# Nigger Heaven (Van Vechten)/Book 2/Chapter 8

From that instant Byron began to hate and to hate virulently. The world was coloured by his mood to an extent where he saw storms and muddy pavements despite the fact that the sun was shining. He had been made a fool of, that was his plaint, not alone by her, but by every one. All had conspired, it would appear, to make him out a complete ass. One of his first acts, induced by his blind, unreasoning fury, was to purchase a revolver.
A revulsion followed in which he sank into a state of utter depression. And now his guilty conscience reminded him of Mary, Mary who still loved him in spite of his treatment of her. Mary whose advice he had scorned. Perhaps she had been right to try to persuade him to see more influential people. If only he could have humbled his pride sufficiently to call on the Sumners, his affairs might have moved more prosperously. It was not alone the Sumners that he had neglected, to his own undoing, it was the social background they represented. He had missed all that and he had only himself to blame. His father had provided him with letters which would have opened all doors for him. His dear, old father who had forgiven him his misdeeds, who ​had even been patient during these last few awful months of futility and strife.
Byron began to comprehend vaguely how superficial his writing must have appeared. He had never suffered before, never really lived; certainly he had never had any self-understanding. Probably Durwood had been right. At any rate, he was now capable of the realization that Durwood had not intended to patronize him.
Well, it was too late. Too late to seek out the Sumners or their friends. Too late to ask Mary to forgive him. Whatever will become of me? he moaned.
This mood of self-reproach was not permanent. Fierce anger returned to control his spirit. How he loathed this woman who had made a fool of him! How he hated his successor in her affections! Governed by his rage, he clutched his revolver and cried aloud to the four walls of his room in which, like a dying animal, he had shut himself: I'll kill her! I'll kill him! I'll kill them both! But the revolver dropped from his relaxed fingers to the table, and his head followed. Weak, that's what he was, weak. God! he demanded imploringly, why haven't I the strength to go through with it?
Sensing his desperation, perhaps, Mrs. Fox was more than ordinarily kind. Discovering that he would not eat in the kitchen, she sought him out and tempted him with a tray of southern delicacies—she was a good cook. To please ​her, he tried to eat, and failing, recalled with shame how much he had disliked this good woman. He had been the snob, not these others. . . .
Late that afternoon he was lying in bed in his dark, little chamber, cursing his fate, groaning over the mess he had made of his life, hating Lasca more than ever, swearing to shoot Pettijohn, when there came a knock at his door. He did not immediately reply, but when the knock was repeated he called out, who is it?
The door opened slowly to disclose Mrs. Fox silhouetted against the light in the hallway.
Dere's a lady heah to see you, honey, she announced.
A lady! He was on his feet at once. Show her in!
His heart was thumping furiously. Nevertheless, he summoned sufficient presence of mind to thrust his revolver under the pillow.
Another figure stood in the doorway.
Mary! he cried. Turning quickly to his table, he stroked the surface with his palm, searching a match. He lighted the gas-jet.
Now he faced her. How he longed to take her in his arms! Instead, his pride created a new belligerency.
Love was in his heart, but his lips formed these words: I suppose you came here to laugh at me.
She sank wearily on the bed. It was plain to be ​seen that she had been weeping. As she sat there shrouded in her black cloak, she was wistful, appealing, but his nature refused his sympathy any open expression.
Byron, how can you be so cruel?
Then you've come here to pity me! Now he was sneering.
I've come because I love you. I couldn't help coming. Oh, she sobbed, can't you pity me?
I suppose Olive has told you I've been thrown over. I suppose you've come here to gloat.
She looked at him in bewilderment. Do you love her so much? she asked.
Love her! I hate her!
Then it is true: you do love her. She spoke with resignation.
How pathetic she was, how sweet. His only desire was to embrace her, to freely confess his folly, but his perverse pride strangled his desire.
Perhaps I do. What business is that of yours?
This speech actually hurt him more than anything that Lasca had said to him.
Forget about me, he cried passionately. You've come here to look me over. Well, enjoy yourself. I'm a failure, a failure in everything. Nobody has any use for me. Lasca has thrown me out. I'm living here like a swine. You ought to be happy!
Byron, how can you say these terrible things? You're not yourself. Don't you understand that I love you? she pleaded. I came here because I love ​you. I couldn't help coming, but if you don't love me at all, if you won't talk to me, what can I do?
He was silent.
Dear Byron, if you ever want me, if you ever need me . . . With a pitiful little cry, she rose and swiftly left the room.
A moment later he heard the closing of the outer door. Then and then only he cried out of the misery in his soul, Mary! Mary! There was no reply. Rushing to the hallway he flung open the outer door. She had disappeared. He did not follow her downstairs. Returning to his room, he knelt before his bed, burying his head in the covers.
Mary, he sobbed, dear little Mary, I do love you, but I can't go back to you until I've proved how much I hate her.
At this moment he made a swift decision and his hand crept slowly toward the object concealed beneath the pillow.