You didn't steal it?
Not exactly, she said in her careful and precise voice. He said: It is very good of you. I had forgotten the code-what did you call it?
Morse.
That was it. Morse. Three long taps and one short one, and immediately the taps began: the priest by the altar tapped, a whole invisible congregation tapped along the aisles-three long and one short. He said: What is it?
News, the child said, watching him with a stern, responsible, and interested gaze.
When he woke up it was dawn. He woke with a huge feeling of hope which suddenly and completely left him at the first sight of the prison yard. It was the morning of his death. He crouched on the floor with the empty brandy flask in his hand trying to remember an act of contrition. O God, I am sorry and beg pardon for all my sins ... crucified ... worthy of Thy dreadful punishments. He was confused, his mind was on other things: it was not the good death for which one always prayed. He caught sight of his own shadow on the cell walclass="underline" it had a look of surprise and grotesque unimportance. What a fool he had been to think that he was strong enough to stay when others fled. What an impossible fellow I am, he thought, and how useless. I have done nothing for anybody. I might just as well have never lived. His parents were dead-soon he wouldn't even be a memory-perhaps after all he wasn't really Hell-worthy. Tears poured down his face: he was not at the moment afraid of damnation--even the fear of pain was in the background. He felt only an immense disappointment because he had to go to God empty-handed, with nothing done at all. It seemed to him at that moment that it would have been [200] quite easy to have been a saint. It would only have needed a little self-restraint and a little courage. He felt like someone who has missed happiness by seconds at an appointed place. He knew now that at the end there was only one thing that counted-to be a saint.
PART IV
Chapter One
MRS. FELLOWS lay in bed in the hot hotel room, listening to the siren of a boat on the river. She could see nothing because she had a handkerchief soaked in eau-de-Cologne over her eyes and forehead. She called sharply out: My dear. My dear, but nobody replied. She felt that she had been prematurely buried in this big brass family tomb, all alone on two pillows, under a canopy. Dear, she said again sharply, and waited.
Yes, Trixy. It was Captain Fellows. He said: I was asleep, dreaming ...
Put some more Cologne on this handkerchief, dear. My head's splitting.
Yes, Trixy.
He took the handkerchief away: he looked old and tired and bored-a man without a hobby, and walking over to the dressing-table, he soaked the linen.
Not too much, dear. It will be days before we can get any more.
He didn't answer, and she said sharply: You heard what I said, dear, didn't you?
Yes.
You are so silent these days. You don't realize what it is to be ill and alone.
Well, Captain Fellows said, you know how it is.
But we agreed, dear, didn't we, that it was better just to say nothing at all, ever? We mustn't be morbid.
No.
We've got our own life to lead.
Yes.
He came across to the bed and laid the handkerchief over his wife's eyes. Then sitting down on a chair, he slipped his hand under the net and felt for her hand. They gave an odd [204] effect of being children, lost in a strange town, without adult care.
Have you got the tickets? she asked.
Yes, dear.'
I must get up later and pack, but my head hurts so. Did you tell them to collect the boxes?
I forgot.
You really must try to think of things, she said weakly and sullenly. There's no one else, and they both sat silent at a phrase they should have avoided. He said suddenly: There's a lot of excitement in town.
Not a revolution?
Oh, no. They've caught a priest and he's being shot this morning, poor devil. I can't help wondering whether it's the man Coral-I mean the man we sheltered.
It's not likely.
No.
There are so many priests.
He let go of her hand, and going to the window looked out. Boats on the river, a small stony public garden with a bust, and buzzards everywhere.
Mrs. Fellows said: It will be good to be back home. I sometimes thought I should die in this place.
Of course not, dear.
Well, people do.
Yes, they do, he said glumly.
Now, dear, Mrs. Fellows said sharply, your promise. She gave a long sigh: My poor head.
He said: Would you like some aspirin?
I don't know where I've put it. Somehow nothing is ever in its place.
Shall I go out and get you some more?
No, dear, I can't bear being left alone. She went on with dramatic brightness: I expect I shall be all right when we get home. I'll have a proper doctor then. I sometimes think it's more than a headache. Did I tell you that I'd heard from Norah?
No.
Get me my glasses, dear, and I'll read you-what concerns us.
[205] They're on your bed.
So they are. One of the sailing-boats cast off and began to drift down the wide sluggish stream, going towards the sea. She read with satisfaction: 'Dear Trix: how you have suffered. That scoundrel ...' She broke abruptly off: Oh, yes, and then she goes on: 'Of course, you and Charles must stay with us for a while until you have found somewhere to live. If you don't mind semi-detached ...'
Captain Fellows said suddenly and harshly: I'm not going back.
The rent is only fifty-six pounds a year, exclusive, and there's a maid's bathroom.
I'm staying.
A 'cookanheat.' What on earth are you saying, dear?
I'm not going back.
We've been over that so often, dear. You know it would kill me to stay.
You needn't stay.
But I couldn't go alone, Mrs. Fellows said. What on earth would Norah think? Besides-oh, it's absurd.
A man here can do a job of work.
Picking bananas, Mrs Fellows said. She gave a little cold laugh. And you weren't much good at that.
He turned furiously towards the bed. You don't mind, he said, do you-running away and leaving her ...?
It wasn't my fault. If you'd been at home ... She began to cry bunched up under the mosquito-net. She said: I'll never get home alive.
He came wearily over to the bed and took her hand again. It was no good. They had both been deserted. They had to stick together. You won't leave me alone, will you, dear? she asked. The room reeked of eau-de-Cologne.
No, dear.
You do realize how absurd it is?
Yes.
They sat in silence for a long while, as the morning sun climbed outside and the room got stiflingly hot. Mrs. Fellows said at last: A penny, dear.
What?
For your thoughts.
[206] I was just thinking of that priest. A queer fellow. He drank. I wonder if it's him.
If it is, I expect he deserves all he gets.
But the odd thing is-the way she went on afterwards-as if he'd told her things.
Darling, Mrs. Fellows repeated, with harsh weakness from the bed, your promise.
Yes, I'm sorry. I was trying, but it seems to come up all the time.
We've got each other, dear, Mrs. Fellows said, and the letter from Norah rustled as she turned her head, swathed in handkerchief, away from the hard outdoor light.