July 27th.My Darling,I’m writing this letter because if I don’t, I shall go mad. My gorgeous engagement ring glares at me: the pearls George has given me sprawl, pale and indignant, by my side. I’ve taken them off. I don’t want his pearls about me; I want your arms.Simon, that last night here we buried our love alive—our glorious, blessed passion, we buried alive. I must have been mad. I suppose I thought it’d die—if I thought at all. I was nearly out of my mind that awful night. I did faint once—in your arms, but you never knew it. . . . “Die?” It’ll never die. Think what that means. A living thing immured, that can never die. That can starve, but never to death. . . .I want to unearth it, Simon. I must. I must have it back to dandle and cherish and clasp—to warm my soul and body—bring the blood back into my heart. I must . . . I must. . . . But I can’t dig it up without you. We buried it together, and, if it’s to be unearthed, it’s plain I can’t do it alone.Oh, Simon, my king, have mercy. For once in your life be weak. Go back on your word—for once. I’ve spoiled our flower by writing. Well, spoil it, too. We’ll plant another, my blessed, that we shan’t have to pick. . . . Just breathe the word, and I’ll break my engagement off. And we can marry, my darling, and live or starve or die in each other’s arms. I don’t care how I live or whether I live at all, if I can be with you . . . you. . . .Well, there you are. If ever a girl was at a man’s mercy, Simon, I’m at yours. If you’re going to steel your heart—well, I’ll go on. I must, I suppose. There’s nothing else for me to do. Besides, I don’t care. George Persimmon or a tramp I’ve never seen—what does it matter? It’s you—or anything, Simon. Because anything else is nothing. D’you understand?We could live on three hundred a year. And if we couldn’t we could die. I’ve thought of it all. Squalor, dirt, rags—they wouldn’t count, Simon, beside the light in your eyes.I know I’ve broken my word. I know, I know. But if you don’t break yours, you’ll break my heart.Oh, Simon, I love you so.Patricia.
July 27th.
My Darling,
I’m writing this letter because if I don’t, I shall go mad. My gorgeous engagement ring glares at me: the pearls George has given me sprawl, pale and indignant, by my side. I’ve taken them off. I don’t want his pearls about me; I want your arms.
Simon, that last night here we buried our love alive—our glorious, blessed passion, we buried alive. I must have been mad. I suppose I thought it’d die—if I thought at all. I was nearly out of my mind that awful night. I did faint once—in your arms, but you never knew it. . . . “Die?” It’ll never die. Think what that means. A living thing immured, that can never die. That can starve, but never to death. . . .
I want to unearth it, Simon. I must. I must have it back to dandle and cherish and clasp—to warm my soul and body—bring the blood back into my heart. I must . . . I must. . . . But I can’t dig it up without you. We buried it together, and, if it’s to be unearthed, it’s plain I can’t do it alone.
Oh, Simon, my king, have mercy. For once in your life be weak. Go back on your word—for once. I’ve spoiled our flower by writing. Well, spoil it, too. We’ll plant another, my blessed, that we shan’t have to pick. . . . Just breathe the word, and I’ll break my engagement off. And we can marry, my darling, and live or starve or die in each other’s arms. I don’t care how I live or whether I live at all, if I can be with you . . . you. . . .
Well, there you are. If ever a girl was at a man’s mercy, Simon, I’m at yours. If you’re going to steel your heart—well, I’ll go on. I must, I suppose. There’s nothing else for me to do. Besides, I don’t care. George Persimmon or a tramp I’ve never seen—what does it matter? It’s you—or anything, Simon. Because anything else is nothing. D’you understand?
We could live on three hundred a year. And if we couldn’t we could die. I’ve thought of it all. Squalor, dirt, rags—they wouldn’t count, Simon, beside the light in your eyes.
I know I’ve broken my word. I know, I know. But if you don’t break yours, you’ll break my heart.
Oh, Simon, I love you so.
Patricia.
Simon dropped the letter and covered his face.
Patricia watched him with the tenderest smile. She was quite calm now. She was out of the wood—in the sunlight. And Simon was close behind. In his own outrageous way, Fate had played into their hands.
Suddenly Simon turned.
“Oh, Pat—my lady . . . could you bear it?”
His voice was shaking: his eyes, the eyes of a man looking into the promised land.
“I couldn’t bear anything else,” said Patricia Bohun.
“No cars, no servants, no clothes——”
“No cares,” said Patricia tremulously. “I’m getting all excited. Besides, I’ve had my whack. And——”
“But, Pat, think. We’ll be beggars. With that ten thousand behind us we might have put up a show, but——”
“You only wanted it, dear, to spend upon me. And now—you’ve had your wish. Besides, I don’t care a damn. I want to be poor. . . . But, Simon dear, how like you to turn that money down! When he offered to give it back. Only a giant could have done a thing like that. But, then, you are a giant.”
“My dear,” said Simon, “I’m the weakest——”
“You’re not weak at all,” said Patricia. “Neither am I. We’ve played a splendid game.It happened to be the wrong one, but we were so mad to play it that we never saw that. . . . We’re a couple of shorn lambs, Simon—and that’s the truth. We sheared each other that dreadful night at Breathless—and went out into the cold. I was a fool, and you who knew better—you wouldn’t open my eyes. And then the wind blew—a wind like a knife. . . . That was to cure us of our folly. And now the good God has tempered the wind. . . .”
