My dear Aunt Ira,When I remember our fortunate encounter yesterday afternoon and your subsequent kind hospitality at the Hôtel de France, I find it more than painful to have to tell you that the marriage which had been arranged between Miss Voile and myself will not take place. The rupture between us is still so recent that I am not in a condition of mind conducive to conducting correspondence, still less to recording in black and white the ruin of my hopes, but I feel that in view of the interest which you were good enough to take in my engagement, it is my duty, cost what it may, to put you in immediate possession of the unhappy truth. This, I fear, may possibly affect your decision to come to Biarritz. I do not propose to weary you with the details of our sudden estrangement further than to confess . . .
My dear Aunt Ira,
When I remember our fortunate encounter yesterday afternoon and your subsequent kind hospitality at the Hôtel de France, I find it more than painful to have to tell you that the marriage which had been arranged between Miss Voile and myself will not take place. The rupture between us is still so recent that I am not in a condition of mind conducive to conducting correspondence, still less to recording in black and white the ruin of my hopes, but I feel that in view of the interest which you were good enough to take in my engagement, it is my duty, cost what it may, to put you in immediate possession of the unhappy truth. This, I fear, may possibly affect your decision to come to Biarritz. I do not propose to weary you with the details of our sudden estrangement further than to confess . . .
“Oh, that’s maddening,” cried Cicely, clapping her hands. “Go on.”
“But I can’t go on,” cried Toby. “That’s the devil of it. I don’t know what to confess. All that first bit’s eye-wash—quite all right as a lead. But now I’ve got to land a hell of a punch. The next two lines have got to do the trick. They’ve got to satisfy, allay and crush. They’ve got to satisfy her curiosity, allay her suspicion and crush her initiative.”
“That’s easy,” said Miss Voile. “Give me the pad.”
In a silence too big for words the writing-pad passed.
Cicely finished the sentence and threw it back.
. . . . that it is now quite clear that we do not and never did love one another.
. . . . that it is now quite clear that we do not and never did love one another.
“That’s no good,” said Toby. “That’s simply inviting investigation. How can you reconcile that with, er, with the ‘Toby darling’ of yesterday afternoon?”
“Then cut me out,” said Miss Voile. “Say—
. . . . clear that I do not and never did love her.
. . . . clear that I do not and never did love her.
How can she go behind that?”
“That,” said Captain Rage, “would bring her over by return.”
“Why?”
“Because the inference is that you still love me. Remembering the violent fancy she’s taken to you, is it likely that she’d sit still and allow me to turn you down? She’d come over here like a bear robbed of her whelks—whelps.”
Cicely stared upon the ground.
“Well, I’ll tell you what,” she said uncertainly. “Stick to my first suggestion and add these words.”
She began to dictate slowly.
You must not think this conclusion inconsistent or precipitate, because this is not, as you know, the first time that I have been engaged, while——
You must not think this conclusion inconsistent or precipitate, because this is not, as you know, the first time that I have been engaged, while——
“No, no. I can’t say that,” cried Toby. “It’s—it’s out of the question. She—I never told her about Leah.”
“Leah?” cried Cicely. “Oh, you Mormon.”
“I mean Rachel,” said Rage hurriedly. “Leah—Leah was her second name.”
Miss Voile stared at the sea with trembling lips.
So soon as she could trust her voice—
“The trouble is,” she said, “you’ve written in the wrong strain—sounded the wrong note.”
“That,” said Toby, “I can entirely believe. When one’s got to convey some singularly distasteful intelligence to a woman who invariably receives good tidings, first, as a personal affront, and, secondly, as evidence of the messenger’s mental deficiency, it is extremely easy to sound the wrong note.”
In a shaking voice—
“Give me the pad,” said Cicely.
Once more the writing materials changed hands. . . .
Sitting a little behind her, Toby frowned into the distance, thoughtfully pulling his moustache and stealing an occasional glance at the slim brown hand which was steadily driving the pencil across the grey-blue sheet.
Presently his eyes climbed to the exquisite face. . . .
There they rested.
This is not surprising. The man was human. And at that moment Cicely Berwick Voile was a sight for the high gods.
The girl was always beautiful. Her features and colouring alone established that. Hers was the gay, fresh beauty of Nature herself. It argued the Spring in her blood. She was radiant, eager. The expectation of her mouth, the light in her big brown eyes were living, breathing glories that lifted up the heart. But now my lady was grown pensive. She had exchanged her ‘meadows trim, with daisies pied’ for ‘the studious cloister’s pale.’ Mirth sat in Melancholy’s seat, adorning that cold throne as never did its mistress. Her serious mien, the droop of her precious lips, the way she would fling up her head to gaze for an instant seawards while she sought for a phrase—her breathless, glowing charm, plunged for the moment into the dignity of thought, made an arresting picture. Rage had not seen her like this. Few people had. This was as well. Heaven knows, she was dangerous enough. Amaryllis weaving a garland sends your heart to your mouth. But Amaryllis contemplative, pacing the garden of Philosophy, shall send the blood to your head.
