The Magician: Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Arthur went back to London next day.

Susie felt it impossible any longer to stay in the deserted studio, and
accepted a friend's invitation to spend the winter in Italy. The good Dr
Porho�t remained in Paris with his books and his occult studies.

Susie travelled slowly through Tuscany and Umbria. Margaret had not
written to her, and Susie, on leaving Paris, had sent her friend's
belongings to an address from which she knew they would eventually be
forwarded. She could not bring herself to write. In answer to a note
announcing her change of plans, Arthur wrote briefly that he had much
work to do and was delivering a new course of lectures at St. Luke's; he
had lately been appointed visiting surgeon to another hospital, and his
private practice was increasing. He did not mention Margaret. His letter
was abrupt, formal, and constrained. Susie, reading it for the tenth
time, could make little of it. She saw that he wrote only from civility,
without interest; and there was nothing to indicate his state of mind.
Susie and her companion had made up their minds to pass some weeks in
Rome; and here, to her astonishment, Susie had news of Haddo and his
wife. It appeared that they had spent some time there, and the little
English circle was talking still of their eccentricities. They travelled
in some state, with a courier and a suite of servants; they had taken a
carriage and were in the habit of driving every afternoon on the Pincio.
Haddo had excited attention by the extravagance of his costume, and
Margaret by her beauty; she was to be seen in her box at the opera every
night, and her diamonds were the envy of all beholders. Though people had
laughed a good deal at Haddo's pretentiousness, and been exasperated by
his arrogance, they could not fail to be impressed by his obvious wealth.
But finally the pair had disappeared suddenly without saying a word to
anybody. A good many bills remained unpaid, but these, Susie learnt, had
been settled later. It was reported that they were now in Monte Carlo.

'Did they seem happy?' Susie asked the gossiping friend who gave her this
scanty information.

'I think so. After all, Mrs Haddo has almost everything that a woman
can want, riches, beauty, nice clothes, jewels. She would be very
unreasonable not to be happy.'

Susie had meant to pass the later spring on the Riviera, but when she
heard that the Haddos were there, she hesitated. She did not want to
run the risk of seeing them, and yet she had a keen desire to find out
exactly how things were going. Curiosity and distaste struggled in her
mind, but curiosity won; and she persuaded her friend to go to Monte
Carlo instead of to Beaulieu. At first Susie did not see the Haddos; but
rumour was already much occupied with them, and she had only to keep her
ears open. In that strange place, where all that is extravagant and evil,
all that is morbid, insane, and fantastic, is gathered together, the
Haddos were in fit company. They were notorious for their assiduity at
the tables and for their luck, for the dinners and suppers they gave at
places frequented by the very opulent, and for their eccentric
appearance. It was a complex picture that Susie put together from the
scraps of information she collected. After two or three days she saw
them at the tables, but they were so absorbed in their game that she felt
quite safe from discovery. Margaret was playing, but Haddo stood behind
her and directed her movements. Their faces were extraordinarily intent.
Susie fixed her attention on Margaret, for in what she had heard of her
she had been quite unable to recognize the girl who had been her friend.
And what struck her most now was that there was in Margaret's expression
a singular likeness to Haddo's. Notwithstanding her exquisite beauty, she
had a curiously vicious look, which suggested that somehow she saw
literally with Oliver's eyes. They had won great sums that evening, and
many persons watched them. It appeared that they played always in this
fashion, Margaret putting on the stakes and Haddo telling her what to do
and when to stop. Susie heard two Frenchmen talking of them. She listened
with all her ears. She flushed as she heard one of them make an
observation about Margaret which was more than coarse. The other laughed.

'It is incredible,' he said.

'I assure you it's true. They have been married six months, and she is
still only his wife in name. The superstitious through all the ages have
believed in the power of virginity, and the Church has made use of the
idea for its own ends. The man uses her simply as a mascot.'

