I
Clementine Rendall lay in bed and watched the sun-patterns of the string-coloured pile carpet. The birds on the lettuce-green trees of Kensington Square sang gaily of summer and their adventurous flights from the roof of John Barker’s to the happy hunting ground of Earl’s Court. It was a good day, he reflected, a day full of scent and harmony, and yet for some reason he felt oppressed.
“Parsons,” he said, as his man entered with a small tea-tray. “Parsons, I have an impression that I am not going to enjoy myself.”
“I hope that won’t be so, sir.”
“So do I, Parsons; but I fear the worst. How old am I?”
“Fifty-one and three months.”
“That’s not very old—but it’s too old!”
“For what, sir?”
“I don’t know. But I should like always to be young enough to go courting when summer’s here. Dreadful thing when one loses the inclination to court, isn’t it?”
“I couldn’t say, sir.”
“Then you’re not fifty-one.”
“That was not my meaning.”
“Seems to me, if one can’t go courting oneself one should show the lanes to others. Know any one, Parsons, to whom I could show the lanes? I’d be an awful good guide.”
“I rather fancy, sir, young folk find ’em pretty easy without help.”
“You’re wrong there—they don’t—least some don’t; they stick to the barren moor and the wind-swept places. Not very good tea this morning, Parsons.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“ ’Twouldn’t have been good, anyhow. I’m in for a bad day. I can feel it in my bones.”
Parsons laid out a tweed suit and a cheerful necktie, and placed a silk dressing-gown over the bedrail.
“Ready for your bath, sir?”
“Yes, turn it on.”
Parsons retired and returned a few moments later with the announcement:
“A gentleman has called to see you, sir. I told him you wasn’t up, but he asked permission to wait.”
“Who is he?”
“Mr. Lane Quiltan, sir.”
“Quiltan, oh, yes—yes, wrote that play at the—. What’s he after?”
“I don’t know, sir. Looked a bit worried, I thought.”
“Oh! I don’t know the fellar. What’s he like? Think he’d care for me in my dressing-gown?”
“I could ask, sir.”
“Yes, ask, and tell him if he wants me in a suit he can’t have me at all.”
Clementine Rendall swung his feet to the floor as the door closed and felt for his slippers. He pulled on the bandanna dressing-gown, lit a cigarette, and combed his hair. As he did so he sang cheerfully a song written to the occasion:
“I don’t know the fellar,
I don’t know the fellar,
I don’t know the fellar,
Or who the hell he is.”
At the conclusion he became aware of the reflection of a stranger in the mirror.
“Hullo! Mr. Quiltan,” he said. “Excuse my song—went with the comb strokes. Liked your play no end—top hole! Sit down, won’t you. What you come to see me for, eh?”
Quiltan hesitated.
“It’s difficult to answer,” he replied, “for really I don’t know.”
“That’s the style. Just a friendly visit.”
“Not altogether. I want to talk to some one—and I chose you. I’m in love.”
“I envy you.”
“You needn’t, for I’m as miserable as hell.”
“It’s all a part of it.”
“And I don’t know what to do.”
“It’s all a part of it.”
“Don’t you want to know with whom I’m in love?”
“Does it concern me?”
“In a way it does.”
“Fire ahead.”
“Wynne Rendall is your nephew, isn’t he? I’m in love with his wife.”
Clementine shot a quick, fierce glance at his visitor.
“Oh! Well, hadn’t you better get over it?”
“I’m not sure that I want to. Not at all sure.”
“Then I’m glad you came to see me. Why did you?”
“Your name occurred last night. She said that you understood. Well, I want you to understand, that’s all; to understand that, if anything goes wrong, it’s her husband’s fault, not hers.”
“And not yours?” The question was very direct.
“No, by God, I believe not mine either. I want her to be happy—I think of nothing else.”
“And isn’t she?”
“You know the life she’s led!”
“Well?”
“Doesn’t that answer the question? He treats her as if she didn’t exist. I verily believe he isn’t even conscious of her.”
“Is she in love with you?”
Quiltan hesitated. “Not yet—but I think I could make her.”
“Ha! Make her love you that you may make her happy, eh? Roundabout scheme, isn’t it?”
“She shall be happy. I’m determined on that.”
“You’re very sympathetic.”
“I am.”
Clem’s voice softened.
“I believe you are,” he said. “Tell me—what’s the trouble there?”
“He’s cheated her, and used her as a ladder to climb from her world. It’s a damnable enough story—d’you want to hear it?”
