And the achievement which would have justified him—the book? Gareth was writing feverishly, neglecting his office-work, writing at every spare moment, early morning and late night. The hollows in his cheeks became more apparent; his eyes deeper sunken in their sockets. He was writing against time; writing against that thing which lay in the bottom drawer of his desk. The girl whose touch was cool came to him no more; the dusty black china cat watched him glassily from the mantelshelf. And Kathleen came in and out, and lied to him as if it were not worth while.
He guessed that her crisis was near at hand. From a certain crafty observance, newly and strangely acquired, he was able to deduce the date of the actual flight. Kathleen made no elaborate provisions that he should that evening be out of the way. She evidently intended to pack her trunk during the day, when he was at the office; send it in advance of her to Charing Cross; and trust to his amiability, stupidity—to let her depart without enquiries: "I'm going for a walk, Gareth." In anticipation he saw her eyes sparkling to an image beyond his bowed shoulders at the dining-room table; not caring if he heard her farewell or not. And he had drudged for her sixteen years.
After all, a certain amount was due to him on such an occasion. He was willing to let them go, yes; but could they not betray fear of being found out? take some pains to elude his vigilance? pay him tribute of stammering subterfuge and sidelong anxious looks? This drama of three had been performed so often—but this time two showed a disposition to cut out the part of the third altogether.
For the past fortnight, Kathleen had creamed her neck and arms every night before going to bed; and before the glass she brushed and brushed at her long black hair till the grey threads glittered; she also attempted to soften by massage the network of tiny winkles beneath her eyes, and the two drawn lines at each corner of the mouth. She was still a handsome woman, with the old suggestion of a wilder redder strain than the Saxon in her delicate aquiline nose, high cheekbones, and lithe body. But forty-three carries its mark. Gareth lay in bed and watched her efforts to remove them. She could not help that, since it was also his room. But he felt it a supreme insolence, this attempt before his very eyes at rejuvenescence for her lover. He wanted to tell her so ... knew there was some reason why he must pretend to be unaware of anything impending. What reason?... Why, yes, of course, he wanted her to go—but it required an effort to remember this, with nerves rasped to their present condition.
On the eve of the decisive Friday, Gareth returned early from the office, shivering from head to foot, racking pains just above his eyes, hands burning, and with an insistent dry cough from his chest. His chest, never strong, had not been sufficiently wrapped up in view of the recent October mists.
"I'm not well," he muttered, as he walked swayingly up the stairs to the bedroom. "Not well," and sat on the edge of the bed, and pressed his hot fingers to his hot eyelids, and repeated a great many times "Her touch is as cold as the sand in a cave ... her touch is as cold as the sand in a cave."... Oh, why did she never come to him now, his dream-girl? Never since that pile of manuscript lay buried in the bottom drawer of his desk. He could not afford to be ill—suddenly starting to his feet; he had to finish his book; at any moment Pat O'Neill might walk in and demand to know what had become of "The Reverse of the Medal"? Gareth's days at the office were haunted by the swinging of the glass door, perpetual fear of who might be the entering figure. So many strangers came to the firm of Leslie Campbell. And now, when his pen might be licking up the yards and miles of words he saw stretching ahead of him till the last chapter be reached—now he was ill, and had to waste the precious moments sitting on the edge of the bed, and coughing—coughing.
Kathleen entered, her arms laden with parcels. She started and dropped the largest of them, seeing Gareth.
"You! home so early!"
"I'm not well," he explained piteously. He noticed the parcels; guessed at their contents. She must have passed a delicious afternoon, spending all her little store of money. He guessed, too, that she was eager to unpack them, toy with the contents, try on the dainty feminine apparel by which she sought to hide her years from that other. Well, she could just attend to his wants instead; it would not be for many hours longer.
"You'd better go to bed," said Kathleen.