The Dark Flowers

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When on that November night Lennan stole to the open door of his dressing-room, and stood watching his wife asleep, Fate still waited for an answer.

A low fire was burning – one of those fires that throw faint shadows everywhere, and once and again glow so that some object shines for a moment, some shape is clearly seen. The curtains were not quite drawn, and a plane-tree branch with leaves still hanging, which had kept them company all the fifteen years they had lived there, was moving darkly in the wind, now touching the glass with a frail tap, as though asking of him, who had been roaming in that wind so many hours, to let it in. Unfailing comrades – London plane-trees!

He had not dared hope that Sylvia would be asleep. It was merciful that she was, whichever way the issue went – that issue so cruel. Her face was turned towards the fire, and one hand rested beneath her cheek. So she often slept. Even when life seemed all at sea, its landmarks lost, one still did what was customary. Poor tender-hearted thing – she had not slept since he told her, forty-eight hours, that seemed such years, ago! With her flaxen hair, and her touching candour, even in sleep, she looked like a girl lying there, not so greatly changed from what she had been that summer of Cicely’s marriage down at Hayle. Her face had not grown old in all those twenty-eight

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years. There had been till now no special reason why it should. Thought, strong feeling, suffering, those were what changed faces; Sylvia had never thought very deeply, never suffered much, till now. And was it for him, who had been careful of her – very careful on the whole, despite man’s selfishness, despite her never having understood the depths of him – was it for him of all people to hurt her so, to stamp her face with sorrow, perhaps destroy her utterly?

He crept a little farther in and sat down in the arm-chair beyond the fire. What memories a fire gathered into it, with its flaky ashes, its little leaf-like flames, and that quiet glow and flicker! What tale of passions! How like to a fire was a man’s heart! The first young fitful leapings, the sudden, fierce, mastering heat, the long, steady sober burning, and then – that last flaming-up, that clutch back at its own vanished youth, the final eager flight of flame, before the ashes wintered it to nothing! Visions and memories he saw down in the fire, as only can be seen when a man’s heart, by the agony of long struggle, has been stripped of skin, and quivers at every touch. Love! A strange haphazard thing was love – so spun between ecstacy and torture! A thing insidious, irresponsible, desperate. A flying sweetness, more poignant than anything on earth, more dark in origin and destiny. A thing without reason or coherence. A man’s love-life – what say had he in the ebb and flow of it? No more than in the flights of autumn birds, swooping down, alighting here and there, passing on. The loves one left behind – even in a life by no means vagabond in love, as men’s lives went! The love that thought the Tyrol skies would fall if he were not first with a certain lady. The love whose star had caught in the hair of Sylvia, now lying there asleep. A so-called

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love – that half-glamorous, yet sordid little meal of pleasure, which youth, however sensitive, must eat, it seems, some time or other with some young light of love – a glimpse of life that beforehand had seemed much and had meant little, save to leave him disillusioned with himself and sorry for his partner. And then the love that he could not, even after twenty years, bear to remember; that all-devouring summer passion, which in one night had gained all and lost all terribly, leaving on his soul a scar that could never be quite healed, leaving his spirit always a little lonely, haunted by the sense of what might have been. Of his share in that night of tragedy – that ‘terrible accident on the river’ – no one had ever dreamed. And then the long despair which had seemed the last death of love had slowly passed, and yet another love had been born – or rather born again, pale, sober, but quite real; the fresh springing-up of a feeling long forgotten, of that protective devotion of his boyhood. He still remembered the expression on Sylvia’s face when he passed her by chance in Oxford Street, soon after he came back from his four years of exile in the East and Rome – that look, eager, yet reproachful, then stoically ironic, as if saying: ‘Oh, no! after forgetting me four years and more – you can’t remember me now!’ And when he spoke, the still more touching pleasure in her face. Then uncertain months, with a feeling of what the end would be; and then their marriage. Happy enough – gentle, not very vivid, nor spiritually very intimate – his work always secretly as remote from her as when she had thought to please him by putting jessamine stars on the heads of his beasts. A quiet successful union, not meaning, he had thought, so very much to him nor so very much to her – until forty-eight hours ago he told her; and she had

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shrunk, and wilted, and gone all to pieces. And what was it he had told her?

A long story – that!

Sitting there by the fire, with nothing yet decided, he could see it all from the start, with its devilish, delicate intricacy, its subtle slow enchantment spinning itself out of him, out of his own state of mind and body, rather than out of the spell cast over him, as though a sort of fatal force, long dormant, were working up again to burst into dark flower. . . .

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Yes, it had begun within him over a year ago, with a queer unhappy restlessness, a feeling that life was slipping, ebbing away within reach of him, and his arms never stretched out to arrest it. It had begun with a sort of long craving, stilled only when he was working hard – a craving for he knew not what, an ache which was worst whenever the wind was soft.