“That’s right,” said Simon slowly. “You’ve driven the nail, Pat. We put up a show all right, but we were trying to play an impossible game. It was when I realized that that I decided to put the money on. I didn’t know how you felt, but I wanted to have it ready—in case you moved.”
“In case I moved?” said Patricia, knitting her brows. Suddenly she sat up. “D’you mean you’d ’ve waited on me?”
“Of course,” said Simon. “Even with the money behind me, I couldn’t ’ve given tongue. I love you better, Pat, than heaven and earth, and I wouldn’t give you up now for fifty rolling worlds—but if you hadn’t spoken I couldn’t have opened my mouth. But then you did speak, lady. You wrote me the sweetest letter that ever—— What is it, Pat?”
Patricia put a hand to her head.
“This,” she said faintly. “If that letter hadn’t been stolen, it wouldn’t ’ve gone.”
“Pat!”
The girl nodded.
“I hadn’t the heart to destroy it: but I’d locked it away and thrown the key into the garden, because—I was so anxious . . . to play the game.”
Six months had gone by, and Simon Beaulieu had earned three hundred pounds.
The little flat at Chartres was becoming a luxurious apartment. Now that the tiles were down, the tiny bathroom alone was a flashing chapel of ease. . . .
Sitting at work at his table, Simon looked out of the window with a thankful heart.
“I’m one franc out,” murmured Mrs. Beaulieu. Pencil to lip, she regarded the cornice thoughtfully. “Now what did I spend that on?”
Her husband surveyed her profile with some emotion. He may be forgiven. Its beauty was really startling.
At length—
“Cream?” he suggested.
“No. I’ve got that down. Oh, I know. There was a poor woman at the butter-stall with the cutest little boy. She was getting the cheapest butter, and when they told her eggs were seven francs—they’ve gone up, you know—she wouldn’t have any. And there was I, getting the best butter and a pot of honey and some cream. It seemed so awful. . . . And the little boy was watching me with great, big eyes. So I asked him if he liked honey. . . . D’you know, wrapped up in paper he’d got a little empty jar? And his mother said that he always took it when he went to the market with her, and that if ever she had a little money over, then they spent it on honey, and his little jar was filled. She said he was wonderful—never complained. For weeks he’d brought his jar back empty, but he’d never cried or asked for anything. And he was only four. . . . You ought to have seen his face while it was being filled.”
“I’d rather ’ve seen yours,” said Simon Beaulieu. His wife blew him a kiss. “By the way, I’ve always meant to ask you and I’ve always forgotten till now. That night at Breathless, as we were going in, you said I was unlike my namesake because he would have plunged.”
“I remember,” said Patricia.
“And then you qualified that, and said that in a way we were alike.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve always meant to ask you—what did you mean?”
Patricia crossed to her husband and set her cheek against his.
“I meant that you had the keys of heaven,” she said. “And I was perfectly right.”
TOBY
“Youknow,” said Cicely Voile, “you’re a great relief.”
Her companion opened one eye.
“Why?”
“Because you don’t make love.”
Captain Toby Rage folded his hands upon his stomach and regarded the blue heaven. This the April sun had to himself and, making the most of his monarchy, set the whole firmament ablaze.
A mile away the Atlantic simmered contentedly—a rolling, laughing steppe of blue and silver; the lazy murmur of its surf gladdened the ear. To the left the mountain-sides smoked in the heat, the comfortable haze blurring their grandeur to beauty. To the right the coast of France danced all the way to Biarritz, her gay green frock flecked with the dazzling white of villas, edged by the yellow road that sweeps to Spain. Behind, the countryside, a very Canaan, basked in the earnest of summer, peaceful and big with promise of abundance to come.
From the moor where the two were sitting all these things could be enjoyed. It was, indeed, a superb withdrawing-room, for, while an occasional snarl told of a car flying on the broad highway, no one essayed the by-road which led to the yellow broom.
“The art of life,” said Toby, “is to be fancy-free.”
Cicely Voile clapped her sweet-smelling hands.
“We’re going to get on—you and I,” she cried excitedly. “I can see that.”
“Why?”—suspiciously.
“Because our outlook’s the same. Think of the friendships that have been wrecked by love.”
Captain Rage groaned.
“Don’t,” he said. “It’s too awful. But I’m thankful you see my point. Conceive some cheerful little playground—Honolulu, for instance—peopled by an equal number of youths and maidens, all reasonably attractive and all proof against affection.”
“I can’t,” said Cicely Voile. “It’s too—too dazzling. Never mind. Go on.”
“Well, what a time they’d all have. No jealousies, no heart-burnings, no schemings, no inconvenience. . . .”
“I can see,” said Cicely, “that you have been through the hoop.”
“Haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, isn’t it a curse?” said Rage heartily. “When I look back and think of what I suffered, I go all goose-flesh. Turning out when I wanted to stay at home, staying up when I wanted to go to bed, going to plays I didn’t want to see, sloshing money about, writin’ letters, travellin’. . . . I tell you, Love’s a mug’s game. It’s—it’s buying trouble at a top price. That’s the wicked part. If you must buy trouble, you may as well get it cheap. But Love’s a disease. One becomes temporarily insane. I’d a very nice Rolls then, and I actually let her drive it.” He sighed memorially. “It was never the same car again.”
“That,” said Cicely, “was probably imagination. Still, I know what you mean. The misery I went through, trying to be in time! Alfred couldn’t bear being late.”
“Exactly,” said Rage. “Yet I’ll bet he used to wait by the hour, poor devil. I know. I’ve had some. I tell you, Love’s a disease.”
He sighed comfortably, settling his head upon its pillow of broom.
Cicely regarded him, speechless with indignation.
At length—
“I was endeavouring to point out,” she said coldly, “that I was the sufferer. Being fool enough to worship Alfred, I used to wear myself out—humouring his whim.” She paused dramatically. “Then, again, I used to leave parties early. He used to say one should be asleep by two. Time and again I’ve left a dance in the middle so that Alfred could go to bed.”
“I think,” murmured Captain Rage, “that I should have liked Alfred.”
“I quite expect,” flashed Cicely, “that I should have got on with—what was her name?”
“Rachel,” said Toby. “And I’m quite sure you would. In fact, I think you’d probably ’ve been fast friends. The silly part of it is that so might she and I. I did get on with her—extremely well, until I fell to Love.” He sat up there and set his hands on his knees. “Still, I’m not ungrateful. One attack like that does you a lot of good. But for the doing I’ve had, you’d almost certainly ’ve knocked me out.”
“Do look out,” cried Cicely.
“It’s all right,” said Rage. “Don’t you worry. I’m not within miles of making love. But I’ve watched you for months, I have; and there’s something very charming about you. Besides, you’re quite beautiful.”
“As beautiful as Rachel?”
“Oh, much more. Look at your throat, for instance. Oh, you can’t, can you? Never mind. What——”
“Oh, but I do mind,” said Cicely, wriggling. “This is a perfect experience. For anyone to tell me I’m beautiful, except as a prelude to familiarity, is something I’ve never known.”
“Surely, Alfred——”
“Oh, I always had to kiss him, or something. Not that I minded particularly. I rather liked kissing Alfred. But a compliment without any sort or kind of corollary is really delicious.” She whipped off her hat and put her chin in the air. “Don’t you love me like that?”
“Oh, gorgeous!” said Toby. “Now, Rachel’s stockings weren’t silk all the way.”
Hastily Miss Voile adjusted her frock.
“I was referring,” she said stiffly, “to my profile.”
“Equally lovely,” said Rage. Cicely choked. “I think I like your mouth best of all. I can quite understand people wanting to kiss you, you know. That short upper lip brings it, as it were, into the alert position. It sort of says, ‘Kiss me, you fool. Go on. I shan’t bite you.’ ”
“I shall in a minute,” said Cicely, bubbling. “How about my nose?”
“Oh, that’s well out of the way.”
“I suppose you mean it turns up.”
“The best ones do,” said Toby. “Besides, you needn’t worry. From temples to chin, you’ve got a face in a million. And then you are so sweet.”
“Now, do be careful,” said Cicely. “Don’t spoil it.”
Rage waved her away.
“Try to remember, my lady, that I do not care. I see that you’re awfully attractive, but you don’t attract me. No woman does. I tell you, I’m case-hardened.”
“I will try,” said Cicely humbly. “But you must forgive me if I forget now and then. Of course I’m the same myself. Men mean no more to me than so many blocks of wood. I certainly find them convenient. I tell you frankly, I find you very convenient. But that’s as far as it goes.”
“Well, isn’t that nice?” said Toby. “Isn’t it an agreeable reflection that you and I can consort together, take pleasure in each other’s company, and remain heart-whole? I’m not much to look at, so——”
“I think,” said Cicely Voile, “you’re very good-looking.”
“I’m not really,” said Rage, “but I suppose you feel it’s up to you to say something. Any way, we’ll pretend you think so. I’m good-looking, and you—well, you’re just exquisite. I can admire you and say so—‘without prejudice.’ You can glory in my homely features—dote, for instance, upon my ears and tell me how much they move you—without being misunderstood. Think of the things we can discuss, the interests we can share, the easy intimacy we can enjoy—all ‘without prejudice.’ Look at the terms we can use.”
“Terms?”
“Terms. Why shouldn’t I call you ‘darling’? I like the word, and it suits you uncommonly well. Coming from me, it’s not an expression of love.”
“I think you’d better begin with ‘Cicely.’ ”
“I don’t care what you think,” said Captain Rage. “That’s the beauty of it. If you were to say you’d never speak to me again, I shouldn’t care a curse. Still, I’ll temper the wind—Cicely. Besides, it’s a sweet, pretty name. Suits you down to the ground.”
Miss Voile put a hand to her head.
“It’s terribly difficult to get hold of,” she said. “You’re quite sure I don’t attract you?”