“No—no—no. I can fill in the gaps. But look here! D’you think a lover will make up for what she’s lost? And are you sure she has lost? That’s the point to decide.”
“I say he ignores her—isn’t conscious of her—”
“But imagine what might happen if he were.”
“He never will be.”
“You’re very sure.”
“Absolutely.”
“How long have you known her?”
“We met first last Friday.”
“And today’s Thursday. Six days?”
“We’ve met every day since.”
“Does he know that?”
“No.”
“Tell him.”
“Why should I?”
“You said you wanted her to be happy.”
“I do, but why should I tell him?”
“Love is a light sleeper—who wakes very easily. Tell him—wake him up. The boy is drunk with success—blind drunk. Are you going to steal from a blind man?”
“I shan’t tell him,” said Quiltan, slowly.
“No, because you’re a coward. Frightened of losing ground. Her happiness! You don’t give a damn for it beside your own.”
“That’s not true. If I refuse to tell him, it’s because he wouldn’t care if I did. God! he isn’t even faithful to her.”
Clementine Rendall sprang to his feet and dropped a hand on Quiltan’s shoulder.
“You’re inventing it—inventing it.”
“No. He boasted at the club the other night of a girl he would take to Brighton.”
“He was drunk.”
“He had been drinking.”
“Who listens to a drunken man?”
“He was sober enough to mean it. Besides, it’s true. I know the girl—Esme Waybury, a pretty, flaxen little strumpet—week-end wife to any bidder—understudying at the theatre. You needn’t doubt the facts. Half the company knows by this time.”
Clem rapped his closed fist upon the table.
“I hate this,” he exclaimed, “hate it! What will she do—Eve?”
“God knows. It’ud be the last knock. God knows how she’ll take it. Anything might happen—she’s extraordinary, and she’s counted on him so much—built up a future of hopes. It’s pitiable. If he fails her altogether—”
“If?”
“As he will tomorrow night.”
“Tss!”
“Sounds sordid enough, doesn’t it?”
“Well, what then?”
“As I said—anything. She might jump off a bridge.”
“Or fall into your arms, eh?”
“They are waiting.”
For a moment or two Clementine paced the floor of the bedroom, his brows creased and his chin down.
“Where’s it all going to lead? How are we going to pull ’em out?”
“Them?”
“Yes. For the boy’s worth saving when he comes to life. I’m sorry for him—damn sorry.”
“Think he’s worth it?”
“Worth it? Of course he’s worth it. One can see—you can’t, perhaps, but I can—why this has happened. She knows too. One gets a true perspective right down the aisle of all those straining, striving years through which he struggled. A boy of no physique, whose mind was a great question-mark, and a mighty desire to find the answer. That was all that mattered—Nature could go hang. He’s dragooned that body of his to carry the mind to the places where the answers might be found—worked, toiled, sweated, starved for that ideal, asking no help, accepting no charity, driving, driving forward on the fuel of his own brain. Then she came—the all-understanding she—and took half the burden from his shoulders, and built up his neglected body to the likeness of a man. Nature was coming back! She knew his ideals, and wanted him to realize them—gave up herself that he might realize them, for there was a promise in his eyes that she and the ideals might be one.”
“Will it come true?”
“God knows; but He does not put promises there for nothing. It’s all outside their reach now. Now Nature is taking a hand—cruel, tempting, thrilling old Nature. She’s found the untried subject, and is whispering her thousand impulses in his ear. Take your mind back, Quiltan. Can’t you remember how it was? Can’t you recall the first pretty face you kissed, for no better reason than a whisper of Nature’s that today it would be different from what it had been before. And wasn’t it different? And didn’t Nature whisper to you that night of a thousand other differences? And didn’t you tremble and wonder, and wasn’t curiosity alive in you? Oh, man, it comes to all of us sooner or later, and the later it comes the more devil there is to pay. A boy is young enough to be afraid and old enough to live clean; but a man is not afraid, and when his passions come to life they rule him through and through, and no damned power on earth can turn them aside.”
“There isn’t much hope, then, for her.”
“It looks like that. But we’ve got to try.”
“Are you going to see him?”
“Not for an instant.”
“Then what?”
“Don’t know. Perhaps something will turn up. But you’ll give her her chance?”
Quiltan hesitated.
“Come on, man!”
“Very well.”
“Word of honour?”
“Word of honour.”
“Good. Where can I find you tomorrow?”
“You’ve got my card. I’ll stop in all day.”
“There’s a good chap.”
Quiltan rose and moved toward the door.
“Good-bye, then.”
“ ’Bye.”