«A—ah!»
«Who?»
«You’ll never guess.» Mr. Hutton kept up the joke until it began to grow tedious, and then pronounced the name «Janet Spence.»
Doris was incredulous. «Miss Spence of the Manor? That old woman?» It was too ridiculous. Mr. Hutton laughed too.
«But it’s quite true,» he said. «She adores me.» Oh, the vast joke. He would go and see her as soon as he returned—see and conquer. «I believe she wants to marry me,» he added.
«But you wouldn’t … you don’t intend….»
The air was fairly crepitating with humour. Mr. Hutton laughed aloud. «I intend to marry you,» he said. It seemed to him the best joke he had ever made in his life.
When Mr. Hutton left Southend he was once more a married man. It was agreed that, for the time being, the fact should be kept secret. In the autumn they would go abroad together, and the world should be informed. Meanwhile he was to go back to his own house and Doris to hers.
The day after his return he walked over in the afternoon to see Miss Spence. She received him with the old Gioconda.
«I was expecting you to come.»
«I couldn’t keep away,» Mr. Hutton gallantly replied.
They sat in the summer-house. It was a pleasant place—a little old stucco temple bowered among dense bushes of evergreen. Miss Spence had left her mark on it by hanging up over the seat a blue-and-white Della Robbia plaque.
«I am thinking of going to Italy this autumn,» said Mr. Hutton. He felt like a ginger-beer bottle, ready to pop with bubbling humorous excitement.
«Italy….» Miss Spence closed her eyes ecstatically. «I feel drawn there too.»
«Why not let yourself be drawn?»
«I don’t know. One somehow hasn’t the energy and initiative to set out alone.»
«Alone….» Ah, sound of guitars and throaty singing. «Yes, travelling alone isn’t much fun.»
Miss Spence lay back in her chair without speaking. Her eyes were still closed. Mr. Hutton stroked his moustache. The silence prolonged itself for what seemed a very long time.
Pressed to stay to dinner, Mr. Hutton did not refuse. The fun had hardly started. The table was laid in the loggia. Through its arches they looked out on to the sloping garden, to the valley below and the farther hills. Light ebbed away; the heat and silence were oppressive. A huge cloud was mounting up the sky, and there were distant breathings of thunder. The thunder drew nearer, a wind began to blow, and the first drops of rain fell. The table was cleared. Miss Spence and Mr. Hutton sat on in the growing darkness.
Miss Spence broke a long silence by saying meditatively.
«I think everyone has a right to a certain amount of happiness, don’t you?»
«Most certainly.» But what was she leading up to? Nobody makes generalisations about life unless they mean to talk about themselves. Happiness: he looked back on his own life, and saw a cheerful, placid existence disturbed by no great griefs or discomforts or alarms. He had always had money and freedom; he had been able to do very much as he wanted. Yes, he supposed he had been happy—happier than most men. And now he was not merely happy; he had discovered in irresponsibility the secret of gaiety. He was about to say something about his happiness when Miss Spence went on speaking.
«People like you and me have a right to be happy some time in our lives.»
«Me?» said Mr. Hutton surprised.
«Poor Henry! Fate hasn’t treated either of us very well.»
«Oh, well, it might have treated me worse.»
«You re being cheerful. That’s brave of you. But don’t think I can’t see behind the mask.»
Miss Spence spoke louder and louder as the rain came down more and more heavily. Periodically the thunder cut across her utterances. She talked on, shouting against the noise.
«I have understood you so well and for so long.»
A flash revealed her, aimed and intent, leaning towards him. Her eyes were two profound and menacing gun-barrels. The darkness re-engulfed her.
«You were a lonely soul seeking a companion soul. I could sympathise with you in your solitude. Your marriage …»
The thunder cut short the sentence. Miss Spence’s voice became audible once more with the words:
«… could offer no companionship to a man of your stamp. You needed a soul mate.»
A soul mate—he! a soul mate. It was incredibly fantastic. Georgette Leblanc, the ex-soul mate of Maurice Maeterlinck. He had seen that in the paper a few days ago. So it was thus that Janet Spence had painted him in her imagination—a soul-mater. And for Doris he was a picture of goodness and the cleverest man in the world. And actually, really, he was what?—Who knows?
