The Dawn of Reckoning (29 page)

She read on haphazardly.

July 4th.
Why was I made, not only weak physically,
but so indescribably futile in everything I do? This morning I went out to
sack one of the gardeners. The man told me such a long tale that I ended by
giving him a half-crown rise. I simply hadn’t the power to meet him. In
personality—in all that makes a man a man and not a mere
laughing-stock—he was my superior. That is why I don’t blame Stella for
loving Ward. Ward is a
man
.

Aug. 10th.
I can see now that I have always hated Ward. I hate his
“rightness”—the smashing ease with which he gets through life. I can’t
ever forget the time we waited outside the Senate House at Cambridge to learn
the result of our examinations. I don’t hate him because he got a first. But
I do hate him because he wouldn’t have cared if he hadn’t. O God, how I
care…I care my hardest, and try my hardest, and the
result—
failure
.

Aug. 11th.
Continuing. I used to think I had failed in everything
except my marriage. Now I know that I have failed in everything without the
exception…If Ward loved Stella and stole her from me openly, I could curse
him like a man and put up with it. But he’s too honourable for that. He won’t
take her because she’s mine. I can’t bear his damned magnanimity. I’d rather
perish as a man than live on sufferance as a piteous child. There’s nothing
fails like failure.

Aug. 16th.
Why do I continue the impossible fight? Why don’t I take
Stella away and hide her where she can’t see Ward? I have plenty of
money—I could live what most folks call an easy life if I wanted to.
But I can’t surrender—I
must
go on fighting. Stella doesn’t
understand me. Neither does Ward. Nor does anybody. The complaint that nobody
understands him is very probably the last excuse of the incompetent.

Sept. 29th.
I pin my faith to some dim and unearthly success in the
future. I
must
succeed. If my soul (I care nothing for my body) is to
keep whole, I must break this long ridiculous record of failure. I must break
it shatteringly. Ward told me to-day how he hated all the fuss that was made
over him when he came back from his polar expedition. I should despise him if
I thought he didn’t mean it. But I know he
did
mean it. And though I
don’t despise him, I hate him, because he doesn’t care—because he wins
so often that he can afford to throw away his gains.

Sept. 30th.
To-day I read an extraordinary book called
Trent’s
Last Case
, by A. C. Bentley. It’s a sort of detective-story, and the
queer thing is that it has an idea in it that I have had in my mind for some
time. I’m afraid reading the book has made that idea plainer to me. It’s
dreadful, but oh, if I could do it I In the detective-story a wealthy
financier sort of person kills himself in such a way that his secretary, who
has been carrying on with his wife, is accused of murder. But of course
there’s a witness of the actual suicide, and so the case doesn’t even get as
far as the police-court. That’s where your clever fiction-detective comes in.
In real life, though, that wouldn’t happen. Oh, I’m tired—tired
out—my brain’s going, I believe.

Oct. 2nd.
It is typical of my deplorable condition that it gives me
a certain delight to blame other people for it. My mother, for instance. She
sees through me; she knows I’m a weakling, an incapable. I don’t think she
ever loved me. Love—what is it? First definition: something that my
mother hasn’t got. Stella? Ah, little Stella has love, but not for me. A baby
love, perhaps—the sort of love she would give to a kitten. She pities
me. I shall never forget her face when I bungled that football kick-off. She
looked at the crowd as much as to say: Don’t you dare to laugh at
him—he’s my little pet. And she looked at me as much as to say: How
could you be such an idiot I’m nothing like the financier person in
Trent’s Last Case.
He was just jealous of his wife’s attentions with
another man. I’m not that. I’m a weak man who won’t be weak. I’m justifying
myself before the universe.

Of course, people who do that or think they are doing it are really quite
mad.

Oct. 5th.
I am making up my mind slowly, and when I have finally
done that, nothing shall stop me. My soul is burning with a new vigour. I
wonder what category Lombroso or Nordau would put me into.

