The Magician: Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Margaret's night was disturbed, and next day she was unable to go about
her work with her usual tranquillity. She tried to reason herself into
a natural explanation of the events that had happened. The telegram
that Susie had received pointed to a definite scheme on Haddo's part,
and suggested that his sudden illness was but a device to get into the
studio. Once there, he had used her natural sympathy as a means whereby
to exercise his hypnotic power, and all she had seen was merely the
creation of his own libidinous fancy. But though she sought to persuade
herself that, in playing a vile trick on her, he had taken a shameful
advantage of her pity, she could not look upon him with anger. Her
contempt for him, her utter loathing, were alloyed with a feeling that
aroused in her horror and dismay. She could not get the man out of her
thoughts. All that he had said, all that she had seen, seemed, as though
it possessed a power of material growth, unaccountably to absorb her. It
was as if a rank weed were planted in her heart and slid long poisonous
tentacles down every artery, so that each part of her body was enmeshed.
Work could not distract her, conversation, exercise, art, left her
listless; and between her and all the actions of life stood the
flamboyant, bulky form of Oliver Haddo. She was terrified of him now
as never before, but curiously had no longer the physical repulsion
which hitherto had mastered all other feelings. Although she repeated to
herself that she wanted never to see him again, Margaret could scarcely
resist an overwhelming desire to go to him. Her will had been taken from
her, and she was an automaton. She struggled, like a bird in the fowler's
net with useless beating of the wings; but at the bottom of her heart she
was dimly conscious that she did not want to resist. If he had given her
that address, it was because he knew she would use it. She did not know
why she wanted to go to him; she had nothing to say to him; she knew only
that it was necessary to go. But a few days before she had seen the
_Ph�dre_ of Racine, and she felt on a sudden all the torments that wrung
the heart of that unhappy queen; she, too, struggled aimlessly to escape
from the poison that the immortal gods poured in her veins. She asked
herself frantically whether a spell had been cast over her, for now she
was willing to believe that Haddo's power was all-embracing. Margaret
knew that if she yielded to the horrible temptation nothing could save
her from destruction. She would have cried for help to Arthur or to
Susie, but something, she knew not what, prevented her. At length, driven
almost to distraction, she thought that Dr Porho�t might do something for
her. He, at least, would understand her misery. There seemed not a moment
to lose, and she hastened to his house. They told her he was out. Her
heart sank, for it seemed that her last hope was gone. She was like a
person drowning, who clings to a rock; and the waves dash against him,
and beat upon his bleeding hands with a malice all too human, as if to
tear them from their refuge.

Instead of going to the sketch-class, which was held at six in the
evening, she hurried to the address that Oliver Haddo had given her. She
went along the crowded street stealthily, as though afraid that someone
would see her, and her heart was in a turmoil. She desired with all her
might not to go, and sought vehemently to prevent herself, and yet withal
she went. She ran up the stairs and knocked at the door. She remembered
his directions distinctly. In a moment Oliver Haddo stood before her. He
did not seem astonished that she was there. As she stood on the landing,
it occurred to her suddenly that she had no reason to offer for her
visit, but his words saved her from any need for explanation.

'I've been waiting for you,' he said.

Haddo led her into a sitting-room. He had an apartment in a _maison
meubl�e_, and heavy hangings, the solid furniture of that sort of house
in Paris, was unexpected in connexion with him. The surroundings were so
commonplace that they seemed to emphasise his singularity. There was a
peculiar lack of comfort, which suggested that he was indifferent to
material things. The room was large, but so cumbered that it gave a
cramped impression. Haddo dwelt there as if he were apart from any
habitation that might be his. He moved cautiously among the heavy
furniture, and his great obesity was somehow more remarkable. There was
the acrid perfume which Margaret remembered a few days before in her
vision of an Eastern city.

Asking her to sit down, he began to talk as if they were old
acquaintances between whom nothing of moment had occurred. At last
she took her courage in both hands.

'Why did you make me come here?' she asked suddenly,

'You give me credit now for very marvellous powers,' he smiled.

'You knew I should come.'

'I knew.'