The men laughed, and their conversation proceeded so grossly that Susie's
cheeks burned. But what she had heard made her look at Margaret more
closely still. She was radiant. Susie could not deny that something had
come to her that gave a new, enigmatic savour to her beauty. She was
dressed more gorgeously than Susie's fastidious taste would have
permitted; and her diamonds, splendid in themselves, were too magnificent
for the occasion. At last, sweeping up the money, Haddo touched her on
the shoulder, and she rose. Behind her was standing a painted woman of
notorious disreputability. Susie was astonished to see Margaret smile and
nod as she passed her.

Susie learnt that the Haddos had a suite of rooms at the most expensive
of the hotels. They lived in a whirl of gaiety. They knew few English
except those whose reputations were damaged, but seemed to prefer the
society of those foreigners whose wealth and eccentricities made them the
cynosure of that little world. Afterwards, she often saw them, in company
of Russian Grand-Dukes and their mistresses, of South American women with
prodigious diamonds, of noble gamblers and great ladies of doubtful fame,
of strange men overdressed and scented. Rumour was increasingly busy with
them. Margaret moved among all those queer people with a cold
mysteriousness that excited the curiosity of the sated idlers. The
suggestion which Susie overheard was repeated more circumstantially. But
to this was joined presently the report of orgies that were enacted in
the darkened sitting-room of the hotel, when all that was noble and
vicious in Monte Carlo was present. Oliver's eccentric imagination
invented whimsical festivities. He had a passion for disguise, and he
gave a fancy-dress party of which fabulous stories were told. He sought
to revive the mystical ceremonies of old religions, and it was reported
that horrible rites had been performed in the garden of the villa, under
the shining moon, in imitation of those he had seen in Eastern places. It
was said that Haddo had magical powers of extraordinary character, and
the tired imagination of those pleasure-seekers was tickled by his talk
of black art. Some even asserted that the blasphemous ceremonies of the
Black Mass had been celebrated in the house of a Polish Prince. People
babbled of satanism and of necromancy. Haddo was thought to be immersed
in occult studies for the performance of a magical operation; and some
said that he was occupied with the Magnum Opus, the greatest and most
fantastic of alchemical experiments. Gradually these stories were
narrowed down to the monstrous assertion that he was attempting to create
living beings. He had explained at length to somebody that magical
receipts existed for the manufacture of _homunculi_.

Haddo was known generally by the name he was pleased to give himself.
The Brother of the Shadow; but most people used it in derision, for
it contrasted absurdly with his astonishing bulk. They were amused or
outraged by his vanity, but they could not help talking about him, and
Susie knew well enough by now that nothing pleased him more. His exploits
as a lion-hunter were well known, and it was reported that human blood
was on his hands. It was soon discovered that he had a queer power over
animals, so that in his presence they were seized with unaccountable
terror. He succeeded in surrounding himself with an atmosphere of the
fabulous, and nothing that was told of him was too extravagant for
belief. But unpleasant stories were circulated also, and someone related
that he had been turned out of a club in Vienna for cheating at cards.
He played many games, but here, as at Oxford, it was found that he was
an unscrupulous opponent. And those old rumours followed him that he took
strange drugs. He was supposed to have odious vices, and people whispered
to one another of scandals that had been with difficulty suppressed. No
one quite understood on what terms he was with his wife, and it was
vaguely asserted that he was at times brutally cruel to her. Susie's
heart sank when she heard this; but on the few occasions upon which she
caught sight of Margaret, she seemed in the highest spirits. One story
inexpressibly shocked her. After lunching at some restaurant, Haddo gave
a bad louis among the money with which he paid the bill, and there was a
disgraceful altercation with the waiter. He refused to change the coin
till a policeman was brought in. His guests were furious, and several
took the first opportunity to cut him dead. One of those present narrated
the scene to Susie, and she was told that Margaret laughed unconcernedly
with her neighbour while the sordid quarrel was proceeding. The man's
blood was as good as his fortune was substantial, but it seemed to please
him to behave like an adventurer. The incident was soon common property,
and gradually the Haddos found themselves cold-shouldered. The persons
with whom they mostly consorted had reputations too delicate to stand the
glare of publicity which shone upon all who were connected with him, and
the suggestion of police had thrown a shudder down many a spine. What had
happened in Rome happened here again: they suddenly disappeared.