Dec. 9th.
I tested myself to-day. I gave orders that Stella’s
kitten should be drowned. Why? Because something in my brain got hold of me
and said: You
must
do this, or you will go under. But of course I
bungled the affair. I ought never to have told the gardener to do it.
Question: Why didn’t I drown the kitten myself? Answer: Because I couldn’t
bear to. My brain is too far ahead of my body. I could never commit a
murder—myself. But I could kill my own body because I hate it—I
loathe it—it has disgraced me. Poor Stella, I feel so sorry for her
about the kitten. That sounds the foulest and most damnable hypocrisy, but
before God, it’s the living truth.

Dec. 12th.
I know that I am fighting Ward to the death. I shall
fight cunningly, despicably, with diabolical ingenuity, and let none blame me
because I was not made to fight any other way. He who is in earnest fights
how he can…To the death—mine and then his. Greater hate hath no man
than this…

She closed the book and stared at it as one transfixed. Was
she mad? She wondered almost calmly if her brain were sliding into chaos. She
sat perfectly still for what seemed hours to her, striving to grasp reality,
to hang on to any fact, however insignificant, that provided a safe and true
anchorage. The book—yes, it existed. She was certain of that; she could
feel its soft richly-marked leather beneath her open hand. But the
rest—was it all a nightmare?

She opened the book again and read a few pages haphazardly; then she
clenched her fists and jerked herself into sudden activity. It was as if she
were pushing physical clouds from before her eyes. She looked at her watch.
It was after half-past five…

Activity grew in her like a prairie-fire. Half-past five.
There was no time to be horrified, amazed, sceptical; no time to reason,
examine, ask advice. Half-past five—just over three more hours…No
time for anything but to act. Good God—they
must
not hang
him—not now, not now. Half-past five…She must act without a moment’s
delay. First—the telephone.

She did not care—did not think about anything but her one single
aim. They must not hang him—
must
not. What a tiresome unwieldy
thing a telephone directory was…Half-past five—just over three more
hours…

It seemed an age—an eternity—before she got through. A
dull-sounding, very indistinct voice replied to her first eager
self-introduction. Mrs. Monsell…Oh, yes,
the
Mrs. Monsell…Yes,
the
Mrs. Monsell…Most important…Innocence…Absolute
proof…
must
delay…

The voice, more dull-sounding, less distinct than ever. Extremely
sorry…Quite impossible…approach the solicitors…no
authority…asleep…too early in the morning…

Half-past five—getting on for six. She banged down the receiver. Not
another moment would she waste on
that
method. She must go in person
with the book. Immediately. She thought of the car, and remembered that the
chauffeur was asleep and that there were some small repairs that would have
to be made before setting out. No, the car would be too slow. But there was a
train to town at six—the first train of the day. Even with stops it
would probably be quicker than waiting for the car to be prepared. The train,
then…Twenty to six…She rushed upstairs and put on a hat and coat. Then
she rushed down again and slipped out through the servants’ entrance into the
quiet fresh-smelling streets. A quarter to six by the clock on the
clock-tower! The policeman on duty gave her a curious stare as she passed
him.

At the station everyone stared at her—booking-clerk,
ticket-collector, porters, guard, passengers, the whole assembled population.
They knew her from the photographs in the picture-papers, and they knew also
that this was the morning—
the
morning. How they stared…and
some of them grinned. She swept past them on to the platform like a tornado;
she was aflame with an eagerness that gave her a miraculous clarity of
thought. She chose, for example, the front compartment of the train, so that
she would be able to jump out quickly at London Bridge.

The train stopped agonisingly at all stations as far as Croydon. Several
times she nearly yielded herself to panic, but some secret strength in her
responded to each more pressing demand. Not yet—not yet…A quarter to
seven—Three Bridges…Good God—if she were not in time. Just over
two hours now…Would the car have been quicker? The speculation was
terrible. Once when there was a signal-check she pressed her head till she
winced with pain, in order to stop herself from screaming aloud. Then, after
passing Redhill, the train went faster, and she found it less difficult to
keep calm There were others in the compartment; they stared at her, but not
with recognition.

One thing she did during the journey—and did with such passion that
she could almost have repeated it afterwards word for word—she read the
whole diary through from cover to cover. It was real enough then. She tried
to keep her mind calm while she was reading—she tried to grasp the
facts, not to judge the issues. There was no longer time for that…Seven
o’clock…Two hours longer—a hundred and twenty minutes. God—if
she were too late!