'What have I done to you that you should make me so unhappy? I want you
to leave me alone.'

'I shall not prevent you from going out if you choose to go. No harm has
come to you. The door is open.'

Her heart beat quickly, painfully almost, and she remained silent. She
knew that she did not want to go. There was something that drew her
strangely to him, and she was ceasing to resist. A strange feeling began
to take hold of her, creeping stealthily through her limbs; and she was
terrified, but unaccountably elated.

He began to talk with that low voice of his that thrilled her with a
curious magic. He spoke not of pictures now, nor of books, but of life.
He told her of strange Eastern places where no infidel had been, and her
sensitive fancy was aflame with the honeyed fervour of his phrase. He
spoke of the dawn upon sleeping desolate cities, and the moonlit nights
of the desert, of the sunsets with their splendour, and of the crowded
streets at noon. The beauty of the East rose before her. He told her
of many-coloured webs and of silken carpets, the glittering steel of
armour damascened, and of barbaric, priceless gems. The splendour of the
East blinded her eyes. He spoke of frankincense and myrrh and aloes, of
heavy perfumes of the scent-merchants, and drowsy odours of the Syrian
gardens. The fragrance of the East filled her nostrils. And all these
things were transformed by the power of his words till life itself
seemed offered to her, a life of infinite vivacity, a life of freedom,
a life of supernatural knowledge. It seemed to her that a comparison was
drawn for her attention between the narrow round which awaited her as
Arthur's wife and this fair, full existence. She shuddered to think of
the dull house in Harley Street and the insignificance of its humdrum
duties. But it was possible for her also to enjoy the wonder of the
world. Her soul yearned for a beauty that the commonalty of men did not
know. And what devil suggested, a warp as it were in the woof of Oliver's
speech, that her exquisite loveliness gave her the right to devote
herself to the great art of living? She felt a sudden desire for
perilous adventures. As though fire passed through her, she sprang to
her feet and stood with panting bosom, her flashing eyes bright with the
multi-coloured pictures that his magic presented.

Oliver Haddo stood too, and they faced one another. Then, on a sudden,
she knew what the passion was that consumed her. With a quick movement,
his eyes more than ever strangely staring, he took her in his arms, and
he kissed her lips. She surrendered herself to him voluptuously. Her
whole body burned with the ecstasy of his embrace.

'I think I love you,' she said, hoarsely.

She looked at him. She did not feel ashamed.

'Now you must go,' he said.

He opened the door, and, without another word, she went. She walked
through the streets as if nothing at all had happened. She felt neither
remorse nor revulsion.

Then Margaret felt every day that uncontrollable desire to go to him;
and, though she tried to persuade herself not to yield, she knew that her
effort was only a pretence: she did not want anything to prevent her.
When it seemed that some accident would do so, she could scarcely control
her irritation. There was always that violent hunger of the soul which
called her to him, and the only happy hours she had were those spent in
his company. Day after day she felt that complete ecstasy when he took
her in his huge arms, and kissed her with his heavy, sensual lips. But
the ecstasy was extraordinarily mingled with loathing, and her physical
attraction was allied with physical abhorrence.

Yet when he looked at her with those pale blue eyes, and threw into
his voice those troubling accents, she forgot everything. He spoke
of unhallowed things. Sometimes, as it were, he lifted a corner of the
veil, and she caught a glimpse of terrible secrets. She understood how
men had bartered their souls for infinite knowledge. She seemed to
stand upon a pinnacle of the temple, and spiritual kingdoms of darkness,
principalities of the unknown, were spread before her eyes to lure her
to destruction. But of Haddo himself she learned nothing. She did not
know if he loved her. She did not know if he had ever loved. He appeared
to stand apart from human kind. Margaret discovered by chance that his
mother lived, but he would not speak of her.

'Some day you shall see her,' he said.

'When?'

'Very soon.'

