Read Online Mr. Campion's Lucky Day & Other Stories by Margery Allingham - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Margery Allingham
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eagerness and generosity of her great heart.
An ordinary man might at least have withstood the flood and remained himself even if he lost her by it, a barbarian like herself could have matched it with his own and they two might have been carried by the force of their mutual loving to the farthest shores of their ambitions; but Vickers, a weak nature, went down before it like a sandcastle. Mentally and spiritually he was drowned in it.
Fyshe said that she refused to admit it to herself. Refused to realise that she had made a mistake, that she had not accomplished her ideal, that after all she had married a small, misfitting man. She clung to her ideal of him even when Vickers proved over and over again that he was nothing but the shell of a giant, that his heart and mind and soul were practically non-existent, and she steeled herself not to look in at him, and cheated herself and held her head high.
This went on for some time. Fyshe said it was terrible to see her.
Time after time she gave him chances to prove himself a man—little chances, little chances which woman-wise she engineered to give him an opportunity to restore her faith in his greatness and his strength, and every time, of course, Vickers let her down. He could not help it. He had to, he was but what he was.
She was patient; pathetically patient, and eager to find a lord and master in him if only he would let her.
Fyshe saw it all. He said he watched her fighting against the inevitable realisation like a fanatic fighting for his creed. It seemed, he said, as if she would not allow it to beat her. As the great waves of fact, made by the myriad drops of little things, beat themselves against her one after another, she refused to be crushed by them. It was her barbarism, as the poet said, it was her Northern barbarism which kept her so steadfastly blind.
She refused to accept her defeat. Refused to acknowledge the trick the gods had played upon her. She had set herself to conquer fate, to conquer fact, to disprove that which existed.
As the months passed the fight became harder. It seemed as if she must become convinced in spite of herself, but she fought on. And every day, so Fyshe said, she grew more and more of a wild thing, more and more beautiful and more and more barbaric.
Then it happened.
Fyshe told the story once years afterwards. There were four of them in his dusty study and his husky drawl sounded strained and emotional in the warm, smoke-misted room.
“He died of pneumonia, you know,” he said, “eighteen months after they were married and she mourned him faithfully and passionately. I came into the room at just that moment when he reached the crisis and gradually took the turn for the worse which killed him.”
He paused deliberately and relit his pipe but no one spoke and presently he went on again.
“He was very ill and I visited them so often that I used to go in and out as I pleased. I knew when I entered that day that Vickers had been practically at death’s door, although I had heard the doctor say that so long as nothing untoward happened such as a draught catching him or the fire going out, he might be expected to recover. I had really gone along to congratulate her on this and I pushed open the door quietly, expecting to be met by a rush of warm, sick-room air. There were curtains hung across the corner where the door was so that no sudden draught could possibly reach the bed. These curtains were thick heavy things, weighted at the ends, yet as I came in they were swaying to and fro. I shut the door quickly, frightened for a moment that I had let in the draught and then I went forward and pulled aside the curtains.
“Vickers lay in the bed hardly breathing, the bedclothes thrown clear of his great chest and neck, while a current of cold rain-soaked air rushed in upon him from the open window. Elfrida was in the room. She stood with her back to me staring out across the square. Her straight back was stiff as a soldier’s
An ordinary man might at least have withstood the flood and remained himself even if he lost her by it, a barbarian like herself could have matched it with his own and they two might have been carried by the force of their mutual loving to the farthest shores of their ambitions; but Vickers, a weak nature, went down before it like a sandcastle. Mentally and spiritually he was drowned in it.
Fyshe said that she refused to admit it to herself. Refused to realise that she had made a mistake, that she had not accomplished her ideal, that after all she had married a small, misfitting man. She clung to her ideal of him even when Vickers proved over and over again that he was nothing but the shell of a giant, that his heart and mind and soul were practically non-existent, and she steeled herself not to look in at him, and cheated herself and held her head high.
This went on for some time. Fyshe said it was terrible to see her.
Time after time she gave him chances to prove himself a man—little chances, little chances which woman-wise she engineered to give him an opportunity to restore her faith in his greatness and his strength, and every time, of course, Vickers let her down. He could not help it. He had to, he was but what he was.
She was patient; pathetically patient, and eager to find a lord and master in him if only he would let her.
Fyshe saw it all. He said he watched her fighting against the inevitable realisation like a fanatic fighting for his creed. It seemed, he said, as if she would not allow it to beat her. As the great waves of fact, made by the myriad drops of little things, beat themselves against her one after another, she refused to be crushed by them. It was her barbarism, as the poet said, it was her Northern barbarism which kept her so steadfastly blind.
She refused to accept her defeat. Refused to acknowledge the trick the gods had played upon her. She had set herself to conquer fate, to conquer fact, to disprove that which existed.
As the months passed the fight became harder. It seemed as if she must become convinced in spite of herself, but she fought on. And every day, so Fyshe said, she grew more and more of a wild thing, more and more beautiful and more and more barbaric.
Then it happened.
Fyshe told the story once years afterwards. There were four of them in his dusty study and his husky drawl sounded strained and emotional in the warm, smoke-misted room.
“He died of pneumonia, you know,” he said, “eighteen months after they were married and she mourned him faithfully and passionately. I came into the room at just that moment when he reached the crisis and gradually took the turn for the worse which killed him.”
He paused deliberately and relit his pipe but no one spoke and presently he went on again.
“He was very ill and I visited them so often that I used to go in and out as I pleased. I knew when I entered that day that Vickers had been practically at death’s door, although I had heard the doctor say that so long as nothing untoward happened such as a draught catching him or the fire going out, he might be expected to recover. I had really gone along to congratulate her on this and I pushed open the door quietly, expecting to be met by a rush of warm, sick-room air. There were curtains hung across the corner where the door was so that no sudden draught could possibly reach the bed. These curtains were thick heavy things, weighted at the ends, yet as I came in they were swaying to and fro. I shut the door quickly, frightened for a moment that I had let in the draught and then I went forward and pulled aside the curtains.
“Vickers lay in the bed hardly breathing, the bedclothes thrown clear of his great chest and neck, while a current of cold rain-soaked air rushed in upon him from the open window. Elfrida was in the room. She stood with her back to me staring out across the square. Her straight back was stiff as a soldier’s
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