The Well of Loneliness (62 page)

And now she must pay very dearly indeed for that inherent respect of the normal which nothing had ever been able to destroy, not even the long years of persecution—an added burden it was, handed down by the silent but watchful founders of Morton. She must pay for the instinct which, in earliest childhood, had made her feel something akin to worship for the perfect thing which she had divined in the love that existed between her parents. Never before had she seen so clearly all that was lacking to Mary Llewellyn, all that would pass from her faltering grasp, perhaps never to return, with the passing of Martin—children, a home that the world would respect, ties of affection that the world would hold sacred, the blessčd security and the peace of being released from the world’s persecution. And suddenly Martin appeared to Stephen as a creature endowed with incalculable bounty, having in his hands all those priceless gifts which she, love’s mendicant could never offer. Only one gift could ‘she offer to love, to Mary, and that was the gift of Martin.

In a kind of dream she perceived these things. In a dream she now moved and had her being; scarcely conscious of whither this dream would lead, the while her every perception was quickened. And this dream of hers was immensely compelling, so that all that she did seemed clearly predestined; she could not have acted otherwise, nor could she have made a false step, although dreaming. Like those who in sleep tread the edge of a chasm unappalled, having lost all sense of danger, so now Stephen walked on the brink of her fate, having only one fear; a nightmare fear of what she must do to give Mary her freedom.

In obedience to the mighty but unseen will that had taken control of this vivid dreaming, she ceased to respond to the girl’s tenderness, nor would she consent that they two should be lovers. Ruthless as the world itself she became, and almost as cruel in this ceaseless wounding. For in spite of Mary’s obvious misgivings, she went more and more often to see Valérie Seymour, so that gradually, as the days slipped by, Mary’s mind became a prey to suspicion. Yet Stephen struck at her again and again, desperately wounding herself in the process, though scarcely feeling the pain of her wounds for the misery of what she was doing to Mary. But even as she struck the bonds seemed to tighten, with each fresh blow to bind more securely. Mary now clung with every fibre of her sorely distressed and outraged being; with every memory that Stephen had stirred; with every passion that Stephen had fostered; with every instinct of loyalty that Stephen had aroused to do battle with Martin. The hand that had loaded Mary with chains was powerless, it seemed, to strike them from her.

Came the day when Mary refused to see Martin, when she turned upon Stephen, pale and accusing: ‘Can’t you understand? Are you utterly blind—have you only got eyes now for Valérie Seymour?’

And as though she were suddenly smitten dumb, Stephen’s lips remained closed and she answered nothing.

Then Mary wept and cried out against her: ‘I won’t let you go—I won’t let you, I tell you! It’s your fault if I love you the way I do. I can’t do without you, you’ve taught me to need you, and now .. In half-shamed, half-defiant words she must stand there and plead for what Stephen withheld, and Stephen must listen to such pleading from Mary. Then before the girl realized it she had said: ‘But for you I could have loved Martin Hallam!’

Stephen heard her own voice a long way away: But for me, you could have loved Martin Hallam.’

Mary flung despairing arms round her neck: ‘No, no! Not that, I don’t know what I’m saying.’

3

The first faint breath of spring was in the air, bringing daffodils to the flower-stalls of Paris. Once again Mary’s young cherry tree in the garden was pushing out leaves and tiny pink buds along the whole length of its childish branches.

Then Martin wrote: Stephen, where can I see you? It must be alone. Better not at your house, I think, if you don’t mind, because of Mary.’

She appointed the place. They would meet at the Auberge du Vieux Logis in the Rue Lepic. They two would meet there on the following evening. When she left the house without saying a word, Mary thought she was going to Valerie Seymour.

Stephen sat down at a table in the corner to await Martin’s coming—she herself was early. The table was gay with a new check cloth—red and white, white and red, she counted the squares, tracing them carefully out with her finger. The woman behind the bar nudged her companion: ‘En voila une originals—et quelle cicatrice, bon Dieu!’ The scar across Stephen’s pale face stood out livid.

Martin came and sat quietly down at her side, ordering some coffee for appearances’ sake. For appearances’ sake, until it was brought, they smiled at each other and made conversation. But when the waiter had turned away, Martin said: ‘It’s all over—you’ve beaten me, Stephen…The bond was too strong.’

Their unhappy eyes met as she answered: ‘I tried to strengthen that bond.’

He nodded: ‘I know…Well, my dear, you succeeded.’ Then he said: ‘I’m leaving Paris next week,’ and in spite of his effort to be calm his voice broke, ‘Stephen…do what you can to take care of Mary.’

She found that she was holding his hand. Or was it someone else who sat there beside him, who looked into his sensitive, troubled face, who spoke such queer words?

‘No, don’t go—not yet.’

‘But I don’t understand…

‘You must trust me, Martin.’ And now she heard herself speaking very gravely: ‘Would you trust me enough to do anything I asked, even though it seemed rather strange? Would you trust me if I said that I asked it for Mary, for her happiness?’

His fingers tightened: ‘Before God, yes. You know that I’d trust you!’

‘Very well then, don’t leave Paris—not now.’

‘You really want me to stay on, Stephen?’

‘Yes, I can’t explain.’

He hesitated, then he suddenly seemed to come to a decision: All right…I’ll do whatever you ask me.’

They paid for their coffee and got up to leave: ‘Let me come as far as the house,’ he pleaded.

But she shook her head: ‘No, no, not now. I’ll write to you…very soon…Goodbye, Martin.’

She watched him hurrying down the street, and when he was finally lost in its shadows, she turned slowly and made her own way up the hill, past the garish lights of the Moulin de la Galette. Its pitiful sails revolved in the wind, eternally grinding out petty sins—dry chaff blown in from the gutters of Paris. And after a while, having breasted the hill, she must climb a dusty flight of stone steps, and push open a heavy slow-moving door; the door of the mighty temple of faith that keeps its anxious but tireless vigil.