“Absolutely,” said Rage. “If you were to go up in smoke—now, I shouldn’t turn a hair. I like you as I like a work of art. If you were damaged or removed, I should deplore your removal: but I shouldn’t come unbuttoned about it. But, surely, if you feel the same, you can appreciate——”
“I do,” said Miss Voile quickly. “But then I’m a girl. Men don’t attract women: they sort of bear them down.”
“Ugh, the brutes!” said Rage.
“But women are always supposed to attract a man. Of course I know you’re impervious, but when you speak and look so—so naturally, it’s almost impossible to believe that there’s nothing doing.”
“You’ll soon get used to that,” said her companion. “When you’ve called me ‘Toby darling’ a few dozen times without a sign of a rise——”
“D’you think you could stand it, Toby? I mean, Alfred used to say my voice——”
“My sweet,” said Toby, “I could listen to your voice all day . . . listen. . . . It has quality.”
With that he lay back on the turf and closed his eyes.
Cicely set her teeth.
Then—
“Toby dear,” she purred, “I left my coat in the car.”
“That’s right,” said her squire. “I saw you. Hangin’ over the door.”
“If I had it, Toby, I could make it into a pillow and go to sleep—too.”
“So you could,” said Toby.
There was a silence.
“But—but it’s in the car, Toby dear.”
“I know,” murmured Rage. “Hangin’ over the door.” He sighed. “If you do go and get it, you might bring me back my pouch. But don’t go on purpose.”
There was another silence.
“Are you sure,” ventured Miss Voile, “that you aren’t confusing ordinary politeness with love?”
“Positive,” said Toby. “You’re proving me, you are. Shove your little face down on the broom, sweetheart, and I’ll tell you a fairy-tale.”
A silence, succeeded by a rustling, suggested that Cicely had capitulated.
“Go on,” she said presently.
“There was once,” said Toby, “a King: and he had a daughter who was as lovely as the dawn. That’s why they called her Sunset. She attracted like anything—especially the Master of the Horse. Well, one day, just as the King was about to sack the Master of the Horse for being attracted, a voice said, ‘You’d better not.’
“ ‘Who’s that?’ said the King, looking all round the room.
“ ‘I rather think,’ said the Master of the Horse, ‘that it’s my uncle. He said that if ever I was in trouble I was to rub this ring, and I’ve just rubbed it.’
“ ‘Oh, did he?’ said the King. ‘I mean, have you? Then it was a piece of great presumption. And now push off.’
“ ‘Very good, sir,’ said the Master of the Horse. ‘Good-bye.’
“ ‘Good-bye,’ said the King.
“ ‘Good luck,’ said the voice.
“ ‘You shut your face,’ said the King. ‘What’s all that shouting about?’
“Nobody answered him this time, but he had not long to wait. In fact, the door had hardly closed behind the Master of the Horse when it was burst open by the Lord Chamberlain.
“ ‘Sunset’s gone into a trance,’ he announced. ‘You know. A sort of swoon, only worse.’
“ ‘Curse these enchanters,’ said the King, catching up his crown. ‘Where is she?’
“ ‘In the forecourt,’ said the Lord Chamberlain. ‘She was playing with the State bloodhound when all of a sudden she collapsed. She’s still got the dog by the ear.’
“This was true. What was more to the point was that the physicians advised that, since she was under a spell, any attempt to interfere with her grip would probably prove fatal.
“The position was really extremely awkward.
“With incredible difficulty Sunset was got to bed, while the dog, who was becoming every moment more suspicious and impatient of his detention, was persuaded to lie upon a divan by her side.
“Then a council was held.
“Violence to the bloodhound seemed futile, and mutilation as bad. If Sunset was destined for an indefinite period to grasp a piece of flesh, it seemed best that it should be alive. The dog, however, would require exercise—an obviously delicate business, since the sleeping princess must accompany it upon its rambles.
“ ‘The dog,’ said the King, ‘must be duly tended and controlled. Who’s to do it?’
“ ‘Nothing doing,’ said the Lord Chamberlain. ‘I’d rather resign. The brute jolly near had me when we were going upstairs.’
“ ‘He never did like me,’ said the Comptroller hurriedly. ‘Always growls when I pass.’
“ ‘That’s nothing to go by,’ said the King. ‘Heaps of dogs——’
“ ‘It’s good enough for me,’ said the Comptroller shortly.
“ ‘The truth is,’ said the Treasurer, ‘that he’s not a nice dog. There’s only one man who ever has got on with him, and that’s the Master of the Horse.’
“ ‘But I’ve just fired him,’ said the King. ‘Besides, he’s got off with Sunset. That’s what I fired him for.’
“Here the door was opened, and a servant put in his head.
“ ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said, ‘but I think the dog wants to go out.’
“By the time the King, with his daughter in his arms, had been twice round the forecourt, over the drawbridge, down a steep bank into a ploughed field through a brook, in and out of an orchard, over two walls and along an evil-smelling drain, his mind was made up.
“As the Court arrived—
“ ‘Issue two orders,’ he said faintly. ‘First, all cats are to be collected and kept under lock and key until further notice. Penalty for disobedience, Death.’ He nodded at the bloodhound, who was eating heartily. ‘God knows where I should be, but for that sheep’s head.’ He paused to mop his face. ‘Secondly, the Master of the Horse is to be found forthwith.’
