Part 4 (2/2)

A flash revealed her, aimed and intent, leaning towards him. Her eyes were two profound and menacing gun-barrels. The darkness re-engulfed her.

”You were a lonely soul seeking a companion soul. I could sympathise with you in your solitude. Your marriage ...”

The thunder cut short the sentence. Miss Spence's voice became audible once more with the words:

”... could offer no companions.h.i.+p to a man of your stamp. You needed a soul mate.”

A soul mate--he! a soul mate. It was incredibly fantastic. Georgette Leblanc, the ex-soul mate of Maurice Maeterlinck. He had seen that in the paper a few days ago. So it was thus that Janet Spence had painted him in her imagination--a soul-mater. And for Doris he was a picture of goodness and the cleverest man in the world. And actually, really, he was what?--Who knows?

”My heart went out to you. I could understand; I was lonely, too.” Miss Spence laid her hand on his knee. ”You were so patient.” Another flash.

She was still aimed, dangerously. ”You never complained. But I could guess--I could guess.”

”How wonderful of you!” So he was an _ame incomprise_.

”Only a woman's intuition....”

The thunder crashed and rumbled, died away, and only the sound of the ram was left. The thunder was his laughter, magnified, externalised.

Flash and crash, there it was again, right on top of them.

”Don't you feel that you have within you something that is akin to this storm?” He could imagine her leaning forward as she uttered the words.

”Pa.s.sion makes one the equal of the elements.”

What was his gambit now? Why, obviously, he should have said ”Yes,” and ventured on some unequivocal gesture. But Mr. Hutton suddenly took fright. The ginger beer in him had gone flat. The woman was serious--terribly serious. He was appalled.

Pa.s.sion? ”No,” he desperately answered. ”I am without pa.s.sion.”

But his remark was either unheard or unheeded, for Miss Spence went on with a growing exaltation, speaking so rapidly, however, and in such a burningly intimate whisper that Mr. Hutton found it very difficult to distinguish what she was saying. She was telling him, as far as he could make out, the story of her life. The lightning was less frequent now, and there were long intervals of darkness. But at each flash he saw her still aiming towards him, still yearning forward with a terrifying intensity. Darkness, the rain, and then flas.h.!.+ her face was there, close at hand. A pale mask, greenish white; the large eyes, the narrow barrel of the mouth, the heavy eyebrows. Agrippina, or wasn't it rather--yes, wasn't it rather George Robey?

He began devising absurd plans for escaping. He might suddenly jump up, Pretending he had seen a burglar--Stop thief, stop thief!--and dash off into the night in pursuit. Or should he say that he felt faint, a heart attack? or that he had seen, a ghost--Emily's ghost--in the garden?

Absorbed in his childish plotting, he had ceased to pay any attention to Miss Spence's words. The spasmodic clutching of her hand recalled his thoughts.

”I honoured you for that, Henry,” she was saying.

Honoured him for what?

”Marriage is a sacred tie, and your respect for it, even when the marriage was, as it was in your case, an unhappy one, made me respect you and admire you, and--shall I dare say the word?--”

Oh, the burglar, the ghost in the garden! But it was too late.

”... yes, love you, Henry, all the more. But we're free now, Henry.”

Free? There was a movement in the dark, and she was kneeling on the floor by his chair.

”Oh, Henry, Henry, I have been unhappy too.”

Her arms embraced him, and by the shaking of her body he could feel that she was sobbing. She might have been a suppliant crying for mercy.

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