Meanwhile her life proceeded with all outward regularity. She found it
easy to deceive her friends, because it occurred to neither that her
frequent absence was not due to the plausible reasons she gave. The lies
which at first seemed intolerable now tripped glibly off her tongue. But
though they were so natural, she was seized often with a panic of fear
lest they should be discovered; and sometimes, suffering agonies of
remorse, she would lie in bed at night and think with utter shame of the
way she was using Arthur. But things had gone too far now, and she must
let them take their course. She scarcely knew why her feelings towards
him had so completely changed. Oliver Haddo had scarcely mentioned his
name and yet had poisoned her mind. The comparison between the two was to
Arthur's disadvantage. She thought him a little dull now, and his
commonplace way of looking at life contrasted with Haddo's fascinating
boldness. She reproached Arthur in her heart because he had never
understood what was in her. He narrowed her mind. And gradually she began
to hate him because her debt of gratitude was so great. It seemed unfair
that he should have done so much for her. He forced her to marry him by
his beneficence. Yet Margaret continued to discuss with him the
arrangement of their house in Harley Street. It had been her wish to
furnish the drawing-room in the style of Louis XV; and together they made
long excursions to buy chairs or old pieces of silk with which to cover
them. Everything should be perfect in its kind. The date of their
marriage was fixed, and all the details were settled. Arthur was
ridiculously happy. Margaret made no sign. She did not think of the
future, and she spoke of it only to ward off suspicion. She was inwardly
convinced now that the marriage would never take place, but what was to
prevent it she did not know. She watched Susie and Arthur cunningly. But
though she watched in order to conceal her own secret, it was another's
that she discovered. Suddenly Margaret became aware that Susie was deeply
in love with Arthur Burdon. The discovery was so astounding that at first
it seemed absurd.

'You've never done that caricature of Arthur for me that you promised,'
she said, suddenly.

'I've tried, but he doesn't lend himself to it,' laughed Susie.

'With that long nose and the gaunt figure I should have thought you could
make something screamingly funny.'

'How oddly you talk of him! Somehow I can only see his beautiful, kind
eyes and his tender mouth. I would as soon do a caricature of him as
write a parody on a poem I loved.'

Margaret took the portfolio in which Susie kept her sketches. She caught
the look of alarm that crossed her friend's face, but Susie had not the
courage to prevent her from looking. She turned the drawings carelessly
and presently came to a sheet upon which, in a more or less finished
state, were half a dozen heads of Arthur. Pretending not to see it, she
went on to the end. When she closed the portfolio Susie gave a sigh of
relief.

'I wish you worked harder,' said Margaret, as she put the sketches down.
'I wonder you don't do a head of Arthur as you can't do a caricature.'

'My dear, you mustn't expect everyone to take such an overpowering
interest in that young man as you do.'

The answer added a last certainty to Margaret's suspicion. She told
herself bitterly that Susie was no less a liar than she. Next day, when
the other was out, Margaret looked through the portfolio once more, but
the sketches of Arthur had disappeared. She was seized on a sudden with
anger because Susie dared to love the man who loved her.

The web in which Oliver Haddo enmeshed her was woven with skilful
intricacy. He took each part of her character separately and fortified
with consummate art his influence over her. There was something satanic
in his deliberation, yet in actual time it was almost incredible that he
could have changed the old abhorrence with which she regarded him into
that hungry passion. Margaret could not now realize her life apart from
his. At length he thought the time was ripe for the final step.

'It may interest you to know that I'm leaving Paris on Thursday,' he said
casually, one afternoon.

She started to her feet and stared at him with bewildered eyes.

'But what is to become of me?'

'You will marry the excellent Mr Burdon.'

'You know I cannot live without you. How can you be so cruel?'

'Then the only alternative is that you should accompany me.'

Her blood ran cold, and her heart seemed pressed in an iron vice.

'What do you mean?'

'There is no need to be agitated. I am making you an eminently desirable
offer of marriage.'

She sank helplessly into her chair. Because she had refused to think of
the future, it had never struck her that the time must come when it would
be necessary to leave Haddo or to throw in her lot with his definitely.
She was seized with revulsion. Margaret realized that, though an odious
attraction bound her to the man, she loathed and feared him. The scales
fell from her eyes. She remembered on a sudden Arthur's great love and
all that he had done for her sake. She hated herself. Like a bird at its
last gasp beating frantically against the bars of a cage, Margaret made a
desperate effort to regain her freedom. She sprang up.

