I Shall Not Want

by Norman Collins

  For a moment she was glad: she had obliterated this piece of wickedness, and the house was now clean again. But the mood did not last for long. It was succeeded by panic, blind awful panic. She looked again at the drawer and saw that the bundles of papers were not old things thrust away and forgotten. They were Chapel notices and copies of the Synod minutes. John Marco’s Amosite Hymnal was among them. It was to this drawer that he went every Sunday before attending the Tabernacle; there would be no time at all before he found that the photograph was destroyed.

  The realisation alarmed her still further and she saw that she would have to obliterate her deed. Going down on her hands and knees she began hurriedly gathering up the pieces. Then, when there was nothing left to show what she had done, she closed the drawer again and went out of the room carrying the broken jumble of frame and paper, silk mounting and shattered glass.

  At this time every afternoon the rest of the house was deserted; old Mrs. Marco was sleeping in her room and Emmy was upstairs in her attic snatching her last precious minutes of rest before it was time to get tea. Hesther opened the door silently—she felt guilty now, like a criminal—and went downstairs into the dark basement kitchen. There, lifting the iron cover from the range, she thrust her handful of pieces into the flames. There was a sudden flare as the paper and the silk ignited; then the wood began to catch as well and soon only the twisted metal work of the frame remained. The evil picture no longer existed.

  When she reached her room again she sat down and covered her face with her hands. Already she doubted the wisdom of what she had done, questioned whether a stronger woman would not have found some other way. The photograph itself was nothing; it was no more than an accusing finger pointing out a sin. The sin itself remained; and she had done nothing to stop its spreading. She sat there rocking herself backwards and forwards on the chair in misery. After a while she went down on her knees and prayed. It was nearly ten minutes later when she rose, exhausted.

  Then, when she heard Emmy’s door upstairs open and the tired feet begin to descend the stairs towards the kitchen, she went quickly to the cupboard and put on her hat with the high feather and her long black coat.

  Her burden at that moment seemed too heavy to bear alone any longer.

  Mr. Tuke recognised at once that she had come to lean upon his strength; and he was a pillar. As soon as he heard that Hesther’s business was private and urgent, he signalled to Mrs. Tuke to collect her sewing and shoo-ed her out of her own drawing-room as if she had been a servant. Then, after he had helped Hesther to remove her coat, he took her hand in his and pulled his chair up very close beside her.

  “Tell me everything, Sister,” he said. “I can see that you are troubled.”

  It was significant that he did not express any surprise at what was told him. The only emotion that he registered was one of anger; as he listened his colour deepened and his breathing became heavier. And when he had heard the whole story he allowed himself only one comment.

  “It finally establishes that she is his mistress,” he said.

  “But did I do right to burn it?” Hesther persisted. “Was it the best thing to do?”

  “No,” Mr. Tuke replied with terrible decisiveness. “It was not. You did wrong. You should have confronted him with it.”

  “Confronted him?”

  “Yes, you should have thrust it in his face. Accused him of it.” Mr. Tuke got up from his chair and began to march about the room. “It is our duty to expose evil when we find it, not conceal it. You should have shamed him into confession for the sake of the child.”

  “It’s too late,” Hesther said wearily. “There’s nothing that we can do now.”

  “It is not too late,” Mr. Tuke contradicted her. “Remember his salvation may be at stake.”

  Hesther turned towards him.

  “But what can we do?” she asked.

  “You will tell him.”

  She drew back and her hands were tightly clenched as if she were praying.

  “I daren’t,” she said. “I don’t know what he would do to me.”

  “Then if you haven’t the courage to tell him, I shall,” Mr. Tuke responded. “I shall challenge him in person.”

  He felt brave in God’s strength as he said it and he was prepared for Hesther’s outburst which followed.

  “No. No. You mustn’t.” She rose in agitation as she said it. “You don’t know him. He might do anything.”

  Mr. Tuke raised his hand to silence her.

  “Then I shall denounce him from the pulpit,” he replied. “I shall strip his soul bare in front of everyone. Do you imagine that I can allow sin to flourish in the Synod, that I can permit the house of God to be turned into a brothel?” He dropped his voice suddenly and came over and put his arm round her shoulder. “Won’t you spare him this humiliation?” he asked gently. “Won’t you make one last effort to save your husband?”

  Hesther shook her head.

  “I’m not strong enough,” she answered.

  “Then pray,” Mr. Tuke commanded. “Pray and your path will be made clear to you.”

  When they had prayed, Mr. Tuke was the first to rise. He stood there, towering over her.

  “I shall accompany you,” he said. “There must be no turning back now.”

  They had been sitting in the fine drawing-room in Clarence Gardens for nearly half-an-hour before John Marco returned. Ten minutes earlier when Hesther had thought she heard him she had risen hurriedly—too hurriedly, for her head had swum and she had been forced to take a dose of sal volatile to quieten her nerves. But she was calmer now. White-faced and upright, she was waiting for him, quite motionless. On the other side of the fire Mr. Tuke was sitting, the loose folds of his face set into granite.

  There was the sound of the front door shutting and Mr. Tuke buttoned up his long frock coat in readiness.

