Dearest Madeleine,I have come back alive out of death. I have been a prisoner, you know, for nearly four years. Now I have been exchanged—because I am useless to France. I am rather run down, you see, and my right arm is gone. But take heart, dearest. I can do nothing just yet, and the Army has sent me home, but old Monsieur Laffargue says I shall be as strong as ever in ten or twelve months. I am with the Dudoys. René has been back some time. Do you know he is blind? . .
Dearest Madeleine,
I have come back alive out of death. I have been a prisoner, you know, for nearly four years. Now I have been exchanged—because I am useless to France. I am rather run down, you see, and my right arm is gone. But take heart, dearest. I can do nothing just yet, and the Army has sent me home, but old Monsieur Laffargue says I shall be as strong as ever in ten or twelve months. I am with the Dudoys. René has been back some time. Do you know he is blind? . .
Blind. . . .
Those gentle grey eyes sightless. . . . Those strong brown fingers picking and feeling their way. . . .
Madeleine was at the War Office within the half-hour.
The clerk she had seen was gone, and another attended to her case. This was a kindly fellow, who had dried many eyes.
He heard her out gravely. Then—
“Madame, be happy. Absolutely your husband is safe. Take it from me. He has not even a scratch. Always the wife hears at once. That he has not been to see you is easily explained. Ten to one he is in the East—Salonica, making fat Bulgars perspire. He wrote and told you, of course, but the letter was sunk. These Germans! Madame, believe and be happy. Your husband is safe. I tell you he will come back.”
Madeleine stole out of the building as she would have stolen out of a dock. She had committed a crime, and had been given judgment.
She would have given anything to go to Ruffec . . . anything—except the one thing she had. This was her self-respect. If she went to Ruffec, if once she saw those strong brown fingers groping their pitiful way, the flesh might spoil the spirit of its only hoard. And that meant poverty she could not face. She was a good girl.
Eighteen months had gone by, when Lady Joan Satinwood told her French maid that it was her determined intention to winter in France.
“We shall go down by car, Madeleine—the Major and I, and you and the chauffeur. It’ll be great fun, and I expect you’ll be thrilled to see your country again.”
“Yes, madame.”
“I suppose you’ve—you’ve no news?”
“Of my husband? No, madame.”
“I’m sorry. But don’t despair. Remember my cousin, Sir George. And he was reported ‘killed.’ Two and a half years afterwards, Madeleine, he came walking in. . . .”
“Yes, madame.”
When Madeleine learned in mid-Channel, some three weeks later, that they were to go by Poitiers she felt very faint. . . .
Poitiers lies north of Ruffec, just forty-one miles.
“Et de Poitiers?. . . . After we ’ave lef’ Poitiers? . . .”
“Angoulême,” said the chauffeur, thumbing his itinerary. “That’s right. Vivonne, Chaunay, Ruffec, Angoulême. Sleep Angoulême. Nex’ day—Barbézieux, Bordeaux. Sleep Bor—— ’Elp!”
He dropped his paper and caught his companion as she swayed. Then he carried her into the saloon and sought for a stewardess. . . .
Later that day he recounted his experience to a friend.
“I arst ’er if she was a good sailor, too,” he concluded aggrievedly.
Four days later, as they were entering Poitiers, a brake-rod snapped. No resultant damage was done, but the car was stopped at a garage that Terry—the chauffeur—might see if an adjustment could be made. By good fortune, it could.
The car was backed over a pit, and Terry got out of his coat and into his overalls. He was a good chauffeur. Where his car was concerned, he fancied his own fingers more than a hireling’s.
The Major got out and went strolling. Lady Joan stayed in the car. Madeleine stood in the garage, translating for Terry.
Half an hour’s work, and the connection was made.
Terry heaved himself out of the pit and called for waste.
The mechanics stared.
“Cotton waste,” said the chauffeur. “Comprenny? Pour wiper the hands.”
Madeleine smiled and asked for a rag.
A mechanic went shuffling. A moment later he returned with a rectangular cardboard box.
“Voilà,” he said.
“Wot’s this?” said Terry, staring. “Dog biscuits?”
The mechanic pointed to the label.
Essuyages Aseptisés
“We use nothing else,” he explained. “They are all manner of rags, quite clean and sterilized. This boxful will last a long time.”
The chauffeur asked the price, ripped open the box, and pulled out the first piece of stuff. Madeleine took the box from him and stowed it away in the car.
When she returned, Terry had wiped his hands and was looking curiously at his duster.
“ ’Ere’s a present from Flanders all right,” he said slowly. “See? That’s where some pore bloke stopped one.”
Madeleine peered at the stuff.
This was the left breast of what had been a man’s shirt. Immediately over the heart there was a rough hole. The cotton thereabouts was all stained to a dull brown, so that the green and grey stripes were indistinguishable. The shoulder was gone, but hanging from the top of the fragment was a strip of quilted linen.
Let me quote from Lady Joan’s letter, dated some five days later and written from St. Jean-de-Luz.