“Half an hour later the two men once more faced each other. The Master of the Horse had Sunset in his arms, with the dog stretched at his feet. The King had his cheque-book in his hand.
“ ‘Supposing,’ said the King, ‘supposing you rubbed that ring.’
“ ‘Why?’ said the Master of the Horse, glancing at the beautiful face upon his shoulder. ‘I’m not in any trouble.’
“The King fingered his beard.
“ ‘You can’t go on like this,’ he observed. ‘It’s—it’s unheard of.’
“ ‘It is at present,’ was the reply. ‘But it’ll soon get about. You know what Scandal is.’
“The King rose to his feet and took a short turn.
“When he felt better—
“ ‘What,’ he said, ‘do you suggest?’
“ ‘A priest,’ said the Master of the Horse. ‘Oh, and witnesses.’
“After several more turns the King sent for a priest.
“ ‘After all,’ he said to himself, ‘she can’t respond; so I can always get it annulled. And what price “undue influence”?’
“At the critical moment, however, Sunset responded heartily. Then she released the bloodhound and blew her father a kiss.
“ ‘I’d no idea,’ she said, ‘you could go so well. The way you flew those walls! But I do wish you’d have that drain cleaned out. I don’t think it’s healthy.’
“The King was nothing if not a man of action.
“He seized his son-in-law by the ear and fell into a trance.
“This was a real one, and lasted for several days. So the King got a bit of his own back.
“The first thing he did upon recovery was to make the practice of ventriloquism a capital crime.”
There was a long silence.
At length—
“Don’t say you’re asleep?” said Toby.
Cicely started guiltily.
“Certainly not,” she said. “Go on. Sunset went into a trance. I suppose the uncle did that. What then?”
“Oh, the vixen!” said Rage. “Just ’cause I wouldn’t get her coat. Never mind. ‘Full many a tale is told to float unheard, And waste its neatness on thedistraitear.’ Besides, it’s the effort that counts.” He sighed. Then, “D’you often laugh in your sleep, Cicely?”
So soon as she could speak—
“I’m not surprised,” said Miss Voile in a shaking voice, “that Rachel turned you down.”
“But she didn’t,” said Rage comfortably. “It was I who, er, withdrew. What shall we do to-morrow?”
Cicely rose to her feet and smoothed down her dress.
“Why,” she said, “should we do anything?”
“Because we get on so well. You don’t want to be loved, because men mean nothing to you. Well, I should think I’m one of the few men living who could withstand successfully your physical and mental charms. Besides, you find me convenient—very convenient. On the other hand, while I’ve not the slightest desire to bear down any woman, most of the women I know seem to expect to be overwhelmed. Of course I except my Aunt Ira. She’s in a class of her own.”
“Is she so strong?” said Cicely.
“It’s not exactly strength. It’s sheer weight. She’s rather like lava. Her personality submerges—flattens. After half an hour of her I’m all over at the knees. Add to this that she’s a bigoted mid-Victorian, has made a will in my favour and is enormously rich, when you’ll see that our relations are delicate indeed. She’s very hot on what she calls ‘round’ dances and the decay of chaperonage.”
“She would like Biarritz, wouldn’t she?” said Miss Voile.
Her companion shuddered.
“The bare idea,” he said, “is bad for my heart. What were we saying? Oh, I know. I was indicating the convenience of our future conjunction.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Cicely slowly. “Let’s get up early and go up into the mountains.”
“What exactly,” said Rage, “do you mean by ‘early’? By the time I’m able to differentiate between the bell and light switches which dangle over my bed, and so obtain breakfast, it’s usually about eight.”
“Let’s leave at five, Toby.”
“Five!” screamed Toby. “Why, that’s B.C.—Before Cock-crow. You oughtn’t to talk about such hours.”
“All right,” said Cicely. “I’ll get someone else to take me. I wonder if Teddy Bligh would.”
“Firkin’s the man,” said Rage. “He’s mug enough for anything. You ask Firkin.”
A dreamy look stole into Cicely’s eyes.
“The trouble is,” she said, “that either of them’ll make love.”
“Well, it would be asking for trouble, wouldn’t it, Cicely dear? Up at dawn, and then hey! for the mountains in the half-light and a two-seater. What?”
“Don’t you think,” said Miss Voile, “that, as I want to so much, it’d be a friendly act if you were to step into the breach?”
“I think it’d be more than friendly,” said Rage. “Almost—almost familiar.”
“Once you’re up,” said Cicely, “you feel most awfully fit.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Toby. “It’s a compelling phrase that, isn’t it? ‘Once you’re up.’ ”
Miss Voile began to laugh.
“I give in,” she said. “Fix your own time, Toby, and I’ll be there.”
Captain Rage pulled his moustache.
“My dear good child,” he said, “I don’t want to spoil your day. If it’ll really amuse you to leave at five——”
“Oh, I should love it, Toby. I’ve always wanted to drive up into the dawn. You see, with summer time it’ll be four really.”
“Yes, I—I’d thought of that,” said Toby.
