LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Then don't bother.”

      “Yes; I'm going!” she said, turning away.

      “Wait! I'll look!” But he could not see. “I'll strike a match.”

      He secretly hoped it was too late to catch the train. She saw the glowing lantern of his hands as he cradled the light: then his face lit up, his eyes fixed on the watch. Instantly all was dark again. All was black before her eyes; only a glowing match was red near her feet. Where was he?

      “What is it?” she asked, afraid.

      “You can't do it,” his voice answered out of the darkness.

      There was a pause. She felt in his power. She had heard the ring in his voice. It frightened her.

      “What time is it?” she asked, quiet, definite, hopeless.

      “Two minutes to nine,” he replied, telling the truth with a struggle.

      “And can I get from here to the station in fourteen minutes?”

      “No. At any rate—”

      She could distinguish his dark form again a yard or so away. She wanted to escape.

      “But can't I do it?” she pleaded.

      “If you hurry,” he said brusquely. “But you could easily walk it, Clara; it's only seven miles to the tram. I'll come with you.”

      “No; I want to catch the train.”

      “But why?”

      “I do—I want to catch the train.”

      Suddenly his voice altered.

      “Very well,” he said, dry and hard. “Come along, then.”

      And he plunged ahead into the darkness. She ran after him, wanting to cry. Now he was hard and cruel to her. She ran over the rough, dark fields behind him, out of breath, ready to drop. But the double row of lights at the station drew nearer. Suddenly:

      “There she is!” he cried, breaking into a run.

      There was a faint rattling noise. Away to the right the train, like a luminous caterpillar, was threading across the night. The rattling ceased.

      “She's over the viaduct. You'll just do it.”

      Clara ran, quite out of breath, and fell at last into the train. The whistle blew. He was gone. Gone!—and she was in a carriage full of people. She felt the cruelty of it.

      He turned round and plunged home. Before he knew where he was he was in the kitchen at home. He was very pale. His eyes were dark and dangerous-looking, as if he were drunk. His mother looked at him.

      “Well, I must say your boots are in a nice state!” she said.

      He looked at his feet. Then he took off his overcoat. His mother wondered if he were drunk.

      “She caught the train then?” she said.

      “Yes.”

      “I hope HER feet weren't so filthy. Where on earth you dragged her I don't know!”

      He was silent and motionless for some time.

      “Did you like her?” he asked grudgingly at last.

      “Yes, I liked her. But you'll tire of her, my son; you know you will.”

      He did not answer. She noticed how he laboured in his breathing.

      “Have you been running?” she asked.

      “We had to run for the train.”

      “You'll go and knock yourself up. You'd better drink hot milk.”

      It was as good a stimulant as he could have, but he refused and went to bed. There he lay face down on the counterpane, and shed tears of rage and pain. There was a physical pain that made him bite his lips till they bled, and the chaos inside him left him unable to think, almost to feel.

      “This is how she serves me, is it?” he said in his heart, over and over, pressing his face in the quilt. And he hated her. Again he went over the scene, and again he hated her.

      The next day there was a new aloofness about him. Clara was very gentle, almost loving. But he treated her distantly, with a touch of contempt. She sighed, continuing to be gentle. He came round.

      One evening of that week Sarah Bernhardt was at the Theatre Royal in Nottingham, giving “La Dame aux Camelias”. Paul wanted to see this old and famous actress, and he asked Clara to accompany him. He told his mother to leave the key in the window for him.

      “Shall I book seats?” he asked of Clara.

      “Yes. And put on an evening suit, will you? I've never seen you in it.”

      “But, good Lord, Clara! Think of ME in evening suit at the theatre!” he remonstrated.

      “Would you rather not?” she asked.

      “I will if you WANT me to; but I s'll feel a fool.”

      She laughed at him.

      “Then feel a fool for my sake, once, won't you?”

      The request made his blood flush up.

      “I suppose I s'll have to.”

      “What are you taking a suitcase for?” his mother asked.

      He blushed furiously.

      “Clara asked me,” he said.

      “And what seats are you going in?”

      “Circle—three-and-six each!”

      “Well, I'm sure!” exclaimed his mother sarcastically.

      “It's only once in the bluest of blue moons,” he said.

      He dressed at Jordan's, put on an overcoat and a cap, and met Clara in a cafe. She was with one of her suffragette friends. She wore an old long coat, which did not suit her, and had a little wrap over her head, which he hated. The three went to the theatre together.

      Clara took off her coat on the stairs, and he discovered she was in a sort of semi-evening dress, that left her arms and neck and part of her breast bare. Her hair was done fashionably. The dress, a simple thing of green crape, suited her. She looked quite grand, he thought. He could see her figure inside the frock, as if that were wrapped closely round her. The firmness and the softness of her upright body could almost be felt as he looked at her. He clenched his fists.

      And he was to sit all the evening beside her beautiful naked arm, watching the strong throat rise from the strong chest, watching the breasts under the green stuff, the curve of her limbs in the tight dress. Something in him hated her again for submitting him to this torture of nearness. And he loved her as she balanced her head and stared straight in front of her, pouting, wistful, immobile, as if she yielded herself to her fate because it was too strong for her. She could not help herself; she was in the grip of something bigger than herself. A kind of eternal look about her, as if she were a wistful sphinx, made it necessary for him to kiss her. He dropped his programme, and crouched down on the floor to get it, so that he could kiss her hand and wrist. Her beauty was a torture to him. She sat immobile. Only, when the lights went down, she sank a little against him, and he caressed her hand and arm with his fingers. He could smell her faint perfume. All the time his blood kept sweeping up in great white-hot waves that killed his consciousness momentarily.

      The drama continued. He saw it all in the distance, going on somewhere; he did not know where, but it seemed far away inside him. He was Clara's white heavy arms, her throat, her moving bosom. That seemed to be himself. Then away somewhere the play went on, and he was identified with that also. There was no himself. The grey and black eyes of Clara, her bosom coming down on him, her arm that he held gripped between his hands, were all that existed. Then he felt himself small and helpless, her towering in her force above him.

      Only the intervals, when the

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