Susie had not been in London for some time, and as the spring advanced
she remembered that her friends would be glad to see her. It would be
charming to spend a few weeks there with an adequate income; for its
pleasures had hitherto been closed to her, and she looked forward to her
visit as if it were to a foreign city. But though she would not confess
it to herself, her desire to see Arthur was the strongest of her motives.
Time and absence had deadened a little the intensity of her feelings, and
she could afford to acknowledge that she regarded him with very great
affection. She knew that he would never care for her, but she was content
to be his friend. She could think of him without pain.

Susie stayed in Paris for three weeks to buy some of the clothes which
she asserted were now her only pleasure in life, and then went to London.

She wrote to Arthur, and he invited her at once to lunch with him at a
restaurant. She was vexed, for she felt they could have spoken more
freely in his own house; but as soon as she saw him, she realized that
he had chosen their meeting-place deliberately. The crowd of people that
surrounded them, the gaiety, the playing of the band, prevented any
intimacy of conversation. They were forced to talk of commonplaces.
Susie was positively terrified at the change that had taken place in him.
He looked ten years older; he had lost flesh, and his hair was sprinkled
with white. His face was extraordinarily drawn, and his eyes were weary
from lack of sleep. But what most struck her was the change in his
expression. The look of pain which she had seen on his face that last
evening in the studio was now become settled, so that it altered the
lines of his countenance. It was harrowing to look at him. He was more
silent than ever, and when he spoke it was in a strange low voice that
seemed to come from a long way off. To be with him made Susie curiously
uneasy, for there was a strenuousness in him which deprived his manner of
all repose. One of the things that had pleased her in him formerly was
the tranquillity which gave one the impression that here was a man who
could be relied on in difficulties. At first she could not understand
exactly what had happened, but in a moment saw that he was making an
unceasing effort at self-control. He was never free from suffering and he
was constantly on the alert to prevent anyone from seeing it. The strain
gave him a peculiar restlessness.

But he was gentler than he had ever been before. He seemed genuinely glad
to see her and asked about her travels with interest. Susie led him to
talk of himself, and he spoke willingly enough of his daily round. He was
earning a good deal of money, and his professional reputation was making
steady progress. He worked hard. Besides his duties at the two hospitals
with which he was now connected, his teaching, and his private practice,

he had read of late one or two papers before scientific bodies, and was
editing a large work on surgery.

'How on earth can you find time to do so much?' asked Susie.

'I can do with less sleep than I used,' he answered. 'It almost doubles
my working-day.'

He stopped abruptly and looked down. His remark had given accidentally
some hint at the inner life which he was striving to conceal. Susie knew
that her suspicion was well-founded. She thought of the long hours he
lay awake, trying in vain to drive from his mind the agony that tortured
him, and the short intervals of troubled sleep. She knew that he delayed
as long as possible the fatal moment of going to bed, and welcomed the
first light of day, which gave him an excuse for getting up. And because
he knew that he had divulged the truth he was embarrassed. They sat
in awkward silence. To Susie, the tragic figure in front of her was
singularly impressive amid that lighthearted throng: all about them happy
persons were enjoying the good things of life, talking, laughing, and
making merry. She wondered what refinement of self-torture had driven him
to choose that place to come to. He must hate it.

When they finished luncheon, Susie took her courage in both hands.

'Won't you come back to my rooms for half an hour? We can't talk here.'

He made an instinctive motion of withdrawal, as though he sought to
escape. He did not answer immediately, and she insisted.

'You have nothing to do for an hour, and there are many things I want to
speak to you about'

'The only way to be strong is never to surrender to one's weakness,' he
said, almost in a whisper, as though ashamed to talk so intimately.

'Then you won't come?'

'No.'

It was not necessary to specify the matter which it was proposed to
discuss. Arthur knew perfectly that Susie wished to talk of Margaret, and
he was too straightforward to pretend otherwise. Susie paused for one
moment.