Miss Voile turned suddenly to meet her companion’s eyes.
Instantly both looked away—Toby at the parcel of chestnuts, and the girl at the broom by her side.
Presently—
“Here you are,” she said quietly, passing the writing-pad.
Toby stared at the letter as at a death-warrant.
My dear Aunt Ira,This is just a line to thank you very much for all your kindness yesterday and to say how much I am looking forward to seeing you here on Thursday. I quite expect it will be fine, for the weather seems settled now, and I think you will enjoy the run. It is impossible to mistake the road, which runs through some lovely country as well as that charming and historical old town, Bayonne. I shall expect you about half-past one, and shall be at the entrance to the hotel from one on in case you are before time.I have no news except that Miss Voile and I have broken off our engagement, as we do not think we should get on together.Always your affectionate nephew,Toby.P.S.—There is another road by Bidache, but I should not come by that because it is longer and not so easy to follow.
My dear Aunt Ira,
This is just a line to thank you very much for all your kindness yesterday and to say how much I am looking forward to seeing you here on Thursday. I quite expect it will be fine, for the weather seems settled now, and I think you will enjoy the run. It is impossible to mistake the road, which runs through some lovely country as well as that charming and historical old town, Bayonne. I shall expect you about half-past one, and shall be at the entrance to the hotel from one on in case you are before time.
I have no news except that Miss Voile and I have broken off our engagement, as we do not think we should get on together.
Always your affectionate nephew,
Toby.
P.S.—There is another road by Bidache, but I should not come by that because it is longer and not so easy to follow.
“You see,” explained Cicely, “the two outstanding characteristics of Mrs. Medallion are, first of all, her contrariness, and, secondly, her conviction that all men are fools. Well, I’ve given her a glorious opportunity of indulging the former, and I’ve supported the latter by a piece of documentary evidence of which she will talk for years. In fact, I should think she’d have it framed. After this, she’d rather die than come to Biarritz. The bare idea of your waiting for hours at the entrance to the hotel, not daring to go away in case she arrives, will give her a better appetite for lunch than any Hula Hula that ever was shaken.”
Captain Rage lifted his eyes to heaven.
“Trust a woman,” he said, “to put it across a woman. Of course, I take off my hat. It’s a work of art. That postscript alone. . . .”
He ripped the sheet from the pad, folded it very carefully, and, after staring upon it, took out a cigarette-case and bestowed the paper inside.
“Well, that’s that,” said Cicely, getting upon her feet.
“Here,” said Toby. “You’re—you’re not thinkin’ of going, are you?”
“Why not?” said Cicely calmly. “We came here to fix up that letter, and now it’s fixed.”
Toby swallowed.
“I know,” he said. “But it seems a pity to rush off. I—I rather like this spot. Look at the sea over there, all—all glassy. Reminds me of some hymn.”
By a superhuman effort Miss Voile maintained her gravity.
“I’ve got to get back,” she said.
“Oh, not yet,” said Toby. “Not yet. Besides, I—I’ve—I wanted to tell you about Rachel.”
Miss Voile appeared to hesitate.
Then she sat down.
“What about Rachel?” she said.
“Well, I—I made up Rachel,” said Toby. “You know. Invented the nymph.” He stared uneasily upon his finger-nails. “God knows why. I think I had some idea of makin’ you think I was an old campaigner, with a trick or two up his sleeve.” He hesitated. “Well, I’d like you to know I’m not. I’ve danced attendance once or twice—most men have—and been properly stung for my pains. But that’s as far as it’s gone. I’ve—I’ve never been engaged—before.”
“I’m glad you told me,” said Cicely. She turned a glowing face. “I knew it, of course.” Toby started. “All along. But I’m glad you told me.”
There was a long silence.
At length—
“You remember,” said Toby, “what you said yesterday about my not letting you down?”
Cicely nodded.
“Well, if I’ve seemed off-hand since then, it’s because of what you said. That’s why I’ve not called you by name or—or told you how sweet you are. You see, it began as a game—‘Without Prejudice,’ but when you said what you did, you opened my eyes. . . . And then, suddenly, I realized that for me the game had slid into reality . . . that I had quite lost sight of the very first rule of the game. . . . And so—I had to stop. I couldn’t call you ‘darling’ or speak of the stars in your eyes, because . . . I find you a darling and I love the stars in your eyes.”
Cicely bowed her head.
The man continued slowly.
“Well, there you are. I’ve bought it. I’ve queered my rotten pitch. I suggested the blasted game. I gave it its footling label and let you come right in—under that shelter. Now you’re in balk, and I’ve got to let you go. . . . Don’t think I’m trying to get out. I’m not. I’ll post this letter to-night as I’m a living fool. But I’d give ten years of my life to call back the idle moment when I started that game.”
For a moment the two sat silent. Then, as if by one consent, they rose to their feet.