'Let me go from here. I wish I'd never seen you. I don't know what you've
done with me.'

'Go by all means if you choose,' he answered.

He opened the door, so that she might see he used no compulsion, and
stood lazily at the threshold, with a hateful smile on his face. There
was something terrible in his excessive bulk. Rolls of fat descended from
his chin and concealed his neck. His cheeks were huge, and the lack of
beard added to the hideous nakedness of his face. Margaret stopped as she
passed him, horribly repelled yet horribly fascinated. She had an immense
desire that he should take her again in his arms and press her lips with
that red voluptuous mouth. It was as though fiends of hell were taking
revenge upon her loveliness by inspiring in her a passion for this
monstrous creature. She trembled with the intensity of her desire. His
eyes were hard and cruel.

'Go,' he said.

She bent her head and fled from before him. To get home she passed
through the gardens of the Luxembourg, but her legs failed her, and
in exhaustion she sank upon a bench. The day was sultry. She tried to
collect herself. Margaret knew well the part in which she sat, for in the
enthusiastic days that seemed so long gone by she was accustomed to come
there for the sake of a certain tree upon which her eyes now rested.
It had all the slim delicacy of a Japanese print. The leaves were slender
and fragile, half gold with autumn, half green, but so tenuous that the
dark branches made a pattern of subtle beauty against the sky. The hand
of a draughtsman could not have fashioned it with a more excellent
skill. But now Margaret could take no pleasure in its grace. She felt
a heartrending pang to think that thenceforward the consummate things
of art would have no meaning for her. She had seen Arthur the evening
before, and remembered with an agony of shame the lies to which she had
been forced in order to explain why she could not see him till late that
day. He had proposed that they should go to Versailles, and was bitterly
disappointed when she told him they could not, as usual on Sundays, spend
the whole day together. He accepted her excuse that she had to visit a
sick friend. It would not have been so intolerable if he had suspected
her of deceit, and his reproaches would have hardened her heart. It was
his entire confidence which was so difficult to bear.

'Oh, if I could only make a clean breast of it all,' she cried.

The bell of Saint Sulpice was ringing for vespers. Margaret walked slowly
to the church, and sat down in the seats reserved in the transept for the
needy. She hoped that the music she must hear there would rest her soul,
and perhaps she might be able to pray. Of late she had not dared. There
was a pleasant darkness in the place, and its large simplicity was
soothing. In her exhaustion, she watched listlessly the people go to and
fro. Behind her was a priest in the confessional. A little peasant girl,
in a Breton _coiffe_, perhaps a maid-servant lately come from her native
village to the great capital, passed in and knelt down. Margaret could
hear her muttered words, and at intervals the deep voice of the priest.
In three minutes she tripped neatly away. She looked so fresh in her
plain black dress, so healthy and innocent, that Margaret could not
restrain a sob of envy. The child had so little to confess, a few puny
errors which must excite a smile on the lips of the gentle priest, and
her candid spirit was like snow. Margaret would have given anything to
kneel down and whisper in those passionless ears all that she suffered,
but the priest's faith and hers were not the same. They spoke a different
tongue, not of the lips only but of the soul, and he would not listen to
the words of an heretic.

A long procession of seminarists came in from the college which is under
the shadow of that great church, two by two, in black cassocks and short
white surplices. Many were tonsured already. Some were quite young.
Margaret watched their faces, wondering if they were tormented by such
agony as she. But they had a living faith to sustain them, and if some,
as was plain, were narrow and obtuse, they had at least a fixed rule
which prevented them from swerving into treacherous byways. One of two
had a wan ascetic look, such as the saints may have had when the terror
of life was known to them only in the imaginings of the cloister. The
canons of the church followed in their more gorgeous vestments, and
finally the officiating clergy.

