‘WITH WHAT MEASURE YE METE . . .’
Extract from the Diary of Desmond Clay
17 November: Had a most extraordinary and startling experience two days ago – so utterly inexplicable that I have not written it up till today. Took car on Friday at Kennington Gate to Streatham. Felt pretty much the same as usual. Passed Brixton Station, and remember looking at the clock. Time was 4.45. Next thing I knew was that I was near Streatham Common, taking the turning to the left. On consulting watch, found it was 5.25. The intervening time is an absolute blank. Try as I will, I cannot piece it together. It is impossible to conclude that I fell asleep, as I had evidently got out of the car at Streatham Hill Station, as I originally intended. Am worried and perplexed at this strange lapse, and, at first recurrence, shall consult a specialist. Saw Enid; she grows dearer every day. A compensation, I suppose, for my past bitter experience of treachery and pain. However, de mortuis – for I hear Mrs Laflèche is dead; something sudden. Forty minutes wiped clean out – sponged away from my memory. Wish I could remember – or else forget all about it.
When Iris Devine married Syd Laflèche with his £12,000 a year, the world said she was a lucky girl. It made the identical remark seven years later, when she became his widow – but with a sympathising accent this time. Yet, regarding the affair from its purely commercial aspect, it was not without its points. Iris had given youth, a moderate portion of good looks, and little else beside, in exchange for a gentleman of agreeable characteristics, very shady antecedents, and an unimpeachable banking account. The flaw in the transaction was the fact that Iris was not a free asset. Yet this item had been quickly discounted by the girl. Born of a struggling theatrical family, her life had been played out, to a considerable degree, in the fierce glow of limelight, which had dried up the dews of youth too soon. The fact that the path that led to her union with Laflèche was paved by a human heart, only made the way for her feet softer.
Yet among the many parts she had played she did not look forward to dismissing her quondam lover. However, she counted on Desmond’s gentleness and lack of emotion, feeling she would score heavily through his hatred of a scene. There would be no disagreeable reproaches, she argued – Desmond would not forget that he was a gentleman.
But in this she was mistaken. Desmond did forget, and when he passed out of Iris’s life as a personal element it was to remain there as a vaguely disquieting memory.
Then the great Wheel of Change snatched her up and whirled her through a cycle of prosperity, excitement, and disillusionment, finally shaking her off and dropping her suddenly into the Kennington Road one foggy November day, just at four o’clock. The fog was creeping on with the stealthy advance of a foe – swelling and darkening in the shadows, and gathering in the corners, only to shrink back before the glow of the street lights. The cars whirled by in an intermittent procession, their red eyes gleaming through the mist. Iris watched them with fascination. They represented her old life – the car and omnibus era. Seven years of carriages and motors had ousted them from a willing memory, but today they seemed to regain their old ascendancy. Each name revived old recollections – the struggle to capture this, the easy conquest of that.
Suddenly yielding to an impulse, Iris hailed the next car, and climbing the narrow stair with difficulty, as the car lurched on, she groped along the shaking platform on the top and dropped heavily into the nearest seat.
‘Free!’ she cried, and then laughed out again into the chill air. ‘Free!’
The mean houses slid by, yellow patches gleaming through the fan-lights. Iris hailed them with delight. She held up her muff, to ward off the damp air, and laughed again, as the soft fur caressed her face. The six brief weeks of widowhood had found her stunned; today, for the first time, she realised her position, and her liberty.
She nodded familiarly to a beer-palace, resplendent with flaring lights. ‘Seven years’ penal servitude,’ she whispered. ‘Free!’
‘All fares.’ The man came to take her ticket. Iris had not troubled to notice the destination of the car.
‘All the way,’ she said, recklessly, and then the woman of wealth, suddenly smitten by habit, found herself keenly counting the coppers that the man gave her for change. That made her laugh again, and she gripped her hands tightly in an ecstasy. ‘Free! Seven years’ hard!’ Then she frowned slightly. ‘Now, am I really free, or – ticket-of-leave?’ The thought amused her, and she toyed with it.
‘Ticket-of-leave! Then I must be really good, for a bit, or else – back again! And it may be a life-sentence next time. Oh, lucky woman! Free!’
But the car refused to run to this tune now, and it whirred along rapping out in uneven jerks: ‘Ticket of leave! Ticket of leave!’
Iris laid back dreamily, soothed by the sway of the motion. Imperceptibly, her thoughts slipped away to the crime that held the sentence.
Suddenly, a thick curtain of blue shot down, blotting out the grey world, and spreading over the fog. It hung there for a fraction of a second, and then split in two pieces, and half was the calm turquoise sky, and half the restless, heaving sea. The tide of Memory, in sweeping round the world, had, in a momentary back-wash, left Iris stranded high and dry on the recollection of her parting scene with Desmond.