. . .I saw the shirt myself. It was a terrible document. Poor girl! The shock was frightful. As luck would have it, the very next town on our route—a place called Ruffec—was her old home. Her brother was there. We found him and handed her over. Whether she’ll ever come back to me, I haven’t the faintest idea. . . .
Again let me quote from a letter her ladyship wrote when two months had gone by.
P.S.—You remember Madeleine? I’ve just had a note from her saying she’s married again! No wonder France is recovering more quickly than England. Most English girls would still be upon slops. However, that’s her affair. But isn’t it just my luck? She was a perfect maid.
Which was a true saying.
Two years later Lacaze alighted at Ruffec from the Paris train.
The man was changed terribly. Five years in the German mines had left their mark. He had been broken down.
His hair was grisled, his broad, square shoulders were bowed, his carriage mean. None would have known the shrunken shambling figure for that of the mighty steeple-jack. His countenance, however, was unmistakable. This was ravaged, too, but the old faint smile still hung about those merciless lips, and the old insolent scorn still smouldered in the big black eyes.
Lacaze pulled his hat over his face and stood waiting till such travellers as had also alighted should have left the platform.
A horn brayed, and the train began to move.
“Good-bye!” cried a voice. “Good-bye! If you see René Dudoy, ask him if he remembers Fernand Didier, and say I was sorry I had no time to visit him. Good-bye!”
The train gathered speed and rumbled out of the station.
Lacaze moved towards the gates thoughtfully.
Half an hour later he darkened the creamery’s hatch.
René looked up from his work. He was making a basket.
“Enter, monsieur,” he said. “And sit down, please. My wife will be back in a moment, and then she will serve you.”
Slowly Lacaze came in, looking down on the ground.
“You are married, then?” he said quietly.
The other stared.
“Yes,” he said, “monsieur. Why not?”
“No reason at all,” said Lacaze, smiling. “And how is your wife?”
René returned to his work.
“She is very well, thank you.”
“I am glad of that,” said Lacaze. “Very glad.”
René Dudoy looked up.
“Monsieur’s interest is unusually kind. Would it be indiscreet to ask why?”
Lacaze gave a short laugh.
“I know her,” he said. “She was a friend of mine. But I thought that she married Lacaze—Lacaze, the steeple-jack.”
“She did,” said Dudoy. “But he was killed in the War. And, after, she married me. But, monsieur, tell me your name. If you are a friend of hers, you must have been mine also.”
“I was,” said Lacaze softly, his chin on his chest. “I knew you well.” The other set down his basket and rose to his feet. “We were both at her wedding. You sent her roses, I think. And I sent her—violets.”
“Not violets,” said René. “You must have sent something else. You forget. Lacaze sent her violets.”
In a flash Lacaze had stepped forward and pulled off his hat.
“Your servant,” he breathed, smiling.
Dudoy wrinkled his brow.
“I cannot think who you are,” he said. “Do tell me your name.” The other’s smile faded into a stare. “There are times, you know, when one misses one’s sight terribly.” Lacaze started. “When Madeleine’s here, I can see. We share her beautiful eyes.” He threw back his curly head. “Then, if you offered me sight, I would not take it. My blindness is a bond between us which those who have eyes of their own can never know. But—when she leaves me, then sometimes the old darkness returns—that awful darkness which, when she came to me, Madeleine did away . . . And now, I pray you, monsieur, tell me your name.”
Lacaze turned his head and stared into the sunlit street.
Then—
“I am Fernand Didier,” he said. “And—and I must go, or I shall miss my train.”
He pulled his hat over his eyes and blundered out of the shop.
René cried to him to stay.
“Fernand! Fernand!”
Lacaze took no notice.
Ten minutes later he was clear of the town.
KATHARINE
Dreamily, Mrs. Festivalregarded the ceiling.
“I frequently wonder,” she said, “what possessed me to marry you.”
“My beauty of soul,” said her husband pleasantly. “You were all dazzled.”
“I think,” continued his wife, “it was out of pity. You know. When you see people laughing at someone, and the someone joins in, never dreaming that they’re the object of the mirth, one feels sorry for them.”
Captain Giles Festival swallowed before replying.
Then—
“I know,” he said. “Like when we were dining with the Mascots, and you kept talking about soap.”
Katharine Festival flushed.
The reminiscence was not one which she cherished.
Lady Mascot’s father and soft soap had been mutually constructive.
At length—
“I might have known,” she observed, “that you wouldn’t appreciate it. Gratitude is not among your attributes.”
“If you mean,” said Giles, “that I don’t feel impelled to fall down and worship you for taking my name—in vain, you’re perfectly right. I gave you a blinkin’ good chance, and you blinkin’ well took it.”
Katharine drew in her breath.
“Do you imagine,” she demanded, “that the chance you were kind enough to give me was the only chance I had?”
“If,” said her husband, “I imagined anything, I should imagine you considered it the best. If one can only have one strawberry, one doesn’t deliberately take a bad one, does one? Not even out of pity?”
