He flung himself out of the room. Presently she heard him leave the flat with Sutton.
She fell down on the settee, cuddling into the stuffed corners for comfort. She shivered all over. She was cold. She ached with misery. She told herself that she was a coward. She knew perfectly well, as well as he did, that her heroics, her dramatic attitudes and words of palpable restraint, were only pose. A woman who meant suicide wouldn’t talk about it. She despised herself for that rush to the window—as he despised her. He had told her to go; he didn’t want her. But she hadn’t the courage to take him at his word. She loved him. She was perfectly willing to crawl, to cringe to him—for the sake of an occasional rough caress.
What a life it had been! She looked back along the year. She recalled his first few ardent weeks, his gradual cynicism and disregard, the constant vinegar lash of his reckless tongue, the frequent heavy blows.
What a strange, disreputable, luxurious life they led, the three of them! She included Sutton without hesitation. He was only a dependent in externals. Edred seemed more than half afraid of him. Sutton knew every money-making shuffle, every risky deal of the game.
She gazed wildly about her. Everything was luxurious, slovenly, lonely. She hadn’t an engagement to fill the day, hadn’t a woman friend in the world. Then, fleetly, her thoughts ran back with deep affection to those women she had known once—kin, perhaps—the Turles and Crisps, and Jaynes and Furlongers. Simple women! She had laughed at them, been scornful of them, been bored to death by them. At the moment she longed for them. She pictured them individually in their lonely, comfortable homes, with their traditional, simple, brainless occupations. She thought of them singly. Each one had her special reputation among her neighbors—for a particular jelly, good butter, or savory pickles.
She knew dozens of men. They came to the flat with Edred; sometimes they came when he was out, when they knew perfectly well that he was certain to be in the City. Milligan especially cultivated that trick. Her outraged virtue lighted to a cruel fire. She thought fiercely that if Milligan came up the stairs that day she would find courage to kill him.
Yes, dozens of men! They gave her flowers, once or twice a jewel. They paid her dubious compliments, discussed music-hall artistes, told queer stories in her presence. They flattered, ignored, or shocked her, as it suited the mood of the moment. She occupied exactly the position of a beautiful, expensive lap-dog, whose ears every visitor may pull, to whom every visitor may toss a lump of sugar.
London outside was gay and hot—all blue and yellow, all dust and eager noise. The top-heavy omnibus swung by, with gayly dressed women on the garden seats, fluttering bows of ribbon on the drivers’ whips. The big hats of the women, piled with feathers and imitation roses, made her think of her blazing flower borders at Folly Corner. She sat up, wiped her burning eyes, into which her bitter sorrow seemed to have corroded. She thought very calmly of Jethro—thought of the slow, easeful, reflective life which she had so lightly, so gladly, thrown out of reach. A year ago! They would have married—had a child, perhaps. His simple words—“A little son to come with me and beat in shooting-time; they soon grow up”—rippled in her throbbing head. A child! She might have had her own child by now. The dreadful ache of a barren woman caught her.
She walked up and down the untidy room, her primrose trail dragging over the dusty carpet. She rang the bell, but no one came to clear. She hadn’t a duty in the world. It was hardly noon yet. If she crawled back to her bed and sobbed away the day, if she went headlong down through the oriel window—it made no difference. She was perfectly free to do exactly as she chose.
She walked up and down in her misery and indecision, the August sun streaming into the room, where the bacon on the table was caked in a translucent layer of white grease, and the crumpled serviettes were tossed to the floor.