________________________________________________
_ When I reached London I found waiting for me an urgent request
that I should go to Mrs. Strickland's as soon after dinner as
I could. I found her with Colonel MacAndrew and his wife.
Mrs. Strickland's sister was older than she, not unlike her,
but more faded; and she had the efficient air, as though she
carried the British Empire in her pocket, which the wives of
senior officers acquire from the consciousness of belonging to
a superior caste. Her manner was brisk, and her good-breeding
scarcely concealed her conviction that if you were not a
soldier you might as well be a counter-jumper. She hated the
Guards, whom she thought conceited, and she could not trust
herself to speak of their ladies, who were so remiss in calling.
Her gown was dowdy and expensive.
Mrs. Strickland was plainly nervous.
"Well, tell us your news," she said.
"I saw your husband. I'm afraid he's quite made up his mind
not to return." I paused a little. "He wants to paint."
"What do you mean?" cried Mrs. Strickland, with the utmost
astonishment.
"Did you never know that he was keen on that sort of thing."
"He must be as mad as a hatter," exclaimed the Colonel.
Mrs. Strickland frowned a little. She was searching among her
recollections.
"I remember before we were married he used to potter about
with a paint-box. But you never saw such daubs. We used to
chaff him. He had absolutely no gift for anything like that."
"Of course it's only an excuse," said Mrs. MacAndrew.
Mrs. Strickland pondered deeply for some time. It was quite
clear that she could not make head or tail of my announcement.
She had put some order into the drawing-room by now,
her housewifely instincts having got the better of her dismay;
and it no longer bore that deserted look, like a furnished house
long to let, which I had noticed on my first visit after the
catastrophe. But now that I had seen Strickland in Paris it
was difficult to imagine him in those surroundings. I thought
it could hardly have failed to strike them that there was
something incongruous in him.
"But if he wanted to be an artist, why didn't he say so?"
asked Mrs. Strickland at last. "I should have thought I was
the last person to be unsympathetic to -- to aspirations of
that kind."
Mrs. MacAndrew tightened her lips. I imagine that she had
never looked with approval on her sister's leaning towards
persons who cultivated the arts. She spoke of "culchaw"
derisively.
Mrs. Strickland continued:
"After all, if he had any talent I should be the first to
encourage it. I wouldn't have minded sacrifices. I'd much
rather be married to a painter than to a stockbroker. If it
weren't for the children, I wouldn't mind anything. I could
be just as happy in a shabby studio in Chelsea as in this flat."
"My dear, I have no patience with you," cried Mrs. MacAndrew.
"You don't mean to say you believe a word of this nonsense?"
"But I think it's true," I put in mildly.
She looked at me with good-humoured contempt.
"A man doesn't throw up his business and leave his wife and
children at the age of forty to become a painter unless
there's a woman in it. I suppose he met one of your --
artistic friends, and she's turned his head."
A spot of colour rose suddenly to Mrs. Strickland's pale cheeks.
"What is she like?"
I hesitated a little. I knew that I had a bombshell.
"There isn't a woman."
Colonel MacAndrew and his wife uttered expressions of incredulity,
and Mrs. Strickland sprang to her feet.
"Do you mean to say you never saw her?"
"There's no one to see. He's quite alone."
"That's preposterous," cried Mrs. MacAndrew.
"I knew I ought to have gone over myself," said the Colonel.
"You can bet your boots I'd have routed her out fast enough."
"I wish you had gone over," I replied, somewhat tartly.
"You'd have seen that every one of your suppositions was wrong.
He's not at a smart hotel. He's living in one tiny
room in the most squalid way. If he's left his home, it's not
to live a gay life. He's got hardly any money."
"Do you think he's done something that we don't know about,
and is lying doggo on account of the police?"
The suggestion sent a ray of hope in all their breasts, but I
would have nothing to do with it.
"If that were so, he would hardly have been such a fool as to
give his partner his address," I retorted acidly.
"Anyhow, there's one thing I'm positive of, he didn't go
away with anyone. He's not in love. Nothing is farther
from his thoughts."
There was a pause while they reflected over my words.
"Well, if what you say is true," said Mrs. MacAndrew at last,
"things aren't so bad as I thought."
Mrs. Strickland glanced at her, but said nothing.
She was very pale now, and her fine brow was dark and lowering.
I could not understand the expression of her face.
Mrs. MacAndrew continued:
"If it's just a whim, he'll get over it."
"Why don't you go over to him, Amy?" hazarded the Colonel.
"There's no reason why you shouldn't live with him in Paris
for a year. We'll look after the children. I dare say he'd
got stale. Sooner or later he'll be quite ready to come back
to London, and no great harm will have been done."
"I wouldn't do that," said Mrs. MacAndrew. "I'd give him all
the rope he wants. He'll come back with his tail between his
legs and settle down again quite comfortably." Mrs. MacAndrew
looked at her sister coolly. "Perhaps you weren't very wise
with him sometimes. Men are queer creatures, and one has to
know how to manage them."
