Chapter 8

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Susie could not persuade herself that Haddo's regret was sincere. Thehumility of it aroused her suspicion. She could not get out of her mindthe ugly slyness of that smile which succeeded on his face the firstpassionate look of deadly hatred. Her fancy suggested various dark meanswhereby Oliver Haddo might take vengeance on his enemy, and she was atpains to warn Arthur. But he only laughed.'The man's a funk,' he said. 'Do you think if he'd had anything in him atall he would have let me kick him without trying to defend himself?'Haddo's cowardice increased the disgust with which Arthur regarded him.He was amused by Susie's trepidation.'What on earth do you suppose he can do? He can't drop a brickbat on myhead. If he shoots me he'll get his head cut off, and he won't be such anass as to risk that!'Margaret was glad that the incident had relieved them of Oliver'ssociety. She met him in the street a couple of days later, and sincehe took off his hat in the French fashion without waiting for her toacknowledge him, she was able to make her cut more pointed.She began to discuss with Arthur the date of their marriage. It seemedto her that she had got out of Paris all it could give her, and shewished to begin a new life. Her love for Arthur appeared on a suddenmore urgent, and she was filled with delight at the thought of thehappiness she would give him.A day or two later Susie received a telegram. It ran as follows:Please meet me at the Gare du Nord, 2:40.Nancy ClerkIt was an old friend, who was apparently arriving in Paris thatafternoon. A photograph of her, with a bold signature, stood on thechimney-piece, and Susie gave it an inquisitive glance. She had not seenNancy for so long that it surprised her to receive this urgent message.'What a bore it is!' she said. 'I suppose I must go.'They meant to have tea on the other side of the river, but the journey tothe station was so long that it would not be worth Susie's while to comeback in the interval; and they arranged therefore to meet at the house towhich they were invited. Susie started a little before two.Margaret had a class that afternoon and set out two or three minuteslater. As she walked through the courtyard she started nervously, forOliver Haddo passed slowly by. He did not seem to see her. Suddenly hestopped, put his hand to his heart, and fell heavily to the ground. Theconcierge, the only person at hand, ran forward with a cry. She kneltdown and, looking round with terror, caught sight of Margaret.'Oh, mademoiselle, venez vite!' she cried.Margaret was obliged to go. Her heart beat horribly. She looked down atOliver, and he seemed to be dead. She forgot that she loathed him.Instinctively she knelt down by his side and loosened his collar. Heopened his eyes. An expression of terrible anguish came into his face.'For the love of God, take me in for one moment,' he sobbed. 'I shall diein the street.'Her heart was moved towards him. He could not go into the poky den,evil-smelling and airless, of the concierge. But with her help Margaretraised him to his feet, and together they brought him to the studio. Hesank painfully into a chair.'Shall I fetch you some water?' asked Margaret.'Can you get a pastille out of my pocket?'He swallowed a white tabloid, which she took out of a case attached tohis watch-chain.'I'm very sorry to cause you this trouble,' he gasped. 'I suffer from adisease of the heart, and sometimes I am very near death.''I'm glad that I was able to help you,' she said.He seemed able to breathe more easily. She left him to himself for awhile, so that he might regain his strength. She took up a book and beganto read. Presently, without moving from his chair, he spoke.'You must hate me for intruding on you.'His voice was stronger, and her pity waned as he seemed to recover. Sheanswered with freezing indifference.'I couldn't do any less for you than I did. I would have brought a doginto my room if it seemed hurt.''I see that you wish me to go.'He got up and moved towards the door, but he staggered and with a groantumbled to his knees. Margaret sprang forward to help him. She reproachedherself bitterly for those scornful words. The man had barely escapeddeath, and she was merciless.'Oh, please stay as long as you like,' she cried. 