i f6c06dd9cf3fe221

by Unknown

  Oh, God, what it was to feel free of all desire of her 1 He lashed the water with his feet for a moment; then became still, thinking of Kate.

  But was he tree? Wasn't he chained to Kate with stronger chains than ever Stella had welded? Yes, he supposed he was.

  But with what a difference 1 He thought back to last Christmas Eve, when he had given up fighting and held Kate in his arms, for the one and only time. He had known then that, had the mother not been there and they could have talked, she would have been his. She was his; he was convinced of that;

  as irrevocably as if they had been joined together by that damned, fear-inspiring priest. He had wanted her more than he had ever wanted Stella, the ache for her had persisted from the night he had taken her for the drive two years ago. But he also felt tor her something he had never felt for Stella; a certain protectiveness, coupled with a deep admiration for the fight she had made to emancipate herself from the fifteen streets . he had wanted only Stella's body, her mind had irritated him.

  When he had left Kate, on the sound of Tim Hannigan's steps in the back-yard, he already knew what he intended doing. He would take a little house, perhaps a cottage, outside Newcastle, and install her there, with Annie. No one need know, and if they did what would it matter? He could laugh at all their social codes which cloaked such rampant immorality. He would be hurting no one, the only hurt to Stella would be to her pride. Over the holidays he had been excited and on edge. When he had called and found that Kate was not on her usual Christmas holidays, but was back at the Tolmaches, he had gone straight there, feeling he had but to see her to hold her in his arms again. His heart had pounded against his ribs at the first glimpse of her; she had looked pale and tired, with a sadness darkening her eyes.

  He had tried to catch her eye, so that a mingled glance would join them together once again; but within a few minutes of his arrival she had left the room without looking at him. The brothers and sister had discussed the recent happenings with concern, being as troubled and worried as if she were their own. His conscience had pricked him when, using Sarah as an excuse, he had asked if he might go and speak to her about her mother, as he had found her in a really bad state and was afraid she would have to go into hospital. This, he comforted himself, was the truth, but he had hated the idea of making use of it and of deceiving these kind and trusting old people. He had felt sure that, frail as Bernard Tolmache was, he'd have been quite capable of kicking him out had he known the real reason for his desire to see Kate.

  When he had opened the green baize door of the kitchen and had seen her sitting by the table, her head resting on her hands, a deep and protective tenderness had been born in him. Swiftly he had taken her hands in his and had drawn her to her feet; but no further, for when his arms would have gone round her she had whispered tensely, "No, no!"

  "Kate, darling," he had pleaded, holding her hands tightly against his breast, 'you know it's no good, don't you? We have both fought for so long. It's useless. Oh, Kate, my dear. "

  "Please!" she had protested.

  But he had gone on, in low, urgent tones: "You know I am sorry about Pat. There was no one more eager than I that you should marry him; for I was afraid of this very thing happening.... I love you, my dear ... I worship you. Can't you see that? You can ... you've always known it.

  Oh, Kate, I need you so. Don't be afraid. "

  She strained away from him, and turned her face to one side: "Mrs.

  Prince! " The words had seemed wrenched from her.

  "Kate, I can explain.... Look at me! I must explain all that; when can I see you? You need not worry about ... Mrs. Prince.... She ... we I can't explain here, there's so much to say. When can I see you, Kate?"

  "Doctor, I can't... I mustn't! Don't ask me."

  "Don't say doctor; Rodney, Kate."

  Kate had shaken her head desperately: "It can't be!"

  "You love me, Kate. Look at me.... You do, don't you?"

  She had remained silent as he forced her to meet his eyes.

  "Even if you won't say it, I know you do; nothing can alter that."

  They had stood tense, their eyes holding, hers dark with misery.

  On hearing the drawing-room door open he had released her hands and whispered urgently, "I will write you." Then, with as much calmness as he could command, he had gone on and told her about her mother, while she had stood looking blankly down at the table.