They said that about forty-five was a perilous age for a man – especially for an artist. All the autumn of last year he had felt this vague misery rather badly. It had left him alone most of December and January, while he was working so hard at his group of lions; but the moment that was finished it had gripped him hard again. In those last days of January he well remembered wandering about in the parks day after day, trying to get away from it. Mild weather, with a scent in the wind! With what avidity he had watched children playing, the premature buds on the bushes, anything, everything young – with what an ache, too, he had been conscious of innumerable lives being lived round him, and loves loved, and he outside, unable to know, to grasp, to gather them; and all the time the sands of his hourglass running out! A most absurd and unreasonable feeling for a man with everything he wanted, with work that he loved, quite enough money, and a wife so good as Sylvia – a feeling that no Englishman of forty-six, in excellent

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health, ought for a moment to have been troubled with. A feeling such as, indeed, no Englishman ever admitted having – so that there was not even, as yet, a Society for its suppression. For what was this disquiet feeling, but the sense that he had had his day, would never again know the stir and fearful joy of falling in love, but only just hanker after what was past and gone! Could anything be more reprehensible in a married man?

It was – yes – the last day of January, when, returning from one of those restless rambles in Hyde Park, he met Dromore. Queer to recognize a man hardly seen since school-days. Yet unmistakably, Johnny Dromore, sauntering along the rails of Piccadilly on the Green Park side, with that slightly rolling gait of his thin, horseman’s legs, his dandified hat a little to one side, those strange, chaffing, goggling eyes, that look, as if making a perpetual bet. Yes – the very same teasing, now moody, now reckless, always astute Johnny Dromore, with a good heart beneath an outside that seemed ashamed of it. Truly to have shared a room at school – to have been at College together, were links mysteriously indestructible.

“Mark Lennan! By gum! haven’t seen you for ages. Not since you turned out a full-blown – what d’you call it? Awfully glad to meet you, old chap!” Here was the past indeed, long vanished in feeling and thought and all; and Lennan’s head buzzed, trying to find some common interest with this hunting, racing man-about-town.

Johnny Dromore come to life again – he whom the Machine had stamped with astute simplicity by the time he was twenty-two, and for ever after left untouched in thought and feeling – Johnny Dromore, who would never pass beyond the philosophy that all was queer and freakish which had not to

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do with horses, women, wine, cigars, jokes, good-heartedness, and that perpetual bet; Johnny Dromore, who, somewhere in him, had a pocket of depth, a streak of hunger, that was not just Johnny Dromore.

How queer was the sound of that jerky talk!

“You ever see old Fookes now? Been racin’ at all? You live in Town? Remember good old Blenker?” And then silence, and then another spurt: “Ever go down to ‘Bambury’s?’ Ever go racin’? . . . Come on up to my ‘digs.’ You’ve got nothin’ to do.” No persuading Johnny Dromore that a ‘what d’you call it’ could have anything to do. “Come on, old chap. I’ve got the hump. It’s this damned east wind.”

Well he remembered it, when they shared a room at ‘Bambury’s’ – that hump of Johnny Dromore’s, after some reckless spree or bout of teasing.

And down that narrow bye-street of Piccadilly he had gone, and up into those ‘digs’ on the first floor, with their little dark hall, their Van Beers’ drawing and Vanity Fair cartoons, and prints of racehorses, and of the old Nightgown Steeplechase; with the big chairs, and all the paraphernalia of Race Guides and race-glasses, fox-masks and stags’-horns, and huntingwhips. And yet, something that from the first moment struck him as not quite in keeping, foreign to the picture – a little jumble of books, a vase of flowers, a grey kitten.

“Sit down, old chap. What’ll you drink?”

Sunk into the recesses of a marvellous chair, with huge arms of tawny leather, he listened and spoke drowsily. ‘Bambury’s,’ Oxford, Gordy’s clubs – dear old Gordy, gone now! – things long passed by; they seemed all round him once again. And yet, always that vague sense, threading this resurrection,

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threading the smoke of their cigars, and Johnny Dromore’s clipped talk – of something that did not quite belong. Might it be, perhaps, that sepia drawing – above the ‘Tantalus’ on the oak sideboard at the far end – of a woman’s face gazing out into the room? Mysteriously unlike everything else, except the flowers, and this kitten that was pushing its furry little head against his hand. Odd how a single thing sometimes took possession of a room, however remote in spirit! It seemed to reach like a shadow over Dromore’s outstretched limbs, and weathered, long-nosed face, behind his huge cigar; over the queer, solemn, chaffing eyes, with something brooding in the depths of them.

“Ever get the hump? Bally awful, isn’t it? It’s getting old. We’re bally old, you know, Lenny!” Ah! No one had called him ‘Lenny’ for twenty years. And it was true; they were unmentionably old.

“When a fellow begins to feel old, you know, it’s time he went broke – or something; doesn’t bear sittin’ down and lookin’ at. Come out to ‘Monte’ with me!”

‘Monte!’ That old wound, never quite healed, started throbbing at the word, so that he could hardly speak his: “No, I don’t care for ‘Monte.’”

And, at once, he saw Dromore’s eyes probing, questioning: “You married?”

“Yes.”

“Never thought of you as married!”

So Dromore did think of him. Queer! He never thought of Johnny Dromore.

“Winter’s bally awful, when you’re not huntin’. You’ve changed a lot; should hardly have known you. Last time I saw