'I'm sorry, I didn'tmean to hurt you.'He dragged himself with difficulty back to the chair, and she,conscience-stricken, stood over him helplessly. She poured out aglass of water, but he motioned it away as though he would not bebeholden to her even for that.'Is there nothing I can do for you at all?' she exclaimed, painfully.'Nothing, except allow me to sit in this chair,' he gasped.'I hope you'll remain as long as you choose.'He did not reply. She sat down again and pretended to read. In a littlewhile he began to speak. His voice reached her as if from a long way off.'Will you never forgive me for what I did the other day?'She answered without looking at him, her back still turned.'Can it matter to you if I forgive or not?''You have not pity. I told you then how sorry I was that a suddenuncontrollable pain drove me to do a thing which immediately I bitterlyregretted. Don't you think it must have been hard for me, under theactual circumstances, to confess my fault?''I wish you not to speak of it. I don't want to think of that horriblescene.''If you knew how lonely I was and how unhappy, you would have a littlemercy.'His voice was strangely moved. She could not doubt now that he wassincere.'You think me a charlatan because I aim at things that are unknown toyou. You won't try to understand. You won't give me any credit forstriving with all my soul to a very great end.'She made no reply, and for a time there was silence. His voice wasdifferent now and curiously seductive.'You look upon me with disgust and scorn. You almost persuaded yourselfto let me die in the street rather than stretch out to me a helping hand.And if you hadn't been merciful then, almost against your will, I shouldhave died.''It can make no difference to you how I regard you,' she whispered.She did not know why his soft, low tones mysteriously wrung herheartstrings. Her pulse began to beat more quickly.'It makes all the difference in the world. It is horrible to think ofyour contempt. I feel your goodness and your purity. I can hardly bear myown unworthiness. You turn your eyes away from me as though I wereunclean.'She turned her chair a little and looked at him. She was astonished atthe change in his appearance. His hideous obesity seemed no longerrepellent, for his eyes wore a new expression; they were incrediblytender now, and they were moist with tears. His mouth was tortured by apassionate distress. Margaret had never seen so much unhappiness on aman's face, and an overwhelming remorse seized her.'I don't want to be unkind to you,' she said.'I will go. That is how I can best repay you for what you have done.'The words were so bitter, so humiliated, that the colour rose to hercheeks.'I ask you to stay. But let us talk of other things.'For a moment he kept silence. He seemed no longer to see Margaret, andshe watched him thoughtfully. His eyes rested on a print of La Giocondawhich hung on the wall. Suddenly he began to speak. He recited thehoneyed words with which Walter Pater expressed his admiration for thatconsummate picture.'Hers is the head upon which all the ends of the world are come, and theeyelids are a little weary. It is a beauty wrought out from within uponthe flesh, the deposit, little cell by cell, of strange thoughts andfantastic reveries and exquisite passions. Set it for a moment beside oneof those white Greek goddesses or beautiful women of antiquity, and howwould they be troubled by this beauty, into which the soul with all itsmaladies has passed. All the thoughts and experience of the world haveetched and moulded there, in that which they have of power to refine andmake expressive the outward form, the animalism of Greece, the lust ofRome, the mysticism of the Middle Ages, with its spiritual ambition andimaginative loves, the return of the Pagan world, the sins of theBorgias.'His voice, poignant and musical, blended with the suave music of thewords so that Margaret felt she had never before known their divinesignificance. She was intoxicated with their beauty. She wished him tocontinue, but had not the strength to speak. As if he guessed herthought, he went on, and now his voice had a richness in it as of anorgan heard afar off. It was like an overwhelming fragrance and she couldhardly bear it.'She is older than the rocks among which she sits; like the vampire, shehas been dead many times, and learned the secrets of the grave; and hasbeen a diver in deep seas, and keeps their fallen day about her; andtrafficked for strange evils with Eastern merchants; and, as Leda, wasthe mother of Helen of Troy, and, as Saint Anne, the mother of Mary; andall this has been to her but as the sound of lyres and flutes, and livesonly in the delicacy with which it