  He had written to her, making an appointment, but she had neither answered the letter nor kept the appointment. Desperate, he had written again and yet again, with the same result. It had been Sarah who had provided the opportunity for seeing her alone, for he had had to send her into hospital; he had taken the task on himself of informing Kate and taking her, by car, to the workhouse. Her genuine anxiety for her mother had silenced any appeal he had intended making.

  He had driven her and Annie back to the Tolmaches that night, after having met them near the docks; Kate had protested strongly when he had proposed coming to the house to collect them. Annie's delight in being near him and riding in the car again had been touching.

  During the following weeks he had seen quite a lot of Kate, but never alone; there had always been Annie or the Tolmaches.

  Sarah came out of the hospital and Annie had returned reluctantly home, and things took up their normal course again, at least on the surface.

  It was when he had decided that he could wait no longer, and that he must see her to explain his case, that he received the letter.

  He had opened it at breakfast, with Stella sitting opposite him. It had started, "Dear Doctor," and had ended abruptly, "Kate Hannigan'.

  It had told him in concise terms that he had a wife and a career to think about, she had her mother and Annie; her mother was still ill and, she knew, was worried about her; she must give her no cause for worry; finally, she loved the Tolmaches, and it would distress her greatly if she had to leave them entirely; but this she would have to do and seek work elsewhere unless he could see her point of view.

  No word of love, just an ultimatum; yet he was sure that she was his, as if every line had proclaimed it. Why was it, he had asked himself at that moment, that he, a man of strong passions, as he knew himself to be, should be incapable of having but one woman in his life? First, and from boyhood, it had been Stella. He had married Stella when the torch of his passion was at its height, and she had quenched it swiftly and surely. He had been unable to do anything about it, for as long as he had loved Stella he had been incapable of taking from another woman what she had withheld. Now Stella was like the remains of a burn; the scar she had left would always be visible to him, but it didn't hurt any more. And Kate, this was something different, something higher than any feeling he had had for his wife, which, he knew now, had been all physical. But Kate had bound him as surely as ever Stella had, and he couldn't seek relief from her either. Nor did he want to, in spite of her ultimatum.

  He had looked across the table at Stella, so beautifully calm and insolently sure of herself. Divorce had crossed his mind .

  non-consummation of conjugal rights. Yes, he could get it on those grounds; but would he? No, he knew he would never do it. But she could divorce him. Would she, if he gave her cause? Not unless it would suit her purpose; and she would have to want it very much, for she was as vain as a peacock, and the very fact of his wanting another woman would make her fight. The whole position had seemed impossible.

  An easing, at least, of the situation had pointed itself out after days of mental strife. True, there were feelings of patriotism in the gesture, but it was more as a means of escape that he had enlisted.

  Rodney got out of the bath, and was to welling himself vigorously when Mary's voice, following a knock, came through the bathroom door:

  "Doctor Swinbum's downstairs, sir; would you like to see him?"

  "Why, yes 1' Rodney called back.

  "Tell him to wait a second; I'll be right down."

  Swinbum had been his lo cum a
t one time, then, under pressure of work, he had taken him on as assistant. Now he was in charge and, thought Rodney, thinking himself

  no end of a fellow, I bet. He had found traits in Swin- burn's character which had become evident only through time, and which he did not like; a certain meanness and lack of sympathy and an eye to the main chance were among them. Getting into a dressing-gown he went downstairs and found him in the study.

  Doctor Swinbum, a lean young man of middle height, with dark brown eyes and fair, crinkly hair, a sensual mouth, and a nose that could only be described as pinched, greeted Rodney effusively. They shook hands, and he offered Rodney a cigarette, and lit it for him.

  "You're looking fit," he said; 'although seeing you without your beard is a bit of a shock. "

  "It was a bit of a shock to me at first," laughed Rodney.

  "I'm used to it now. Only it's this continual shaving that gets me down."

  "You'll have to let it grow before you come back on the job, or the ladies won't like it," chuckled Swinburn.

  Rodney frowned inwardly. That was the kind of chat that made him annoyed with Swinburn.

