I wandered without pattern or intention. I did not see anything before me, only the images whirling through my mind. I could not fix on anything clearly. There was a man with red hair biting into a yellow plum; a woman’s hands, weaving stems of straw into a little doll; dandelion seeds floating through the air; an iron knife stuck into the ground, concealing—
But no, I could not think of that. Then I heard in my mind the raucous laughter of the wise woman; I could almost see her pulling at her skirts, and I shook my head—
—and saw that a woman was standing before me. She was rouged and painted, her hair piled high on her head, her neckline shameless and her skirt tucked up to show her petticoats. She was a harlot; she leered at me through reddened lips—she was a grotesquerie. I heard sounds I knew were not there: discordant music; the excited cries of costermongers spilling from a cheap show; I saw the flash of mottled skin beneath tumbled skirts. I shook my head, backing away. I did not want any of it. I only wanted . . . And I thought of a little hand slipping into my arm, of nut-brown eyes peeping shyly from beneath a faded bonnet.
I closed my eyes. I only wanted what was gone from me: what could never be within my reach. Was that all it was, really? Was that all I was?
I turned and made my way through the streets, their high brick walls stained irrevocably with soot, as somewhere a church bell began to chime the hour. Soon my father would leave his place of business and return home. What would he find there? I imagined Helena at the table, composed once again, her calm, pale face the image of decorum, and quite, quite silent. I pushed the thought away. It was not fair to her. I felt now that I had always been unfair.
I had believed I had acted for the good, but all was as a quicksand beneath my feet. There was no step I felt sure of taking without causing more harm, and yet I had to go somewhere. I could not bear the thought of my father seeing the chasm that had opened between husband and wife. I could not bear to look upon his disappointment.
I realised I was making my way back, slowly, in the direction of the station. The realisation did not slow my step nor change my mind. I had nowhere else to go. There was only Halfoak and the thing that I had to do, and so I kept going until a cab appeared at the corner and I hailed it. I hurried to step aboard and it swept me away, the rushing movement providing some small comfort. I felt in my pocket, ensuring I had the means to pay my way: I did, and so it was decided. I would not return to my father’s home tonight. I would allow Helena a little time to gather herself—it was better she be without me for a while, before we could be reconciled. I would finish my business in the country, and then I could return, when it was done at last; when I could truly say to her that we were to begin again. Perhaps then I could find a way to deserve her.
I found a lodging-house close to the station. The landlady was uncouth, and so tall she might have been stretched to fit her mean, narrow establishment. She led me up the stair, indicated the dingy room I was to occupy, and looked me up and down as if to enquire as to the whereabouts of my luggage. I did not explain.
That night I slept upon a mattress stuffed with straw, and all too soon my little companions for the darkest hours emerged and crept in close. My arms and legs and back crawled at their touch; I burned with their bites. Whenever I searched for them upon my skin, I could not see them; but I knew that they were there.