“I didn’t say anything. I got away. I didn’t want to make a noise. In fact …”
In fact, he had made use of me cheerfully enough, and was now wondering whether I should put up with it.
“Look here,” I said, “what do you intend to do? If you want to carry on an intrigue with Mrs. Harrison, I tell you, frankly, I’m going to get out and leave you to it. It bores me and I don’t care about these alarms and excursions. Anyhow, why don’t you leave the woman alone? You’re doing her no good.”
Then he exploded and started to tramp about. She was the greatest miracle God had ever made. They were meant for one another. They had got into each other’s blood and all the rest of it. That, of course. Equally, of course, if Harrison had been a decent sort of man he would have sacrificed his own feelings. (As if Lathom had ever thought of sacrificing anything.) But Harrison was a brute, who did not appreciate the wonderful woman who had been entrusted to him. Lathom could suffer himself, but he could not bear to see her suffer. It was all so damned unjust. The man was not fit to live. He deserved to be murdered for his rotten paintings, let alone for his cruelty to his wife. And to think that his revolting hands should have the right …
And so on.
It is so very odd that in moments of excitement we should all talk like characters in a penny novelette. However long one lives, I suppose it always strikes one with the same shock of surprise.
“That’ll do,” I said at last. “We can take that as read. If Mrs. Harrison feels as you do about it—”
He interrupted me to assure me at unnecessary length that she did.
“Very well,” I said, “why not do the decent and sensible thing and take her away? You won’t find this kind of backstairs intrigue permanently inspiring, you know. Besides, it seems to be the kind of thing you do very badly.”
“I wish to God,” replied Lathom, “that I could take her away. Heaven and earth, man, do you think I wouldn’t do it like a shot if I had half a chance? But she won’t hear of it. She’s got some poisonous idea about not making a scandal. It’s this damned awful suburban respectability that’s crushing the beautiful life out of her. When you see what she was meant to be—free and splendid and ready to proclaim her splendid passion to the world—and then see what this foul blighter has made of her—”
“Well, there you are,” said I. “That’s the raw, red life of the suburbs, as per specification. That’s what you came here for, isn’t it? Look here, Lathom, buzz off and let me get to sleep, there’s a good chap. You can blow your feelings off in the morning.”
“Oh, all right.” He got up from the bed and hesitated at the door. “I only thought I’d warn you,” he added, a little awkwardly, “in case the old woman says anything to you.”
“Dashed good of you,” I said dryly. “What am I to do? Make love to the confidante while you make love to the mistress, and go stark mad in white linen?”
“Oh, you needn’t bother to do that,” said he. “I should just treat the whole thing as a joke. Or, if she makes a fuss, apologise and say you were a bit screwed. I’ll back you up.”
I was so infuriated with him for shoving the responsibility on to me in this lighthearted way that I told him to clear out, which he did.
As a matter of fact, I rather underestimated the seriousness of the thing. I mean, I did not realise the lengths to which Miss Milsom’s resentment might go. I determined merely to avoid the woman in future, and, in fact, treat the whole episode as if it hadn’t occurred. I thought Lathom had received a salutary shock and useful lesson on the difficulties attending suburban love-affairs, and that he might bethink himself and stop the whole thing before it had gone too far. A good thing, too. I was clearing out and getting married at Easter, and there, so far as I was concerned, was an end of it. Lathom could fish it out for himself after that. My book had made a sudden success, and I was feeling rather cock-a-hoop with myself.
Consequently, I was quite unprepared for the arrival of Harrison with his accusation. He was dead-white with fury and intensely quiet. He did not offer me a single opening by scattering his usual fiery particles of rage. He put the accusation before me. Such and such things had been stated—what had I to reply? I tried to dismiss the thing with airy persiflage. He was not abashed by my assumption of ridicule. He simply asked whether I denied being on the landing at that time, and, if not, what I was doing there. When I refused to answer so absurd an accusation, he told me, without further argument, to leave the house. His wife must not be subjected to any kind of disagreeable contact. The mere fact that I could take such an attitude to the matter (and, indeed, my attitude had nothing dignified about it) showed that I was an entirely unsuitable person to come into any sort of contact with Mrs. Harrison. He was there to protect her from persons of my sort. Would I go quietly or wait to be removed by force?
The deceived husband is usually considered to be a ridiculous figure, but Harrison was not ridiculous. Sometimes I wonder whether he was deceived. I thought at the time that he was, but perhaps the light of faith in his eyes was really the torch of martyrdom. It is fine to die for a faith, but perhaps it is still finer to die for a thing you do not believe in. I do not know.