Mrs. MacAndrew shared the common opinion of her sex that a man
is always a brute to leave a woman who is attached to him, but
that a woman is much to blame if he does. Le coeur a ses
raisons que la raison ne connait pas.
Mrs. Strickland looked slowly from one to another of us.
"He'll never come back," she said.
"Oh, my dear, remember what we've just heard. He's been used
to comfort and to having someone to look after him. How long
do you think it'll be before he gets tired of a scrubby room
in a scrubby hotel? Besides, he hasn't any money. He must
come back."
"As long as I thought he'd run away with some woman I thought
there was a chance. I don't believe that sort of thing ever answers.
He'd have got sick to death of her in three months.
But if he hasn't gone because he's in love, then it's finished."
"Oh, I think that's awfully subtle," said the Colonel,
putting into the word all the contempt he felt for a quality
so alien to the traditions of his calling. "Don't you believe it.
He'll come back, and, as Dorothy says, I dare say he'll be
none the worse for having had a bit of a fling."
"But I don't want him back," she said.
"Amy!"
It was anger that had seized Mrs. Strickland, and her pallor
was the pallor of a cold and sudden rage. She spoke quickly now,
with little gasps.
"I could have forgiven it if he'd fallen desperately in love
with someone and gone off with her. I should have thought
that natural. I shouldn't really have blamed him. I should
have thought he was led away. Men are so weak, and women are
so unscrupulous. But this is different. I hate him.
I'll never forgive him now."
Colonel MacAndrew and his wife began to talk to her together.
They were astonished. They told her she was mad. They could
not understand. Mrs. Strickland turned desperately to me.
"Don't you see?" she cried.
"I'm not sure. Do you mean that you could have forgiven him
if he'd left you for a woman, but not if he's left you for an idea?
You think you're a match for the one, but against the
other you're helpless?"
Mrs. Strickland gave mt a look in which I read no great
friendliness, but did not answer. Perhaps I had struck home.
She went on in a low and trembling voice:
"I never knew it was possible to hate anyone as much as I hate him.
Do you know, I've been comforting myself by thinking
that however long it lasted he'd want me at the end? I knew
when he was dying he'd send for me, and I was ready to go;
I'd have nursed him like a mother, and at the last I'd have told
him that it didn't matter, I'd loved him always, and I forgave
him everything."
I have always been a little disconcerted by the passion women
have for behaving beautifully at the death-bed of those they love.
Sometimes it seems as if they grudge the longevity which
postpones their chance of an effective scene.
"But now -- now it's finished. I'm as indifferent to him as
if he were a stranger. I should like him to die miserable,
poor, and starving, without a friend. I hope he'll rot with
some loathsome disease. I've done with him."
I thought it as well then to say what Strickland had suggested.
"If you want to divorce him, he's quite willing to do whatever
is necessary to make it possible."
"Why should I give him his freedom?"
"I don't think he wants it. He merely thought it might be
more convenient to you."
Mrs. Strickland shrugged her shoulders impatiently. I think
I was a little disappointed in her. I expected then people to
be more of a piece than I do now, and I was distressed to find
so much vindictiveness in so charming a creature. I did not
realise how motley are the qualities that go to make up a
human being. Now I am well aware that pettiness and grandeur,
malice and charity, hatred and love, can find place side by
side in the same human heart.
I wondered if there was anything I could say that would ease
the sense of bitter humiliation which at present tormented
Mrs. Strickland. I thought I would try.
"You know, I'm not sure that your husband is quite responsible
for his actions. I do not think he is himself. He seems to
me to be possessed by some power which is using him for its
own ends, and in whose hold he is as helpless as a fly in a
spider's web. It's as though someone had cast a spell over him.
I'm reminded of those strange stories one sometimes
hears of another personality entering into a man and driving
out the old one. The soul lives unstably in the body, and is
capable of mysterious transformations. In the old days they
would say Charles Strickland had a devil."
Mrs. MacAndrew smoothed down the lap of her gown, and gold
bangles fell over her wrists.
"All that seems to me very far-fetched," she said acidly.
"I don't deny that perhaps Amy took her husband a little too much
for granted. If she hadn't been so busy with her own affairs,
I can't believe that she wouldn't have suspected something was
the matter. I don't think that Alec could have something on
his mind for a year or more without my having a pretty shrewd
idea of it."
The Colonel stared into vacancy, and I wondered whether anyone
could be quite so innocent of guile as he looked.
"But that doesn't prevent the fact that Charles Strickland is
a heartless beast." She looked at me severely. "I can tell
you why he left his wife -- from pure selfishness and nothing
else whatever."
"That is certainly the simplest explanation," I said.
But I thought it explained nothing. When, saying I was tired,
I rose to go, Mrs. Strickland made no attempt to detain me. _
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