“And we’ll have the roads to ourselves, and you can let her out and—and—oh, it’ll be glorious.”
“So be it,” said Toby Rage. “Five B.C. to-morrow as ever is.”
“Oh, you darling!” cried Cicely.
“And listen,” continued Toby. “Quarter ’f an hour I’ll give you for the sake of your pretty face. But at five-fifteen sharp I shall return to bed.”
Cicely blew him a kiss.
“Ugh,” said Toby.
The blue landaulette rolled over the saddle of Sévignac and began to descend slowly into the valley of Laruns.
“Pull the check-string,” said Mrs. Medallion. “I wish to admire the view.”
Her companion put out her head and called on the driver to stop.
As she resumed her seat—
“I wish,” said Mrs. Medallion, “you’d do as you’re told. I ordered a cord on his arm, and there it is. Why avoid a convenience?”
“To tell you the truth,” said Miss Woolly, “I was afraid he mightn’t understand.”
“In that case,” said Mrs. Medallion, “we could have enlightened him.”
Head in air, she turned to survey the prospect.
“Isn’t it enchanting?” said Miss Woolly, gazing over her shoulder.
“No,” said Mrs. Medallion. “It isn’t. And I wish you wouldn’t exaggerate. My father detested exaggeration. He said it was subversive of conversational dignity.”
“Well, it’s very restful, any way. Look at those sheep.”
“I refuse,” said Mrs. Medallion. “We’ve passed four flocks on the road since we left Pau, and I’m sick and tired of sheep. What is abundantly clear is that France is a very rich land. Why doesn’t she pay her debts?”
“I can’t imagine,” said Miss Woolly.
“I’ll tell you,” said Mrs. Medallion. “Because she and her creditors are friends. You can’t combine friendship with business. It’s an inviolable rule. Pull the check-string.”
The landaulette proceeded silently and at a sober pace.
Presently the road became a curling shelf, with, on the left, first, a miniature wall, and then a ten-foot drop into gay meadows. On the right, a rough and tumble of rock, with rags and tatters of greensward interspersed, climbed to the mountains. Except for an open car, drawn up by the miniature wall, and an approaching waggon, the road was empty.
As luck would have it, the waggon was about to pass the car when the landaulette arrived. There not being room for three vehicles abreast, the landaulette had to wait. This she did quietly enough six paces away.
The waggon went rumbling. . . .
Then the bullocks saw Mrs. Medallion’s blue parasol and sought to leave the road. Their frantic owner strove to correct them with blows and howls. . . .
Pipe in mouth, the fair-haired man who had been tightening a bolt beneath the grey car’s wing watched the scene with a smile. . . .
Mrs. Medallion put up her lorgnettes.
“Desire that man to come here,” she said. “He’s my nephew.”
Miss Woolly descended and went up to Captain Rage.
“Please will you come,” she said, “and speak to Mrs. Medallion?”
Toby started violently, dropped his spanner and snatched his pipe from his mouth.
Then, with a sickly smile, he took off his hat. . . .
As the waggon swayed by—
“How d’ye do?” said Mrs. Medallion, extending her hand. “Don’t you feel well?”
“P-p-perfectly, thank you, Aunt Ira,” stammered the unfortunate Toby, touching her glove. “D’you feel all right? I mean . . . I—I do hope you’re well,” he added piously.
After a long look—
“My health,” said Mrs. Medallion, “leaves little to be desired.” She turned to her companion about to re-enter the car. “Miss Woolly, this is my nephew, Captain Rage. Captain Rage—Miss Woolly.” The two bowed. “Why are you here, Toby?”
“Well, I’m—I’m really at Biarritz,” stammered Rage. “You know, taking—taking a sort of holiday there.”
“Well, I’m really at Pau,” said his aunt, staring. “Taking a sort of rest. I don’t know what from, but the doctors advised the change. What’s your trouble? Nerves?”
“Good Heavens, no, Aunt Ira.” He laughed uneasily. “I’m perfectly well. But I was so—so dumbfounded. You know. Er, er, astonished.”
“ ‘Dumbfounded’ will do,” said his aunt. “I’m quite familiar with the word.”
“Of course,” said Toby. “What I mean is I never dreamed——”
“Why should you?” said his aunt. “Neither did I. But I don’t stammer about it. Tell me about Biarritz.”
“Oh, it’s not much of a place,” said Toby cautiously. “And it’s awfully full. I spend most of my time getting away from it. I like the peace of——”
“Are there public dances there?”
Captain Rage appeared to consider.
“I believe they do dance at the Casino,” he said. “Yes, I’m almost sure they do.”
“Are you, indeed?” said his aunt. “It’s wonderful how these things get about, isn’t it?” Toby blenched. “Where is the English Church?”
Painfully conscious that his reply would almost certainly be compared with that of Baedeker, Captain Rage swallowed.
“Well,” he said, “when you get out of the hotel, instead of going down to the sea——”
“Toby darling.”
The clear voice floated musically over the miniature wall.
The worst had happened.
Cicely had awaked.
After one frightful moment, Captain Rage plunged on desperately.