has moulded the changing lineaments,and tinged the eyelids and the hands.'Oliver Haddo began then to speak of Leonardo da Vinci, mingling with hisown fantasies the perfect words of that essay which, so wonderful was hismemory, he seemed to know by heart. He found exotic fancies in thelikeness between Saint John the Baptist, with his soft flesh and wavinghair, and Bacchus, with his ambiguous smile. Seen through his eyes, theseashore in the Saint Anne had the airless lethargy of some damaskedchapel in a Spanish nunnery, and over the landscapes brooded a wan spiritof evil that was very troubling. He loved the mysterious pictures inwhich the painter had sought to express something beyond the limits ofpainting, something of unsatisfied desire and of longing for unhumanpassions. Oliver Haddo found this quality in unlikely places, and hiswords gave a new meaning to paintings that Margaret had passedthoughtlessly by. There was the portrait of a statuary by Bronzino in theLong Gallery of the Louvre. The features were rather large, the facerather broad. The expression was sombre, almost surly in the repose ofthe painted canvas, and the eyes were brown, almond-shaped like those ofan Oriental; the red lips were exquisitely modelled, and the sensualitywas curiously disturbing; the dark, chestnut hair, cut short, curled overthe head with an infinite grace. The skin was like ivory softened with adelicate carmine. There was in that beautiful countenance more thanbeauty, for what most fascinated the observer was a supreme anddisdainful indifference to the passion of others. It was a vicious face,except that beauty could never be quite vicious; it was a cruel face,except that indolence could never be quite cruel. It was a face thathaunted you, and yet your admiration was alloyed with an unreasoningterror. The hands were nervous and adroit, with long fashioning fingers;and you felt that at their touch the clay almost moulded itself intogracious forms. With Haddo's subtle words the character of that man rosebefore her, cruel yet indifferent, indolent and passionate, cold yetsensual; unnatural secrets dwelt in his mind, and mysterious crimes, anda lust for the knowledge that was arcane. Oliver Haddo was attracted byall that was unusual, deformed, and monstrous, by the pictures thatrepresented the hideousness of man or that reminded you of his mortality.He summoned before Margaret the whole array of Ribera's ghoulish dwarfs,with their cunning smile, the insane light of their eyes, and theirmalice: he dwelt with a horrible fascination upon their malformations,the humped backs, the club feet, the hydrocephalic heads. He describedthe picture by Valdes Leal, in a certain place at Seville, whichrepresents a priest at the altar; and the altar is sumptuous with giltand florid carving. He wears a magnificent cope and a surplice ofexquisite lace, but he wears them as though their weight was more than hecould bear; and in the meagre trembling hands, and in the white, ashenface, in the dark hollowness of the eyes, there is a bodily corruptionthat is terrifying. He seems to hold together with difficulty the bondsof the flesh, but with no eager yearning of the soul to burst its prison,only with despair; it is as if the Lord Almighty had forsaken him and thehigh heavens were empty of their solace. All the beauty of life appearsforgotten, and there is nothing in the world but decay. A ghastlyputrefaction has attacked already the living man; the worms of the grave,the piteous horror of mortality, and the darkness before him offer naughtbut fear. Beyond, dark night is seen and a turbulent sea, the dark nightof the soul of which the mystics write, and the troublous sea of lifewhereon there is no refuge for the weary and the sick at heart.Then, as if in pursuance of a definite plan, he analysed with asearching, vehement intensity the curious talent of the modern Frenchman,Gustave Moreau. Margaret had lately visited the Luxembourg, and hispictures were fresh in her memory. She had found in them little save adecorative arrangement marred by faulty drawing; but Oliver Haddo gavethem at once a new, esoteric import. Those effects as of a Florentinejewel, the clustered colours, emerald and ruby, the deep blue ofsapphires, the atmosphere of scented chambers, the mystic persons whoseem ever about secret, religious rites, combined in his cunning phrasesto create, as it were, a pattern on her soul of morbid and mysteriousintricacy. Those pictures were filled with a strange sense of sin, andthe