I

Rachel stood at her own front door and took off her glove in order more easily to manipulate the latch-key, which somehow, since coming into frequent use again, had never been the same manageable latch-key, but a cantankerous old thing, though still very bright.  She opened the door quietly, and stepped inside quietly, lest by chance she might disturb Louis, the invalid ­but also because she was a little afraid.

The most contradictory feelings can exist together in the mind.  After the desolate discomfort of Julian Maldon’s lodging and the spectacle of his clumsiness in the important affair of mere living, Rachel was conscious of a deep and proud happiness as she re-entered the efficient, cosy, and gracious organism of her own home.  But simultaneously with this feeling of happiness she had a dreadful general apprehension that the organism might soon be destroyed, and a particular apprehension concerning her next interview with Louis, for at the next interview she would be under the necessity of telling him about her transaction with Julian.  She had been absolutely determined upon that transaction.  She had said to herself, “Whatever happens, I shall take that money to Julian and insist on his keeping all of it.”  She had, in fact, been very brave ­indeed, audacious.  Now the consequences were imminent, and they frightened her; she was less brave now.  One awkward detail of the immediate future was that to tell Louis would be to reopen the entire question of the theft, which she had several times in the most abrupt and arrogant manner refused to discuss with him.

As soon as she had closed the front door she perceived that twilight was already obscuring the interior of the house.  But she could plainly see that the parlour door was about two inches ajar, exactly as she had left it a couple of hours earlier.  Probably Louis had not stirred.  She listened vainly for a sign of life from him.  Probably he was reading, for on rare occasions when he read a novel he would stick to the book with surprising pertinacity.  At any rate, he would be too lofty to give any sign that he had heard her return.  Under less sinister circumstances he might have yelled gaily:  “I say, Rache!” for in a teasing mood he would sometimes prefer “Rache” to “Louise.”

Rachel from the lobby could see the fire bright in the kitchen, and a trayful of things on the kitchen table ready to be brought into the parlour for high tea.

Mrs. Tams was out.  It was not among Mrs. Tams’s regular privileges to be out in the afternoon.  But this was Easter Saturday ­rather a special day ­and, further, one of her daughters had gone away for Easter and left a child with one of her daughters-in-law, and Mrs. Tams had desired to witness some of the dealings of her daughter-in-law with her grandchild.  Not without just pride had Mrs. Tams related the present circumstances to Rachel.  In Mrs. Tams’s young maturity parents who managed a day excursion to Blackpool in the year did well, and those who went away for four or five days at Knype Wakes in August were princes and plutocrats.  But nowadays even a daughter of Mrs. Tams, not satisfied with a week at Knype Wakes, could take a week-end at Easter just like great folk such as Louis.  Which proved that the community at large, or Mrs. Tams’s family, had famously got up in the world.  Rachel recalled Louis’ suggestion, more than a week earlier, of a trip to Llandudno.  The very planet itself had aged since then.

She looked at the clock.  In twenty minutes Mrs. Tams would be back.  She and Louis were alone together in the house.  She might go straight into the parlour, and say, in as indifferent and ordinary a voice as she could assume:  “I’ve just been over to Julian Maldon’s to give him that money ­all of it, you know,” and thus get the affair finished before Mrs. Tams’s reappearance.  Louis was within a few feet of her, hidden only by the door which a push would cause to swing!...  Yes, but she could not persuade herself to push the door!  The door seemed to be protected from her hand by a mysterious spell which she dared not break.  She was, indeed, overwhelmed by the simple but tremendous fact that Louis and herself were alone together in the darkening house.  She decided, pretending to be quite calm:  “I’ll just run upstairs and take my things off first.  There’s no use in my seeming to be in a hurry.”

