Oddly, he did not mind her knowing of his weakness, but he objected when she allowed her knowledge to become obvious. He felt that she ought to have ignored this thing; to embarra.s.s him by thrusting it under his notice was tactless and annoying.

He shut himself away from her more than formerly, and sat up late into the night reading in his study. Occasionally he fell asleep in his chair and remained there until the morning, to wake cramped and unrefreshed and creep upstairs in the dawn.

Book 3--CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.

These late hours, and the fact that he had taken to sleeping in the dressing-room from a desire not to disturb her, excited Esme's worst apprehensions. She fell into the habit of lying awake and listening for him: she could not rest while she knew that he was downstairs. The old sickening sensation of terror, which had seized her at the Zuurberg when she listened to him stumbling along the stoep on his way to his room, gripped her anew each time that she heard him mount the stairs and go unsteadily to the dressing-room in his stockinged feet.

The horror of it was as a nightmare which tormented her unceasingly.

She was afraid of him when he had been drinking heavily; not afraid that he would do her any physical injury; but the look in his eyes terrified her; it seemed to alter him, to make him a stranger almost. There were times when he pa.s.sed her on the stairs or landing with wide-opened eyes which appeared not to notice her presence: the sight of him thus made her knees shake under her and blanched her face. It was like meeting a sleep-walker, only more horrible.

She went to him one night in his study and kneeled on the carpet beside him and pleaded with him.

"Paul," she said, and lifted sweet, distressed eyes to his, with no reproach in their look, only a great sadness. "Aren't you neglecting me a little? Why do you shut yourself away every night? I'm lonely all by myself."

"I thought you were in bed," he said, and moved restlessly and avoided her gaze. "You usually go to bed at ten o'clock."

"Not lately," she answered. "I sit up and wait for you. I think to myself, he may need me. I am always hoping against hope. My dear, why do you shut yourself away from me? It's unkind. Paul, don't you love me any longer?"

He brought his eyes back to her face, and looked at her long and earnestly. Then he put his hands on her shoulders and held her a little way off, still scrutinising her attentively.

"Do you think it necessary to ask that?" he said.

"Yes," she answered almost pa.s.sionately. She put her hands over his and clung to him desperately, exerting all her control to keep back the rising tears. "Once our love sufficed, dearest heart; you wanted only to be with me; and now--"

"Aren't you being a little foolish?" he asked. "People who live together develop a sort of independence of each other after a while.

Because I like to be quiet for an hour or two during the evening, need that be construed into a sign of indifference?"

"No," she said; "not that in itself. But my love is not strong enough any longer to hold you. You've slipped back into the old ways, dear.

It's breaking my heart, Paul; I can't bear it."

She dropped her face on to his knees and wept bitterly, with her eyes hidden in her hands. His own hand, shaky and uncertain, came to rest on her hair, stroked her hair gently.

"I'm a brute," he said, "an inconsiderate brute." He gathered her in his arms and drew her up and held her, weeping still, upon his knee.

"Don't cry. Tell me what you want. I'll try, Esme. I didn't think it was so bad as this. I'll pull myself together. Don't cry, sweetheart.

It distresses me to see you cry. The brute I've been!"

He drew her wet cheek to his and kissed her, and she wound her arms about his neck and clung to him, sobbing softly, with her head resting like a tired child's on his shoulder.

When the sounds of her sobs ceased he got up and left the room with her and went with her upstairs. For that night she had won a victory. But she did not feel sure any longer that her influence would hold. He had made her promises before and broken them again. It seemed to her that his will had weakened considerably: she no longer felt any real confidence in him.

Perhaps she allowed him to see this, and so lost much of her hold on him. He was conscious always that she watched him; and his manner became furtive and suspicious as a result of this supervision. His moods of repentance did not endure for long; but while they lasted his hatred of himself for the distress he caused the wife whom he still tenderly loved was genuine and deep. It was as though his life were accursed and the curse of his misfortune overshadowed her.

It amazed Hallam and disconcerted him enormously when he began to realise that he had lost his grip on himself. He had imagined that he had conquered his vice, that he could keep it under without particular effort. He had believed in himself with an even greater confidence than Esme had once believed in him: he had relied, with an almost arrogant faith in the power of the human will, on his unaided effort to control his desires. At the time of his marriage he had felt quite sure of himself; otherwise he would never have injured the girl he loved by linking her lot with his. He felt as though he had been guilty of a breach of faith with her; and this thought worried him unceasingly, till he drugged his mind into temporary oblivion and laid up thereby further torment for his sober hours.

The state of things became unendurable, and finally worked to a climax.

A few weeks of restraint on Hallam's part, of determined and difficult self-discipline, and then his devil got the upper hand once more, and his resolves faded into nothingness before the craving which he could no longer resist.

He fought the demon of desire for a few days with a fierce despair in the knowledge that the thing was too strong for him. With each battle his strength weakened. Realising this he sought diversion, taking Esme out in the evenings to any entertainment that offered. He feared to be alone. When he was alone his craving for drink was insistent.

And then one fateful night he gave way to his desire, deliberately and without further struggle: he flung his scruples aside and relaxed all effort, as an exhausted swimmer might relax and give up with the sh.o.r.e and safety in sight.