“No,” said Katharine sweetly. “Only by mistake.”
There was a pregnant silence.
Then—
“Sold,” murmured Giles, “the very deuce of a pup—by Mistake, out of Pity. No flowers, by request.”
“Let me at once admit,” said Katharine coldly, “that I did not select you for your good taste.”
“ ‘Select’?” cried her husband. “ ‘Select’?” He laughed wildly. Then he covered his eyes. “Oh, give me strength.”
“I suppose you consider that you selected me.”
“I did. In a weak moment——”
“Are you,” said Katharine shakily, “are you going to say you were blind?”
“I am not,” said Giles. “I was not blind. I was—well—er—just nicely.”
“Well, I wasn’t,” said his wife hotly. “I was blind. I thought I was accepting a gentleman. I find I accepted a——”
“I know,” said Giles mercilessly. “I know, teacher. A foul and loathsome worm.”
“No,” said his wife calmly. “Just an ordinary cad.”
Captain Festival rubbed his nose thoughtfully. Then he extended his arms and, after yawning luxuriously, interlaced his fingers and placed his hands behind his head.
“My dear,” he observed, “be reasonable.” Katharine closed her eyes with an expression of unutterable contempt. “All this, just because I ventured to suggest that, if Beatrice had time to do it, she might take charge of my linen.”
“Have you ever heard of meiosis?” said Mrs. Festival. “It means the opposite of exaggeration.”
“I repeat,” said Giles, “that that was the humble suggestion at which you took offence. I mayn’t have put it in those words, but——”
“You didn’t,” said Katharine. “You put it much more vividly. You said that the condition of your wardrobe was enough to make a beachcomber burst into tears——”
“So it is.”
“—and that, if I hadn’t got the moral courage to order ‘a lazy sweep of a lady’s maid to pull up her rotten socks,’ I could ‘blinkin’ well finance her’ myself. You added that you’d given up a valet, so that I could have more money ‘to blow upon my back,’ and that my interpretation of my marriage vows was funny without being vulgar.”
Her husband swallowed.
“I was referring,” he said doggedly, “to your promise to cherish me.”
“You promised the same.”
“Yes, but I keep it, Kate. I do cherish you. I’m always cherishing you. Only yesterday afternoon—seventeen blinkin’ quid for a hat worth eighteen pence . . . and not a murmur.”
Katharine inspired audibly, raising her eyes to heaven.
“When,” she rejoined, “when you start recounting your virtues, I want to break something. Doesn’t it ever occur to you that that’s my job?”
“Frequently,” said Giles. “But you never do it.”
“You never give me a chance.”
With a supreme effort her husband controlled his voice.
“Look here,” he said fiercely. “Do you think it was—er—decent of me to give you that hat, or not?”
“Oh, you can have the beastly hat,” said Katharine.
“Wouldn’t suit me,” said Giles mournfully. “Do you think——”
“I’ll never wear it,” declared his wife. “Never. I—I hate it.”
“Well, let’s take it back. They might allow us eighteen——”
“And why should I be overcome with gratitude just because——”
“The golden rule of blessed argument,” said Captain Festival uncertainly, “is to keep to the blessed point. Let’s try, will you? . . . No answer. I referred to my short-sighted generosity solely to refute your suggestion that I was failing to cherish you. You deliberately pervert the reference into an attempt to magnify myself. What could be better?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” said Katharine. “You could get up half an hour earlier and put your rotten things in order yourself.”
“On thelucus a non lucendoprinciple? If you want your cake, pay someone else to eat it, and then give it away? Thanks very much. Unhappily, my education was neglected. I cannot sew. Secondly, if it’s either of our jobs, it’s yours. Thirdly, why should I? If this house was more like a home and less like an Employment Exchange, these questions wouldn’t arise. Fourthly, I’m fed up.”
“How funny,” said Katharine silkily. “So’m I. Yet you slept well. I heard you.”
In majestic silence her husband rose from his bed and entered an orange-coloured dressing-gown.
“Have my bed put in the next room, will you?” he said coldly. “If you don’t like to trouble the servants, tell me and I’ll get the commissionaire from the Club.”
Here he trod upon a collar-stud, screamed, swore, limped to a window and then launched the offender into Berkeley Square.
“That’ll learn it,” observed Mrs. Festival.
Giles regarded her with speechless indignation.
Then he swept into the bathroom stormily.
After, perhaps, five minutes he reappeared.
“I say,” he said quietly, “it isn’t much good going on like this, is it?”
Katharine shrugged her white shoulders.
“Is it?” repeated her husband.
His wife averted her head.
“The blessed answer,” she said, “is in the blessed negative.”
Giles set his teeth.
“Good. Well, let’s separate. I take it you’ve tried. I know I have. I suppose we oughtn’t to have married.”
“As—as you please,” said Katharine slowly.
“We’d better go down and see Forsyth—to-day, if we can.” He hesitated. Then, “There’s no reason why there should be any unpleasantness about it.”