Cicely put out a hand, and the man took it.
“Thank you, Toby,” she said, “I knew I could bank on you. I put my value in your hands, and you’ve given it back. And I think you’re perfectly right. It’s a stupid game. And—and I’m very glad it’s over.”
Rage put her hand to his lips and turned away.
Her words were equivocal. There was a chance that she meant. . . . But the chance that she meant nothing must turn the scale.
“And—er—Toby.”
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid I made up Alfred.”
“Yes, I thought you did,” said Toby.
“Why?”
“Because the man isn’t foaled who after an hour of your sweetness could refuse you anything. Besides, unless he was mentally deranged, once having got so far, no man on earth would ever have let you go.”
“Perhaps—perhaps that’s why he did,” said Cicely.
Toby stared.
“But I thought you said——”
“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of Alfred. There was—another man. He—he was such a dear. It never occurred to me that he was mad. His—his aunt wasn’t. I mean—— Oh, Toby!”
The man’s arms were about her, and his cheek against hers.
“Cicely darling, d’you love me?”
“It sounds very weak, Toby dear, but I’m dreadfully afraid I do.”
“My blessed lady,” said Toby, and kissed her mouth. . . .
“Oh, do be careful,” said Cicely. “Love’s a disease, you know. Supposing you caught it.”
“You wicked child,” said Toby. “I gave it to you.”
“O-o-oh!”
“Yes, I did. I’ve had it for months and months. But I never knew what it was till . . .”
“When did you know, Toby?”
“At sixteen minutes past five,” said Toby, “yesterday morning.”
OLIVER
“D’you realize, Oliver,that this is our wedding-day?”
Letter in hand, Oliver Pauncefote looked up.
“By Jove, so it is,” he said. “May the eighth. So it is. Many happy returns, m’dear.”
Jean Ludlow Pauncefote did not reply. For a moment she stood staring at her reflection in the tall pier-glass. Then she slid slowly out of her striking cloak, threw this across a chair, lighted a cigarette, and flung herself upon the bed.
“What did you think,” she demanded, “that marriage was going to be like?”
Her husband lowered his letter in some surprise.
“My dear,” he said, “it is now a quarter of three, and two bottles of ’98 Mumm require sleeping off. If we must search each other’s hearts——”
“In vino veritas,” said Jean. “Go on.”
Oliver put down his letter and took off two coats. Then he bestrode a chair, pulled up his shirt-sleeves, and proceeded to fill a pipe.
“Say it again,” he said.
“What did you think,” said Jean, “that marriage was going to be like?”
Her husband reflected, frowning.
At length—
“I really don’t know,” he said. “I got a bit rattled once or twice. You know. After bein’ congratulated by some strong, earnest mortal with a pre-war hand. Enough to make anyone suspicious. And I asked one or two coves who’d done it. All they said was that it all depended on the girl. . . . But I’m very happy, Jean. I’ve no complaints. If you ask me, I think we’ve got on damned well. We’ve been married a solid year and we’ve never had a first-class row.”
“That,” said Jean, expelling a cloud of smoke, “is because we don’t care.”
“Oh, rot,” said Oliver stoutly. He felt for a match. “Rot. At least, I can’t speak for you, but I certainly care.”
“Up to a point—yes. So do I. But we don’t mean anything to each other.”
“You mean something to me,” protested Pauncefote.
“So does your bath before dinner. You’re accustomed to me—that’s all. If you went out to-night, I should wear black for a year. It’s the fashion. But I should be fed to the teeth to think that my green lace dress was going spare. . . . And if I popped off to-morrow, you’d curse the fact that you couldn’t go to Ascot. And you’d soon be putting out feelers to find out whether it’d be decent to show up at Goodwood and saying to yourself, ‘She would have liked me to go.’ ”
“I—I don’t think I should,” faltered Pauncefote.
“Why not?” said Jean. “You wouldn’t feel any grief. We don’t mean anything.”
Oliver frowned. Then he took his pipe from his mouth and regarded its bowl.
“Assuming you’re right,” he said, “—mark you, I don’t admit it—but, assuming you’re right, why is it?”
Jean shrugged her shining shoulders.
“C’est la mode,” she said. “It’s the age, the time—what you will. Married love’s out of fashion—that’s all.”
“I loved you before,” said Pauncefote.
“In a way you did,” said Jean, staring upon the cornice. “And I loved you. Then we got married, and it was all over. You ought to count more with me—now.” She sat up there, with a laugh, and waved a small hand. “My dear, you count less. ‘Less’? You don’t count at all—now. We’ve—we’ve pulled our fire-cracker. We pulled it a year ago.” She threw herself back on the pillows, inhaled deeply and let the smoke steal out of her beautiful mouth. “Don’t think I’m getting at you. I’m not at all. I’m just making faces at Fate.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m disappointed. When one was married I thought one got down to things. I thought one found the emotions that poets write about—love, hope, joy, grief, hate. They’re the foundation of life. I brushed against them all when I was engaged. I imagine you did too—in a sort of way.”