She had no idea why she was doing this thing, or what she would say to the silver Christ with one hand on His heart and the other held out in a patient gesture of supplication. The sound of praying, monotonous, low, insistent, rose up from those who prayed with extended arms, with crucified arms—like the tides of an ocean it swelled and receded and swelled again, bathing the shores of heaven.

They were calling upon the Mother of God: ‘Sainte Marie, Mere de Dieu, priez pour nous, pauvres pęcheurs, maintenant et ŕ l’heure de notre mort.’

‘Et ŕ l’heure de notre mort,’ Stephen heard herself repeating.

He looked terribly weary, the silver Christ: ‘But then He always looks tired,’ she thought vaguely; and she stood there without finding anything to say, embarrassed as one so frequently is in the presence of somebody else’s sorrow. For herself she felt nothing, neither pity nor regret; she was curiously empty of all sensation, and after a little she left the church, to walk on through the wind-swept streets of Montmartre.

Valérie stared at Stephen in amazement: ‘But…it’s such an extraordinary thing you’re asking! Are you sure you’re right to take such a step? For myself I care nothing; why should I care: If you want to pretend that you’re my lover, well, my dear, to be quite frank, I wish it were true—I feel certain you’d make a most charming lover. All the same,’ and now her voice sounded anxious, ‘this is not a thing to be done lightly, Stephen. Aren’t you being absurdly self-sacrificing? You can give the girl a very great deal.’

Stephen shook her head: ‘I can’t give her protection or happiness, and yet she won’t leave me. There’s only one way…’

Then Valérie Seymour, who had always shunned tragedy like the plague, flared out in something very like temper: ‘Protection! Protection! I’m sick of the word. Let her do without it; aren’t you enough for her? Good heavens, you’re worth twenty Mary Llewellyns! Stephen, think it over before you decide—it seems mad to me. For God’s sake keep the girl, and get what happiness you can out of life.’

‘No, I can’t do that,’ said Stephen dully.

Valérie got up: ‘Being what you are, I suppose you can’t—you were made for a martyr! Very well, I agree’; she finished abruptly, ‘though of all the curious situations that I’ve ever been in, this one beats the lot!’

That night Stephen wrote to Martin Hallam.

2

Two days later as she crossed the street to her house, Stephen saw Martin in the shadow of the archway. He stepped out and they faced each other on the pavement. He had kept his word; it was just ten o’clock.

He said: ‘I’ve come. Why did you send for me, Stephen?’ She answered heavily: ‘Because of Mary.’

And something in her face made him catch his breath, so that the questions died on his lips: ‘I’ll do whatever you want,’ he murmured.

‘It’s so simple,’ she told him, ‘it’s all perfectly simple. I want you to wait just under this arch just here where you can’t be seen from the house. I want you to wait until Mary needs you, as I think she will…it may not be long…Can I count on your being here if she needs you?’

He nodded: ‘Yes—yes!’ He was utterly bewildered, scared too by the curious look in her eyes; but he allowed her to pass him and enter the courtyard.

3

She let herself into the house with her latchkey. The place seemed full of 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 someone 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 someone 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 conic near me these days? Stephen, answer me; are you her lover? Say something, for Christ’s sake! Don’t stand there dumb…’

A mist dosing down, a thick black mist. Someone 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 as it was moving about: ‘I’m going…’

Going? But where could it go Somewhere out of the mist, somewhere into the light? Who was it that had said…wait, what were the words? ‘To give light to them that sit in darkness…’

No one was moving about any more—there was only a dog, a dog called David. Something had to be done. Go into the bedroom, Stephen Gordon’s bedroom that faced on the courtyard…just a few short steps and then the window. A girl hatless, with the sun falling full on her hair…she was almost running…she stumbled a little. But now there were two people down in the courtyard—a man had his hands on the girl’s bowed shoulders. He questioned her, yes, that was it, he questioned; and the girl was telling him why she was there, why she had fled from that thick, awful darkness. He was looking at the house, incredulous, amazed; hesitating as though he were coming in; but the girl went on and the man turned to follow…They were side by side, he was gripping her arm…They were gone; they had passed out under the archway.

Then all in a moment the stillness was shattered: ‘Mary, come back! Come back to me, Mary!’

David crouched and trembled. He had crawled to the bed, and he lay there watching with his eyes of amber; trembling because such an anguish as this struck across him like the lash of a whip, and what could he do, the poor beast, in his dumbness?

She turned and saw him, but only for a moment, for now the room seemed to be thronging with people. Who were they, these strangers with the miserable eyes? And yet, were they all strangers? Surely that was Wanda? And someone with a neat little hole in her side—Jamie clasping Barbara by the hand; Barbara with the white flowers of death on her bosom. Oh, but they were many, these unbidden guests, and they called very softly at first and then louder. They were calling her by name, saying: ‘Stephen, Stephen!’ The quick, the dead, and the yet unborn—all calling her, softly at first and then louder. Aye, and those lost and terrible brothers from Alec’s, they were here, and they also were calling: ‘Stephen, Stephen, speak with your God and ask Him why He has left us forsaken!’ She could see their marred and reproachful faces with the haunted, melancholy eyes of the invert—eyes that had looked too long on a world that lacked all pity and all understanding: ‘Stephen, Stephen, speak with your God and ask Him why He has left us forsaken!’ And these terrible ones started pointing at her with their shaking, white-skinned, effeminate fingers: ‘You and your kind have stolen our birthright; you have taken our strength and have given us your weakness!’ They were pointing at her with white shaking fingers.