He did not call her Kitty.
"I fear them, Mark," Catherine replied.
"Fear them! Why?"
"They are doing great harm in the world."
Mark uttered an impatient exclamation. As a man he was kind and gentle, but as an artist he was wilful and intolerant. Soon after this he wrote to Berrand and invited him to stay. Berrand came. This time Catherine shuddered at his coming. She began to look upon him as her husband"s evil genius. Berrand did not apparently notice any change in her, for he treated her as usual, and spoke much to her of Mark. And Catherine was too reserved to express the feelings which tortured her to a comparative stranger. For this reason Berrand did not understand the terrible conflict that was raging within her as "William Foster"s" new work grew, and he often spoke to her about the book, and described, with mischievous intellectual delight, its terror, its immorality and its pain. Catherine listened with apparent calm. She was waiting for that interruption from heaven. She was wondering why it did not come.
One night in summer it chanced that she and Berrand spoke of Fate.
Catherine, dominated by her fixed idea that G.o.d would intervene in some strange and abrupt way to interrupt the activities of Mark, spoke of Fate as something inevitably ordained, certain as the rising of the sun or the dropping down of the darkness. Berrand laughed.
"There is no Fate," he said. "There is man, there is woman. Man and woman make circ.u.mstance. We fashion our own lives and the lives of others."
"And our deaths?" said Catherine.
"We die when we"ve done enough, when we"ve done our best or worst, when we"ve pushed our energy as far as it will go--that is, if we die what is called a natural death. But of course now and then some other human being chooses to think for us, and to think we have lived long enough or too long. And then----"
He paused with a smile.
"Then----?" said Catherine, leaning slightly forward.
"Then that human being may cut our thread prematurely, and down we go to death."
Catherine drew in her breath sharply.
"But that again," continued Berrand. "Is man--or woman--not the fantasy you call Fate?"
"Perhaps Fate can take possession of a man or a woman," Catherine said slowly and thoughtfully, "govern them, act through them."
"That"s a dangerous doctrine. You believe that criminals are irresponsible then?"
"I don"t know," she said. "I suppose there must be an agent. Yes, I suppose there must."
She spoke as one who is thinking out a problem.
"G.o.d," she continued, after a moment of silence, "may choose to use a man or woman as an agent instead of a disease."
"Oh, well," said Berrand, with his odd, high laugh, "I cannot go with you on that road of thought, Mrs. Sirrett. I am not afflicted with a religion. Oh, here"s Mark. How have you been getting on, Mr. William Foster?"
"Grandly," he replied.
His dark eyes were blazing with excitement. Catherine suddenly turned very cold. She got up and left the room. The two men scarcely noticed her departure. They plunged into an eager discussion on the book. They debated it till the night waned and the melancholy breath of dawn stole in at the open window.
Meanwhile, Catherine, who had gone to bed, lay awake. This summer was so like last summer. Now, as then, she was sleepless, and heard the distant, excited voices rising and falling, murmuring on and on hour after hour.
Now, as then, they accompanied activity. Now, as then, the activity was deadly, harmful to an invisible mult.i.tude, hidden out in the great world.
But there was a difference between last year and this, so like in many ways. Mark"s power had grown in the interval. He had become more dangerous. And Catherine had developed also. Circ.u.mstance--spoken of by Berrand--had changed, twisted into a different shape by dying hands, twisted again by the hands--all unconscious--of that man who talked downstairs, of Berrand. Was he, too, an agent of Fate, at which he scornfully laughed? Why not?
Oh, those everlasting voices! they rang hatefully in the sleepless woman"s ears. Their eagerness, their enthusiasm, were terrible to her.
For now their joy seemed to summon her to a great darkness. Their sound seemed to call her to the making of a great silence. She put her hands over her ears, but she still heard them till it was dawn. She still heard them when they were no more speaking.
From this time Catherine waited indeed, but with a patience quite different from that which possessed her formerly. Then she was expectant, almost superst.i.tiously expectant, of an abrupt interposition of Fate. Now she waited, but with less expectancy, and with a strange and growing sense of personal obligation which had been totally absent from her before the issue lay between the thing invisible and herself.
And each day that pa.s.sed brought the issue a step nearer to her. How pathetical seemed to her the ignorance of the two men who were her companions in the cloistered house at this time. Tears rose in her eyes at the thought of her secret and their impotence to know it. But then she thought of her mother"s death-bed and the tears ran dry. For the spirit of her mother surely was with her in the dark, the spirit that knew all now and that could inspire and direct her.
The book grew and Catherine waited. Would Mark be allowed to complete it? that was the great question. If he was, then the burden of action was laid upon her by the will of G.o.d. She had quite made up her mind on that. She had even prayed, and believed that an answer had been given to her prayer, and that the answer was--"In the event you antic.i.p.ate it is G.o.d"s will that you should act." She was fully resolved to do G.o.d"s will. And so she waited, with a strong, but how anxious, patience. The growth of the book was now become ironical to her as the growth of a plant which must die when it attains a certain height; the labour spent upon it, the discussion that raged around it, the decisions that were arrived at as to its course--all these things were now most pitifully pathetic to Catherine. As she watched Mark and Berrand, as she listened to them, she seemed to watch and listen to children, playing idly, chattering idly, on the edge of events that must stop their play, their chatter--perhaps for ever.