  "How's everything?" he asked.

  "Up to the eyes," said Swinburn.

  "Half the calls are damned unnecessary ... such as Lady Cuthbert Harris. I had a time with her after you left; she wouldn't believe you had gone, wouldn't have me near her; she demanded to know where you were every time I saw her, and said that you must come as you were the only one who understood her. Still I persevered, as one call on her equals a day's work around the docks. But it is hard going. I spend my visits answering questions about you, and tell her you send enquiries about her by every letter...."

  "You've no right to say that!" broke in Rodney, somewhat sharply.

  "That woman's got enough ideas in her head already."

  "Well, what can I say? We don't want to lose her."

  "We certainly shall it it depends on me visiting her, for I've intended passing her on to you for some time. I never could stand the woman."

  "What will you do when you get the socks? She's knitting some for you," laughed Swinburn.

  "Good God!" exclaimed Rodney.

  AS

  "Still, it's people like her who keep the practice going," said Swinburn smugly.

  "You know, your books are in a heck of a mess. Some of these doc kites haven't paid for as long as six years; I've been rounding them up."

  "I don't want them rounded up," said Rodney stiffly.

  "Some of them can't eat, let alone pay doctor's bills."

  Fool! thought Swinburn. Can't eat, indeed! No, but they can drink.

  Still, keep on the right side of him. "Well, just as you say," he said.

  "But it's a devil of a lot of money you're out. I was only thinking tor your good."

  "That's very kind of you, but don't press any of them."

  Swinburn looked at him with ill-concealed resentment All right tor him, with his damned private in come; he can afford to talk big.

  Wonder how much that Hannigan girl has to do with his kindness to the poor? he asked himself. There's never smoke without fire; damn funny rumours going around about her kid.

  "You know about old Tolmache dying, I suppose?" he asked Rodney, scrutinising his face for any confirmation of the rumours his words might evoke.

  "No," said Rodney.

  "Which one? And when did it hap pen?" The very mention of the Tolmaches had brought a quickening of his pulse, but he showed nothing of it in his query, his tone implying professional interest only.

  "A fortnight ago; the elder one. Rex. And the other two seem to have gone all to pieces lately, since they lost their- girl."

  "Lost their girl?"

  Swinburn noticed that although Prince's face didn't alter he pressed the cigarette he was holding to his mouth quite flat between his finger and thumb.

  "Yes, she went home to look after her mother. It was either that or the workhouse.... I had to put it to her quite plainly.

  The mother couldn't be left alone, with just neighbours pop ping in, she needs constant attention. I told her her mother couldn't last long, and it she went into the work house it would be to die. So she left the Tolmaches and went home. "

  Staring at Swinburn with an expressionless face, Rodney thought. God, I thought he meant she was deadi But Kate, back in the fifteen streets! All day, every day, living practically in that kitchen, cut off from the Tolmaches and all they stood for. For a moment he experienced the pain that the wrench must have been to her. Sarah might linger on tor months . years even with care and attention. And Kate getting older, living alone. For he knew the Tolmaches had spoiled her for ever for the fifteen streets and the companionship that community had to offer. Mentally shed be alone, and he could do nothing. Gone even was the chance of seeing her on this leave; he couldn't go to the fifteen streets, she would only be disconcerted, knowing that it would upset her mother.

  He's not giving much away, said Swinburn to himself, but he didn't squash that cigarette for nothing.

  "Well," he remarked, getting up, "I must be on the move again. I just called in to see it I could do anything for Mrs. Prince." His eyes flicked away and he turned towards the door;

  and Rodney thought. Good Lord, him too.

  Rodney felt a sudden pity for Swinbum, for it seemed such a frightful waste for anyone to lavish affection on Stella; it was like falling in love with the statue of de Milo.

  "I'll tell her you called," he said.

  "I'll be seeing you again; I'll look in at the surgery at the beginning of the week."

  "You'll see me tonight," said Swinburn, continuing towards the front-door, "I'm coming to dinner.... See you later, then, goodbye."

