Part 37 (2/2)

”But equally I don't propose to take her back. If she lives alone and conducts herself decently I'll make her an allowance--say four or five hundred a year. If she lives with a lover or tries to force her way in here I won't give her a stiver. Now, Selincourt, you had better use your influence or you'll have her planted on you directly Lawrence gets sick of her. If she goes from me to Lawrence she can go from Lawrence on the streets for all I--shut that door, Val!--Keep her out!”

”Laura! go away!” cried Selincourt. The scene was rising into a nightmare and his nerves s.h.i.+vered under it. But he was too late.

The wide doorway had filled with people: Laura with her satin hair, her flying veil, her ineffaceable French grace of air and dress: Isabel bare-headed, very pale and reluctant: and Mr.

Stafford, who had come down to exercise a moderating influence in the direction of compromise. Isabel edged round towards Lawrence, while Mr. Stafford stood glancing from one to another with keen authoritative eyes, waiting a chance to strike in. But Laura after her long sleep had recovered her fighting temper and was no longer content to remain a cipher in her own house. She smiled and shook her head at Lucian, reddening under her dark skin.

”Bernard, have they told you the truth yet? No, I thought not, Lawrence was too shy.” High spirited, for all her sensitiveness, she laid her slight hand on her husband's wrist. ”Did you think if Lawrence stayed on at Wanhope it must be because he admired me? You forget that there are younger and prettier women in Chilmark than I am. Lawrence is going to marry Isabel. It's a romantic tale,” was there a touch of pique in Laura's charming voice? ”and I'm afraid they both of them took some pains to throw dust in our eyes. I've only this moment learnt it from Isabel.”

Yes, undeniably a trace of pique. Women like Laura, used to the admiration of men however innocent, cannot forego it without a sigh. She did not grudge Isabel her happiness or even envy it, and she had never believed Lawrence to be in love with herself, and yet this courts.h.i.+p that had gone on under her blind eyes produced in her a faint sense of irritation, of male defection that had made her look a little silly. She was aware of it herself and faintly amused and faintly ashamed. ”My time for romantic adventure has gone by. Oh my poor Berns, you forget that I'm thirty-six!”

Here was the authentic accent of truth. Clowes heard it, but he had got beyond the point where a man is capable of saying ”I was wrong, forgive me.” At that moment he no longer desired Laura to be innocent, he would have preferred to justify himself by proving her guilty. ”Take your d.a.m.ned face out of this,” he said, enveloping her in an intensity of hate before which Laura's delicate personality seemed to shrivel like a scorched leaf.

”Take it away before I kill you.” He struck her hand from his wrist and dashed himself down on the pillow, his great arms and shoulders writhing above the marble waist like some fierce animal trapped by the loins. ”Oh, I can't stand it, I can't stand it . . .”

”Oh dear, this is awful,” said Selincourt weakly. He got up and stood in the doorway. Despair is a terrible thing to watch. Not even Lawrence dared go near Bernard. It was the priest, inured to scenes of grief and rebellion, who came forward with the cold strong common sense of the Christian stoic. ”But you will have to stand it,” said Mr. Stafford sternly, ”it is the Will of G.o.d and rebellion only makes it worse. After all, thousands of men of all ranks have had to bear the same trial and with much less alleviation. You know now that your wife is innocent and is prepared to forgive you.” It did not strike Mr. Stafford that men like Bernard Clowes do not care to be forgiven by their wives.

There was no confessional box in Chilmark church. ”You have plenty of interests left and plenty of friends: so long as you don't alienate them by behaving in such an unmanly way. Lift him, Val.-- Come, Major Clowes, you're torturing your wife. This is cowardice--”

”Like Val's, eh?”

”Like--?”

”Like your precious Val behaved ten years ago.” Clowes raised himself on his elbows. ”Aha! how's that for a smack in the eye?”

”Val, my darling lad,” said Mr. Stafford, stumbling a little in his speech, ”what--what is this?”

”Poor chap!” Clowes gave his curt ”Ha ha!” as he reached out a long arm to turn on all the lights. ”Who was that chap, Hercules was it, that pulled the temple on his own head? By G.o.d, if my life's gone to pieces, I'll take some of you with me. You, Val, I was always fond of you: tell your daddy, or shall I, what you did in the Great War?”

”Bernard. . . .”

”Can't stand it, eh? But, like me, you'll have to stand it.

Come, come, Val, this is cowardice--”

”Lawrence, don't touch him: let it come.”

But no one dared touch Clowes. ”Before his sister!” Selincourt muttered. He had no idea what was coming but Val's grey pallor frightened him. ”And the old man!” Lawrence added with clenched hands. Clowes ignored them both. He held the entire group in subjection by sheer savage force of personality.

”Simple little anecdote of war. Dale, you remember, was a brother officer of mine. He was shot in a raid and left hanging on the German wire. In the night when he was dying another chap in our regiment, that had been lying up all day between the lines with a bullet in his ribs, crawled across for him. The Boches opened fire but he got Dale off and started back. Three quarters of the way over they found a third casualty, a subaltern in the Dorchesters. This chap wasn't hurt but he was weeping with fear.

He had gone to ground in a sh.e.l.lhole during the advance and stayed there too frightened to move. The Winchester man was by now done to the world. He kicked the Dorchester to his feet and ordered him to carry on with Dale. The Dorchester pointed out that if he turned up without a scratch on him, he would probably be shot by court martial, so the other fellow by way of pretext put a shot through his arm. 'Now you can tell 'em it was you who fetched Dale.' 'Oh I can't, I'm frightened,' says the Dorchester boy. 'By G.o.d you shall,' says the other, 'or I'll put a second bullet through your brains.' Now, Val, you finish telling us how you did the return trip in tears with Dale on your shoulders and Lawrence at your heels chivying you with a revolver.”

”You unutterable devil,” said Lawrence under his breath, ”who told you that?”

Bernard grinned at him almost amicably. He had got one blow home at last and felt better. ”Why, I've always known it. Dale told me himself. He lived twenty minutes after you got him in.”

”Val,” said Mr. Stafford, ”this isn't true?”

”Perfectly true, sir.”

Undefended, unreserved, stripped even of pride, Val stood up before them all as if before a firing party, for the others had involuntarily fallen back leaving him alone. . . . To Lawrence the silence seemed endless, it went on and on, while through the open doorway grey shadows crept in, the leafy smell of night and the liquid river-murmur so much louder than it could have been heard by day. Suddenly, as if he could not stand the strain any longer, Val covered his eyes with his hands. The movement, full of shame galvanized Lawrence into activity. But he had not the courage to approach Val. He had but one desire which was to get out of the house.

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