A Marrying Man by G.B. Stern

The lantern was out, that had burnt in the heart of the world.

Gareth was quite defenceless in face of this smashing thing which had occurred to him. He had no philosophy or religion to which to cling; no inner store of strength and pride. Nor was there any person to whom blindly he could turn, and say: "Help me! " He had not even the vicious satisfaction of feeling that his present misery was due payment for something tangible which had been his to enjoy; nothing had been his but moonshine, and moonshine is but poor stuff to feed on in retrospect.

Gareth, who had been hurt, looked about for somebody to hurt.

Kathleen's unnatural and feverish excitement, the prevailing atmosphere about her of impending happenings, stabbed him with a sense of unbearable injury. For sixteen years they had been unhappy together, he and she; since two and a half months, found each their separate happiness. And now his had evaporated -- and hers remained. More, was obviously reaching its consummation.

Gareth had always been possessed of an instinctive understanding where Kathleen was concerned. Now he marked her sudden tremulous smiles; her abstracted moods, in which trivial mishaps mattered not at all; the state of mind in which she woke of a morning to a day which meant something, brought something nearer. All these tokens of an earth beatified, maddened him with the memory of his loss. Once, like a very human child, he cried out to whosoever was responsible: "If you could only have left me mine, I would have _wanted_ everyone to have theirs as well! " and then Kathleen hummed a little tune as she came in from an evening stroll; and Gareth said without looking up, "Where have you been?"

She lied carelessly. Went on lying, as he continued to question. The fact that she did not even labour to evolve a credible tissue of falsehood, that the web was full of holes and gaps whence any intelligent man might with ease tear the fabric to shreds, infuriated him more than anything else could have done; convinced him more than anything else how little he counted in her, in other people's eyes. "We needn't bother about Gareth. Gareth was always a weak fool! ". he could hear Kathleen's scornful intonation, see Napier's flashing smile in response. And "Campbell's Young Men" caught up the tone and the laugh; till the world was one cruel casual voice that repeated "We needn't bother about Gareth. ".

And the achievement which would have justified him -- the book? Gareth was writing feverishly, neglecting his office-work, writing at every spare moment, early morning and late night. The hollows in his cheeks became more apparent; his eyes deeper sunken in their sockets. He was writing against time; writing against that thing which lay in the bottom drawer of his desk. The girl whose touch was cool came to him no more; the dusty black china cat watched him glassily from the mantelshelf. And Kathleen came in and out, and lied to him as if it were not worth while.

He guessed that her crisis was near at hand. From a certain crafty observance, newly and strangely acquired, he was able to deduce the date of the actual flight. Kathleen made no elaborate provisions that he should that evening be out of the way. She evidently intended to pack her trunk during the day, when he was at the office; send it in advance of her to Charing Cross; and trust to his amiability, stupidity -- to let her depart without enquiries: "I'm going for a walk, Gareth. " In anticipation he saw her eyes sparkling to an image beyond his bowed shoulders at the dining-room table; not caring if he heard her farewell or not. And he had drudged for her sixteen years.

After all, a certain amount was due to him on such an occasion. He was willing to let them go, yes; but could they not betray fear of being found out? take some pains to elude his vigilance? pay him tribute of stammering subterfuge and sidelong anxious looks? This drama of three had been performed so often -- but this time two showed a disposition to cut out the part of the third altogether.

For the past fortnight, Kathleen had creamed her neck and arms every night before going to bed; and before the glass she brushed and brushed at her long black hair till the grey threads glittered; she also attempted to soften by massage the network of tiny winkles beneath her eyes, and the two drawn lines at each corner of the mouth. She was still a handsome woman, with the old suggestion of a wilder redder strain than the Saxon in her delicate aquiline nose, high cheekbones, and lithe body. But forty-three carries its mark. Gareth lay in bed and watched her efforts to remove them. She could not help that, since it was also his room. But he felt it a supreme insolence, this attempt before his very eyes at rejuvenescence for her lover. He wanted to tell her so. knew there was some reason why he must pretend to be unaware of anything impending. What reason? . Why, yes, of course, he wanted her to go -- but it required an effort to remember this, with nerves rasped to their present condition.

On the eve of the decisive Friday, Gareth returned early from the office, shivering from head to foot, racking pains just above his eyes, hands burning, and with an insistent dry cough from his chest. His chest, never strong, had not been sufficiently wrapped up in view of the recent October mists.