Five Tales. John Galsworthy
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man first went for him.”
“I saw the mark. Do you think anyone saw my brother come to you?”
“I do not know. He says not.”
“Can you tell if anyone saw him carrying the—the thing away?”
“No one in this street—I was looking.”
“Nor coming back?”
“No one.”
“Nor going out in the morning?”
“I do not think it.”
“Have you a servant?”
“Only a woman who comes at nine in the morning for an hour.”
“Does she know Larry?”
“No.”
“Friends, acquaintances?”
“No; I am very quiet. And since I knew your brother, I see no one. Nobody comes here but him for a long time now.”
“How long?”
“Five months.”
“Have you been out to-day?”
“No.”
“What have you been doing?”
“Crying.”
It was said with a certain dreadful simplicity, and pressing her hands together, she went on:
“He is in danger, because of me. I am so afraid for him.” Holding up his hand to check that emotion, he said:
“Look at me!”
She fixed those dark eyes on him, and in her bare throat, from which the coat had fallen back, he could see her resolutely swallowing down her agitation.
“If the worst comes to the worst, and this man is traced to you, can you trust yourself not to give my brother away?”
Her eyes shone. She got up and went to the fireplace:
“Look! I have burned all the things he has given me—even his picture. Now I have nothing from him.”
Keith, too, got up.
“Good! One more question: Do the police know you, because—because of your life?”
She shook her head, looking at him intently, with those mournfully true eyes. And he felt a sort of shame.
“I was obliged to ask. Do you know where he lives?”
“Yes.”
“You must not go there. And he must not come to you, here.”
Her lips quivered; but she bowed her head. Suddenly he found her quite close to him, speaking almost in a whisper:
“Please do not take him from me altogether. I will be so careful. I will not do anything to hurt him; but if I cannot see him sometimes, I shall die. Please do not take him from me.” And catching his hand between her own, she pressed it desperately. It was several seconds before Keith said:
“Leave that to me. I will see him. I shall arrange. You must leave that to me.”
“But you will be kind?”
He felt her lips kissing his hand. And the soft moist touch sent a queer feeling through him, protective, yet just a little brutal, having in it a shiver of sensuality. He withdrew his hand. And as if warned that she had been too pressing, she recoiled humbly. But suddenly she turned, and stood absolutely rigid; then almost inaudibly whispered: “Listen! Someone out—out there!” And darting past him she turned out the light.
Almost at once came a knock on the door. He could feel—actually feel the terror of this girl beside him in the dark. And he, too, felt terror. Who could it be? No one came but Larry, she had said. Who else then could it be? Again came the knock, louder! He felt the breath of her whisper on his cheek: “If it is Larry! I must open.” He shrank back against the wall; heard her open the door and say faintly: “Yes. Please! Who?”
Light painted a thin moving line on the wall opposite, and a voice which Keith recognised answered:
“All right, miss. Your outer door's open here. You ought to keep it shut after dark.”
God! That policeman! And it had been his own doing, not shutting the outer door behind him when he came in. He heard her say timidly in her foreign voice: “Thank you, sir!” the policeman's retreating steps, the outer door being shut, and felt her close to him again. That something in her youth and strange prettiness which had touched and kept him gentle, no longer blunted the edge of his exasperation, now that he could not see her. They were all the same, these women; could not speak the truth! And he said brusquely:
“You told me they didn't know you!”
Her voice answered like a sigh:
“I did not think they did, sir. It is so long I was not out in the town, not since I had Larry.”
The repulsion which all the time seethed deep in Keith welled up at those words. His brother—son of his mother, a gentleman—the property of this girl, bound to her, body and soul, by this unspeakable event! But she had turned up the light. Had she some intuition that darkness was against her? Yes, she was pretty with that soft face, colourless save for its lips and dark eyes, with that face somehow so touchingly, so unaccountably good, and like a child's.
“I am going now,” he said. “Remember! He mustn't come here; you mustn't go to him. I shall see him to-morrow. If you are as fond of him as you say—take care, take care!”
She sighed out, “Yes! oh, yes!” and Keith went to the door. She was standing with her back to the wall, and to follow him she only moved her head—that dove-like face with all its life in eyes which seemed saying: 'Look into us; nothing we hide; all—all is there!'
And he went out.
In the passage he paused before opening the outer door. He did not want to meet that policeman again; the fellow's round should have taken him well out of the street by now, and turning the handle cautiously, he looked out. No one in sight. He stood a moment, wondering if he should turn to right or left, then briskly crossed the street. A voice to his right hand said:
“Good-night, sir.”
There in the shadow of a doorway the policeman was standing. The fellow must have seen him coming out! Utterly unable to restrain a start, and muttering “Goodnight!” Keith walked on rapidly:
He went full quarter of a mile before he lost that startled and uneasy feeling in sardonic exasperation that he, Keith Darrant, had been taken for a frequenter of a lady of the town. The whole thing—the whole thing!—a vile and disgusting business! His very mind felt dirty and breathless; his spirit, drawn out of sheath, had slowly to slide back before he could at all focus and readjust his reasoning faculty. Certainly, he had got the knowledge he wanted. There was less danger than he thought. That girl's eyes! No mistaking her devotion. She would not give Larry away. Yes! Larry must clear out—South America—the East—it did not matter. But he felt no relief. The cheap, tawdry room had wrapped itself round his fancy with its atmosphere of murky love, with the feeling it inspired, of emotion caged within those yellowish walls and the red stuff of its furniture. That girl's face! Devotion; truth, too, and beauty, rare and moving, in its setting of darkness and horror, in that nest of vice and of disorder! … The dark archway; the street arab, with his gleeful: “They 'ain't got 'im yet!”; the feel of those bare arms round his neck; that whisper of horror in the darkness; above all, again, her child face looking into his, so truthful! And suddenly he stood quite still in the street. What in God's name was he about? What grotesque juggling amongst shadows, what strange and ghastly eccentricity was all this? The forces of order and routine, all the actualities of his daily life, marched on him at that moment, and swept everything before them. It was a dream, a nightmare not real! It was ridiculous!