The music was beautiful. There was about it a staid, sad dignity; and it
seemed to Margaret fit thus to adore God. But it did not move her. She
could not understand the words that the priests chanted; their gestures,
their movements to and fro, were strange to her. For her that stately
service had no meaning. And with a great cry in her heart she said that
God had forsaken her. She was alone in an alien land. Evil was all about
her, and in those ceremonies she could find no comfort. What could she
expect when the God of her fathers left her to her fate? So that she
might not weep in front of all those people, Margaret with down-turned
face walked to the door. She felt utterly lost. As she walked along the
interminable street that led to her own house, she was shaken with sobs.

'God has forsaken me,' she repeated. 'God has foresaken me.'

Next day, her eyes red with weeping, she dragged herself to Haddo's door.
When he opened it, she went in without a word. She sat down, and he
watched her in silence.

'I am willing to marry you whenever you choose,' she said at last.

'I have made all the necessary arrangements.'

'You have spoken to me of your mother. Will you take me to her at once.'

The shadow of a smile crossed his lips.

'If you wish it.'

Haddo told her that they could be married before the Consul early enough
on the Thursday morning to catch a train for England. She left everything
in his hands.

'I'm desperately unhappy,' she said dully.

Oliver laid his hands upon her shoulders and looked into her eyes.

'Go home, and you will forget your tears. I command you to be happy.'

Then it seemed that the bitter struggle between the good and the evil in
her was done, and the evil had conquered. She felt on a sudden curiously
elated. It seemed no longer to matter that she deceived her faithful
friends. She gave a bitter laugh, as she thought how easy it was to
hoodwink them.

* * * * *

Wednesday happened to be Arthur's birthday, and he asked her to dine with
him alone.

'We'll do ourselves proud, and hang the expense,' he said.

They had arranged to eat at a fashionable restaurant on the other side of
the river, and soon after seven he fetched her. Margaret was dressed with
exceeding care. She stood in the middle of the room, waiting for Arthur's
arrival, and surveyed herself in the glass. Susie thought she had never
been more beautiful.

'I think you've grown more pleasing to look upon than you ever were,' she
said. 'I don't know what it is that has come over you of late, but
there's a depth in your eyes that is quite new. It gives you an odd
mysteriousness which is very attractive.'

Knowing Susie's love for Arthur, she wondered whether her friend was not
heartbroken as she compared her own plainness with the radiant beauty
that was before her. Arthur came in, and Margaret did not move. He
stopped at the door to look at her. Their eyes met. His heart beat
quickly, and yet he was seized with awe. His good fortune was too great
to bear, when he thought that this priceless treasure was his. He could
have knelt down and worshipped as though a goddess of old Greece stood
before him. And to him also her eyes had changed. They had acquired a
burning passion which disturbed and yet enchanted him. It seemed that the
lovely girl was changed already into a lovely woman. An enigmatic smile
came to her lips.

'Are you pleased?' she asked.

Arthur came forward and Margaret put her hands on his shoulders.

'You have scent on,' he said.

He was surprised, for she had never used it before. It was a faint,
almost acrid perfume that he did not know. It reminded him vaguely of
those odours which he remembered in his childhood in the East. It was
remote and strange. It gave Margaret a new and troubling charm. There had
ever been something cold in her statuesque beauty, but this touch somehow
curiously emphasized her sex. Arthur's lips twitched, and his gaunt face
grew pale with passion. His emotion was so great that it was nearly pain.
He was puzzled, for her eyes expressed things that he had never seen in
them before.

'Why don't you kiss me?' she said.

She did not see Susie, but knew that a quick look of anguish crossed her
face. Margaret drew Arthur towards her. His hands began to tremble. He
had never ventured to express the passion that consumed him, and when he
kissed her it was with a restraint that was almost brotherly. Now their
lips met. Forgetting that anyone else was in the room, he flung his arms
around Margaret. She had never kissed him in that way before, and the
rapture was intolerable. Her lips were like living fire. He could not
take his own away. He forgot everything. All his strength, all his
self-control, deserted him. It crossed his mind that at this moment he
would willingly die. But the delight of it was so great that he could
scarcely withhold a cry of agony. At length Susie's voice reminded him
of the world.

'You'd far better go out to dinner instead of behaving like a pair of
complete idiots.'