“None whatever.”
“Only, don’t let’s be lured into backing out of it. It’s perfectly manifest, to my mind, that it’s the only thing to do. Already we’ve come to the brink of it half a dozen times, and then Sentiment’s always chipped in and pulled us back.” Katharine nodded. “Well, that’s silly. We needn’t scrap, butdon’t let’s be pulled back again. It’s—it’s not good enough. Let’s go through with it, this time, and—and see what happens.”
“Right,” said Katharine brightly.
Giles turned away slowly.
In the doorway he hesitated.
Then he spoke, looking down.
“You—you see what I mean?” he faltered. “I’ld like us to—to part friends.”
Katharine nodded.
When he was out of sight, she buried her face in her pillow and lay like the dead.
If the votes of Mayfair had been taken to elect the most popular married couple living, moving and having its being in Society, there is little doubt that Captain and Mrs. Giles Festival would have headed the poll.
The lady was twenty-five and of great beauty. She was very fair, and the light in her grave, blue eyes was a lovely thing. Her face might have been her fortune—easily. So might her figure. This was the dressmakers’ joy. If Katharine liked fine feathers, she knew how to put them on. Dancing, bathing, riding—always she filled the eye. But if she was refreshing to look at, her fellowship lifted up the heart. I can think of no company which she did not adorn. Someone once called her ‘Champagne’: certainly she went to the head. That she had so few enemies is the best evidence of her remarkable charm. Women liked her—as often as not against their will. Her nature would, I think, have disarmed a Sycorax. Caliban would certainly have eaten out of her hand.
Giles was thirty, and looked a young twenty-six. Tall, fair, handsome, lazy-eyed, he did everything well. The way in which he made war brought him a V.C. The way in which he made love won him his wife. At the Marlborough he was universally liked. In certain cabmen’s shelters he was adored. He had, I suppose, the secret of adaptability. His laugh was infectious; his turn-out, above reproach. His manners would have made any man.
Both had a keen sense of humour, and neither was ever dull. They went everywhere, and everywhere their coming was awaited and their going deplored. They had been individually invaluable: as a combination they were unique. What made them so excellent was their mutual devotion. Of this they offered no evidence, but it was obvious as the day. Had Society paraded in the Park, by common consent Giles and Katharine would have been led at the head of the column, like regimental goats. For the second year in succession they were the Season’s pets.
But now an east wind had arisen out of a clear sky. Though no one else knew it, it had cursed the twain steadily for more than three months. The two peace-loving hearts found themselves constantly at war. Worse. The very qualities which should have pacified seemed monstrously to provoke. The position had become unbearable.
An hour had gone by.
As Katharine entered the dining-room, her husband looked up from his eggs.
“Forsyth,” he said, “will see us at twelve o’clock. Meanwhile”—he tapped a volume—“this little Know All says that we ought to have trustees.”
“What of?” said his wife.
“Heaven knows,” said Giles. “As far as I can gather, they’ld be a sort of bufferee. Supposing you wanted to come and scratch me—well, you’ld have to scratch the trustee first. And if I found you were pledging my credit——”
“But I shall,” said Katharine. “Why shouldn’t I? I’m your wife.”
“Only for necessaries, dear heart. No more eighteen-penny hats.”
“Is that the law?” said Mrs. Festival blankly.
“Approximately. But don’t worry. You’ll have plenty to pay for them with. I can’t endow you with all my worldly goods, but you shall have a fair two-thirds.”
“Half,” said Katharine, crossing to the sideboard. “Fair do’s, old fellow. And you must have half mine.”
Captain Festival frowned.
“My dear,” he said shortly, “don’t dither. I buy a dress-suit a year and don’t pay for it. If I did, it’ld be about a pony.” He paused significantly. “If an eighteen-penny hat and a half costs the same as a gent’s dress-suit, how many evening frocks go to the Season?”
Abstractedly Katharine helped herself to kedjeree.
As she returned to the table—
“I don’t care,” she said slowly; “I won’t take more than my share. What shall we do about the house?”
“Well, if you don’t mind,” said Giles, “you’d better stay on. It’ll save a lot of trouble. If you don’t—I can’t very well live here, and the house’ld be going spare. That means we’ld have to let, which’ld send us both mad. The rooms’ld have to be done up, we should be done down, our effects would be done in and our finer feelings would be outraged. The idea of some sticky stranger wallowing in our private bathroom sends the blood to my head.”
Mrs. Festival shuddered.
Then—
“But what will you do, Gill? Of course, I should pay you a rent. The house and furniture’s yours, and——”
“I shall live at the Club. As to rent—considering that you’ll be better than any caretaker, I shall be up on the deal.”
Katharine digested this.
“I could only consent,” she said, “on the understanding that, if ever you changed your mind, you let me know. And, of course, you’ld keep a key and use it whenever you liked.”