  Rodney returned upstairs. So there was a dinner tonight: Barrington; Tollyer, her publisher; that modern poet chap, with his hair on his shoulders; and Swinbum. For two pins he'd make a dash and get a train home. Then there'd be the question: Where was Stella? and "It's just as I expected' looks from Frank. There was nothing for it but to stick it out.

  He found his room struck cold, after the warmth of his bath and the room downstairs. The fire was alight, but as yet giving off no heat.

  So he took a change of underwear and a suit out of the wardrobe and went into the room across the landing.

  Stella's room . her own, of which he had no part, the

  ^

  room she had made for herself after their Enal break. Funny, he thought, I haven't been in this room half a dozen times in three years.

  As he dressed he looked around; it expressed her perfectly, everything ice-blue and gold, all except the old walnut bureau that stood in the deep shadow of the recess. The sight of that simple piece of furniture brought back to his mind the day they had bought it . that had been one of their happy days, when Stella had given way to the excitement and thrill of furnishing a house. The bureau was one of the few pieces left of those they had had chosen together; all the others had been gradually replaced. He thought of the young man who had sold the bureau to them; he had sensed their excitement and added' to it by betting them they would never find the secret drawer.

  Rodney had soon found the button which would release the spring, but he had kept the knowledge to himself, leaving to Stella the pleasure of discovery.

  Looking down on the bureau now he felt a sudden sadness. Gone for ever was the wonder of life that had seemed to be opening for him when they had bought it. Gently pulling open the right-hand side drawer, he felt in the roof for the button. Pressing it, he watched the narrow top of the desk slowly rise, exposing two sets of two drawers, divided by a miniature cupboard, and he felt again the romance of the workmanship and ingenuity. He opened one of the tiny drawers and pressed another button. The door of the cupboard swung open, revealing an exquisitely panelled recess in satinwood. He could almost hear Stella's squeal of delight on that bygone day . such a faraway day, for now she apparently used the desk only as a receptacle for broken pieces of jewellery. Inside the cupbo
ard was a square box, filling most of the space. He took it out and idly examined it. The lid was in a beautiful mosaic pattern of mother-of-pearl. Just as idly he lifted the lid; then stood staring down at the collection of tubes within.

  Two were full, but the majority empty and tightly rolled up. After reading the writing on one of the tubes, which was in both French and English, he stood staring fixedly at the box for some time. Then he opened the cylindrical box

  which was partly covered by the tubes.

  Slowly the blood drained from his face. Like one in a trance, he closed the secret drawer and, taking the mother- of-pearl box, he returned to his room.

  His discovery had given him the biggest shock of his life. and, for the moment, he was quite incapable of thinking; he could only feel. As he stood looking down into the frozen garden, some atom of respect that he still retained for his wife cried out . Don't let this be!

  She couldn't have done it. But, then, she had done it, and with what success!

  He stared again at the box, and all that it implied rushed into his mind, searing it as with a hot iron. Right from the beginning, from the night of their marriage she must have practised this. From where had she obtained such knowledge? she was barely twenty at the time.

  She had deliberately killed . yes, that was the word . she had killed every chance of giving him a child from the word go, and he had never tor a second suspected it. How could he? So gentle, so fragile, so .

  virginal a creature. She had fooled him, oh, so easily! How she must have been laughing all these years!

  He could see her now, with that pathetic air, when he had spoken of children. So hurt had she looked that at times it had wrung his heart, feeling that she suffered the miss as greatly as be. Explained now,

  'also was the freezing attitude which could leave him distraught and the rages which his spontaneous love-making would bring about . there were the times when she had -been unprepared. And all these years he had been duped by that delicate, gentle creature! Of how many sons had she deprived him? Had she withheld herself after having given him one son, how different life would have been 1 . His son. His mind conjured up a boy of nearly fourteen, bursting with vitality, eyes bright with the eagerness of life. He would be home for the holidays now, turning the house upside down, thumping up the stairs calling .