«My heart went out to you. I could understand; I was lonely, too.» Miss Spence laid her hand on his knee. «You were so patient.» Another flash. She was still aimed, dangerously. «You never complained. But I could guess—I could guess.»
«How wonderful of you!» So he was an âme incomprise.
«Only a woman’s intuition….»
The thunder crashed and rumbled, died away, and only the sound of the ram was left. The thunder was his laughter, magnified, externalised. Flash and crash, there it was again, right on top of them.
«Don’t you feel that you have within you something that is akin to this storm?» He could imagine her leaning forward as she uttered the words. «Passion makes one the equal of the elements.»
What was his gambit now? Why, obviously, he should have said «Yes,» and ventured on some unequivocal gesture. But Mr. Hutton suddenly took fright. The ginger beer in him had gone flat. The woman was serious—terribly serious. He was appalled.
Passion? «No,» he desperately answered. «I am without passion.»
But his remark was either unheard or unheeded, for Miss Spence went on with a growing exaltation, speaking so rapidly, however, and in such a burningly intimate whisper that Mr. Hutton found it very difficult to distinguish what she was saying. She was telling him, as far as he could make out, the story of her life. The lightning was less frequent now, and there were long intervals of darkness. But at each flash he saw her still aiming towards him, still yearning forward with a terrifying intensity.
Darkness, the rain, and then flash! her face was there, close at hand. A pale mask, greenish white; the large eyes, the narrow barrel of the mouth, the heavy eyebrows. Agrippina, or wasn’t it rather—yes, wasn’t it rather George Robey?
He began devising absurd plans for escaping. He might suddenly jump up, Pretending he had seen a burglar—Stop thief, stop thief!—and dash off into the night in pursuit. Or should he say that he felt faint, a heart attack? or that he had seen, a ghost—Emily’s ghost—in the garden? Absorbed in his childish plotting, he had ceased to pay any attention to Miss Spence’s words. The spasmodic clutching of her hand recalled his thoughts.
«I honoured you for that, Henry,» she was saying.
Honoured him for what?
«Marriage is a sacred tie, and your respect for it, even when the marriage was, as it was in your case, an unhappy one, made me respect you and admire you, and—shall I dare say the word?—»
Oh, the burglar, the ghost in the garden! But it was too late.
«… yes, love you, Henry, all the more. But we’re free now, Henry.»
Free? There was a movement in the dark, and she was kneeling on the floor by his chair.
«Oh, Henry, Henry, I have been unhappy too.»
Her arms embraced him, and by the shaking of her body he could feel that she was sobbing. She might have been a suppliant crying for mercy.
«You mustn’t, Janet,» he protested. Those tears were terrible, terrible. «Not now, not now! You must be calm; you must go to bed.» He patted her shoulder, then got up, disengaging himself from her embrace. He left her still crouching on the floor beside the chair on which he had been sitting.
Groping his way into the hall, and without waiting to look for his hat, he went out of the house, taking infinite pains to close the front door noiselessly behind him. The clouds had blown over, and the moon was shining from a clear sky. There were puddles all along the road, and a noise of running water rose from the gutters and ditches. Mr. Hutton splashed along, not caring if he got wet.
How heartrendingly she had sobbed! With the emotions of pity and remorse that the recollection evoked in him there was a certain resentment: why couldn’t she have played the game that he was playing the heartless, amusing game? Yes, but he had known all the time that she wouldn’t, she couldn’t play that game; he had known and persisted.
What had she said about passion and the elements? Something absurdly stale, but true, true. There she was, a cloud black bosomed and charged with thunder, and he, like some absurd little Benjamin Franklin, had sent up a kite into the heart of the menace. Now he was complaining that his toy had drawn the lightning.
She was probably still kneeling by that chair in the loggia, crying.
But why hadn’t he been able to keep up the game? Why had his irresponsibility deserted him, leaving him suddenly sober in a cold world? There were no answers to any of his questions. One idea burned steady and luminous in his mind—the idea of flight. He must get away at once.
IV
«What are you thinking about, Teddy Bear?»
«Nothing.»
There was a silence. Mr. Hutton remained motionless, his elbows on the parapet of the terrace, his chin in his hands, looking down over Florence. He had taken a