Well she remembered it! The bold cliff, the winding path, and Desmond swinging along by the foam, hurrying to meet her. She shuddered when she saw the light in his eyes, for she knew it was hers to darken it, hers to kill the faith, and banish the joy – hers to murder youth, and imperil her soul – and all in the sacred name of Mammon! She felt so utterly sorry for herself, that she thought he must be sorry, too, and she could hardly understand it, when she saw the joy in the boy’s eyes fade to bewilderment, and then as the baleful light broke through the cloud of doubt, a storm of anger, fierce, ungovernable rage, that blotted the calm face. Iris hardly recognised his voice, though she shrank beneath his reproaches, and bent her head to the tempest, praying for the lull. It seemed to Iris that he raved on interminably, but only one sentence stayed with her.
‘It’s a monstrous thing you’ve done, inhuman! To win my heart, and then trample on it. Oh, I know, it has been done before. And it will be done again. But it is no small thing. It is murder! I tell you, it is murder! You have killed the best part of me. I can feel it. And you can’t do it with impunity. There will be a reckoning, I tell you – you must . . .’ The voice dragged incoherently, and then Desmond pulled himself together. He had remembered the fact on which Iris had counted, that he was a gentleman, to whom were barred the rights of primeval man. His face flamed, and in shame-faced manner, he apologised humbly for his tirade. The anger had faded from his face, and only dull pain was there. The victory was with Iris. Raising his hat, he left her, and she watched him go into the setting sun, his white-clad form cutting the purple of the heather. Even as he went, she wanted him. She wanted one last look, one smile, even if grudged; in short, she wanted a conscience-salve.
She bent her brows, and tightened her mouth under the strain of will-force, and tugged at his consciousness – willing him to look back once more. Desmond had never proved unresponsive to that mute appeal, and even now his head turned involuntarily and their eyes met.
Iris cried out in a sudden panic of terror. For the first time, she saw Murder look out of a man’s eyes, and the sight rooted her to the spot, panic-stricken.
She saw his profile sharply outlined against the blue, and then the car jolted over the points, and slithered on to another track. For one minute, the Past still tore desperately at her skirts. The next second the shutter of grey had slammed down, and she was again in the grip of the Present.
Only the profile had not vanished. She found that she was still looking at it, and with a thrill, suddenly awoke to the fact that Desmond was on the same car.
Where and when he had got on, she did not know. Leaning forward, she scanned his face with interest. Just the same old Desmond, in every respect. He sat forward, looking in front of him, with a dreamy unconscious smile on his face – absolutely oblivious to his surroundings. Iris’s glance was almost a caress, as she scanned each feature. Nothing changed! The calm brow – the clear eyes – the dear mouth! A man who was clearly under petticoat government. Dame Fashion had a thrall in him, as was evident in every detail of his well-groomed appearance, starting from the crown of his hat, down to the tips of his fashionable boots, while a point was scored with every detail of his costume. And Mrs Grundy plainly had him under her thumb, and had stamped his whole appearance with the Seal of Conventionality.
Iris studied his face yet longer, and then she almost laughed at the gentleness and well-bred repose imprinted thereon. Yet, for one brief moment, she had been afraid of this man, and had thought she had seen the ugly spectre of murder peeping from his eyes.
The car glided on. Desmond still smiled absently at the mist. At last, Iris grew impatient. She wished he would turn and notice her. Desmond was sitting three seats in front, to the left. A stout policeman by her side hedged her in with the majesty of the Law, while across the gangway to her left sat a portly City man. They seemed to represent obstacles, and she grew yet more restless. She found herself counting the roses that clustered on the hat of a girl who sat in front. Five roses of a pinky-mauve shade. And the girl had red hair. Iris shuddered.
Then she remembered her old powers. Should she will him to once look at her? She set her hat – whose white strings alone marked her widowhood – straight and pondered. She knew that during the past seven years Dame Fortune had only ripened and embellished her charms, though, perhaps, at the last, as if suddenly repenting of her lavish generosity, with a dash of feminine spite, she had pecked out a few lines in the smooth face.
Iris struggled hard with the temptation. Ought she to try to revive the old fascination? Once, Desmond had suffered bitterly through her action. His face seemed quite tranquil now. True, there were lines round mouth and eyes, but Iris was unskilled in reading emotions, and placed them as a tribute to time. If the old game of the Candle and the Moth were to be revived, would the end this time be the total extinction of the Moth?
The woman wavered, and then the love of admiration proved too strong, and the fierce flame of Vanity licked up the last scruples in a glow of desire. Iris had always met a lover’s advances halfway, and if he showed no desire to even approach the line of demarcation, then she sallied forth alone, to reveal to him his destination. And she longed for Desmond’s other wing. So, with a soulful look in her blue eyes, she leaned forward – her pretty, white chin nestling among her dark furs, calling to Desmond – calling, calling.
And he heard. Seven years of disuse had not blunted her old powers. Desmond slowly, reluctantly, fell under the spell, and, in the old way, he turned his head, and looked at her.