In the bedroom she arranged her toilet for the evening, and established order in every corner of the chamber.  Under the washstand lay the long row of Louis’ boots and shoes, each pair in stretchers.  She suddenly contrasted Julian’s heavy and arrogant dowdiness with the nice dandyism of Louis.  She could not help thinking that Julian would be a terrible person to live with.  This was the first thought favourable to Louis which had flitted through her mind for a long time.  She dismissed it.  Nothing in another man could be as terrible to live with as the defects of Louis.  She set herself ­she was obliged to set herself ­high above Louis.  The souvenir of the admiration of old Batchgrew and John’s Ernest, the touching humility before her of Julian Maldon, once more inflated her self-esteem ­it could not possibly have failed to do so.  She knew that she was an extraordinary woman, and a prize.

Invigorated and reassured by these reflections, she descended proudly to the ground floor.  And then, hesitating at the entrance to the parlour, she went into the kitchen and poked the fire.  As the fire was in excellent condition there was no reason for this act except her diffidence at the prospect of an encounter with Louis.  At last, having examined the tea-tray and invented other delays, she tightened her nerves and passed into the parlour to meet the man who seemed to be waiting for her like the danger of a catastrophe.  He was not there.  The parlour was empty.  His book was lying on the Chesterfield.

She felt relieved.  It was perhaps not very wise for him to have gone out for a walk, but if he chose to run risks, he was free to do so, for all she cared.  In the meantime the interview was postponed; hence her craven relief.  She lit the gas, but not by the same device as in Mrs. Maldon’s day; and then she saw an envelope lying on the table.  It was addressed in Louis’ handwriting to “Mrs. Louis Fores.”  She was alone in the house.  She felt sick.  Why should he write a letter to her and leave it there on the table?  She invented half a dozen harmless reasons for the letter, but none of them was the least convincing.  The mere aspect of the letter frightened her horribly.  There was no strength in her limbs.  She tore the envelope in a daze.

The letter ran ­

Dear Rachel, ­I have decided to leave England.  I do not know how long I shall be away.  I cannot and will not stand the life I have been leading with you this last week.  I had a perfectly satisfactory explanation to give you, but you have most rudely refused to listen to it.  So now I shall not give it.  I shall write you as to my plans.  I shall send you whatever money is necessary for you.  By the way, I put four hundred and fifty pounds away in my private drawer.  On looking for it this afternoon I see that you have taken it, without saying a word to me.  You must account to me for this money.  When you have done so we will settle how much I am to send you.  In the meantime you can draw from it for necessary expenses.

    Yours,

    L.F.

II

Rachel stared at the letter.  It was the first letter she had seen written on the new note-paper, embossed with the address, “Bycars, Bursley.”  Louis would not have “Bycars Lane” on the note-paper, because “Bycars” alone was more vague and impressive; distant strangers might take it to be the name of a magnificent property.  Her lips curled.  She violently ripped the paper to bits and stuck them in the fire; a few fragments escaped and fluttered like snow on to the fender.  She screwed up the envelope and flung it after the letter.  Her face smarted and tingled as the blood rushed passionately to her head.

She thought, aghast:  “Everything is over!  He will never come back.  He will never have enough moral force to come back.  We haven’t been married two months, and everything is over!  And this is Easter Saturday!  He wanted us to be at Llandudno or somewhere for Easter, and I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he’s gone there.  Yes, he would be capable of that.  And if it wasn’t for the plaster on his face, he’d be capable of gallivanting on Llandudno pier this very night!”

She had no illusion as to him.  She saw him as objectively as a god might have seen him.

And then she thought with fury:  “Oh, what a fool I’ve been!  What a little fool!  Why didn’t I listen to him?  Why didn’t I foresee?...  No, I’ve not been a fool!  I’ve not!  I’ve not!  What did I do wrong?  Nothing!  I couldn’t have borne his explanations!...  Explanations, indeed!  I can imagine his explanations!  Did he expect me to smile and kiss him after he’d told me he was a thief?”

And then she thought, in reference to his desertion:  “It’s not true!  It can’t be true!”

She wanted to read the letter again, so that perhaps she might read something into it that was hopeful.  But to read it again was impossible.  She tried to recall its exact terms, and could not.  She could only remember with certainty that the final words were “Yours, L.F.”  Nevertheless, she knew that the thing was true; she knew by the weight within her breast and the horrible nausea that almost overcame her self-control.