  “Remember your resolve,” he said firmly. “No weakness.”

  But John Marco walked past the room without stopping. They heard him mount the stairs and close the door of his room behind him. There was silence.

  “Perhaps he’s gone to the drawer,” said Hesther faintly. “Perhaps he knows already.”

  Mr. Tuke frowned.

  “In that case,” he said, “we shall catch him red-handed.”

  And to show how much he was master of the situation he began to pace up and down the room as though it were his own study. With his square shoulders and his tremendous head set on the thick neck he was like a spiritual wrestler waiting for the bout to begin.

  “He’s a long time,” he observed at last. “A remarkably long time.”

  Somehow this extra period of waiting was inimical to his whole plan. The first fires of anger were already dying down, and his entire system would now have to be restored before he faced him. Mr. Tuke knew from experience that for a really successful denunciation he should be quivering all over before he even started.

  He turned and faced Hesther resentfully.

  “Is there no way of summoning him?” he asked. “Can’t he be informed of our presence?”

  “I . . . suppose we could get Emmy to tell him,” Hesther admitted doubtfully.

  “Then let us do so,” said Mr. Tuke.

  He crossed over to the fireplace and tugged angrily at the handle that protruded above the bronze and marble plaque on the wall. There was a scraping of wires, then a jangling like a mad angelus broke out in the basement below them.

  “Now,” said Mr. Tuke briskly, “we shall have to send for him.”

  The action was precisely what was needed: it got Mr. Tuke into his stride again. And it was he who spoke to Emmy as soon as she came in. Holding up a warning finger to Hesther he addressed Emmy in the voice of someone in command.

  “Tell your master that Mrs. Marco and Mr. Tuke wish to speak to him,” he said. “Tell him that we are being kept waiting.”

  Mr. Tuke rubbed his hands and rose up and down once or twice on his toes as though testing his muscles. The q
uivering that he had been waiting for had started: he was now tingling with rage in every nerve.

  When John Marco answered the summons they saw at once how pale he was. He looked tired. The long hours at the shop had left their mark upon him; amid the dark hairs at the temples there were already some which were white. He stood facing them, one eyebrow raised a little questioningly, the corners of his mouth drawn down.

  “Come in,” Mr. Tuke said bluntly. “We want to talk to you.”

  John Marco paused for a moment and flushed slightly. Then he crossed over to the fireplace and almost elbowed Mr. Tuke out of the way.

  “What is it you want?” he asked when he was facing him again.

  “You know what it is,” Mr. Tuke answered. “Your heart tells you.”

  “I know nothing,” John Marco replied. “Explain yourself.”

  Mr. Tuke’s voice was grim and colourless as he answered.

  “Your wife has told me everything,” he said. “I shall expect to hear you make your confession.”

  There was sudden terror in John Marco’s mind as he heard the words: he saw again the dishevelled death-bed with Mr. Trackett lying across it, the piles of bank notes scattered around him; saw himself with the notes that he had stolen; saw Hesther sitting there for the first time in the tiny front parlour of the house in Chapel Villas. That was five years ago now, but it seemed that the past had suddenly come swirling forward and had encircled him; he felt the dark waters rising round him as he stood there. He glanced momentarily towards Hesther, but she was sitting with her eyes cast down to the floor; she avoided him. Then he turned and looked straight at Mr. Tuke.

  “I don’t understand you,” he said.

  But Mr. Tuke was not impressed.

  “John Marco,” he replied, “I am your minister. You have stolen something that belongs to another man.”

  Stolen: that was what Mr. Tuke had said. The waters of destiny rushed upwards again; they were choking him. He felt them closing over his head. The whole future in an instant was blotted out—the great shop with its many windows that he had planned, the battalion of assistants, his own eminence. His hatred of Hesther suddenly blazed again to think how she had betrayed him. His fists were clenched now and he took a step towards her.

  But Hesther was no longer sitting with her eyes downcast. She was looking towards him now: and she was shaking her head as though to deny the meaning in Mr. Tuke’s words. There was no hatred in her face at all. And as he watched her she made a little movement with her hands as though to hold them out to him. She seemed almost to be protecting him.

  He turned to Mr. Tuke again. “I shall want your apology.”

  And as he uttered them, the falseness of the words rang in his ears. But were they false? Those five years had been long ones. They had changed him. He was a different person now from the one who in that dingy bed-chamber had been laid open to temptation and had fallen.

  Already, except for that moment of panic when Mr. Tuke had first spoken, the memory of that night was like looking back on another man’s crime; it was sin seen through the wrong end of a telescope.

  Mr. Tuke, however, was not to be brow-beaten.

  “You have stolen a woman’s virtue,” he replied slowly. “Why did you hide a portrait of another man’s bride in your own bedroom?”

  John Marco started. He came forward and gripped the edge of the table in front of him, gripped it hard. But he was angry now, not concealing it. His eyes turned to Hesther.

  “So you’ve been spying on me have you?” he asked. Hesther shook her head.

  “I knew too much already,” she said. “I didn’t want to find out anything else bad about you.”

  “But you went to Mr. Tuke and told him,” he accused her.