mind that contemplated them was burdened with the decadence of Romeand with the passionate vice of the Renaissance; and it was tortured,too, by all the introspection of this later day.Margaret listened, rather breathlessly, with the excitement of anexplorer before whom is spread the plain of an undiscovered continent.The painters she knew spoke of their art technically, and thisimaginative appreciation was new to her. She was horribly fascinatedby the personality that imbued these elaborate sentences. Haddo's eyeswere fixed upon hers, and she responded to his words like a delicateinstrument made for recording the beatings of the heart. She felt anextraordinary languor. At last he stopped. Margaret neither moved norspoke. She might have been under a spell. It seemed to her that she hadno power in her limbs.'I want to do something for you in return for what you have done for me,'he said.He stood up and went to the piano.'Sit in this chair,' he said.She did not dream of disobeying. He began to play. Margaret was hardlysurprised that he played marvellously. Yet it was almost incredible thatthose fat, large hands should have such a tenderness of touch. Hisfingers caressed the notes with a peculiar suavity, and he drew out ofthe piano effects which she had scarcely thought possible. He seemed toput into the notes a troubling, ambiguous passion, and the instrument hadthe tremulous emotion of a human being. It was strange and terrifying.She was vaguely familiar with the music to which she listened; but therewas in it, under his fingers, an exotic savour that made it harmoniouswith all that he had said that afternoon. His memory was indeedastonishing. He had an infinite tact to know the feeling that occupiedMargaret's heart, and what he chose seemed to be exactly that which atthe moment she imperatively needed. Then he began to play things she didnot know. It was music the like of which she had never heard, barbaric,with a plaintive weirdness that brought to her fancy the moonlit nightsof desert places, with palm trees mute in the windless air, and tawnydistances. She seemed to know tortuous narrow streets, white houses ofsilence with strange moon-shadows, and the glow of yellow light within,and the tinkling of uncouth instruments, and the acrid scents of Easternperfumes. It was like a procession passing through her mind of personswho were not human, yet existed mysteriously, with a life of vampires.Mona Lisa and Saint John the Baptist, Bacchus and the mother of Mary,went with enigmatic motions. But the daughter of Herodias raised herhands as though, engaged for ever in a mystic rite, to invoke outlandishgods. Her face was very pale, and her dark eyes were sleepless; thejewels of her girdle gleamed with sombre fires; and her dress was ofcolours that have long been lost. The smile, in which was all the sorrowof the world and all its wickedness, beheld the wan head of the Saint,and with a voice that was cold with the coldness of death she murmuredthe words of the poet:'I am amorous of thy body, Iokanaan! Thy body is white like the lilies ofa field that the mower hath never mowed. Thy body is white like the snowsthat lie on the mountains of Judea, and come down into the valleys. Theroses in the garden of the Queen of Arabia are not so white as thy body.Neither the roses in the garden of the Queen of Arabia, the garden ofspices of the Queen of Arabia, nor the feet of the dawn when they lighton the leaves, nor the breast of the moon when she lies on the breast ofthe sea... There is nothing in the world so white as thy body. Suffer meto touch thy body.'Oliver Haddo ceased to play. Neither of them stirred. At last Margaretsought by an effort to regain her self-control.'I shall begin to think that you really are a magician,' she said,lightly.'I could show you strange things if you cared to see them,' he answered,again raising his eyes to hers.'I don't think you will ever get me to believe in occult philosophy,'she laughed.'Yet it reigned in Persia with the magi, it endowed India with wonderfultraditions, it civilised Greece to the sounds of Orpheus's lyre.'He stood before Margaret, towering over her in his huge bulk; and therewas a singular fascination in his gaze. It seemed that he spoke only toconceal from her that he was putting forth now all the power that was inhim.'It concealed the first principles of science in the calculations ofPythagoras. It established empires by its oracles, and at its voicetyrants grew pale upon their thrones. It governed the