She whispered, alone in the room ­

“Yes, it’s true!  And it’s happened to me!...  He’s gone!”

And not the ruin of her life, but the scandal of the affair, was the first matter that occupied her mind.  She was too shaken yet to feel the full disaster.  Her mind ran on little things.  And just as once she had pictured herself self-conscious in the streets of Bursley as a young widow, so now she pictured herself in the far more appalling rôle of deserted wife.  The scandal would be enormous.  Nothing ­no carefully invented fiction ­would suffice to stifle it.  She would never dare to show her face.  She would be compelled to leave the district.  And supposing a child came!  Fears stabbed her.  She felt tragically helpless as she stood there, facing a vision of future terrors.  She had legal rights, of course.  Her common sense told her that.  She remembered also that she possessed a father and a brother in America.  But no legal rights and no relatives would avail against the mere simple, negligent irresponsibility of Louis.  In the end, she would have to rely on herself.  All at once she recollected that she had promised to see after Julian’s curtains.

She had almost no money.  And how could the admiration of three men other than her husband (so enheartening a few minutes earlier) serve her in the crisis?  No amount of masculine admiration could mitigate the crudity of the fact that she had almost no money.  Louis’ illness had interrupted the normal course of domestic finance ­if, indeed, a course could be called normal which had scarcely begun.  Louis had not been to the works.  Hence he had received no salary.  And how much salary was due to him, and whether he was paid weekly or monthly, she knew not.  Neither did she know whether his inheritance actually had been paid over to him by Thomas Batchgrew.

What she knew was that she had received no house-keeping allowance for more than a week, and that her recent payments to tradesmen had been made from a very small remaining supply of her own prenuptial money.  Economically she was as dependent on Louis as a dog, and not more so; she had the dog’s right to go forth and pick up a living....  Of course Louis would send her money.  Louis was a gentleman ­he was not a cad.  Yes, but he was a very careless gentleman.  She was once again filled with the bitter realization of his extreme irresponsibility.

She heard a noise in the back lobby, and started.  It was Mrs. Tams, returned.  Mrs. Tams had a key of her own, of which she was proud ­an affair of about four inches in length and weighing over a quarter of a pound.  It fitted the scullery door, and was, indeed, the very key with which Rachel had embroidered her lie to Thomas Batchgrew on the day after the robbery.  Mrs. Tams always took pleasure in entering the house from the rear, without a sound.  She was now coming into the parlour with the tray for high tea.  No wonder that Rachel started.  Here was the first onset of the outer world.

Mrs. Tams came in, already perfectly transformed from a mother, mother-in-law, and grandmother into a parlour-maid with no human tie.

“Good-afternoon, Mrs. Tams.”

“So ye’ve got back, ma’am!”

While Mrs. Tams laid the table, with many grunts and creakings of the solid iron in her stays, Rachel sat on a chair by the fire, trying to seem in a casual, dreamy mood, cogitating upon what she must say.

“Will mester be down for tea, ma’am?” asked Mrs. Tams, who had excusably assumed that Louis was upstairs.

And Rachel, forced now to defend, instead of attacking, blurted out ­

“Oh!  By the way, I was forgetting; Mr. Fores will not be in for tea.”

Mrs. Tams, forgetting she was a parlour-maid, vociferated in amazement and protest ­

“Not be in for tea, ma’am?  And him as he is!” All her lately gathering suspicions were strengthened and multiplied.

Rachel had to continue as she had begun:  “He’s been called away on very urgent business.  He simply had to go.”

Mrs. Tams, intermitting her duties, stood still and gazed at Rachel.

“Was it far, ma’am, as he had for to go?”

A simple question, and yet how difficult to answer plausibly!

“Yes ­rather.”

“I suppose he’ll be back to-night, ma’am?”