'I was never able to give Margaret your message. She did not write to
me.'

A certain wildness came into his eyes, as if the effort he made was
almost too much for him.

'I saw her in Monte Carlo,' said Susie. 'I thought you might like to hear
about her.'

'I don't see that it can do any good,' he answered.

Susie made a little hopeless gesture. She was beaten.

'Shall we go?' she said.

'You are not angry with me?' he asked. 'I know you mean to be kind. I'm
very grateful to you.'

'I shall never be angry with you,' she smiled.

Arthur paid the bill, and they threaded their way among the tables. At
the door she held out her hand.

'I think you do wrong in shutting yourself away from all human
comradeship,' she said, with that good-humoured smile of hers. 'You
must know that you will only grow absurdly morbid.'

'I go out a great deal,' he answered patiently, as though he reasoned
with a child. 'I make a point of offering myself distractions from my
work. I go to the opera two or three times a week.'

'I thought you didn't care for music.'

'I don't think I did,' he answered. 'But I find it rests me.'

He spoke with a weariness that was appalling. Susie had never beheld so
plainly the torment of a soul in pain.

'Won't you let me come to the opera with you one night?' she asked. 'Or
does it bore you to see me?'

'I should like it above all things,' he smiled, quite brightly. 'You're
like a wonderful tonic. They're giving Tristan on Thursday. Shall we go
together?'

'I should enjoy it enormously.'

She shook hands with him and jumped into a cab.

'Oh, poor thing!' she murmured. 'Poor thing! What can I do for him?'

She clenched, her hands when she thought of Margaret. It was monstrous
that she should have caused such havoc in that good, strong man.

'Oh, I hope she'll suffer for it,' she whispered vindictively. 'I hope
she'll suffer all the agony that he has suffered.'

Susie dressed herself for Covent Garden as only she could do. Her gown
pleased her exceedingly, not only because it was admirably made, but
because it had cost far more than she could afford. To dress well was her
only extravagance. It was of taffeta silk, in that exquisite green which
the learned in such matters call _Eau de Nil_; and its beauty was
enhanced by the old lace which had formed not the least treasured part
of her inheritance. In her hair she wore an ornament of Spanish paste,
of exquisite workmanship, and round her neck a chain which had once
adorned that of a madonna in an Andalusian church. Her individuality
made even her plainness attractive. She smiled at herself in the glass
ruefully, because Arthur would never notice that she was perfectly
dressed.

When she tripped down the stairs and across the pavement to the cab with
which he fetched her, Susie held up her skirt with a grace she flattered
herself was quite Parisian. As they drove along, she flirted a little
with her Spanish fan and stole a glance at herself in the glass. Her
gloves were so long and so new and so expensive that she was really
indifferent to Arthur's inattention.

Her joyous temperament expanded like a spring flower when she found
herself in the Opera House. She put up her glasses and examined the women
as they came into the boxes of the Grand Tier. Arthur pointed out a
number of persons whose names were familiar to her, but she felt the
effort he was making to be amiable. The weariness of his mouth that
evening was more noticeable because of the careless throng. But when
the music began he seemed to forget that any eye was upon him; he relaxed
the constant tension in which he held himself; and Susie, watching him
surreptitiously, saw the emotions chase one another across his face. It
was now very mobile. The passionate sounds ate into his soul, mingling
with his own love and his own sorrow, till he was taken out of himself;
and sometimes he panted strangely. Through the interval he remained
absorbed in his emotion. He sat as quietly as before and did not speak a
word. Susie understood why Arthur, notwithstanding his old indifference,
now showed such eager appreciation of music; it eased the pain he
suffered by transferring it to an ideal world, and his own grievous
sorrow made the music so real that it gave him an enjoyment of
extraordinary vehemence. When it was all over and Isolde had given her
last wail of sorrow, Arthur was so exhausted that he could hardly stir.