“My darling,” said Giles, rising, “I look forward to dining at this table at least once a week. Of course, I shan’t come unasked. That would be molestation. Your trustee would be most rude. But if I behave myself. . . . Possibly, some afternoon when you were out, you might arrange for me to have a bath here. On my birthday, for instance. It’ld tickle me to death.”
Katharine flung him a bewitching smile.
“If,” she said, “you don’t tell anyone, you shall use my sponge.”
“Kate,” said her husband, “I perceive that we are off. This separation stunt is going to work wonders.”
He was perfectly right.
Galbraith Forsyth, solicitor, was an honest man. Also he knew his world and could tell the sheep from the goats. He could be stern, and he could be most gentle. To those whom he trusted, who trusted him, he gave a service which money cannot buy. His judgment alone was invaluable. The sheep liked him, immensely. The goats hated him. But both respected him with a whole heart. If he had any pet lambs, the Festivals were among them.
He received the two pleasedly, bade them sit down, and drew the lady’s attention to a bunch of daffodils.
“Posies are seldom seen in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. But when I knew you were coming, I felt that something must be done. I didn’t want you to feel lonely.”
“Now, isn’t that charming?” said Giles. “If I could say things like that, we shouldn’t be here to-day.”
Forsyth looked at him sharply.
“You see, Mr. Forsyth,” said Katharine, “we’ve made a hopeless mistake. We thought we’ld be happy, though married: and we were wrong. We can’t hit it off. We’ve tried like blazes, but it’s not the slightest good. In fact, the only thing we’ve agreed about for something like three months is that the sooner we part, the better for Giles and me.”
“D’you mean this?” said Forsyth. “Or are you—er—pulling my leg?”
“We mean it all right,” said Giles. “It sounds like a comic dream, but it’s the grisly truth. For no apparent reason, Katharine annoys me. For no apparent reason, I get her goat. If we started to discuss those flowerlets, in five minutes we should be slinging books at each other. She’s witty, you know, and I’m a bit of a wag. We’ve always fenced, for fun—always. But now we can’t stop, and—the buttons are off the foils.”
“He’s perfectly right,” said Katharine. “I’m ashamed to say it, but we lead a cat and dog life. And now we’re both agreed that it isn’t good enough. Don’t suggest change, because we’ve tried that. He went away for a week. The night he came back I threw a glass at him.”
“An empty one,” said Giles. “Missed me by yards. But it’s the—the principle.”
“Exactly,” said Katharine. “Besides, the glass was a good one, and now it leaks.”
Forsyth, who felt the sting beneath the banter, was genuinely dismayed.
He smiled politely.
“It seems a pity,” he said. “When I say that, I’m putting it very low. A pity. You mustn’t be impatient, because, though I’m the keeper of your legal conscience, at heart I’m an ordinary man—with eyes in his head. I think you’re playing with fire. Life’s very uncertain, you know. If anything happened after you’d gone apart—the other would grieve, I’m afraid . . . have something to remember they’ld give a lot to forget . . . grudge the bit of their life they’d deliberately sworn away. . . . One never thinks of Remorse, until it touches you on the shoulder. I don’t suppose I should, only I’ve seen it . . . at work.”
There was a long silence.
Then—
“Thank you,” said Giles quietly. “Now, whatever else we regret, we shall never regret having come to see you this morning.” He paused. “Setting aside Sentiment, the answer is this. We should like to be able to forget the last three months. As we can’t, we think it better to prevent their becoming six.”
Forsyth inclined his head.
“Very good. Am I to draw up a deed? A deed of separation?”
“Please.”
“What about trustees?”
“Are they a necessary evil? We don’t mind you. In fact, you come under godsends. But the idea of inducting others into our private confessional is peculiarly repugnant.”
“It’s worse than that,” said Katharine. “We three are familiar. If I think Mr. Forsyth a brute, I can ring up and tell him so. I couldn’t do that to a trustee. In fact, the whole arrangement would become stiff, reinforced—like putting bones in a belt.”
“You couldn’t, for instance,” said her husband, “employ that simile. For your information, Forsyth, that’s not a proverb. Below the surface female woman wears a sort of comic cummerbund, four sizes too small. The idea is to displace the vitals. If she wants to shorten her life, she lines it with strips of whalebone, running the wrong way. Thus with the minimum of motion she gets the maximum of pain.”
“That,” said Forsyth uncertainly, “is not admittedly the function of trustees. Still, there are times when they are inconvenient. They certainly tend to cramp the style. Nevertheless . . . I’ll tell you what,” he added suddenly. “If you like, I’ll be your trustee.”
The two raised their eyes to heaven ecstatically.
“A little more,” said Katharine, “and you shall use our bathroom.”
“That,” explained Giles, “is a kind of Garter—the highest honour it’s in our power to bestow.”
Forsyth picked up a pen.
“Tell me,” he said, “what sort of an arrangement you want.”
“Well, we’re going shares,” said Giles. “Once a month, I’ll send her two-thirds of all the dividends and rents I’ve had.”