“Oh yes, of course!” replied Rachel, in absurd haste.  “But if he isn’t, I’m not to worry, he said.  But he fully expects to be.  We scarcely had time to talk, you see.  He was getting ready when I came in.”

“A telegram, ma’am, I suppose it was?”

“Yes....  That is, I don’t know whether there was a telegram first, or not.  But he was called for, you see.  A cab.  I couldn’t have let him go off walking, not as he is.”

Mrs. Tarns gave a gesture.

“I suppose I mun alter this ’ere table, then,” said she, putting a cup and saucer back on the tray.

“Idiot!  Idiot!” Rachel described herself to herself, when Mrs. Tams, very much troubled, had left the room. “’By the way, I was forgetting’ ­couldn’t I have told her better than that?  She’s known for a week that there’s been something wrong, and now she’s certainly guessed there’s something dreadfully wrong....  Just look at all the silly lies I’ve told already!  What will it be like to-morrow ­and Monday?  I wonder what my face looked like while I was telling her!”

She rushed upstairs to discover what luggage Louis had taken with him.  But apparently he had taken nothing whatever.  The trunk, the valise, and the various bags were all stacked in the empty attic, exactly as she had placed them.  He must have gone off in a moment, without any reflection or preparation.

And when Mrs. Tams served the solitary tea, Rachel was just as idiotic as before.

“By the way, Mrs. Tams,” she began again, “did you happen to tell Mr. Fores where I’d gone this afternoon?...  You see, we’d no opportunity to discuss anything,” she added, striving once more after verisimilitude.

“Yes’m.  I told him when I took him his early cup o’ tea.”

“Did he ask you?”

“Now ye puzzle me, ma’am!  I couldn’t swear to it to save my life.  But I told him.”

“What did he say?” Rachel tried to smile.

“He didna say aught.”

Rachel remained alone, to objurgate Rachel.  It was indeed only too obvious from Mrs. Tams’s constrained and fussy demeanour that the old woman had divined the existence of serious trouble in the Fores household.

III

Some time after the empty ceremony of tea, Rachel sat in state in the parlour, dignified, self-controlled, pretending to sew, as she had pretended to eat and drink and, afterwards, to have an important enterprise of classifying and rearranging her possessions in the wardrobe upstairs.  Let Mrs. Tams enter ever so unexpectedly, Rachel was a fit spectacle for her, with a new work-basket by her side on the table, and her feet primly on a footstool, quite in the style of the late Mrs. Maldon, and a serious and sagacious look on her face that the fire and the gas combined to illuminate.  She did not actually sew, but the threaded needle was ready in her hand to move convincingly at a second’s notice, for Mrs. Tams was of a restless and inquisitive disposition that night.

Apparently secure between the drawn blinds, the fire, the Chesterfield, and the sideboard, Rachel was nevertheless ranging wide among vast, desolate tracts of experience, and she was making singular discoveries.  For example, it was not until she was alone in the parlour after tea that she discovered that during the whole of her interview with Julian Maldon in the afternoon she had never regarded him as a thief.  And yet he was a thief ­just as much as Louis!  She had simply forgotten that he was a thief.  He did not seem to be any the worse for being a thief.  If he had shown the desire to explain to her by word of mouth the entire psychology of his theft, she would have listened with patience and sympathy; she would have encouraged him to rectitude.  And yet Julian had no claim on her; he was not her husband; she did not love him.  But because Louis was her husband, and had a claim on her, and had received all the proofs of her affection ­therefore, she must be merciless for Louis!  She perceived the inconsistency; she perceived it with painful clearness.  She had the impartial logic of the self-accuser.  At intervals the self-accuser was flagellated and put to flight by passionate reaction, but only to return stealthily and irresistibly....

She had been wrong to take the four hundred and fifty pounds without a word.  True, Louis had somewhat casually authorized her to return half of the sum to Julian, but the half was not the whole.  And in any case she ought to have told Louis of her project.  There could be no doubt that, immediately upon Mrs. Tams’s going out, Louis had looked for the four hundred and fifty pounds, and, in swift resentment at its disappearance, had determined to disappear also.  He had been stung and stung again, past bearing (she argued) daily and hourly throughout the week, and the disappearance of the money had put an end to his patience.  Such was the upshot, and she had brought it about!