minds of some bycuriosity, and others it ruled by fear.'His voice grew very low, and it was so seductive that Margaret's brainreeled. The sound of it was overpowering like too sweet a fragrance.I tell you that for this art nothing is impossible. It commands theelements, and knows the language of the stars, and directs the planetsin their courses. The moon at its bidding falls blood-red from the sky.The dead rise up and form into ominous words the night wind that moansthrough their skulls. Heaven and Hell are in its province; and all forms,lovely and hideous; and love and hate. With Circe's wand it can changemen into beasts of the field, and to them it can give a monstroushumanity. Life and death are in the right hand and in the left of him whoknows its secrets. It confers wealth by the transmutation of metals andimmortality by its quintessence.'Margaret could not hear what he said. A gradual lethargy seized her underhis baleful glance, and she had not even the strength to wish to freeherself. She seemed bound to him already by hidden chains.'If you have powers, show them,' she whispered, hardly conscious that shespoke.Suddenly he released the enormous tension with which he held her. Like aman who has exerted all his strength to some end, the victory won, heloosened his muscles, with a faint sigh of exhaustion. Margaret did notspeak, but she knew that something horrible was about to happen. Herheart beat like a prisoned bird, with helpless flutterings, but it seemedtoo late now to draw back. Her words by a mystic influence had settledsomething beyond possibility of recall.On the stove was a small bowl of polished brass in which water was keptin order to give a certain moisture to the air. Oliver Haddo put his handin his pocket and drew out a little silver box. He tapped it, with asmile, as a man taps a snuff-box, and it opened. He took an infinitesimalquantity of a blue powder that it contained and threw it on the water inthe brass bowl. Immediately a bright flame sprang up, and Margaret gave acry of alarm. Oliver looked at her quickly and motioned her to remainstill. She saw that the water was on fire. It was burning as brilliantly,as hotly, as if it were common gas; and it burned with the same dry,hoarse roar. Suddenly it was extinguished. She leaned forward and sawthat the bowl was empty.The water had been consumed, as though it were straw, and not a dropremained. She passed her hand absently across her forehead.'But water cannot burn,' she muttered to herself.It seemed that Haddo knew what she thought, for he smiled strangely.'Do you know that nothing more destructive can be invented than this bluepowder, and I have enough to burn up all the water in Paris? Who dreamtthat water might burn like chaff?'He paused, seeming to forget her presence. He looked thoughtfully at thelittle silver box.'But it can be made only in trivial quantities, at enormous expense andwith exceeding labour; it is so volatile that you cannot keep it forthree days. I have sometimes thought that with a little ingenuity I mightmake it more stable, I might so modify it that, like radium, it lost nostrength as it burned; and then I should possess the greatest secret thathas ever been in the mind of man. For there would be no end of it. Itwould continue to burn while there was a drop of water on the earth, andthe whole world would be consumed. But it would be a frightful thing tohave in one's hands; for once it were cast upon the waters, the doom ofall that existed would be sealed beyond repeal.'He took a long breath, and his eyes glittered with a devilish ardour. Hisvoice was hoarse with overwhelming emotion.'Sometimes I am haunted by the wild desire to have seen the great andfinal scene when the irrevocable flames poured down the river, hurryingalong the streams of the earth, searching out the moisture in all growingthings, tearing it even from the eternal rocks; when the flames poureddown like the rushing of the wind, and all that lived fled from beforethem till they came to the sea; and the sea itself was consumed invehement fire.'Margaret shuddered, but she did not think the man was mad. She hadceased to judge him. He took one more particle of that atrocious powderand put it in the bowl. Again he thrust his hand in his pocket andbrought out a handful of some crumbling substance that might have beendried leaves, leaves of different sorts, broken and powdery. There wasa trace of moisture in them still, for a low flame sprang up immediatelyat the bottom of the dish, and