She let herself into the house with her latchkey. The place seemed full of an articulate silence that leapt out shouting from every corner—a jibing, grimacing, vindictive silence. She brushed it aside with a sweep of her hand, as though it were some sort of physical presence.
But who was it who brushed that silence aside? Not Stephen Gordon . . . oh, no, surely not . . . Stephen Gordon was dead; she had died last night: ‘A l’heure de notre mort . . .’ Many people had spoken those prophetic words quite a short time ago—perhaps they had been thinking of Stephen Gordon.
Yet now some one was slowly climbing the stairs, then pausing upon the landing to listen, then opening the door of Mary’s bedroom, then standing quite still and staring at Mary. It was some one whom David knew and loved well; he sprang forward with a sharp little bark of welcome. But Mary shrank back as though she had been struck—Mary pale and red-eyed from sleeplessness—or was it because of excessive weeping?
When she spoke her voice sounded unfamiliar: ‘Where were you last night?’
‘With Valérie Seymour. I thought you’d know somehow . . . It’s better to be frank . . . we both hate lies . . .’
Came that queer voice again: ‘Good God—and I’ve tried so hard not to believe it! Tell me you’re lying to me now; say it, Stephen!’
Stephen—then she wasn’t dead after all; or was she? But now Mary was clinging—clinging.
‘Stephen, I can’t believe this thing—Valérie! Is that why you always repulse me . . . why you never want to come near me these days? Stephen, answer me; are you her lover? Say something, for Christ’s sake! Don’t stand there dumb . . .’
A mist closing down, a thick black mist. Some one pushing the girl away, without speaking. Mary’s queer voice coming out of the gloom, muffled by the folds of that thick black mist, only a word here and there getting through: ‘All my life I’ve given . . . you’ve killed . . . I loved you . . . Cruel, oh, cruel! You’re unspeakably cruel . . .’ Then the sound of rough and pitiful sobbing.
No, assuredly this was not Stephen Gordon who stood there unmoved by such pitiful sobbing. But what was the figure doing in the mist? It was moving about, distractedly, wildly. All the while it sobbed it was moving about: ‘I’m going . . .’