Pauncefote shifted upon his chair.
“We’re much better out of it,” he said. “Give me a quiet life. Emotion’s all very well, but it’s sticky stuff.”
“It isn’t fashionable,” said Jean.
“For a very good reason,” said her husband. “It isn’t convenient. We’re just beginning to appreciate the wisdom of eliminating mental inconvenience. Look at Dickens, Thackeray, and the rest. Yarn after yarn founded on human emotion. Sighs and yells and tears because someone’s got stuck. That’s what you get for playing with fire. Now it’s dawning on people that use their brains that if you let sleeping dogs lie you won’t be chewed. An’ so we go quietly along—without looking for trouble. Hang it all, Jean, I think we’ve done very well. We don’t get in each other’s way. We——”
“We should,” said Jean. “We ought to. That’s my point. Marriage means getting in each other’s way. If you don’t, you might as well not be married. One’s style ought to be cramped. Not necessarily unpleasantly cramped, but cramped. If you were just going to drive and a priceless girl came up and asked you the time—well, she’d ’ve got in your way, but that wouldn’t worry you. In fact, if you could square your partner, you’d sling your driver away and take her into the pine-woods to look for clocks.”
“I shouldn’t at all,” said Pauncefote uneasily. “I should direct her to——”
“No doubt—if you were playing with me,” said Jean dryly. “Appearances have to be kept up. Never mind. The point is that one’s style can be agreeably cramped. Marriage can cramp it pleasantly or unpleasantly, but it ought to cramp it. Look at us. We aren’t affected at all. We don’t care. If we did, we shouldn’t dare show it. It—it isn’t done. . . . Life’s like ale—good, strong ale. History will show you that. But we don’t get further than the froth. That’s all right when you’re a child, but if you’re not going to get down to the liquor when you’re married, when are you?”
“My dear,” said her husband, “why worry? I’ve drunk some damned bad beer.”
“Haven’t you drunk any good?”
Oliver sighed.
“Of course,” he said, “if you’re not happy, Jean——”
“I’m not. Neither are you. We don’t know what it means.”
“I’m comfortable,” said Pauncefote. “And that’s something.”
“Listen. When you die, the tankard of Life is taken away from you. Well, supposing then you found out that the ale you’d always given a miss was the most glorious liquor you’d ever dreamed of . . . Wouldn’t you want to kick yourself?”
“Weather permitting,” said Pauncefote, “ça va sans dire.”
“And, good or bad, don’t you fancy you’d feel a bit cheap beside people who’d drunk their whack?”
Oliver pulled his moustache.
“Sort of ‘What did you do in the Great War Daddy?’ idea?”
“Exactly,” said Jean. “Well, don’t you think wedlock’s the time? It seems the obvious moment for our little crowd. ‘Marry and settle down.’ That’s a time-honoured phrase. ‘Settle down.’ What to?”
“Drinkin’ the ale, I suppose.”
“I imagine so,” said Jean. “Look at the words of the Service—‘love and cherish.’ I take it they mean something.”
“They did when they were written,” said Oliver. “But times have changed, Jean. I’m ready to love an’ cherish, but—but the occasion doesn’t arise.”
“What you mean is, it isn’t done. . . . I kiss you, of course, but then I kiss other men. And you kiss other girls. It’s the fashion. We don’t love each other at all; we love ourselves. We don’t cherish each other; we each take blinking good care to look after ourselves. It’s the fashion. . . . It’s the fashion to live together, and so we do. Bar that, we mightn’t be married.” She set her cigarette in a tray, laced her pointed fingers and put them behind her head. “Why am I wearing this frock? Because Pat Lafone said that he loved me in black.”
Oliver raised his eyebrows.
“Did he really?” he said.
“Why shouldn’t he?” said his wife. “There’s nothing wrong in that. Whatiswrong is that I put it on to please him. You needn’t worry. That’s as far as it’s gone. Besides, he wasn’t there, so I’ve been stung. The point is we mightn’t be married. In theory, I should care for you and nobody else. And you for me—exclusively. In practice, if you discount habit—I’m accustomed to you, you know—you come third on the list. I care first for myself, then other attractive men, finally my husband.”
Oliver rose to his feet and laid down his pipe.
“That’s pretty straight, any way,” he said.
“You know it’s the same with you. The tragedy is we don’t care. . . . If you cleared out and left me, that might bring me up short. I think it probably would. I should come down to Things then—with the hell of a jar. The ale’d be bitter then.”
“Jean, why dig up this ground? It’s not particularly sweet. You say you don’t care about me. Well, let it go. I’m sorry you don’t, but——”
“Why will you blink the facts? Why can’t you be frank, as I am? I won’t tell anyone.”
