Spinster of This Parish

by W. B. Maxwell

And he came up the stairs; with Eustace and the colonel following, both of them really scared now.

“Go in there,” said Eustace, and, while Dyke entered the darkened room, he whispered to his father: “If he is violent I shall send for the police.”

Mr. Verinder ran up for a dressing-jacket, came down and sat at the same table, looking queer without his collar. As Eustace switched on the lamps the Leaders sprang into life, smiling at them all again. Dyke threw his slouch hat and an Inverness cape to the floor, stood with his hair absurdly ruffled; then sank upon the amber satin sofa.

“I have been walking about, feeling half mad,” he began in a humble tone, then paused. His face was strangely pale, as though all the blood had gone from it; and they noticed, during the pause, that he seemed suddenly to shiver or gasp for breath. “Look here. I want to apologise to you—Out there, trying to think, I felt that I deserved to be kicked. Anybody would say you’re quite right—from your point of view.” And he looked at them most piteously. “I’m sorry I made a noise. But please make allowances. This—this entanglement—or whatever you like to call it—is so tragically serious for both of us. I mean for her as well as for me. That’s why I beg you to bear with me—to reach an understanding, a solution—to do anything rather than just quarrel about it. If, to begin with, you can only put yourself in my place”; and he seemed to be wringing his hands. “Verinder, I want that girl. I simply can’t live without her.”

He said these last words in a hoarse whisper that was more disturbing to hear than if it had been a loud cry of pain. It jarred upon the ear, it set one’s teeth on edge; and the expression of his haggard face added to the physical commotion he produced, even if one did not think of what he had said. The colonel felt the commotion all through his stout body; Eustace held up an arm, as if calling for invisible cabs.

“Verinder!” He was perceptibly shivering—a tremor that made his limbs jerk. “Verinder—don’t you see? This is tearing me to pieces. Surely you can comprehend? You were young once—under forty, full of life. Perhaps you were unhappy too—as I have been—lonely—Didn’t you ever feel the longing to make a girl your own?”

Mr. Verinder, once more white with anger, shouted in his turn. “Will you remember that I am her father.”

“I know. Forgive me. I express myself badly.” And he sat staring at the carpet, and shivering as though some fever of the jungle again had him in its clutch. They watched him; and when he raised his head they saw it for moment convulsed and twitching. He put his hand to his forehead, and then continued to speak. “You and I must have it out, mustn’t we? We can’t leave it all in doubt. I must settle it before I sail for South America”; and he gave a groan. “I want that girl. I can’t live without her. She has become the whole world to me. She wants me, too. And, remember, other people mayn’t want her like that—I mean, as I do.” As he went on it seemed to them that delirium had set in. He was raving at them now. “We can’t do without each other. Well, that’s love. Love! What is it? I can’t say. But no one’s to blame for it. A chance? A fatality? Some day these things will be scientifically ascertained, and then the accident of love will be avoidable—to be guarded against. But it isn’t now.”

He paused as if for breath, and cast glances round the room before he went on again.

“Verinder, I know you want to do what’s right and proper. You’re a man of high principle—no one could doubt that. Only don’t be hide-bound—or tied down by prejudice. Look the thing in the face. I see the obstacles, plainly, from your point of view—but somehow we must get over them. You and your friends are people of the world—you have all sorts of social riddles at your fingers’ ends. Can’t you find an answer? Can’t you cut the knot? If we could only tide over—get round the obstacle—then we should come to daylight one day. No,” he cried forcibly. “I mustn’t say that—I mustn’t hint that my unhappy wife may die and cut the knot herself. Besides, it isn’t true. Her physical health is excellent. She’ll probably live to a hundred”; and once more he groaned. “But one thing is certain, Verinder. You can’t say we must be left quite without hope—and remain divided for ever. Oh, no, that would be inhuman. Neither of us could submit. Verinder, my dear fellow, it’s in your power to make it hard for us or easy. Don’t make it hard for us.”