a thick vapour filled the room. It had asingular and pungent odour that Margaret did not know. It was difficultto breathe, and she coughed. She wanted to beg Oliver to stop, but couldnot. He took the bowl in his hands and brought it to her.'Look,' he commanded.She bent forward, and at the bottom saw a blue fire, of a peculiarsolidity, as though it consisted of molten metal. It was not still, butwrithed strangely, like serpents of fire tortured by their own unearthlyardour.'Breathe very deeply.'She did as he told her. A sudden trembling came over her, and darknessfell across her eyes. She tried to cry out, but could utter no sound. Herbrain reeled. It seemed to her that Haddo bade her cover her face. Shegasped for breath, and it was as if the earth spun under her feet. Sheappeared to travel at an immeasurable speed. She made a slight movement,and Haddo told her not to look round. An immense terror seized her. Shedid not know whither she was borne, and still they went quickly, quickly;and the hurricane itself would have lagged behind them. At last theirmotion ceased; and Oliver was holding her arm.'Don't be afraid,' he said. 'Open your eyes and stand up.'The night had fallen; but it was not the comfortable night that soothesthe troubled minds of mortal men; it was a night that agitated the soulmysteriously so that each nerve in the body tingled. There was a luriddarkness which displayed and yet distorted the objects that surroundedthem. No moon shone in the sky, but small stars appeared to dance on theheather, vague night-fires like spirits of the damned. They stood in avast and troubled waste, with huge stony boulders and leafless trees,rugged and gnarled like tortured souls in pain. It was as if there hadbeen a devastating storm, and the country reposed after the flood ofrain and the tempestuous wind and the lightning. All things about themappeared dumbly to suffer, like a man racked by torments who has not thestrength even to realize that his agony has ceased. Margaret heard theflight of monstrous birds, and they seemed to whisper strange thingson their passage. Oliver took her hand. He led her steadily to across-road, and she did not know if they walked amid rocks or tombs.She heard the sound of a trumpet, and from all parts, strangely appearingwhere before was nothing, a turbulent assembly surged about her. Thatvast empty space was suddenly filled by shadowy forms, and they sweptalong like the waves of the sea, crowding upon one another's heels. Andit seemed that all the mighty dead appeared before her; and she saw grimtyrants, and painted courtesans, and Roman emperors in their purple, andsultans of the East. All those fierce evil women of olden time passed byher side, and now it was Mona Lisa and now the subtle daughter ofHerodias. And Jezebel looked out upon her from beneath her painted brows,and Cleopatra turned away a wan, lewd face; and she saw the insatiablemouth and the wanton eyes of Messalina, and Fustine was haggard with theeternal fires of lust. She saw cardinals in their scarlet, and warriorsin their steel, gay gentlemen in periwigs, and ladies in powder andpatch. And on a sudden, like leaves by the wind, all these were drivenbefore the silent throngs of the oppressed; and they were innumerable asthe sands of the sea. Their thin faces were earthy with want andcavernous from disease, and their eyes were dull with despair. Theypassed in their tattered motley, some in the fantastic rags of thebeggars of Albrecht Duerer and some in the grey cerecloths of Le Nain;many wore the blouses and the caps of the rabble in France, and many thedingy, smoke-grimed weeds of English poor. And they surged onward like ariotous crowd in narrow streets flying in terror before the mountedtroops. It seemed as though all the world were gathered there in strangeconfusion.Then all again was void; and Margaret's gaze was riveted upon a great,ruined tree that stood in that waste place, alone, in ghastly desolation;and though a dead thing, it seemed to suffer a more than human pain. Thelightning had torn it asunder, but the wind of centuries had soughtin vain to drag up its roots. The tortured branches, bare of any twig,were like a Titan's arms, convulsed with intolerable anguish. And in amoment she grew sick with fear, for a change came into the tree, and thetremulousness of life was in it; the rough bark was changed into brutishflesh and the twisted branches into human arms. It became a monstrous,goat-legged thing, more vast than the creatures of