“I don’t care who you tell, but——”
“Of course you do,” said Jean, uncrossing and recrossing her legs. “More. You care so much that you won’t give yourself away—even to me. Sentiment’s bad form. Besides, you’re self-conscious—awkward. This discussion’s inconvenient. You’d be thankful if I’d drop it. . . . Why don’t you take the plunge? It won’t involve you. Drop the mask for ten minutes and face the rotten facts. . . . If you were a waster by nature I should have saved my breath.”
There was a long silence.
At length—
“What,” said Oliver, “do you suggest?”
“Do you admit the evil?”
“Yes.”
“Ah!”
“But it’s in the age,” said Pauncefote. “We’re over-civilized. Money and civilization have emasculated Things. Our crowd’s never up against it. We don’t comfort each other because we don’t need comforting; and gradually we’re losing the art. If you don’t use your arm, it’ll wither away. There’s no ‘stern stuff’ in our lives, and how can you lug it in? For years we’ve all been fightin’ to wash it out—to make Life into a song-an’-dance show; and now we’ve done it. Well, an odd weddin’-chime isn’t going to turn it back into Eden.” He thrust the chair out of his way and began to pace the floor. Jean, smiling lazily, watched him with half-closed eyes. “Once the man hunted—for food; and the woman kept the cave—against his coming. And when he came, she fed him—bathed his wounds—took his head in her lap. And he was her man. . . . And she was his woman. . . . They didn’t want any Service to tell them that. But now the wheel’s swung round to the other extreme. Hardship and peril are out, and luxury’s in. Nature’s been swamped by Art. Emotion’s a branch of Nature, and it’s withered away. . . . If ever the man was late, the woman wept for joy to see him alive. You don’t do that because you assume I’ve stopped somewhere to have a drink.”
“Why did I dress to-night to please Pat Lafone?”
Oliver hesitated. Then—
“Because,” he said sharply, “because you must have a thrill. The man and the woman were thankful to be alive. Between the wolves and the weather their lives were exciting enough. But ours—ours run on greased wheels. We have to devise our excitement. And the easiest, most satisfying way is to rob an orchard.” He stopped still there and flung up his head. “And there’s the honest value of marriage to-day. When you marry you merely add a tree to the common or garden orchard of forbidden fruit.”
Propped on a white elbow, his wife regarded him.
“Good for you,” she said. “You’ve put it uncommonly well. You see—right down at bottom you feel as I do. I had an idea you did, and I’m rather glad. We may be a couple of wasters, but at least in the security of our own bedroom we’ve the daring to admit the fact.”
Oliver opened a window and stood for a moment staring upon the silent dignity of thePlace Vendôme.
“That’s not much to be glad of,” he said slowly. “What d’you suggest we should do?”
“Nothing,” said Jean. “My dear, I’m purely destructive. I can see the rot and I’ve made you confess you can see it: but I can’t stop it. . . . If you cared, perhaps I should care. If I cared, perhaps you would. But I can’t swing my propeller, and you can’t swing yours. That’s Fate’s job. The age has produced our crowd—a crowd of wasters, run by a sort of Baal that they’ve set up. The worship of Baal consists in sailing close to the wind. The closer you sail, the better worshipper you are—other things being equal, of course. I mean, you must do it neatly. . . . And as someone’s constantly sailing a point closer than anyone’s ever sailed before, the standard of worship is rising. It’s higher this year, for instance, than it was last. If you want a good example, look at the way we dress. Frankly, can you beat it? . . . Well, why do we do it? Why don’t we turn it down? I’ll tell you. Because the penalty for non-worship is rather worse than death. It’s not ostracism: it’s not even social extinction.You just become a mug.And that’s a fate no waster can ever face.”
“We could break away,” said Oliver gloomily. “Clear right out, I mean.”
“And be bored to death in a week. My dear, we’ve tasted blood. That’s one of the rites. . . . No. Don’t you worry, me lad. We’re tied tight enough. So long as we’ve money to burn——”
Oliver gave a short laugh.
“Six weeks ago,” he said, “we were worth sixty thousand pounds. I shoved the lot into francs at a hundred and ten. To-morrow my cheque’ll be cleared at sixty-six. . . . There’s another forty thousand quid for the coffers of Baal.”
“That’s right,” said Jean. “If you’d lost it instead, we might have had a chance. Necessity knows no law—not even that of Baal. As it is . . .” She swung her legs off the bed and slid to her feet. “As it is, we’re doomed. I’m doomed to disappointment, and you—what are you doomed to?”
Oliver closed the window before replying.
“I may be wrong,” he said, “but I think you put it too high. It’s perfectly true—we lead a poisonous life. But there’s no reason why, if you care——”
“I don’t. I’ve told you so. I’ve nothing to make me.”
Pauncefote swallowed.
“At least,” he said, “we’ve got the same point of view.”
“What you mean is we both see the rot,” said Jean, preparing to fight her way out of her dress. “But I regret it. You only deplore it, you know. You said you were comfortable.”