But they went out with the crowd, and while they were waiting in the
vestibule for space to move in, a common friend came up to them. This
was Arbuthnot, an eye-specialist, whom Susie had met on the Riviera and
who, she presently discovered, was a colleague of Arthur's at St Luke's.
He was a prosperous bachelor with grey hair and a red, contented face,
well-to-do, for his practice was large, and lavish with his money. He
had taken Susie out to luncheon once or twice in Monte Carlo; for he
liked women, pretty or plain, and she attracted him by her good-humour.
He rushed up to them now and wrung their hands. He spoke in a jovial
voice.

'The very people I wanted to see! Why haven't you been to see me, you
wicked woman? I'm sure your eyes are in a deplorable condition.'

'Do you think I would let a bold, bad man like you stare into them with
an ophthalmoscope?' laughed Susie.

'Now look here, I want you both to do me a great favour. I'm giving a
supper party at the Savoy, and two of my people have suddenly failed me.
The table is ordered for eight, and you must come and take their places.'

'I'm afraid I must get home,' said Arthur. 'I have a deuce of a lot of
work to do.'

'Nonsense,' answered Arbuthnot. 'You work much too hard, and a little
relaxation will do you good.' He turned to Susie: 'I know you like
curiosities in human nature; I'm having a man and his wife who will
positively thrill you, they're so queer, and a lovely actress, and an
awfully jolly American girl.'

'I should love to come,' said Susie, with an appealing look at Arthur,
'if only to show you how much more amusing I am than lovely actresses.'

Arthur, forcing himself to smile, accepted the invitation. The specialist
patted him cheerily on the back, and they agreed to meet at the Savoy.

'It's awfully good of you to come,' said Susie, as they drove along. 'Do
you know, I've never been there in my life, and I'm palpitating with
excitement.'

'What a selfish brute I was to refuse!' he answered.

When Susie came out of the dressing-room, she found Arthur waiting for
her. She was in the best of spirits.

'Now you must say you like my frock. I've seen six women turn green with
envy at the sight of it. They think I must be French, and they're sure
I'm not respectable.'

'That is evidently a great compliment,' he smiled.

At that moment Arbuthnot came up to them in his eager way and seized
their arms.

'Come along. We're waiting for you. I'll just introduce you all round,
and then we'll go in to supper.'

They walked down the steps into the foyer, and he led them to a group of
people. They found themselves face to face with Oliver Haddo and
Margaret.

'Mr Arthur Burdon--Mrs Haddo. Mr Burdon is a colleague of mine at St
Luke's; and he will cut out your appendix in a shorter time than any man
alive.'

Arbuthnot rattled on. He did not notice that Arthur had grown ghastly
pale and that Margaret was blank with consternation. Haddo, his heavy
face wreathed with smiles, stepped forward heartily. He seemed thoroughly
to enjoy the situation.

'Mr Burdon is an old friend of ours,' he said. 'In fact, it was he who
introduced me to my wife. And Miss Boyd and I have discussed Art and the
Immortality of the Soul with the gravity due to such topics.'

He held out his hand, and Susie took it. She had a horror of scenes, and,
though this encounter was as unexpected as it was disagreeable, she felt
it needful to behave naturally. She shook hands with Margaret.

'How disappointing!' cried their host. 'I was hoping to give Miss Boyd
something quite new in the way of magicians, and behold! she knows all
about him.'

'If she did, I'm quite sure she wouldn't speak to me,' said Oliver, with
a bantering smile.

They went into the supper-room.

'Now, how shall we sit?' said Arbuthnot, glancing round the table.

Oliver looked at Arthur, and his eyes twinkled.

'You must really let my wife and Mr Burdon be together. They haven't seen
one another for so long that I'm sure they have no end of things to talk
about.' He chuckled to himself. 'And pray give me Miss Boyd, so that she
can abuse me to her heart's content.'

This arrangement thoroughly suited the gay specialist, for he was able to
put the beautiful actress on one side of him and the charming American on
the other. He rubbed his hands.

'I feel that we're going to have a delightful supper.'

