"These are very roseate hues, Kate," Christine Fanshaw observed with delicate criticism as she sipped her tea. Kate had been talking about Eva and hinting benevolently about Jeremy.
"Oh, the great trouble's always behind. No, it's not so bad now, thank heaven! But if only he could come back for good! I'm sure we want roseate hues!"
"I daresay we do," said Christine, drawing nearer the fire. It was autumn now, and she was always a chilly little body.
"Look at those wretched Courtlands! And somehow I don't believe that Grantley's marriage has been altogether successful."
She paused a moment, and there had been a questioning inflection in her voice; but Christine made no comment.
"For myself I can't complain——"
"And you won't get anything out of me, Kate."
"But we do want the young people to—to give us the ideal back again."
"I suppose the old people have always thought the young people were going to do that. And they never do. They grow into old people—and then the men drink, or the women run away, or something."
"No, no," Kate Raymore protested. "I won't believe it, Christine. There's always hope with them, anyhow. They're beginning with the best, anyhow!"
"And when they find it isn't the best?"
"You're—you're positively sacrilegious!"
"And you're disgracefully sentimental."
She finished her tea and sat back, regarding her neat boots.
"Walter Blake's back in town," she went on.
"He's been yachting, hasn't he?"
"Yes, for nearly two months. I met him at the Selfords'."
A moment's pause followed.
"There was some talk——" began Kate Raymore tentatively.
"It was nonsense. There's some talk about everybody."
Kate laughed.
"Oh, come, speak for yourself, Christine."
"The Imasons are down in the country."
"And Walter Blake's in town? Ah, well!" Kate sighed thankfully.
"In town—and at the Selfords'." She spoke with evident significance.
Kate raised her brows.
"Well, it can't be Janet Selford, can it?" smiled Christine.
"I think he's a dangerous man."
"Yes—he's so silly."
"You do mean—Anna?"
"I've said all I mean, Kate. Anna has come on very much of late. I've dressed her, you know."
"Oh, that you can do!"
"That's why I'm such a happy woman. Teach Eva to dress badly!"
Again Kate's brows rose in remonstrance or question.
"Oh, no, I don't mean it, of course. What would be the good, when most men don't know the difference?"
"You're certainly a good corrective to idealism."
"I ought to be. Well, well, Anna can look after herself."
"It isn't as if one positively knew anything against him."
"One might mind one's own business, even if one did," Christine observed.
"Oh, I don't quite agree with you there. If one saw an innocent girl——"
"Eva? Oh, you mothers!"
"I suppose I was thinking of her. Christine, did Sibylla ever——?"
"Not the least, I believe," said Christine with infinite composure.
"It's no secret Walter Blake did."
"Are there any secrets?" asked Christine. "It'd seem a pity to waste anything by making a secret of it. One can always get a little comfort by thinking of the pleasure one's sins have given. It's really your duty to your neighbour to be talked about. You know Harriet Courtland's begun her action? There'll be no defence, I suppose?"
"Has she actually begun? How dreadful! Poor Tom! John tried to bring her round, didn't he?"
A curious smile flickered on Christine's lips. "Yes, but that didn't do much good to anybody."
"She flew out at him, I suppose?"
"So I understood." Christine was smiling oddly still.
"And what will become of those unhappy children?"
"They have their mother. If nature makes mistakes in mothers, I can't help it, Kate."
"Is she cruel to them?"
"I expect so—but I daresay it's not so trying as a thoroughly well-conducted home."
"Really it's lucky you've no children," laughed Kate.
"Really it is, Kate, and you've hit the truth," Christine agreed.
Kate Raymore looked at the pretty and still youthful face, and sighed.
"You're too good really to say that."
Christine shrugged her shoulders impatiently.
"Perhaps I meant lucky for the children, Kate," she smiled.
"And I suppose it means ruin to poor Tom? Well, he's been very silly. I met him with the woman myself."
"Was she good-looking?"
"As if I noticed! Why, you might be a man! Besides it was only decent to look away."
"Yes, one looks on till there's a row—and then one looks away. I suppose that's Christianity."
"Now really, I must beg you, Christine——"
"Well, Eva's not in the room, is she, Kate?"
"You're quite at your worst this afternoon." She came and touched her friend's arm lightly. "Are you unhappy?"