One thing she was certain of—that the book, in parts at any rate,
had been written by a madman.

Feb. 6th
I have now almost perfected my plans. This
bye-election makes everything simpler. And it is the irony of fate that this
time I have just the very slightest chance of winning it.

Feb. 10th.
Ward came this morning and brought the revolver. Nobody
knows about it. The only problem left is a medical one. The chest is, I
think, better than the head; it gives one more time to arrange matters. More
painful and slower, perhaps, but then—“you cannot eat your pastry and
have it,” as my old French master used to say. The pity of it is that I can’t
endure physical pain. But I
must
. It will be a test. If I am worth
anything at all, I
shall
.

Feb. 11th.
Stella visited Ward in town to-day. I had her followed,
of course. But there was no need—poor souls, their intentions are
strictly honourable. Ward would not betray me for the world. Yet every day,
though he will not have her himself, he takes her farther away from me.

I have now arranged that Venner shall come into the room at the exact
moment when Ward and I shall be quarrelling. Venner will make a good witness
at the trial; he possesses just the right mixture of stupidity and
unimpeachability.

Feb. 21st.
I know, by the way, that I am going mad. My brain is
“racing.” Stella, poor child, is frightened of me…

Feb. 25th.
All prepared now. I shall be ill on the day of the poll,
so that Stella can deputize for me at the Town Hall. That damnable
speechifying. “Friends and constituents—I thank you from the bottom of
my heart for the great honour you have done my husband…This is indeed a
great and magnificent victory…” Ha, ha, ha, ha. A great and magnificent
victory.

This book goes off to-morrow morning according to the careful plans I have
made. It will be well out of England by the 28th, and will not return until
everything—if the plot works well—is carried out.
Clever—wonderful. I shall succeed. I have the courage of hell in me. My
soul grows apace. I am quite mad. Good luck and good-bye. The Great Day
approaches—the Dawn of Reckoning—General Contango…

She sat there reading in the compartment, while the early morning sunlight
streamed in through the window.

At Croydon she bought a morning newspaper. Across the top,
in a streamer head-line, was “Ward to Die This Morning.” She spoke to herself
very firmly and almost aloud: “Ward shall
not
die this morning…”

“All night long,” declared a front-page special message, “there has been a
large crowd outside Holloway Jail…”

The leading article was headed “Murder,” and defended the Home Secretary’s
refusal to grant a reprieve. “We hope it will be a long time before the
so-called ‘crime passionel’ is regarded in England as less heinous than any
other species of crime. Why should one single passion of the human heart be
specially licensed to pursue its aims and desires to the bitter end, while
others are curbed by the strong hand of the hangman? Jealousy is cruel as the
grave, says the wise man, and we do not see why Avarice and Hate and Envy
should be placed in a less favoured position. That a man, no matter what his
rank, profession, reputation, or past career, should deliberately and in cold
blood murder his lifelong friend in order to possess his friend’s wife, is as
despicable a crime as we can imagine. The Home Secretary is to be
congratulated on doing his duty in the face of a hysterical and baseless
agitation such as we hope will never occur again.”

It was eight o’clock as the train raced through New Cross. A few minutes
after that, she was on the platform at London Bridge, squirming her way
through the crowd, and praying that there might be a taxi in the yard.
Fortunately there were many of them. “Holloway Prison,” she cried out to the
Driver, “and a pound extra if you do it in a quarter of an hour.”

“Impossible, mum. Twenty minutes, maybe—with luck.”

“All right. Only for God’s sake be as quick as you dare.”

The sight of all the scurry and bustle of London threw her into panic
again. It seemed to her that every van and every omnibus was bent upon
getting into her way and snatching the precious seconds from her. At the
corner of Cannon Street there was a two-minute hold-up of traffic. She felt
that her brain was bursting…But the driver took her through Queen Street,
Cheapside, Aldersgate, Goswell Road, past the Angel, Islington, and then
along Upper Street. There were no further delays. But she had only a vague
idea where Holloway was, and the distance surprised her. It was after
half-past eight when the driver pulled up outside the huge prison gates. He
had hardly earned his extra pound, but she gave it him.