Oliver laughed boisterously. He took, as was his habit, the whole
conversation upon himself, and Susie was obliged to confess that he
was at his best. There was a grotesque drollery about him that was very
diverting, and it was almost impossible to resist him. He ate and drank
with tremendous appetite. Susie thanked her stars at that moment that she
was a woman who knew by long practice how to conceal her feelings, for
Arthur, overcome with dismay at the meeting, sat in stony silence. But
she talked gaily. She chaffed Oliver as though he were an old friend, and
laughed vivaciously. She noticed meanwhile that Haddo, more extravagantly
dressed than usual, had managed to get an odd fantasy into his evening
clothes: he wore knee-breeches, which in itself was enough to excite
attention; but his frilled shirt, his velvet collar, and oddly-cut satin
waistcoat gave him the appearance of a comic Frenchman. Now that she
was able to examine him more closely, she saw that in the last six months
he was grown much balder; and the shiny whiteness of his naked crown
contrasted oddly with the redness of his face. He was stouter, too, and
the fat hung in heavy folds under his chin; his paunch was preposterous.
The vivacity of his movements made his huge corpulence subtly alarming.
He was growing indeed strangely terrible in appearance. His eyes had
still that fixed, parallel look, but there was in them now at times a
ferocious gleam. Margaret was as beautiful as ever, but Susie noticed
that his influence was apparent in her dress; for there could be no doubt
that it had crossed the line of individuality and had degenerated into
the eccentric. Her gown was much too gorgeous. It told against the
classical character of her beauty. Susie shuddered a little, for it
reminded her of a courtesan's.

Margaret talked and laughed as much as her husband, but Susie could not
tell whether this animation was affected or due to an utter callousness.
Her voice seemed natural enough, yet it was inconceivable that she should
be so lighthearted. Perhaps she was trying to show that she was happy.
The supper proceeded, and the lights, the surrounding gaiety, the
champagne, made everyone more lively. Their host was in uproarious
spirits. He told a story or two at which everyone laughed. Oliver Haddo
had an amusing anecdote handy. It was a little risky, but it was so
funnily narrated that everyone roared but Arthur, who remained in perfect
silence. Margaret had been drinking glass after glass of wine, and no
sooner had her husband finished than she capped his story with another.
But whereas his was wittily immoral, hers was simply gross. At first the
other women could not understand to what she was tending, but when they
saw, they looked down awkwardly at their plates. Arbuthnot, Haddo, and
the other man who was there laughed very heartily; but Arthur flushed to
the roots of his hair. He felt horribly uncomfortable. He was ashamed. He
dared not look at Margaret. It was inconceivable that from her exquisite
mouth such indecency should issue. Margaret, apparently quite unconscious
of the effect she had produced, went on talking and laughing.

Soon the lights were put out, and Arthur's agony was ended. He wanted to
rush away, to hide his face, to forget the sight of her and her gaiety,
above all to forget that story. It was horrible, horrible.

She shook hands with him quite lightly.

'You must come and see us one day. We've got rooms at the Carlton.'

He bowed and did not answer. Susie had gone to the dressing-room to get
her cloak. She stood at the door when Margaret came out.

'Can we drop you anywhere?' said Margaret. 'You must come and see us when
you have nothing better to do.'

Susie threw back her head. Arthur was standing just in front of them
looking down at the ground in complete abstraction.

'Do you see him?' she said, in a low voice quivering with indignation.
'That is what you have made him.'

He looked up at that moment and turned upon them his sunken, tormented
eyes. They saw his wan, pallid face with its look of hopeless woe.

'Do you know that he's killing himself on your account? He can't sleep at
night. He's suffered the tortures of the damned. Oh, I hope you'll suffer
as he's suffered!'

'I wonder that you blame me,' said Margaret. 'You ought to be rather
grateful.'

'Why?'

'You're not going to deny that you've loved him passionately from the
first day you saw him? Do you think I didn't see that you cared for him
in Paris? You care for him now more than ever.'

Susie felt suddenly sick at heart. She had never dreamt that her secret
was discovered. Margaret gave a bitter little laugh and walked past her.

Back to chapter list of: The Magician