"Don't! It's your business to be good and sympathetic—and stupid," said Christine, wriggling under her affectionate touch.
"But John's affairs are ever so much better, aren't they?"
"Yes, ever so much. It's not John's affairs. It's—— Good gracious, who's this?"
Something like a tornado had suddenly swept into the room. It was Jeremy in a state of high excitement. He had a letter in his hand, and rushed up to Kate Raymore, holding it out. At first he did not notice Christine.
"I've had a letter from Sibylla——" he began excitedly.
"Any particular news?" asked Christine quickly.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Fanshaw! I—I didn't see you." His manner changed. Christine's presence evidently caused him embarrassment. "No; no particular news. It's—it's not about her, I mean."
"I'll go if you like, but I should dearly like to hear." She looked imploringly at Jeremy; she was thinking that after all he was a very nice boy.
"Give me the letter, Jeremy. Show me the place," said Kate Raymore.
Jeremy did as she bade him, and stood waiting with eager eyes. Christine made no preparations for going; she thought that with a little tact she might contrive to stay and hear the news. She was not mistaken.
"Dora Hutting engaged!" said Kate, with a long breath.
Jeremy nodded portentously.
"Good gracious me!" murmured Kate.
"To a curate—a chap who's a curate," said Jeremy. His tone was full of meaning.
"Wasn't she always High Church?" asked Christine sympathetically.
"Why, you never knew her, Mrs. Fanshaw?"
"No, but most curates are High Church now, aren't they?"
"It's very curious, isn't it, Jeremy?" asked Mrs. Raymore. "Met him at her aunt's, I see Sibylla says."
Jeremy stood before the fire with knitted brows. "Yes, at her aunt's," he repeated thoughtfully.
"Why is it curious, Kate?"
"Oh, you know nothing about it, Christine."
"I'm trying to learn—if Mr. Chiddingfold would only tell me."
"It's nothing. It's—it's just a girl I used to know, Mrs. Fanshaw."
"Ah, those girls one used to know, Mr. Chiddingfold!"
Jeremy laughed—he laughed rather knowingly.
"And she's consoled herself?" pursued Christine.
"Oh, come now, I say, Mrs. Fanshaw!"
"It's no use trying to be serious with her, Jeremy. We'll read all about it when she's gone."
"Yes, all right. But to think——! Well, I'm dining here, aren't I?"
"Oh, yes," said Christine reassuringly.
"Christine, you're very impertinent. Yes, of course, Jeremy, and we'll discuss it then. Why don't you find Eva? She's in the library, I think."
"Oh, is she? Then I—I might as well, mightn't I?" He spoke listlessly, almost reluctantly. And he did not leave the room by a straight path, but drifted out of it with an accidental air, fingering a book or two and a nick-nack or two on his devious way. Christine's eyes followed his erratic course with keen amusement.
"You wicked woman!" she said to Kate as the door closed. "You might have given him one afternoon to dedicate to the memory of Miss Dora—what was her name?"
"She was the rector's daughter down at Milldean. Well, I'm really glad. I fancy she was a flighty girl, Christine."
"Oh dear me, I hope not," said Christine gravely. "What an escape for the poor dear boy!"
"You shan't put me out of temper," beamed Kate Raymore.
"I should think not, when your machinations are triumphing!"
"He's too nice a boy to be thrown away. And I don't think he was quite happy about it."
"I don't suppose he deserved to be."
"And now he can——"
"Oh, I won't hear any more about it! As it is, I've heard a lot more than anybody meant me to, I suppose." She got up. "I must go home," she said, with a little frown. "I'm glad I came. I like you and your silly young people, Kate."
"Oh, no, stay a little," Kate begged. "I want to ask you about a frock for Eva."
Christine was glad to talk about frocks—it was the craft whereof she was mistress—and glad too to stay a little longer at the Raymores'. There was youth in the air there, and hope. The sorrow that was gradually lifting seemed still to enrich by contrast the blossoming joy of the young lives which had their centre there. Her chaff covered so keen a sympathy that she could not safely do anything except chaff. The thought of the different state of things which awaited her at home did as much to make her linger as her constitutional dislike of leaving a cheery fire for the dreary dusk outside. Once she was near confiding the whole truth to Kate Raymore, so sore a desire had she for sympathy. But in the end her habit of reticence won the day, and she refused to betray herself, just as she had declined to be false to Sibylla's secret. What would Kate Raymore do for her? To speak of her trouble would only be to cast a shadow over the joy of a friendly heart.