“In—instead of going down to the sea, you—you turn——”
“Somebody,” said Mrs. Medallion in a freezing tone, “somebodyappears to desire your attention. Didn’t you hear them call?”
Her nephew put his head on one side and appeared to listen.
“Did they?” he said.
Grimly his aunt surveyed him.
“You must be deaf,” she said. “Never mind. If you don’t answer, I dare say they’ll call again.”
She was perfectly right.
Almost immediately—
“Toby darling,” cried Miss Voile, “have you got a cigarette?”
There was an awful silence.
Miss Woolly, who had a keen sense of humour, set her white teeth and fought to suppress her mirth. Head up, Mrs. Medallion stared in the direction from which the voice had come, as one who has detected an unlawful and offensive smell. Fingers to mouth, Captain Rage was glancing over his shoulder with the nervous apprehension of the escaped felon who has heard his pursuers decide to bomb his lair.
Two sweet, pretty hands appeared upon the miniature wall.
The next moment, looking extraordinarily lovely, a flushed and hatless Cicely pulled herself abreast of the parapet.
Toby stepped forward, put his hands under her arms and lifted the lithe figure on to the road.
Then he turned to his aunt.
“This is Miss Voile, Aunt Ira—Miss Cicely Voile. Cicely, this is my aunt, Mrs. Medallion.”
Cicely stepped to the car and put out her hand.
“How d’ye do?” she said with a charming smile.
In stony silence Mrs. Medallion touched the slight fingers.
“Are you engaged to my nephew?”
“Of course I am,” said Cicely. “That’s why we’re alone. We got engaged last night, so we’re spending to-day in the mountains to recuperate. D’you think he’ll make me happy?”
The ghost of a smile stole into Mrs. Medallion’s face.
“That depends on his wife,” she said. “Why didn’t he tell me?”
“We haven’t told anyone yet,” said Cicely Voile. “And I expect he’s shy. Men are funny like that, you know. They seem to regard their engagement as a confession of weakness.”
“It frequently is,” said Mrs. Medallion. She turned to her nephew. “Toby, you’re a fool. Why shouldn’t you be engaged?”
Captain Rage grinned sheepishly.
“No reason at all,” he said. “Only—only it was all rather sudden, you know. The—the words wouldn’t come.”
“Yes, I noticed that,” said his aunt. “They still seem rather reluctant.”
“What did I say?” said Cicely, sliding an arm through Toby’s and addressing his aunt. “You see? He’s ashamed of himself. He feels his position. They can’t help it. Where are you staying, Mrs. Medallion?”
“At Pau. Should I like Biarritz?”
“I should come for the day. It’s not very far. I think Pau’s quieter, you know.”
Mrs. Medallion regarded her.
“I heard you ask,” she said, “for a cigarette.”
“I didn’t know you were here,” said Cicely Voile. “I shouldn’t smoke before you, because I’m younger than you and so it’s up to me not to give you offence. I’ve got an aunt called Susan who simply loathes it. So I never smoke before her.”
Mrs. Medallion turned to her companion.
“A very proper spirit,” she said defiantly.
“Admirable,” said Miss Woolly.
“Miss Voile, this is Miss Woolly, who bears with me.”
Miss Woolly laughed, and Cicely stepped on to the running-board and put out her hand.
“It can’t be a very hard life,” she said. “You’re looking too well.”
“I suppose you dance, child?” said Mrs. Medallion.
“I do,” said Cicely. “I love it. I know the dances of to-day aren’t all they might be, but neither is anything else, for the matter of that. I imagine that convents are as conservative as ever, but outside them——”
“I doubt it,” sighed Mrs. Medallion. “Look at the gaols. I don’t believe in torture, but I always had a weakness for the discouragement of crime. Never mind. Come back to Pau now, and I’ll give you some tea. Toby!”
“Yes, Aunt Ira.”
“Take Miss Voile out of sight and give her her cigarette. I think she’s earned it. Then follow us back to Pau. By the way, d’you feel better now?”
“Much better, thank you, Aunt Ira,” said Captain Rage.
“What a fool you are,” said his aunt. “I don’t expect to be welcomed, but misprision of my understanding I cannot endure. But for your pretty advocate, your ghastly endeavours to dissemble would have cost you extremely dear.” Her nephew quailed. “Besides, aren’t you proud of her?”
“I should think I was,” said Toby heartily.
“Then act accordingly,” said Mrs. Medallion. “And if ever again you want to throw dust in my eyes, throw dust—not clods of earth. If you can manage to blind me, that’s one to you. But I won’t be assaulted.”
“I’m very sorry, Aunt Ira,” said Toby humbly.
“I’m glad to hear it.” She turned to address Miss Voile. “Now don’t go and heal those stripes as soon as my back is turned. Give him the cold shoulder for a quarter ’f an hour. And please tell the driver to turn and take us to Pau. I shall expect you at four at the Hôtel de France.”
“Thank you very much,” said Cicely. “I’m sorry my entrance was so abrupt, but——”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for worlds,” said Mrs. Medallion. “It was—enchanting.”
In silence the landaulette was turned and the ladies were driven away.
As the dust swallowed them up, Toby turned to his companion with a glowing face. Then he caught her hands and pressed them against his lips.
