banns straightaway.”

  But John Marco did not seem to have heard him. He had paused by the window with his back to Mr. Tuke and was staring out into the street through the slats of the blind that Hesther had left parted when she had grown tired of watching for him. His handkerchief was in his hand and he was screwing and rescrewing it between his fingers as if he were trying to tear the fabric into fragments.

  Mr. Tuke regarded him. Then he did one of the few brave things of his life. He went over to John Marco and stood by him.

  “It’s not too late for me to help you,” he replied. “You have a load of sin on your mind. Tell me why Mary Kent’s return has affected you this way?”

  But John Marco merely held out his hand.

  “It’s very late,” he said. “Good-night.”

  When Mr. Tuke had gone (and he left so hurriedly after his dismissal that he had to stand in the darkness of the porch fumbling with the buttons of his coat, for it was still raining), John Marco went upstairs.

  The house was very quiet by now, he had that strange isolated feeling of being the one waking person in a sleeping household. He went straight to his room. But it was not Hesther’s room. Ever since that first night which he had spent in the chair where Emmy had found him, he had slept alone. It was a small room that had once been Mr. Trackett’s dressing-room which he now occupied. There was space in it only for a narrow bed, a chest of drawers and a pile of round cardboard hat-boxes that had once been Mr. Trackett’s. They had been there when John Marco moved into the room and he had left them where they stood. It was in a way significant of the fact that he had never felt this house to be his own.

  Opening one of the drawers in the chest, he removed a small box from it. His personal possessions were in that box. He unlocked it and from an envelope at the bottom took out the remaining half of the ring that he had broken for Mary. Then he pushed up the window. Beneath him lay the dark shrubbery: the tangle of bushes was thick there. The half ring could lie for years among the roots, undiscovered. It was worth nothing now; after what Mr. Tuke had told him it had become simply a silly piece of broken jewellery. So, parting the curtains, he stood there ready to throw. But at the last moment his resolve failed him. The ghost of its old meaning still seemed to cling to it, and even now he did not doubt that the two halves would somehow join again.

  And as he stood there he heard a movement behind him. He turned guiltily as though he had been surprised in something disgraceful, and he saw Hesther standing in the doorway.

  She was wearing the pink wrap that he had seen for the first time on their wedding-night. But it was faded now; it clung to her in folds. But it was the fact that she was there at all that surprised him—she had never been to his room like this; they were careful to respect each other’s privacy. And already Hesther was closing the door behind her. Once it was shut, she stood with her back against it.

  “I want to talk to you,” she said.

  John Marco turned to her, the half ring still held in the hollow of his hand. He could see now how drawn her face was; she no longer looked even a young woman. Her hair, dragged tightly back from her head, fell between her shoulders in a tight, leaden looking plait.

  “What is it you want?” he asked.

  She paused. “It can’t go on like this any longer,” she said at last. “It’s more than any woman could bear.”

  “So you regret it, do you?” he asked.

  She bowed her head.

  “It was sin,” she answered. “Sin, and I’ve been punished for it.”

  “We’ve both been punished for it,” he replied. “And we’ve both paid.”

  “We’re both sinners,” she reminded him. “That’s what still gives me hope.”

  He looked at her incredulously.

  “Hope?” he said. “For us?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “Every sinner needs someone to bring him back to God. It is for us to be each other’s salvation.”

  She made a little involuntary movement with her arms as she spoke as though she were about to hold them out to him. The movement was no more than a flicker, however; it died away before it was born. And she was left there, her arms to her sides, a rigid, expressionless figure in that drab, pink silk dressing-gown.

  “So you’ve been talking to Mr. Tuke, have you?” John Marco asked. “Those aren’t your words. They’re his.”

  “I said nothing to Mr. Tuke,” Hesther answered. “He knows enough without my telling him.”

  “Knows what?” John Marco demanded.

  “That we’re not truly husband and wife,” Hesther answered. “That this isn’t a real marriage.”

  “So he knows that, does he?”

  “Everyone knows it.”

  John Marco did not reply immediately. His lower lip was thrust out a little.

  “How do they know?” he asked. “How can other people know what goes on here?”

  “Do you expect Emmy to notice nothing?” Hesther replied. “Doesn’t this room speak for itself?”

  “If she’s been talking,” he said, “dismiss her. I don’t like having my affairs discussed by servants.”

  “You needn’t dismiss Emmy,” Hesther answered, quietly. “I shall take her with me.”

  “Take her with you?” he repeated.

  “That’s what I came to tell you,” she said. “I’m going away.”

  There was silence, complete silence between them. They stood there, looking at each other like strangers. Only they weren’t strangers any longer. They had come face to face with each other at last, and Hesther had uttered what for three years she had refused even to admit.

  “You mean you’re leaving me?”

  “I do,” she said.

  He paused. “When are you going?” he asked slowly.

  “I may be gone by to-morrow night,” she replied. “It may take longer; I can’t tell.”

  “Is your mind made up?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she answered in that same quiet voice. “That is unless you’re willing.”

  “Willing?”

  “Unless you’ll give me a child.”

  He stood staring at her. A child: so she was tempting him again. And he would refuse; of course he would refuse. But was this house nothing after all? Didn’t it count for something to be an Elder and live respected within the Chapel? As a man who was separated from his wife he would even have to resign from the Synod of the Tabernacle. And old Mrs. Marco? It would be like drawing a knife across her remaining years to expect her to scrub her own kitchen again—she had been living the life of a gorgeous and pampered invalid for three years now. Hesther was still dangling Mr. Trackett’s hoard before him. It could be his, all his, if he stretched out his hand for it; and the future could then lead on, magnificently as he had so often imagined it. H
is throat went dry and his heart began to hammer. But suddenly he stopped. In the palm of his left hand there was a single violent stab of pain. He opened his hand and, from the tiny wound where the broken ring had punctured the skin, a little trickle of blood was oozing.

  As he moved his hand, the blood gathered itself into a ball and ran down to his wrist, leaving a bright trail behind it. In the centre of his palm the mark of the half-ring where he had gripped it, still showed clearly imprinted in the flesh.

  Then he turned to Hesther.

  “Go away if you must,” he said. “We’ve never belonged to each other.”

  Chapter XIII

  It was Eventually to be Mr. Hackbridge’s downfall that he was not an Amosite. Had he been even a Rechabite, the larger lapse could have been overlooked. But he was none of these. He worshipped in slack, desultory, Anglican fashion in St. George’s Parish Church, Hammersmith; and it was typical of the laxity of his religion that he regarded alcohol as no sin. That is not to say that he drank to excess; the temperance advocate’s picture of the drunkard was simply not in him. It was merely that he liked a little whisky before going home; and from time to time he would slip into the William the Fourth (which was far enough away from the shop for his entry not to be observed) to drink a solitary glass. Nothing could have been more moderate or more seemly than his behaviour on these occasions. But it was to be his undoing just the same.

  Ever since Mr. Morgan’s private talk he had been a little above himself. He no longer came immediately the assistants uttered their shrill “Sign please”; he came instead in his own time, keeping both the assistant and the customer waiting long enough to show that he was a person of some importance. And his signature had changed. Always sprawling, it was now flamboyant. As often as not the point of his pencil went right through the sheet and ripped up the carbon paper underneath as well. His manner, moreover, towards the other assistants had altered appreciably; it had deteriorated. He now bullied unmercifully. And the young ladies, always faintly apprehensive, now went in fear of him. He would wait until the department was empty and then pounce on an error in addition, or point to a box lid that had not been shut down properly, and shout at them about it.