When she did go, chance tempted her to a very mean action, and she fell before the temptation without the least resistance. The lights were not yet turned up on the staircase or in the hall, and Christine, left by her own request to find her way downstairs, found the library door open—it gave on to the hall. The room was not lighted either, except by a bright fire. She saw two figures sitting by the fire, and drew back into the gloom of the hall with a smile on her lips.
Eva was wondering at Jeremy. Of course he had said nothing of the news to her; indeed she knew nothing explicit of Dora Hutting—she had heard only a hint or two from her mother. But this evening there was a difference in Jeremy. Hitherto an air of hesitation had hung about him; when he had said anything—well, anything rather marked—he would often retreat from it, or smooth it down, or give it some ordinary (and rather disappointing) explanation in the next sentence. He alternated between letting himself go and bringing himself up with a jerk. This demeanour had its interesting side for Eva, but it had also been rather disquieting; sometimes it had seemed almost to rebuke her for listening to the first sentence without displeasure, since the first had been open to the interpretation which the second so hastily disclaimed. In fact Jeremy's conscience had kept interposing remarks between the observations of another faculty in Jeremy. The result had not been homogeneous. Conscience spoils love-making; it should either let it alone, or in the proper cases prevent it altogether.
This evening things had changed. His chagrin and his relief—his grudge against Dora and her curate, and his sense of recovered liberty—joined forces. He did not let the grass grow under his feet. He engaged in the primeval art of courting without hesitation or reserve. His eyes spoke in quick glances, his fingers sought excuses for transient touches. He criticised Eva, obviously meaning praise where with mock audacity he ventured on depreciation. Eva had been sewing embroidery; Jeremy must have the process explained, and be shown how to do it. To be sure, it was rather dark—they had to lean down together to get the firelight. His fingers were very awkward indeed, and needed a lot of arranging. Eva's clear laugh rang out over this task, and Jeremy pretended to be very much hurt. Then, suddenly, Eva saw a line on his hand, and had to tell him what it meant. They started on palmistry, and Jeremy enjoyed himself immensely. The last Christine saw was when he had started to tell Eva's fortune, and was holding her hand in his, inventing nonsense, and not inventing it very well.
Well or ill, what did it matter? Old or new, it mattered less. The whole thing was very old, the process as well ascertained as the most primitive method ever used in Jeremy's dyeing works. "Poor children!" breathed Christine, as she stole softly away towards the hall door. She could not stand there and look on and listen any more. Not because to listen was mean, but because it had become intolerable. She was ready to sob as she let herself out silently from the house of love into the chilly outer air. She left them to their pleasure, and set her face homewards. But her mind and her heart were full of what she had seen—of the beauty and the pity of it; for must not the beauty be so short-lived? Had not she too known the rapture of that advancing flood of feeling—yes, though the flood flowed where it should not? How the memories came back—and with what mocking voices they spoke! Well had it been for her to stand outside and look. For of a surety never again might she hope to enter in.
A man came full beneath the light of a street-lamp. It was a figure she could never forget nor mistake. It was Frank Caylesham. He saw her, and raised his hat, half-stopping, waiting her word to stop. She gave an involuntary little cry, almost hysterical.
"Fancy meeting you just now!" she gasped.
Christine had neither desire to avoid nor strength to refuse the encounter. Her emotions had been stirred by what she had seen at Kate Raymore's; they demanded some expression. Her heart went forth to a friend, forgetting any bitterness which attached to the friendship. The old attraction claimed her. When Caylesham said that it was quite dark and there was no reason why he should not escort her, she agreed readily, and was soon babbling to him about Eva and Jeremy. She put her arm in his, talked merrily, and seemed very young and fresh as she turned her face up to his and joked fondly about the young people. None of the embarrassment which had afflicted her visit to his flat hung about her now. She had somebody she could talk to freely at last, and was happy in his society. It was a holiday—with a holiday's irresponsibility about it. He understood her mood; he was always quick to understand at the time, though very ready to forget what the feeling must have been and what it must continue to be when he had gone. He shared her tenderness, her pity, and her amusement at the youthful venturers. They talked gaily for a quarter of an hour, Christine not noticing which way they went. Then a pause came.