nightmare. She saw thehorns and the long beard, the great hairy legs with their hoofs, and theman's rapacious hands. The face was horrible with lust and cruelty, andyet it was divine. It was Pan, playing on his pipes, and the lecherouseyes caressed her with a hideous tenderness. But even while she looked,as the mist of early day, rising, discloses a fair country, the animalpart of that ghoulish creature seemed to fall away, and she saw a lovelyyouth, titanic but sublime, leaning against a massive rock. He was morebeautiful than the Adam of Michelangelo who wakes into life at the callof the Almighty; and, like him freshly created, he had the adorablelanguor of one who feels still in his limbs the soft rain on the loosebrown earth. Naked and full of majesty he lay, the outcast son of themorning; and she dared not look upon his face, for she knew it wasimpossible to bear the undying pain that darkened it with ruthlessshadows. Impelled by a great curiosity, she sought to come nearer,but the vast figure seemed strangely to dissolve into a cloud; andimmediately she felt herself again surrounded by a hurrying throng.Then came all legendary monsters and foul beasts of a madman's fancy;in the darkness she saw enormous toads, with paws pressed to theirflanks, and huge limping scarabs, shelled creatures the like of whichshe had never seen, and noisome brutes with horny scales and round crabs'eyes, uncouth primeval things, and winged serpents, and creeping animalsbegotten of the slime. She heard shrill cries and peals of laughter andthe terrifying rattle of men at the point of death. Haggard women,dishevelled and lewd, carried wine; and when they spilt it there werestains like the stains of blood. And it seemed to Margaret that a fireburned in her veins, and her soul fled from her body; but a new soulcame in its place, and suddenly she knew all that was obscene. She tookpart in some festival of hideous lust, and the wickedness of the worldwas patent to her eyes. She saw things so vile that she screamed interror, and she heard Oliver laugh in derision by her side. It was ascene of indescribable horror, and she put her hands to her eyes so thatshe might not see.She felt Oliver Haddo take her hands. She would not let him drag themaway. Then she heard him speak.'You need not be afraid.'His voice was quite natural once more, and she realized with a start thatshe was sitting quietly in the studio. She looked around her withfrightened eyes. Everything was exactly as it had been. The early nightof autumn was fallen, and the only light in the room came from the fire.There was still that vague, acrid scent of the substance which Haddo hadburned.'Shall I light the candles?' he said.He struck a match and lit those which were on the piano. They threw astrange light. Then Margaret suddenly remembered all that she had seen,and she remembered that Haddo had stood by her side. Shame seized her,intolerable shame, so that the colour, rising to her cheeks, seemedactually to burn them. She hid her face in her hands and burst intotears.'Go away,' she said. 'For God's sake, go.'He looked at her for a moment; and the smile came to his lips which Susiehad seen after his tussle with Arthur, when last he was in the studio.'When you want me you will find me in the Rue de Vaugiraud, number 209,'he said. 'Knock at the second door on the left, on the third floor.'She did not answer. She could only think of her appalling shame.'I'll write it down for you in case you forget.'He scribbled the address on a sheet of paper that he found on the table.Margaret took no notice, but sobbed as though her heart would break.Suddenly, looking up with a start, she saw that he was gone. She had notheard him open the door or close it. She sank down on her knees andprayed desperately, as though some terrible danger threatened her.But when she heard Susie's key in the door, Margaret sprang to her feet.She stood with her back to the fireplace, her hands behind her, in theattitude of a prisoner protesting his innocence. Susie was too muchannoyed to observe this agitation.'Why on earth didn't you come to tea?' she asked. 'I couldn't make outwhat had become of you.''I had a dreadful headache,' answered Margaret, trying to controlherself.Susie flung herself down wearily in a chair. Margaret forced herself tospeak.'Had Nancy anything particular to say to you?' she asked.'She never turned up,' answered Susie irritably. 