For this book would never see the light. No one would ever read it. No one would ever speak of it but these two men, whose lives seemed bound up in it. And Catherine alone knew this.
Sometimes she had a longing to tell them of this knowledge, to say to Mark, "Do not waste yourself in this useless energy!" to say to Berrand, "Do not rejoice over the future of that which has no future." But she refrained, knowing that to speak would be to give the lie to what she spoke. For such revelation must frustrate her contemplated action. So n.o.body knew what she knew, except the spirit that stood by her in the night. She waited, and the book drew slowly towards its climax and its close. As Berrand grew more excited about it he spoke more of it to Catherine. But Mark--conscious of that veil dropped between him and his wife--scarcely mentioned it to her, and declined to read any pa.s.sages from it aloud. Catherine understood that he distrusted her and knew her utterly unsympathetic and adverse to his labours. The sign for which she had hoped, which she had once most confidently expected, did not come.
And at length she almost ceased to think of it, and was inclined to put the idea from her as a foolish dream.
The burden of action was, it seemed, to be laid upon her. She would accept it calmly, dutifully. So the summer waned, drawing towards autumn. The atmosphere grew heavy and mellow. The garden was languid with its weight of bearing plants and with its fruits. Mists rose at evening in the woods, clouding the trunks of the trees, and spreading melancholy as a sad tale that floats, like a mist, over those who hear it. And, one day, the book was finished.
Berrand came to tell Catherine. He was radiant. While he spoke he never noticed that she closed her hands tightly as one who prepares to face an enemy.
"We are going to London this afternoon," he added. "Mark must see his publisher."
"He is taking up the ma.n.u.script?" said Catherine hastily.
"No, no. There are one or two finishing touches to be put. But he must arrange about the date of publishing. He will return by the midnight train, but I shall stay in town for the night."
Mark locked up the ma.n.u.script in a drawer of his writing table, the key of which he carried about him on a chain. And the two men took their departure, leaving Catherine alone.
So the time of her duty was fully come. She had waited till now, because, till now, she had not been absolutely sure that she was to be the agent through whom Fate was to work. But she could no longer dare to doubt. The book was finished. Mark had been allowed to finish it. But its deadly work was not accomplished till it was given to the world. It must never be given to the world.
The day was not cold. Yet Catherine ordered the footman to light a fire in Mark"s study. When he had done so she told him not to allow her to be disturbed. Then she went into the room and shut the door behind her. She walked up to the writing table, at which Mark had spent so many hours, labouring, thinking, imagining, working out, fashioning that sh.e.l.l which was to burst and maim a world. The silence in the room seemed curiously intense. The fire gleamed, and the sun gleamed too; though already it was slanting to the West. Catherine stood for some time by the table.
Then she tried the drawer in which Mark kept his ma.n.u.script and found it locked. The resistance of the drawer to her hand roused her.
Two or three minutes later one of the maids in the servant"s hall said,
"Whatever"s that?"
"What?" said the footman who had lit the study fire.
"Listen!" said the maid.
They listened and heard a sound like a blow struck on some hard substance.
"There it is again," said the maid. "What ever can it be?"
The footman didn"t know, but they both agreed that the noise seemed to come from the study. While they were still gossiping about it Catherine stood at Mark"s writing table, and drew out from an open drawer the ma.n.u.script of the book. She lifted it in her hands slowly and her face was hard and set. Then she turned and carried it to the hearth, where the fire was blazing. By the hearth she paused. She meant to destroy the book in the fire. But now that she saw the book, now that she held it in her hands, the deed seemed so horribly merciless that she hesitated.
Then she knelt down on the hearth and leaned towards the flames. Their light played upon her face, their heat scorched her skin. She held the book towards them, over them. The flames flew up towards it eagerly, seeming to desire it. Catherine tantalised them by withholding from them their prey. For now, in this crisis of action, doubts a.s.sailed her. She remembered that she had never read the book, though she had heard much of it from Berrand. He was imaginative and essentially mischievous.
Perhaps he had exaggerated its tendency, drawn too lurid a picture of its horrible power. Catherine turned a page or two and glanced at the clear, even writing. It fascinated her eyes.
At eight the footman opened the door, announcing dinner.
Catherine started as if from a dream. Her face was white and her eyes were ablaze with excitement. She put the ma.n.u.script back in the drawer, went into the dining-room and made a pretence of dining. But very soon she was back again in the study. She sat down under a lamp by the fire and went on reading the book. She knew that Mark would not be home till midnight; there was plenty of time. She turned the leaves one by one, and presently she forgot the pa.s.sing of time, she forgot everything in the evil fascination of the book. She was enthralled. She was horror-stricken. But she could not cease from reading. Only when she had finished she meant to burn the book. No one else should ever come under its spell. She never heard the clock striking the hours. She never heard the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel of the drive. She never heard a step in the hall, the opening of the study door. Only when Mark stood before her with an exclamation of keen surprise did she start up. The ma.n.u.script dropped from her hands on to the hearth. The drawer in the writing table, broken open, gaped wide.