“Of course it’s grotesque,” said Katharine, “but I’ll do the same.”
“Yes? What about the house?”
“She’s going to caretake for me, and keep the servants on. I shall pay half her expenses.”
“Oh, rot!” said Mrs. Festival.
“My dear,” said Giles, “the bed of my mind is made up. Don’t rumple it.”
“I think that’s fair,” said Forsyth, wondering what the Law Society would say. “Next?”
“He’ll take the Rolls,” said Katharine, “and I’ll have the coupé.”
Giles hesitated.
“I had thought——” he began.
“Don’t be Quixotic,” said his wife. “You worship that car. Last time I drove her, you said——”
“Not before the child,” said Giles. “I withdraw. Besides, I never meant it. I was all worked up, I was. You worked me.”
“That all?” said Forsyth hastily.
“Well, I shall take my sponge,” said Giles. “She’s very kindly promised to let me use hers, if—er . . .”
By a superhuman effort Forsyth maintained his gravity.
“That sort of thing’s understood,” he said shortly. “I’ll put in the usual covenants not to molest, pledge credit—er—er—etc., and myself as trustee. I suppose you want it at once?”
“As soon as you can,” said Giles. “If we could have it to-night, we could go over it together, sign it, and I could push off to-morrow morning.”
“I’ll try. When you’ve signed it, return it to me. I’ll send you copies to keep in a day or two’s time. By the way, what’s your address?” Captain Festival mentioned a club. “Right.” The lawyer rose to his feet and preceded the two to the door. “I’m sorry, you know, but I’m glad you came to me. Come again whenever you please. I’ll show no fear nor favour—I promise you that. Let three be company, even if two’s none.”
They shook hands silently.
By one consent, Captain and Mrs. Festival drove straight to Bond Street and selected a gold cigarette-case. This was presently engraved and then delivered to an address in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
The inscription was simple.
G.G.K.F.F
G.G.K.F.F
G.G.K.F.F
G
.
G.K.F
.
F
The news of the separation spread slowly.
This was because it was wholly disbelieved. Everyone immediately assumed that Giles and Katharine Festival were being humorous.
The former was lectured upon ‘cruelty’ at the Club.
The latter was mocked over the telephone.
“Is that you, Katharine? . . . I say, how many ‘l’s’ are there in ‘alimony’? . . . What? . . . Oh, but how sweet! . . . Never mind. Put a fiver on Decree Nisi for luck. . . .”
It was intolerable.
On the third day Katharine left Town—destination unknown.
On the fourth day Giles fled to Evian, leaving a note for his wife, to be delivered after he had gone.
On the fifth day they met on the shore of the lake of Geneva.
“Hullo, Gill,” said Katharine. “How on earth did you know?”
“Know?” faltered Giles. “Go—go away. This is molestation.”
“It looks rather like it,” said Mrs. Festival. “Still, if you’ve got some possible cigarettes, I’ll let that go. Oh, and you might take that, will you?” She gave him a letter bearing his name and address. “It’ll save my posting it.”
It seemed ridiculous not to dine together. . . .
On the eighth day the papers announced:—
Captain and Mrs. Giles Festival have arrived at Evian-les-Bains.
This was misleading.
By the time the paragraph appeared, Giles was in Scotland. . . .
For the time, however, thesuggestio falsieffectually throttled any inkling of the truth.
Indeed, it was not until the end of May that people began to appreciate that what they had regarded as a fiction was a stubbornfait accompli.
That such an estrangement should create a profound sensation was natural enough. People could hardly believe their eyes or ears. Friends and acquaintances stared at the astounding truth, like stuck pigs. The projected divorce of an archbishop would not have occasioned one quarter of such amazement.
Again, it was natural enough that, having recovered her breath, Mayfair should prepare to let out a perfect squeal of dismay. Her sparrow was dead. The bear was robbed of its whelps.
The bellow, however, died on Society’s lips.
Having rammed home the punch, Giles and Katharine proceeded to apply the healing balm.
In the first place, the linen they were washing in public was spotlessly clean. Secondly, the two laundered comfortably, without the slightest embarrassment. Thirdly, their cheerful disregard of the traditions of Separation turned the tragedy intoopéra bouffe.
The general feeling of disappointment was still-born, to be immediately succeeded by a sense of bewildered relief.
Captain and Mrs. Festival became more popular than ever.
Isolated efforts to brand them died an inglorious death.
Mrs. Soulsden Clutch, who faithfully attended Divine Service at St. Paul’s, Knightsbridge, and had nagged and bullied her husband into another world, announced that words failed her, and then spoke long and authoritatively upon the advertisement of indecency and of contempt for marriage vows.
Mrs. Busby Shawl, surnamed ‘The Comforter,’ went further and cut the two in the Park, afterwards broadcasting her achievement with the innocent air of one who, blinded with integrity, has shamed the Devil and is now uncertain whether it was a Christian thing to do.