“I said I cared,” said her husband. “And—and so I do.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Jean, slipping into a dressing-gown. “The trouble is that I don’t. You’re quite all right, you know. I’ve no complaints—either.”
She took her seat at the table and began to loosen her hair.
“I beg your pardon,” said Pauncefote. “I—I’m very fortunate.”
“Don’t!” cried Jean sharply. “Don’t!” The man started at her tone, and their eyes met in the glass. “Don’t!” she repeated fiercely. “I can’t bear it. Once—yes. A year ago. . . . But now it’s too late. Besides, I made you say it. I dragged the words out of your mouth: and so they’re worthless. Worse. They’re a travesty—that’s how they talked in Eden. But we’re in a song-and-dance show—don’t forget that. We’re under contract to Baal. Of course youcan‘pot’ Eden, but I—I couldn’t play Eve. I know I don’t care, but I’m just—just soppy enough not—not to want to pretend.” Her voice broke there, but she plugged the hole with a laugh. “And there’s some real sob-stuff for you. Never mind. You won’t hear it again. It’s the swan-song of my mughood—the last flare-up of the lamp of a foolish virgin, who thought—thought . . .”
She clapped her hands to her face and burst into tears.
Oliver flashed to her side, fell upon one knee and slid an arm round her waist.
She shook him off—savagely.
Jean Pauncefote might have been a great lady.
Had she lived seven centuries ago, she would certainly have been fought for, probably have been chosen Queen of Beauty and Love at several tournaments and possibly have made history as, in the absence of her lord, a chatelainesans peur et sans reproche.
But Fate was against her.
In October 1918 she was still at school. Three months later she had left Philadelphia for ever and was dancing at London night-clubs five nights of the week. Such adébutat such a moment into such a world would have demoralized nine girls out of ten. The fair American was not demoralized: but she would not have been human if she had even attempted to swim against the stream.
After all, if we may believe Sir Toby Belch, Feste, the Clown, had ‘a contagious breath.’
What is love? ’tis not hereafter;Present mirth hath present laughter;What’s to come is still unsure. . . .
What is love? ’tis not hereafter;Present mirth hath present laughter;What’s to come is still unsure. . . .
What is love? ’tis not hereafter;Present mirth hath present laughter;What’s to come is still unsure. . . .
What is love? ’tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What’s to come is still unsure. . . .
She had no money: yet might, I think, have married anyone. But rank and riches to Jean meant nothing at all. She married Oliver Pauncefote because she liked the man, found him a gentleman, firmly believed that he would not let her down.
Herein she was right.
Pauncefote had been through the War and was out to forget. With eighty thousand pounds behind him, he began to forget very well. Feste’s doctrine suited him down to the ground.
In delay there lies no plenty;Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,Youth’s a stuff will not endure.
In delay there lies no plenty;Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,Youth’s a stuff will not endure.
In delay there lies no plenty;Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,Youth’s a stuff will not endure.
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth’s a stuff will not endure.
But he never forgot that he was a gentleman.
The two were lovely and pleasant in their lives.
Tall, straight, limber, Jean’s form was superb. Her beautiful features, her fearless grey eyes, her magnificent golden hair and her exquisite skin were straight from Malory. Her mouth was proud. Her charm of manner was notable. Jean had a quick brain and a gay heart. She made a wonderful waster, adorning even that sumptuous, flashing world in which she moved. That it was not her setting is rather painfully clear. If a fountain must run with wine, there are just as good-looking liquors as old Falernian.
Oliver Pauncefote looked what in fact he was—a soldier taking his ease. Tall, fair, fresh-faced, his was a lazy air. The man might well have been handsome; but Achilles with his feet up would not have made an Iliad. The strength was there in his face, but it was always off duty. An easy smile sat on his fine mouth; his clear eyes were half veiled; he spoke with a drawl. His manners were delightful. At his worst, he was easy-going; at his best, debonair. And that was a pity. A head that can carry a casque should not wear nothing but a bycocket.
Captain and Mrs. Pauncefote lived soft.
Finding their income insufficient, they spent their capital freely, proposing by happy speculation to replenish their hoard. The deal which Oliver was just completing was, of course, a coup phenomenal. To do him justice, it would not have been so phenomenal if it had not been so daring. Fortunes are not made at chuck-farthing. They are won by pitching fortunes upon the table.
So also are they lost.
When, seated at breakfast in theirsalonsome seven hours after Jean had burst into tears, Oliver read in the paper thatPlaisir et Cie, Bankers, had suspended payment, he put a hand to his head. . . .
For a full minute he sat, staring. . . .
Then the door was opened, and Jean came into the room.
Oliver laid down the paper and buttered some bread.
“Well, old lady,” he said, “what’s the programme to-day?”
“Lunch with the Bostocks,” said Jean, selecting a roll. “Then to Molyneux with Maisie. Dinner with Pat Lafone. It’s his birthday, he says, and he swears we’ll light such a candle——”
“Let’s call it off,” said Pauncefote, “an’ keep the day to ourselves.”