He looked up with shining eyes.
“Cicely darling,” he cried, “you’re an absolute brick.”
Miss Voile disengaged herself.
“No endearments, please,” she said calmly enough. “This is a serious business. I’ve compromised myself good and proper, you know. And until we’re out of the wood I’d rather go slow—dead slow.”
“My dear——”
“Don’t call me your ‘dear,’ ” cried Cicely, stamping her foot.
“It’s ‘without prejudice,’ ” said Toby.
“What about our engagement? That’s ‘without prejudice’ too. The trouble is we omitted to point that out to Mrs. Medallion.”
“Well, I’m very sorry,” said Toby. “But what did you do it for?”
“Why do people go in after drowning men? Because they can’t stand still and see them drown. I did it out of common humanity. When I looked over the wall I saw how matters stood—saw in a flash. It wasn’t particularly bright of me. If you could have seen your face. . . . Well, there was only one thing to be done. The difficulty was how to do it. And then with her very first words she smoothed that away.”
“Common humanity or not, it was a most handsome act. And I’m deeply, deeply grateful. I’ll put things right, of course.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet, but I will—before any damage is done. I’m afraid it’s spoiled your day, and I’m frightfully sorry. But there you are. And now let’s go to Eaux Chaudes and find some tea.”
“Eaux Chaudes?” cried Miss Voile. “But we’re booked to your aunt! Don’t look so amazed. If I start on a thing I like to see it through. And what on earth’s the use of all I’ve done if we don’t——”
“I refuse,” said Captain Rage. “As you’ve said, you’re deep enough in. If I hadn’t been so rattled——”
“I never said that,” said Miss Voile. “And now please don’t interfere. This is my show. You say you’re grateful. Very well, then. Do as I say. I shan’t get in any deeper by going to tea. I don’t suppose it’s a party.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” said Toby. “I—I don’t like it. What with bein’ heckled by that woman, then all of a sudden lugged out of the muck, an’ then all dazzled an’ blinded by the way you handled her, it never occurred to me that you were paying the score. It sounds ungrateful and selfish, but there you are. Now that I do see, for Heaven’s sake have a heart. Don’t make me feel more of a worm.”
With a sudden movement Cicely put out her hands.
“Toby, I’m sorry,” she said. “And please don’t feel like a worm. It is so—so very inappropriate. I was so glad to help you.” Rage took her hands in his. “Iamso glad I’ve helped you. And I’m glad to go on helping you—awfully glad. And then we’ll help each other—out of the wood. . . . I’m afraid it sounded as if I repented what I’d done. I don’t, Toby, I don’t. And I don’t quite know why I said such rotten things. Only, when you called me ‘darling’ on—on the top of it all, it . . . seemed as if you were forgetting . . . that it’s only—only a game.”
Toby Rage looked into the great brown eyes.
“I—I believe I was,” he faltered.
“Well, please don’t, Toby dear,” said Cicely Voile. “I’ll tell you why.I’ve banked on your not forgetting.I’ve put—not exactly my honour, but my—my value in your hands. The moment that you forget I become cheap.” The man started. “You won’t have made me cheap. I shall have made myself cheap. Cheap in my own eyes—and yours. And I like you just well enough, Toby, not to want that.”
“You know that I’d never——”
“You wouldn’t at once. But after a little you’d see. Time makes things so painfully clear. Never mind. Now that I’ve told you, I’m sure that you won’t let me down.” She whipped her hands away and put them behind her back. “And now be nice to me, Toby, and give me a cigarette.”
Twenty-four hours had gone by, and the two were sitting again on the rolling moor.
An urchin breeze darted and hung, Puck-like, in the brave sunshine, while earth and sky and sea lifted up radiant heads. Time nodded drowsily over a golden world.
From a little fellowship of chestnuts in a neighbouring dell the pert insistence of a cuckoo cheered to the echo the excellence of present mirth. Out of the sweetness of a hawthorn a fragrant eulogy of idleness stole upon the air. The lazy hum of bees about their business swore by content.
Miss Voile, however, was not smiling, while Rage was regarding the jovial landscape with a perfectly poisonous stare.
“How,” said Cicely, “are you getting on?”
Toby started and picked up a writing-pad.
“Give me a chance,” he said. “I’m not a journalist. Besides, a letter like this takes some composing.”
“It’s got to go off to-night,” said Cicely Voile.
“Well, don’t you rush me,” said Toby. “It’s a very delicate job. Any fool can say ‘The engagement’s off,’ but that won’t do for Aunt Ira. What I’ve got to do is to word it in such a way as to stifle the instinct of cross-examination. Well, bein’ an optimist, I’m not going to say it’s impossible, but, if I can’t do it, she won’t come over for the day—she’ll come for a week. I shouldn’t wait for that. I’ve only one heart. But she’ll metaphorically sack Biarritz.”
“Oh, it’s easy enough,” said Cicely. “Shove it on to me. Say you find I’m a waster. I don’t care.”
“Well, I do,” said Toby violently.
Cicely shrugged her fair shoulders.
Presently—
“Read me as far as you’ve got,” she commanded.
Captain Rage cleared his throat.