But the findings of such censors of morality were coldly received: and, after exchanging malice for the inside of a week, the latter reviled one another and elbowed and fought their way into what they had lately described as ‘the House of Rimmon.’
The fun became fast and furious.
Joint invitations which had been jointly declined were re-issued severally and severally accepted. Invitations which had not been sent were hastily extended. The dates of parties, dances, week-ends became actually contingent upon the Festivals’ ability to attend.
The pets had become lion-cubs.
Katharine gave a dance.
Giles was invited, and gave a dinner beforehand, taking his guests on. He danced twice with his hostess, enjoyed champagne he had chosen, sat out in his own library.
Giles gave a luncheon, inviting eleven guests. Of these his wife made one, and, taking her proper precedence, sat on her husband’s left. Afterwards, the Rolls being there, he dropped her at Sloane Street and was deliciously thanked.
That night they met at a ball in Belgrave Square, and the next week-end in Hampshire, as two of the Pleydells’ guests.
On five days out of seven they junketed side by side.
On Derby Day they went to the Daneboroughs’ dance—a brilliant affair, which blazed till nearly five on the following day. Its remembrance was slightly marred by Mrs. Festival’s omission to take her latchkey and subsequent inability to ‘make her servants hear.’ Necessity knows no law. Giles, who had left early, was roused from a refreshing slumber by the night-porter of his Club and apprised of the facts. . . . There was only one thing to be done. He did it gallantly, with a suit over his pyjamas and pumps on his naked feet. The aggravated assault which he presently committed upon his own front door was audibly condemned by several infuriated residents in Berkeley Square. His butler, who had just got to sleep again, also condemned it with great savagery, but, after hoping against hope that the reinforcement his mistress had unearthed would also lose heart, himself at last succumbed to Captain Festival’s importunity. . . . His work over, the latter returned to his Club, wondering whether he could with decency suggest that a duplicate latchkey should be kept at the nearest police station. He need not have troubled his head. The following day, a gong the size of a soup-plate was installed beneath the butler’s bedstead. Upon observing its dimensions, the butler was greatly moved, but, while declaring in the servants’ hall that Katharine was no lady, he was forced to admit to himself that his mistress was no fool.
Out of the flood of their engagements, the two were careful to save one evening a week, upon which they dined together at their own house. Afterwards they sat in the library until eleven o’clock. Then Giles would get up, and Katharine come to the door to see him out. Arrived at the threshold, her husband would kiss her fingers.
“Good night, sweetheart. Sleep well.”
And the lady would answer gravely—
“Till next week, Gill. Good-bye.”
One Thursday, half-way through June, such a meeting took place.
When coffee had been served, and the two were left to themselves,
“My dear,” observed Giles, “let me thank you for a most toothsome repast.”
“It isn’t my fault,” said his wife. “ ‘Better is a dinner of herbs where love is.’ ”
“Oh, ‘Cries of “Shame,” ’” said Giles. “ ‘Cries of “Shame” and “Withdraw.” ’ ‘Dinner of herbs’! Why, each of those tournedos was a stalled ox in itself. And no hatred, neither. That sole, too!” He sighed memorially, raising thankful eyes. “You know, we’ve beaten the sword into a fish-slice and the proverb into a cocked hat. Seriously, Kate, we’ve shown considerable skill.”
“In reverting to the rank of private?”
Giles nodded.
“After being temporarily attached.”
His wife regarded the tip of her cigarette.
“Ducks take to water,” she said.
“And men take to drink,” said Giles, “if they happen to be born thirsty. The point is——”
“Have another glass of port,” said Katharine.
“No, thanks,” said Giles. “Not that it isn’t excellent. It’s—it’s not of this world. Uncle Fulke left it me. But let that pass. The point is, you and I are naturally gregarious. Our instinct is to flock. I like someone to talk to while I’m getting up. You like someone to obstruct while dressing for dinner. Don’t think I’m being rude. The way in which you used to call me to give you your towel, is among my most treasured memories. Now, the curse of solitude has fallen upon our toilets.” He spread out eloquent hands. “Yet, our personalities survive. The first two or three days, while shaving, the bath seemed a bit empty, but——”
“They do more than survive,” said Katharine, tilting an exquisite chin. “To judge from the quantity and quality of our invitations, we cut more ice than before. In fact, Fate’s been properly stung. By rights, we ought to be outcastes. As it is . . .”
She let the sentence go and inhaled luxuriously.
“Exactly,” said Giles. “It’s because we sink our feelings. Instead of bleating——”
“Are you sure we’re gregarious?” said Katharine.
“Of course we are,” said Giles. “We bleated because we were alone. We heard each other bleating, and—and forgathered. We were lonely, and hated the state. We were and are gregarious. I repeat that the way in which we have harked back to celibacy does us infinite credit.”
“Honour to whom honour is due,” said Mrs. Festival. “I’m not gregarious. I thought I was. I thought I would like a confidant—someone to cry my thoughts to without having to think what I said, someone who’ld give me my towel and—and generally understand.”