Jean lifted her beautiful head.
“For Heaven’s sake—why?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said her husband. “Only—only it’s our weddin’-day”—Jean frowned—“and I think perhaps we might mark it. You know. Just draw in our horns.”
“ ‘In loving memory’?”
“If you like,” said Pauncefote. “Let’s—let’s go for a walk in theBois.”
Jean gave a little shriek of laughter.
“My dear Oliver,” she said, “your efforts to play the mug are too good to be true. Now eat your bread-and-butter like a good little boy and tell me what won the Church Congress—I mean, the Two Thousand. Where was Fire Guard?”
“Don’t know,” said her husband shortly. “But I mean what I say. I want to talk things over.”
“Well, I don’t,” said Jean. “I had my bust last night—my final bust. The incident’s closed. Besides, in the cold light of day——”
“I’m afraid it isn’t,” said Pauncefote.
His wife’s eyes flashed.
“Oliver,” she said, “we’ve never yet had a row—a proper row. But if you’re going to rake up the muck we picked over last night, we shall break our record with a bang. Now listen to me. Women are not like men. They may be as tough as teak, but once in a while they crumple—for half an hour. Something inside gives way. It’s humiliating, but there you are. . . . Well, I crumpled up last night. And you—you saw me. You witnessed my humiliation. Are you going to take advantage of what you saw?”
“No,” said Oliver, “I’m not. I’m not that sort of man. But I’ve things to say to you, Jean, that—that don’t concern the Bostocks or—or Pat Lafone.”
Jean raised her eyebrows.
“It’s only ten now,” she said, “and what’s the matter with this room?”
Oliver rose to his feet and pushed back his chair.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said slowly.
The man’s brain was pounding. Jean’s sentences seemed to reach it by a circuitous route. On arrival they had to be parsed . . .
Mechanically he took out his case and lighted a cigarette. Then he continued slowly.
“You know what you said last night . . . about being tied tight . . . so long as we’d money——”
“One moment,” said Jean coldly, “I don’t seem to have made myself plain. I endeavoured to point out just now that reference to what passed last night would be bad form. And I hinted that I should resent it—most bitterly.”
Oliver passed a hand across his forehead.
“I know,” he said. “I’m not referring——”
“You quoted what you said were my words.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. . . .”
“Well, please pull yourself together, because I mean what I say. This is a question of honour—between the sexes. I broached certain matters last night which we never should have discussed in a thousand years. You know that as well as I do. I never should have broached them if I hadn’t gone to bits. You’d never have heard me broach them if I hadn’t been your wife.”
“I know, I know,” said Pauncefote wearily. “Don’t say it again.” He drew in his breath as one about to make an effort. “Jean.”
“Well?”
“Supposing . . . all of a sudden . . . we—we became poor . . . You know. Lost all we’d got. . . . Supposing——”
He stopped there.
His wife was standing before him, with blazing eyes.
“I shan’t strike you,” she said, “because that’d be coming down to your level. Besides, you’d probably strike me back. But the impulse is there. . . . I knew you were selfish, of course. And a waster. And other things. But I never knew you were trash. . . . Only trash would discuss the whimper of a maudlin girl.”
Pauncefote regarded her steadily.
The lash had recovered his nerve.
“No doubt,” he said dryly, “no doubt. Let’s leave it there, shall we?” The light of attack in Jean’s eyes slid into a stare. “What I was trying to do was to temper the wind. . . . We’re broke, my good lady. Bust. We haven’t a bean. Our hundred thousand’s gone.” Jean started back, and a hand went up to her mouth. “Plaisir and Co. have failed.”
“Oliver!”
“It’s been done before,” said her husband carelessly. He stepped to one side and past her and flung himself into a chair. “But the point I wish to make is that this is where we get off. I’ve about twelve hundred in England, but that won’t pay our debts. We shall get a bit on your pearls and the Rolls and other things, but you’re always stung to glory when you’ve got to realize quick.” He paused to inhale comfortably. “Can you get packed in time for the two o’clock train? It’s no good staying here.”
Jean pulled herself together.
“But, Oliver, what shall we do?”
“I’ve no idea. I must try to get work, of course. If you had money, or I had any to give you, we could each go our own way. As it is, I’m afraid your only immediate hope is to stick to me. What work I can get I don’t know. A soldier’s not much good outside his own job. . . . By the way, I’m extremely sorry I’ve let you down. I should never have put the lot into one concern. I’m afraid you’ll find it pretty thick.”
“What about you?”
Pauncefote shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t imagine I shall like it, but that’s neither here nor there. The first thing we’ve got to do is to fade away. Again, we must be in London. We must be on the spot. We must pay up what we owe, but if I can stop any orders—well, we might be glad of the dust. I ordered three suits at Brandon’s before we came away. I told him he needn’t hurry, so there’s just a chance they’re not cut. An’ Whippy’s makin’ a saddle, an’ Hardy a rod, an’—an’ . . .”