'I can't understand it.I waited till the train came in, but there was no sign of her. Then Ithought she might have hit upon that time by chance and was not comingfrom England, so I walked about the station for half an hour.'She went to the chimneypiece, on which had been left the telegram thatsummoned her to the Gare du Nord, and read it again. She gave a littlecry of surprise.'How stupid of me! I never noticed the postmark. It was sent from the RueLittre.'This was less than ten minutes' walk from the studio. Susie looked at themessage with perplexity.'I wonder if someone has been playing a silly practical joke on me.' Sheshrugged her shoulders. 'But it's too foolish. If I were a suspiciouswoman,' she smiled, 'I should think you had sent it yourself to get meout of the way.'The idea flashed through Margaret that Oliver Haddo was the author of it.He might easily have seen Nancy's name on the photograph during his firstvisit to the studio. She had no time to think before she answeredlightly.'If I wanted to get rid of you, I should have no hesitation in sayingso.''I suppose no one has been here?' asked Susie.'No one.'The lie slipped from Margaret's lips before she had made up her mind totell it. Her heart gave a great beat against her chest. She felt herselfredden.Susie got up to light a cigarette. She wished to rest her nerves. The boxwas on the table and, as she helped herself, her eyes fell carelessly onthe address that Haddo had left. She picked it up and read it aloud.'Who on earth lives there?' she asked.'I don't know at all,' answered Margaret.She braced herself for further questions, but Susie, without interest,put down the sheet of paper and struck a match.Margaret was ashamed. Her nature was singularly truthful, and it troubledher extraordinarily that she had lied to her greatest friend. Somethingstronger than herself seemed to impel her. She would have given much toconfess her two falsehoods, but had not the courage. She could not bearthat Susie's implicit trust in her straightforwardness should bedestroyed; and the admission that Oliver Haddo had been there wouldentail a further acknowledgment of the nameless horrors she hadwitnessed. Susie would think her mad.There was a knock at the door; and Margaret, her nerves shattered by allthat she had endured, could hardly restrain a cry of terror. She fearedthat Haddo had returned. But it was Arthur Burdon. She greeted him witha passionate relief that was unusual, for she was by nature a woman ofgreat self-possession. She felt excessively weak, physically exhaustedas though she had gone a long journey, and her mind was highly wrought.Margaret remembered that her state had been the same on her first arrivalin Paris, when, in her eagerness to get a preliminary glimpse of itsmarvels, she had hurried till her bones ached from one celebratedmonument to another. They began to speak of trivial things. Margarettried to join calmly in the conversation, but her voice soundedunnatural, and she fancied that more than once Arthur gave her a curiouslook. At length she could control herself no longer and burst into asudden flood of tears. In a moment, uncomprehending but affectionate, hecaught her in his arms. He asked tenderly what was the matter. He soughtto comfort her. She wept ungovernably, clinging to him for protection.'Oh, it's nothing,' she gasped. 'I don't know what is the matter with me.I'm only nervous and frightened.'Arthur had an idea that women were often afflicted with what he describedby the old-fashioned name of vapours, and was not disposed to pay muchattention to this vehement distress. He soothed her as he would have donea child.'Oh, take care of me, Arthur. I'm so afraid that some dreadful thing willhappen to me. I want all your strength. Promise that you'll never forsakeme.'He laughed, as he kissed away her tears, and she tried to smile.'Why can't we be married at once?' she asked. 'I don't want to wait anylonger. I shan't feel safe till I'm actually your wife.'He reasoned with her very gently. After all, they were to be married in afew weeks. They could not easily hasten matters, for their house was notyet ready, and she needed time to get her clothes. The date had beenfixed by her. She listened sullenly to his words. Their wisdom was plain,and she did not see how she could possibly insist. Even if she told himall that had passed he would not believe her; he would think she wassuffering from some trick of her morbid fancy.'If anything happens to me,' she answered, with the dark, anguished eyesof a hunted beast, 'you will be to blame.''I promise you that nothing will happen.'