“In fact, a blinkin’ soul-mate?”
“And towel-horse combined. Exactly. Well,I was wrong.”
“But you bleated,” protested Giles. “I heard you. You advertised for a soul-mate, and I applied for the place. A waster by nature, I presently let you down, but that’s irrelevant.”
“It’s also untrue,” said his wife. “And you know it. You never let anyone down. Never mind. Gill, I’m afraid I married in much the same frame of mind as I try a new scent.” The other started. “I’ve always usedBaladeuse, and always shall. But now and again I go mad and waste your substance on a bottle of something else. Then, when I’ve used it twice, I give it to Beatrice.”
Considerably taken by surprise, her husband regarded his ash-tray with an offensive stare. Presently he sighed.
“At least,” he murmured, “I escaped that odious depository. . . .” Katharine began to shake with laughter. “I see. Not to put too fine an edge upon it, you married out of pure curiosity. In a mad moment you ventured out of spinsterhood just to see what coverture was like. And I was under the impression that—— Never mind. It’s a pretty simile. Perfume. I suppose I was a sixpenny flask of’Ard an’ Bright. . . . Oh,très intéressant.” Releasing the ash-tray, he shifted his gaze to the ceiling and, drawing at his cigarette, meditatively expelled the smoke. “Supposing,” he added slowly, “supposing—to preserve the parable—you had another—er—lapsus cordis. . . got momentarily sick ofBaladeuseand, forgetful of jolly old’Ard an’ Bright, felt impelled to tryWhat are the Wild Oats Saying, or some other frankincense?”
Katharine shot her husband a lightning glance.
Then she raised her sweet eyebrows.
“And you?” she said. “Supposing you hear someone bleating . . . and . . . and the flocking instinct once more asserts itself?”
Deliberately, Giles extinguished his cigarette.
“I shall put up a fight,” he said coolly, “the deuce of a fight. I shall stick in my elegant toes and put up a fight.”
Katharine leaned forward.
“And I,” she said slowly, with a dazzling smile, “shall do precisely the same.”
For a moment the two looked into each other’s eyes.
Then—
“I—I hope you’ll win,” said Giles uneasily. “I mean—I should like to think that’Ard an’ Brightwas the only serious rivalBaladeuseever had. Besides . . . I’m sureIshall win,” he added confidently. “You can bet your little boots about that. You know. The patent-leather ones I used to pull off after breakfast.”
Katharine rose to her feet.
“I’m going,” she said, “to the library. Remember me to the port and then follow me in.” Her husband stepped to the door and held it open. As she was passing, she stopped and laid a hand upon his arm. “Promise me one thing, Gill.”
“Of course,” said Giles gallantly.
“Listen. If ever you hear someone bleat, don’t come and dine here with me until—until the fight’s over.”
Her husband drew himself up.
“My darling,” he said, “I give you my precious word.” He hesitated. “And—and you’ld put me off, wouldn’t you, if—if anything looked like displacingBaladeuse?”
Katharine nodded.
Five crowded weeks had slipped by.
The Courts were over: Ascot had come and gone: another shining Henley had floated into the past.
People were beginning to collect their wraps. The carnival was nearly done.
Of late, the Festivals had not met nearly so much.
The reason for this is illuminating.
Each was declining a number of invitations.
Since, however, they never discussed their engagements, Katharine imagined that Giles was still ‘going strong,’ while the latter, lying wakeful in bed, pictured his wife dancing night after night into the dawn.
Fantasy did not stop there.
They had made two of the house-party gathered at Castle Charing a fortnight before. The weather had been inviting, and Katharine and Pat Lafone had been inseparable. When they were not playing golf, they were out in the car. On two out of three evenings they had been badly late for dinner, arriving at the table breathless and simultaneously. And Pat was twenty-seven and full of life. He was also most attractive in looks and deeds. . . . Then the party had dispersed, and two days later Giles had passed the pair, riding together in the Row. . . . His wife had waved, and Pat had shouted joyfully, but Festival had winced.
There is an old superiority of horse over foot which, other things being equal, may make itself felt. It is, I suppose, traditional. The knight went mounted. It may, of course, be merely a matter of inches. The ability of the equestrian to look down upon such as go walking is not to be denied. His is a commanding position—of which the pedestrian may be ridiculously conscious.
Wishing very much that he had been riding, Giles told himself not to be a fool and, on reaching the Club, rang up Madrigal Chicele and asked her to lunch. Afterwards, he drove her to Hurlingham, passing Katharine upon the road.
Madrigal had been very civil at Castle Charing. Her husband had been killed in the War, after a month of wedlock. That was six years ago, and if Mrs. Chicele yet mourned, she mourned in secret. She was extremely good-looking and had a delightful laugh. . . .
The next day, the four met in Bond Street—with two open taxis between them. They exchanged appropriate banter. Katharine’s and Giles’ contributions were suspiciously bright.
The following Thursday morning Captain and Mrs. Festival received two several communications by the same post.