Part 59 (1/2)

Cuckoo, with her eyes on Julian, was silent, too, now. She understood that what her suspicion had affirmed, without actually knowing, was true, and her stormy heart was swept by a whirlwind of jealousy, and of womanish pity for the man she was jealous of. In that moment she felt a sickness of life more sharp than she had ever felt before, and a dull longing to be a different woman, a woman of Julian's cla.s.s, and clever, that she might be able to do something to keep him from sinking to the level of the men she hated.

How could she, in her nakedness of permanent degradation, give a helping hand to anybody? That was a clear rendering of the vague thought, vague as this twilight in which they sat, that ran through her mind. Suddenly she turned to the tray and poured herself out a cup of tea. The tea had been standing while they talked, and was black and strong. She drank it eagerly, and a wave of nervous energy rushed over her, surging up to her brain like light and electricity. It gave to her a sort of reckless valour to say just the thing she felt. She turned towards Julian with a manner that was half shrew, half wildcat--street girls cannot always compa.s.s the impressive, though they may feel the great eternities nestling round their hearts--and cried out:

”I just hate you!”

All her jealousy rang in that cry, smothering the whisper of the maternal pa.s.sion that went ever with it. Julian could no longer doubt the truth of Valentine's words.

”Cuckoo, don't be silly,” he said hastily, and awkwardly enough.

”Silly!” she burst out. ”What do I care for that? I ain't silly, either, and I ain't blind like you are. I can see where you're goin'.”

”I shall go away from here,” Julian said, trying to laugh, ”if you talk in this ridiculous way.”

She sprang up and ran pa.s.sionately in front of the door, as if she thought he was really going to escape.

”No, you don't,” she said, and her accent seemed to draw near to that of Whitechapel as her voice rose higher. ”Not till I've said what I mean.”

”Hush, Cuckoo! We shall have Mrs. Brigg up, thinking I'm murdering you.”

”Let her come! And you are, that's what you are, murderin' me, and worse, seein' you go where you're goin'. He's takin' you. It's all him. Yes, it is! He'll make you as he is.”

”Cuckoo, I won't have it.”

Julian spoke sternly and got up. The little dogs, alarmed by the tumult, had begun to whine uneasily, and at his movement Jessie barked in a thin voice. Julian went to Cuckoo, took her wrists in his two hands, and drew her away from the door; but she tore herself from his grasp with fury, for the touch of his hands gave a clearer vision to her jealousy of his secret deeds, and made her understand better the depth of her present feeling.

”You shall have it,” she cried. ”You shall. I know men. I know what you'll be. I know what women'll make of you.”

”A man makes himself,” Julian interrupted.

”Rot! That's all you know about it. I've seen them begin so nice and go right down, like a stone in a well. And they never come up again. Not they. No more'll you. D'you hear that?”

”I shall hear you better if you speak lower.”

Cuckoo suddenly changed from a sort of frenzy to a violent calm.

”You're different already,” she said. ”Can't I see it?”

As if to emphasize her remark she approached her face quite close to his in the twilight. While they had been arguing a cloud had pa.s.sed over the sun, and dimness increased in the little room. Both of them were still standing up, and now Cuckoo peered into Julian's eyes with almost hungry scrutiny. Her lips were still trembling with excitement and her mouth was contorted into a sideways grin, expressive of contemptuous knowledge of the descent of Julian's nature. She was a mere mask of pa.s.sion, no doubt a ridiculous object enough, touzled, dishevelled and shaken with temper, as she leaned forward to get a better view of him. And Julian was both vexed and disgusted by her outbreak, and sick of a scene which, like all men, he ardently hated and would have given much to avoid. He faced her coldly, endeavouring to calm her by banis.h.i.+ng every trace of excitement from his expression.

And then, in the twilight of the dingy room, and in the twilight of her eyes, he saw the flame once more. A thin glint of suns.h.i.+ne found its way in from the street, and threw a shadow near them. Cuckoo's eyes emitted a greenish ray like a cat's, and in this ray the flame swam and flickered, cold and pale, and, Julian fancied, menacing.

Perhaps, because he was already irritated and slightly strung up by Cuckoo's attack, he felt a sudden anger against the flame, almost as he might have felt a rage against a person. As he stared upon it, he could almost believe that it, too, had eyes, scrutinizing, upbraiding, condemning him, and that in the thin riband and shade of its fire there dwelt a heart to hate him for the dear sin to which, at last, he began to give himself. For the moment Cuckoo and the flame were as one, and for the moment he feared and hated them both.

Abruptly he held up his hand to stop the further words that were fluttering on her thin and painted lips.

”Hus.h.!.+” he said, in a little hiss of protest against sound.

For again, fighting with the anger, there was awe in his heart.

There was something unusual in his expression which held her silent, a furtive horror and expectation which she did not understand. And while she waited, Julian turned suddenly, and left the room and the house.

CHAPTER VI