The calm blue eyes looked at her quietly. Then, a sudden chill seized Iris, as, to her amazement, she saw the red lamp of murder kindle in them. She watched the light grow and blaze, as though fed by a Devil’s torch, and then Desmond rose from his seat, and came towards her – his head thrust forward, his lower lip hanging, and his whole body bent, and moving with a curious undulating slope.
She gripped her seat in alarm, and then the groundlessness of her fears reassured her. The policeman’s warm cape caressed her, and the red calico faces of the roses looked at her cheerfully. The City man turned the leaves of his paper with a brisk rustle. This was no isolated spot, where murder stalks unchallenged. The absolute safety of her position filled her with a sense of comfort.
Desmond came yet closer; she could see his fingers quivering and wrapping themselves round each other, with an undefined sense of coming horror. She watched them with fascination, as they twisted and curled, but even as she looked, they shot out, and she felt her throat held in a bony grip.
One minute of shock, and then the terror died away before the comforting assurance that help was at hand. The policeman coughed noisily, and a man behind broke out into a whistle. The fingers pressed tighter.
A slight singing began in Iris’s ears, yet to her amazement nothing happened. She cast her eyes desperately round the car, and saw, to her bewilderment, that no one had stirred. It was as though everyone was quite unconscious of what had befallen. Iris reeled before this stunning fact. She could not grasp its significance. A wave of utter incredulity swamped her whole being. Even while the murderous fingers were tightening each minute, even while the man was swaying above her, in the force of his convulsive fury, the everyday world read calmly on, while a tragedy was being enacted.
Indignation ran hot through her veins. Then it was met by a returning current of so icy a horror, that she collapsed into a powerless heap.
Still in his seat, two yards away, was Desmond – looking dreamily into space, his eyes absolutely unconscious. She took in every detail of his form and costume; she noted that his tie was grey crêpe de Chine, and that he wore violets in his buttonhole. And yet, standing over her, glowering with inhuman ferocity, was the other Desmond.
Iris looked, and something caught her strained sight. It was something bright, that glittered and swayed in circles and hoops – something as fine as spun glass, and as dazzling as silver – something like a silken cord. She saw with a thrill that this thread united the two Desmonds.
A jumbled mass of psychological facts heaped themselves up in the woman’s brain. Articles she had read on astral bodies, sub-consciousness, second personalities, all blended together, but the one terrible truth seemed to stand out clearly. The injured personality, the spiritual part of Desmond, that she had wounded so mortally, had suddenly remembered its slumbering wrongs, and had slipped out of its corporeal envelope, to avenge its violated individuality. And stinging her brain like a hornet was the thought that she alone had called forth this Minister of Vengeance.
Broad iron bands seemed now to fasten round Iris’s head, as the grip pressed more closely. She could feel the blood foaming like a mill-stream through her veins, seeking to find an outlet, and driven back by the encircling hoops.
The pity of her position filled her with anguish. She felt that she was in the thrall of some monstrous nightmare. She struggled to cry out, and tell the people on the car of her danger. The scream ‘Murder!’ rose to her blue lips, but the cruel hands pressed it back, and sent it down to echo in the depths of her hopeless heart – ‘Murder!’ With the strong arms near – with the kind faces round her – ‘Murder!’ And to Iris the horror and pity culminated in the knowledge that Desmond sat and dreamed on, all unconscious of the price that was being paid as Blood Penalty for slaughtered Truth and Faith. His sensitive mouth was set in a smile. His whole being was a mute protest against violence of word or act.
Now the lights began to dance around her, till they joined with the street-lamps in a cluster of golden bulbs. Faster they went, round and round, till a circle was formed, and lamp melted into lamp in a fiery ring. Round and round it spun. Then it suddenly swooped up into the air, while Iris felt herself sinking down – down. She saw the ring grow smaller and smaller, till it flickered to a star – dwindled to a pin-prick – and went out.
Iris now became conscious of a strange conflict that was raging within her. She could feel her reeling brain sending down agonised signals to her heart, which sent back an answering ‘thud’. It seemed as if it were holding the fortress against the assaults of Death. The beats grew feebler each minute, like the blows from the picks of entombed miners. The roar of a great sea sounded in Iris’s ears. The signals from the brain, running down the jangled nerves, grew more desperate and despairing, but the answering ‘thud’ was weaker.
Then suddenly something almost imperceptible broke through the roar. It was so faint, so far away, that it seemed like the very last vibration of sound. The sense, rather than the words, fell on Iris’s ears, ‘Lady – seems – ill.’
They were the very last echoes that reached her from the Finite World. The last heart-beat was followed by silence, and she slipped away into the Infinite.
The next minute, the car seemed to break up, like the pieces of a kaleidoscope. Instead of a compact whole of quietly ranked people, forms passed hurriedly to and fro, pushing each other in excited confusion. Only one was unmoved, a man, who remained in his seat, wrapped in dreamy abstraction.
The forms clustered round, and drew closer to the centre. Then they parted, and Something was borne down the steep stairs. The car went on.
But the man on the seat never stirred.