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Page 49
He read her letter over again twice. The ridiculous little phrases
convinced him of the groundlessness of his suspicion. Punctuation
would have argued premeditation, and premeditation guilt. "Nevill has
come home--why of course you saw him." She had actually forgotten that
Stanistreet had been there on the evening of his arrival.
He laughed so loud that Mrs. Nevill Tyson heard him in her bedroom.
An hour later he heard her softly unlocking her door. He smiled. She
might be as innocent as she pleased, but she had made him make a cursed
fool of himself, and he meant that she should suffer for that.
He threw Stanistreet's flowers out of the window, put Molly's note up in
its envelope and sent it to the post. Then he sat down to think.
Mrs. Nevill Tyson's room was opposite the one she had just left. She
stood for a moment before her looking-glass, studying her own reflection.
She took off her pearl necklace and spanned her white throat with her
tiny hands. And as she looked she was glad. When all was said and done
she looked beautiful--beautiful after her small fashion. She turned this
way and that to make perfectly sure of the fact. She had realized long
ago how much her hold on Nevill's affections depended on it. His love had
waxed and waned with her beauty. Well--She opened her door before getting
into bed, and for the next hour she lay listening and wondering. She saw
the line of light at the top of the drawing-room door disappear as the
big lamp went out. It was followed by a fainter streak. Nevill must have
lit the little lamp on the table by the window. (Oh, dear! He was going
to sit up, then.) She heard him go into the dining-room beyond and
stumble against things; then came the spurt of a match, followed by the
clinking of glasses. (He was only going to have a smoke and a drink.)
She waited a little while longer, then she called to him. There was no
answer; he must be dozing on the couch in the dining-room. A light wind
lifted the carpet at the door, and she wondered drowsily whether Nevill
had left the drawing-room window open.
He had done all that she supposed, and more. First of all, he drank a
little more than was good for him; this happened occasionally now. Then
he sat down and wrote what he thought was a very terse and biting letter
to Stanistreet, in which he said: "You needn't call. You will not find
either of us at home at Ridgmount Gardens from May to August, nor at
Thorneytoft from August to May. And if you should happen to meet my
wife anywhere in public, you will oblige me greatly by cutting her."
This letter he left on the table outside for postage in the morning. Then
he went back to the dining-room and drank a great deal more than was good
for him. Of course he left the drawing-room window open and the lamp
burning, and by midnight he was sleeping heavily in the adjoining room.
And the wind got up in the night: it played with the muslin curtains,
flinging them out like streamers into the room; played with the flimsy
parasol lamp-shade until it tilted, and the little lamp was thrown on to
the floor.
Mrs. Nevill Tyson woke with the light crash. She sat up for a moment,
then got out of bed, crossed the passage, and opened the drawing-room
door. A warm wind puffed in her face; the air was full of black flakes
flying through a red rain; a stream of fire ran along the floor, crests
of flames leapt and quivered over the steady blue under-current; and over
there, in the corner, an absurd little arm-chair had caught fire all by
itself; the flames had peeled off its satin covering like a skin, and
were slowly consuming the horse-hair stuffing; the pitiable object sent
out great puffs and clouds of smoke that writhed in agonized spirals. The
tiny room had become a battlefield of dissolute forces. But as yet none
of the solid furniture was touched; it was a superficial conflagration.
Mrs. Nevill Tyson saw nothing but the stream of fire that ran between her
and the room where Nevill lay. She picked up her skirt and waded through
it barefoot. A spark flung from the burning draperies settled on the wide
flapping frills of her night-gown. Nevill was fast asleep with the rug
over him and his mouth open. She shook him with one hand, and with the
other she tried to beat down her flaming capes. Was he never going to
wake?
She was afraid to move; but by dropping forward on her knees she could
just reach some soda-water on the table; she dashed it over his face. The
fire had hurt the soles of her feet; now it had caught her breast, her
throat, her hair; it rose flaming round her head, and she cried aloud in
her terror. Still clutching Nevill's sleeve, she staggered and fell
across him, and he woke.
He woke dazed; but he had sense enough to roll her in the rug and crush
the flames out.
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