He caught his breath sharply and let the sentence go, sitting still in his chair with fixed, unseeing eyes.
The stabbing thought that never again would he hear the whimper of hounds in the soft, sweet-smelling burthen of a November day ripped and tore at Oliver Pauncefote’s heart. Memories came with a rush to rub salt in the wound—a tremendous day with the Cottesmore—a check at Garter Spinney, when the birches had looked like fountains and Sir Barnaby Shrew had come up and asked him to Stomacher Place—Mandarin’s joyous fly-jumps and the swift tremor of his ears—a burst up Sweeting Valley, when hounds were running mute and Fantasy jumped the Chaffer as though it were a garden-path. . . .
“Oliver! Oliver!”
Jean was beside him on her knees, with an arm round his neck.
Pauncefote put her aside and rose to his feet.
“Don’t let’s pretend,” he said quietly. “It’s hardly worth it. Besides, to tell you the truth, reach-me-down sympathy never cut very much ice with me. Finally, you’ll need all you’ve got for yourself before we’re through. I’ve let you down badly, I know. But God knows I’ve got my punishment. . . . And I’ll do my very best to break your fall.” Jean sat back on her heels and stared at the floor. “When you feel most sore—murderous, please try to remember the intolerable position I’m in. If we meant anything to each other, it would have been less odious. As it is—well, obviously, I’d rather have died by torture than let you down.”
He passed to the door of thesalon. With his fingers about the handle, he stopped and spoke over his shoulder.
“Can you manage the two o’clock train?”
Jean never moved.
“I’ll—I’ll be ready,” she said.
Three ghastly months had gone by, and Captain and Mrs. Pauncefote were down to seven pounds.
Their liabilities had proved higher than they had feared: their personal effects had fetched even less than they had expected. Cars, jewels, clothing—everything had been sold to pay their debts. The two were determined to keep their memory clean. The mighty had fallen, but at least their stalls should be left swept and garnished. What they owed they paid to the uttermost farthing. By the time the last cheque had been signed, Destitution had crept very close.
Plaisir et Ciehad paid nothing. Whether they would ever pay anything seemed doubtful indeed. That they would never pay anything to Pauncefote was painfully clear. The man was powerless. He was out of touch. To employ a Parisian lawyer was beyond his means. Remembering a recent threat to transfer his deposit account, his English Bank wagged familiar forefingers and ‘advised’ him to lodge his claim and ‘wait and see.’ Pauncefote did so, as well as he could, and received no reply.
The two lived in rooms in a mean street and boarded themselves. Pauncefote went from pillar to post, seeking work ceaselessly and finding none. Jean raked the newspapers, cursed her own uselessness and watched the grey creep into her husband’s hair. She also found that food was far cheaper at stalls than it was in shops. . . . Neither complained of their lot. They walked a good deal together, avoiding familiar neighbourhoods, breaking new and unlovely ground. They never referred to the old days. Their relations were desperately strained, but the strain was always masked. They laughed little, hid their misery somehow, respected each other’s reserve as a sacred thing. Under it all, their hearts yearned upon each other. . . .
With infinite precaution against detection, each sought by hook or by crook to smooth the other’s path. So often as he was abroad, Oliver went without food—and swore he had lunched at Lyons’ and done himself well. Jean crept to the basement and cleaned her husband’s shoes—and let him commend the slut that stole their food. Awakened one night by pain in a game knee, the man lay still till daylight for fear of disturbing her rest. Jean bargained for hot shaving-water—and got it too. It cost her one set of exquisite underclothes every month. They came to cherish each other as they had never cherished themselves. . . .
And now—three months had gone by, and Captain and Mrs. Pauncefote were down to seven pounds.
There was no work in London.
Wondering whether there was a God in Heaven, the Pauncefotes went to the registry office from which six months ago their servants had come.
They asked for the head of the firm, and, when they were ushered in, recalled who they were and offered themselves as caretakers—with tightened lips.
As luck would have it, the man was gentle. He knew them at once, and the grievous Saturnalia hit him between the eyes. He saw no reason to exult. He perceived a clear occasion for delicate courtesy—for serving two patrons in distress far more diligently than he had served them in prosperity. He spared them spoken sympathy. It was not his place.
“We ought to have come in by the Servants’ Entrance,” said Jean gaily. “But we thought, as we knew you——”
“There is only one entrance for you, madam, so long as this office is here.”
He sent for the registers, scanned them, turned up his nose.
Then he took their address and begged them to be of good cheer.
“I shall do all I can at once, madam. In two or three days, perhaps. . . .”
“What—what about references?” said Pauncefote. “I suppose——”
“I’ll get over that, sir.”
They rose to their feet.
Jean stammered something about a booking-fee.
The man inclined his head.
“There is nothing to pay, madam.”
He came with them to the door and bowed them out.
The two passed down the blazing pavement, unable to speak. . . .
Two days later a messenger brought them a letter and waited for a reply.