He had been with Esme to the theatre. The performance had been poor, both in regard to acting and to plot: he had felt extremely bored. And Esme was tired, and complained of headache. It had been a boisterous day, with a black south-easter raging. The wind gathered force towards evening and blew to a gale, driving the dust before it in swirling clouds of sticky grit. Small stones rattled against the closed windows of the taxi in which they drove; the cushions felt damp and sticky, and the dust penetrated through the cracks.

"What a night to be abroad in!" Hallam said, and observed his wife's pale face with some concern. "You ought not to have come. It was a silly sort of show, and it's made your head worse. You should have stayed at home and rested."

"I'm all right," she answered brightly; and made an effort to be entertaining during the long drive home. She did not like him to feel bored when he took her out.

But her head ached badly; and she was relieved when the taxi stopped before the house, and Hallam got out and opened the door for her and followed her into the lighted hall. It was good to get inside and shut out the inclement night. The rush of the wind sweeping round the side of the house was terrific. She stood for a moment at the foot of the stairs and listened to it, with her temples throbbing painfully and her nerves jarred with the noise of the warring elements. Hallam shut the front door and bolted it. When he turned round he saw her eyes, dark-ringed in her white face, looking at him gravely with a question in them.

"You get off to bed," he said. "I'll lock up and follow you in a few minutes. You look done."

"It's this stupid headache," she said apologetically. "Paul, you won't be late? The wind makes me nervous."

"Brave person!" he returned, smiling at her indulgently. He removed the wrap from her shoulders and threw it over his arm. "I will be up before you are asleep."

He watched her mount the stairs. When she reached the landing she paused to smile down at him before entering her room. He turned away and went into his study, switching on the light as he entered. He became aware that he was still carrying his wife's wrap, and placed the flimsy thing over the back of a chair, and stood hesitating, looking towards his easy chair, with the table beside it littered with books and the reading-lamp in the centre. He touched the switch of the lamp and turned off the brighter light and remained, still in indecision, looking no longer at the chair but beyond it towards a cupboard, the key of which he carried always upon him. He felt in his pocket for the key, and remained staring at it in his hand and reflecting deeply. His devil tempted him sorely. Against his volition his gaze travelled to the flimsy thing of gauze and fur which lay as a mute reminder of his wife where he had dropped it on entering, and in imagination he heard again the plaintive note of her question: "Paul, you won't be late?" as she had turned and looked back at him from the stairs. He had promised to follow her shortly.

Frowning, he turned the key in his hand. For a while he remained still irresolute while his will slowly weakened and his craving increased; then with an abrupt movement he advanced swiftly and, stooping, inserted the key in the cupboard door.

Book 3--CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.

Midnight struck and still the wind raged without, while inside the house complete silence reigned. One o'clock struck. The gale was at its height; the noise of the wind was terrific: it swept past the lighted window of Hallam's study and shook the gla.s.s as though something alive were out in the storm and seeking refuge from the fury of the wind. But the occupant of the room neither stirred nor looked round: he sat with a book open on the table before him, and a gla.s.s at his elbow towards which his shaking hand reached forth at regular and frequent intervals.

He had forgotten his promise to his wife, had forgotten the hour; he sat in a semi-stupor, and took no heed of time or place. Whether he read, and, if he did read, whether his drugged brain took hold of the sense of the printed matter on which his eyes rested, was uncertain; but every now and again he turned a page of the book without raising his glance even when his hand reached out for the gla.s.s from which he drank: he only looked up to refill the gla.s.s from a decanter on the table.

The minutes ticked on relentlessly, and the clock on the mantelpiece chimed the half-hour after one. A light footfall descending the stairs, so light that it could not be heard above the noise of the wind, did not disturb the reader; nor did he appear to see when the door of the room was pushed wider and Esme with a dressing-gown worn over her nightdress and her hair in a heavy plait over her shoulder, stood framed in the doorway, a shrinking slender figure, looking towards him with wide, anguished eyes. She advanced swiftly and stood beside him and rested a hand on his shoulder.

"Paul!" she said.

He looked up at her slowly, stupidly, his dull eyes scrutinising her, a frown contracting his brows: then his gaze travelled to the hand on his shoulder and stayed there. He moved his shoulder impatiently.

"What's the matter?" he said in thickened tones. "I thought you were asleep."

"You promised that you would not be long," she said. "I waited for you.

Come to bed, Paul; it's late."

"I shan't be long," he muttered. "You'll take cold." He stared at her deshabille. "Don't be silly, Esme; go back to bed."

"Dear." She put her hand under his arm and attempted to raise him.

"Come with me. I am afraid."

She looked frightened; her face was blanched and tense; her whole body trembled. He stared at her, amazed. Then clumsily he got on to his feet and stood unsteadily before her, a.s.sisted by her supporting hand.

Slowly she led him towards the door. He appeared reluctant to go with her; and at the door he halted irresolutely and attempted, without success, to free himself from her hold. Her grasp on his arm tightened.

"Come with me," she urged.

"I've never known you to be so foolish before," he said. "Why should a little wind make you nervous? It blows hard often enough to have accustomed you to it."

"I don't feel well, Paul," she pleaded. "I want you with me."