She had imagined that she was waiting for destiny, but in fact she had been making destiny all the time, with her steely glances at Louis and her acrid, uncompromising tongue!...  And did those other men really admire her?  How, for instance, could Thomas Batchgrew admire her, seeing that he had suspected her of lies and concealment about the robbery?  If it was on account of supposed lies and concealment that he admired her, then she rejected Thomas Batchgrew’s admiration....

The self-accuser and the self-depreciator in her grew so strong that Louis’ conduct soon became unexceptionable ­save for a minor point concerning a theft of some five hundred pounds odd from an old lady.  And as for herself, she, Rachel, was an over-righteous prig, an interfering person, a blundering fool of a woman, a cruel-hearted creature.  And Louis was just a poor, polite martyr who had had the misfortune to pick up certain bank-notes that were not his.

Then the tide of judgment would sweep back, and Rachel was the innocent, righteous martyr again, and Louis the villain.  But not for long.

She cried passionately within her brain:  “I must have him.  I must get hold of him.  I must!”

But when the brief fury of longing was exhausted she would ask:  “How can I get hold of him?  Where is he?” Then more forcibly:  “What am I to do first?  Yes, what ought I to do?  What is wisest?  He little guesses that he is killing me.  If he had guessed, he wouldn’t have done it.  But nothing will kill me!  I am as strong as a horse.  I shall live for ages.  There’s the worst of it all!...  And it’s no use asking what I ought to do, either, because nothing, nothing, nothing would induce me to run after him, even if I knew where to run to!  I would die first.  I would live for a hundred years in torture first.  That’s positive.”

The hands of the clock, instead of moving slowly, seemed to progress at a prodigious rate.  Mrs. Tams came in ­

“Shall I lay mester’s supper, ma’am?”

The idea of laying supper for the master had naturally not occurred to Rachel.

“Yes, please.”

When the supper was laid upon one half of the table, the sight of it almost persuaded Rachel that Louis would be bound to come ­as though the waiting supper must mysteriously magnetize him out of the world beyond into the intimacy of the parlour.

And she thought, as she strove for the hundredth time to recall the phrases of the letter ­

“‘Perfectly satisfactory explanation!’ suppose he has got a perfectly satisfactory explanation!  He must have.  He must have.  If only he has, everything would be all right.  I’d apologize.  I’d almost go on my knees to him....  And he was so ill all the time, too!...  But he’s gone.  It’s too late now for the explanation.  Still, as soon as I hear from him, I shall write and ask him for it.”

And in her mind she began to compose a wondrous letter to him ­a letter that should preserve her own dignity while salving his, a letter that should overwhelm him with esteem for her.

She rang the bell.  “Don’t sit up, Mrs. Tams.”

And when she had satisfied herself that Mrs. Tams with unwilling obedience had retired upstairs, she began to walk madly about the parlour (which had an appearance at once very strange and distressingly familiar), and to whisper plaintively, and raging, and plaintively again:  “I must get him back.  I cannot bear this.  It is too much for me.  I must get him back.  It’s all my fault!” and then dropped on the Chesterfield in a collapse, moaning:  “No.  It’s no use now.”

And then she fancied that she heard the gate creak, and a latch-key fumbling into the keyhole of the front door.  And one part of her brain said on behalf of the rest:  “I am mad.  I am delirious.”

It was a fact that Louis had caused to be manufactured for his own use a new latch-key.  But it was impossible that this latch-key should now be in the keyhole.  She was delirious.  And then she unmistakably heard the front door open.  Her heart jumped with the most afflicting violence.  She was ready to fall on to the carpet, but seemed to be suspended in the air.  When she recognized Louis’ footsteps in the lobby tears burst from her eyes in an impetuous torrent.