  “It was your abominable conduct that drove her,” Mr. Tuke replied hotly.

  “And are you proud of what you’ve done?” he asked her.

  “I couldn’t bear it any longer,” she replied. “There was the child to think of.”

  “Where is the picture now?” he demanded. “What did you do with it?”

  Mr. Tuke raised his hand imperiously: this was his moment.

  “She destroyed it,” he said victoriously. “Destroyed it so that this house might be clean again.”

  “Is this true?”

  John Marco swung round again towards Hesther as he spoke.

  “Quite true,” she answered without looking at him. “I burnt it.”

  “She did right,” Mr. Tuke interposed. “She was destroying evil.”

  John Marco turned to him.

  “I shall discuss this with her alone,” he said. “You have done your work.”

  At the words Hesther’s heart gave a great leap. So he meant to stay with her! He was not so angry that he intended to leave her. That was the one thing that she had feared; that now he knew that she had thrown herself on Mr. Tuke, John Marco’s pride would compel him to go away for ever.

  Mr. Tuke accepted his dismissal. But he was not surrendering without a fight. He was still both priest and prosecutor.

  “Perhaps you will first explain how the picture came into your possession,” he said, his whole frame vibrating with anger now. “How you, an Elder, could be so wanton.”

  “Wanton?”

  John Marco repeated the word bitterly.

  And Mr. Tuke pounced on it.

  “Yes. wanton,” he said. “Your own mistress’s picture.”

  The word had slipped out before he was aware of it. And Hesther gave a little cry as she heard it. Even Mr. Tuke at heart was a little frightened. But he folded his arms and stood there, breathing heavily.

  John Marco came forward until he was within a few inches of Mr. Tuke.

  “Did you mean what you said just now?” he asked.

  Mr. Tuke went pale for a moment. But he stood his ground.

  “I did,” he said. “I have had the evidence of my own eyes.”

  At that John Marco struck him. It was not a particularly hard blow. It was a contemptuous one, rather. His hand was open all the time. But that only served to increase the sound of it. The white imprint of an extended palm appeared across Mr. Tuke’s cheek-bone, and was replaced a moment later, as the blood returned to the spot, by a fiery red one. Mr. Tuke’s face now looked as if a vivid naevus disfigured it.

  And having struck him, John Marco turned round on Hesther once more.

  “This is the end between us,” he said. “You can tell Mr. Tuke the real truth if you like. Tell him and be damned to both of you.”

  He pushed by them as he said it and made towards the door. But as he passed, Hesther suddenly reached out and took him by the hand. She even managed to hold it for a moment.

  “Oh, John, John,” she said. “You can’t mean it.”

  “I do mean it. Let me go.”

  “But think of your son.”

  “He’s your son,” he said. “Not mine.”

  And snatching his hand away from her he left them.

  A few minutes later there were the sounds of heavy footsteps and then the crash of the massive front door as it slammed behind him. Hesther and Mr. Tuke exchanged glances. They went over to the window together. It was dark outside but a street lamp opposite cast a beam of light up the steps. Down the steps John Marco was descending. He was so muffled up that his face was scarcely to be seen. In his hand was a heavy valise.

  At the bottom of the steps he did not pause even to take one last look at the house behind him, but turned rapidly away into the darkness and was lost to sight.

  “What have we done?” Hesther asked Mr. Tuke imploringly. “What is it that you’ve made me do?”

  “I only . . . only ...” Mr. Tuke began.

  But standing there amid the ruins of a family, Mr. Tuke, fingering his burning cheek where the blow had fallen, was not really quite sure of what it was that he had done.

  Book III

  Mary and the Child

  Chapter XXII

  John Marco woke early in the
large front bedroom above the shop and lay listening to the first sounds of traffic in Tredegar Terrace; it was six-thirty and the night had not been long.

  But he was, at best, only a short sleeper, and by the time the daily woman came trudging up the stairs to get his breakfast he was usually dressed and in the shop. Often when she arrived she would see him, standing there on that little landing looking over the empty desert of wooden counters and bare oilcloth below him. On those occasions he reminded her of the Captain of a paddle steamer, which had once carried her from Tower Pier to Ramsgate. She had been an impressionable young girl at the time, and the faraway, romantic look in the man’s eyes had remained frozen in her imagination. Now, nearly thirty years later, as she passed up the staircase with her string bag and her working shoes in her hand, sometimes getting a “good-morning” and sometimes not, she could almost swear that it was August again, and a fine day with the smell of oranges in the air, and the boat due to leave at ten-thirty.

  It was more than a year now since John Marco had slammed the front door behind him and come blindly round to the shop, with the whole world collapsing about his ears. But already that evening, too, was only a faint memory; it had receded somewhere into the dim background of his mind. He had spent the night half upright in the swivel chair in his office. And next morning he had set about refurnishing the suite of rooms which the Old Gentleman had occupied. The rooms themselves had been stripped completely. Miss Foxell had interpreted the clause, “... and all the personal effects of which I die possessed,” almost too literally: she had cleared out the upstairs rooms even to the china finger-plates on the doors and the ornamental gas-brackets. It had been like rebuilding a sacked and looted city to make those rooms habitable.