She tried to make her tone as flippant as the words, but her voice was
cut by a pang of agony. With a little laugh, Margaret withdrew from
Arthur's embrace and lightly looked at her friend. Susie's brave smile
died away as she caught this glance, for there was in it a malicious
hatred that startled her. It was so unexpected that she was terrified.
What had she done? She was afraid, dreadfully afraid, that Margaret had
guessed her secret. Arthur stood as if his senses had left him, quivering
still with the extremity of passion.

'Susie says we must go,' smiled Margaret.

He could not speak. He could not regain the conventional manner of polite
society. Very pale, like a man suddenly awaked from deep sleep, he went
out at Margaret's side. They walked along the passage. Though the door
was closed behind them and they were out of earshot, Margaret seemed not
withstanding to hear Susie's passionate sobbing. It gave her a horrible
delight. The tavern to which they went was on the Boulevard des Italiens,
and at this date the most frequented in Paris. It was crowded, but Arthur
had reserved a table in the middle of the room. Her radiant loveliness
made people stare at Margaret as she passed, and her consciousness of the
admiration she excited increased her beauty. She was satisfied that amid
that throng of the best-dressed women in the world she had cause to envy
no one. The gaiety was charming. Shaded lights gave an opulent cosiness
to the scene, and there were flowers everywhere. Innumerable mirrors
reflected women of the world, admirably gowned, actresses of renown, and
fashionable courtesans. The noise was very great. A Hungarian band played
in a distant corner, but the music was drowned by the loud talking of
excited men and the boisterous laughter of women. It was plain that
people had come to spend their money with a lavish hand. The vivacious
crowd was given over with all its heart to the pleasure of the fleeting
moment. Everyone had put aside grave thoughts and sorrow.

Margaret had never been in better spirits. The champagne went quickly to
her head, and she talked all manner of charming nonsense. Arthur was
enchanted. He was very proud, very pleased, and very happy. They talked
of all the things they would do when they were married. They talked of
the places they must go to, of their home and of the beautiful things
with which they would fill it. Margaret's animation was extraordinary.
Arthur was amused at her delight with the brightness of the place, with
the good things they ate, and with the wine. Her laughter was like a
rippling brook. Everything tended to take him out of his usual reserve.
Life was very pleasing, at that moment, and he felt singularly joyful.

'Let us drink to the happiness of our life,' he said.

They touched glasses. He could not take his eyes away from her.

'You're simply wonderful tonight,' he said. 'I'm almost afraid of my good
fortune.'

'What is there to be afraid of?' she cried.

'I should like to lose something I valued in order to propitiate the
fates. I am too happy now. Everything goes too well with me.'

She gave a soft, low laugh and stretched out her hand on the table. No
sculptor could have modelled its exquisite delicacy. She wore only one
ring, a large emerald which Arthur had given her on their engagement. He
could not resist taking her hand.

'Would you like to go on anywhere?' he said, when they had finished
dinner and were drinking their coffee.

'No, let us stay here. I must go to bed early, as I have a tiring day
before me tomorrow.'

'What are you going to do?' he asked.

'Nothing of any importance,' she laughed.

Presently the diners began to go in little groups, and Margaret suggested
that they should saunter towards the Madeleine. The night was fine, but
rather cold, and the broad avenue was crowded. Margaret watched the
people. It was no less amusing than a play. In a little while, they took
a cab and drove through the streets, silent already, that led to the
quarter of the Montparnasse. They sat in silence, and Margaret nestled
close to Arthur. He put his arm around her waist. In the shut cab that
faint, oriental odour rose again to his nostrils, and his head reeled as
it had before dinner.

'You've made me very happy, Margaret,' he whispered. 'I feel that,
however long I live, I shall never have a happier day than this.'

'Do you love me very much?' she asked, lightly.

He did not answer, but took her face in his hands and kissed her
passionately. They arrived at Margaret's house, and she tripped up
to the door. She held out her hand to him, smiling.

'Goodnight.'

'It's dreadful to think that I must spend a dozen hours without seeing
you. When may I come?'

'Not in the morning, because I shall be too busy. Come at twelve.'

She remembered that her train started exactly at that hour. The door was
opened, and with a little wave of the hand she disappeared.

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