"Are we going right?" she asked.
"Well, not quite straight home," he laughed.
"Oh, but we must," she said with a sigh. He nodded and took a turn leading more directly to her house.
"I hear things are much better with John. I met Grantley and he told me they were in much better shape."
"Thanks to Grantley Imason and you. Yes, and you."
"I was very glad to do it. Oh, it's nothing. I can trust old John, you know."
"Yes; he'll pay you back. Still it was good of you." She lifted her eyes to his. "He knows, Frank," she said.
"The devil he does!" Caylesham was startled and smiled wryly.
"I don't know why I told you that. I suppose I had to talk to somebody. Yes; Harriet Courtland told him—you remember she knew? He made her angry by lecturing her about Tom, and she told him."
"He knows, by Jove, does he?" He pulled at his moustache; she pressed his arm lightly. "But, I say, he's taken the money!" He looked at her in a whimsical perplexity.
"So you may imagine what it is to me."
"But he's taken the money!"
"How could he refuse it? It would have meant ruin. Oh, he didn't know when he sent me to you—he'd never have done that."
"But he knew when he kept it?"
"Yes, he knew then. He couldn't let it go when once he'd got it, you see. Poor old John!"
"Well, that's a rum thing!" Caylesham's code was infringed by John's action—that was plain: but his humour was tickled too. "How did he—well, how did he take it?"
"Awful!" she answered with a shiver.
"But I say, you know, he kept the money, Christine."
"That makes no difference—or makes it worse. Oh, I can't tell you!"
"It doesn't make it worse for you anyhow. It gives you the whip hand, doesn't it?"
She did not heed him; she was set on pouring out her own story.
"It's dreadful at home, Frank. Of course I oughtn't to talk to youofall people. But I've had two months and more of it now."
"He's not unkind to you?"
"If he was, what do I deserve? Oh, don't be fierce. He doesn't throw things at me, like Harriet Courtland, or beat me. But I——" She burst into a little laugh. "I'm stood in the corner all the time, Frank."
"Poor old Christine!"
"He won't be friends. He keeps me off. I never touch his hand, or anything."
A long-dormant jealousy stirred in Caylesham.
"Well, do you want to?" he asked rather brusquely.
"Oh, that's all very well, but imagine living like that! There's nobody to speak to. I'm in disgrace. He doesn't talk about it, but he talks round it, you know. Sometimes he forgets for five minutes. Then I say something cheerful. Then he remembers and—and sends me back to my corner." Her rueful laugh was not far from a sob. "It's awfully humiliating," she ended, "and—and most frightfully dull."
"But how can he——?"
"One good scene would have been so much more endurable. But all day and every day!"
Caylesham was amused, vexed, exasperated.
"But, good heavens, it's not as if it was an ordinary case. Remember what he's done! Why do you stand it?"
"How can I help it? I did the thing, didn't I?"
His voice rose a little in his impatience.
"But he's taken my money. He's living on it. It's saved him. By gad, how can he say anything to you after that? Haven't you got your answer? Why don't you remind him gently of that?"
"That would hurt him so dreadfully."
"Well, doesn't he hurt you?"
"He'd never be friends with me again."
"He doesn't seem particularly friendly now."
"I feel quite friendly to him. I want to be friends."
"It does you credit then," he said with a sneer.
She pressed his arm lightly again, pleading against his anger and his unwonted failure to understand.
"It would be an end of all hope if I threw the money in his teeth. He's unhappy enough about it as it is." She looked up as she added: "I've got to live with him, you know, Frank."
Caylesham gave her a curious quick glance.
"Got to live with him?"
"Yes; all my life," she answered. "I suppose you hadn't thought of that?"
It was not the sort of thing which Caylesham was in the habit of thinking about, but he tried to follow her view.
"Yes, of course. It would be better to be friends. But you shouldn't let him get on stilts. It's absurd, after what he's done. I mean—I mean he's done a much queerer thing than you have."
"Poor old John! How could he help it?"
He glanced at her sharply and was about to speak, when she cried, "Why, where are we? I didn't notice where we were going."
"We're just outside my rooms. Come in for a bit."
"No, I can't come in. I'm late now, and—and—really I'm ashamed to tell even you. Well, I'm always questioned where I've been. I have to give an account of every place. I have to stand with my hands behind me and give an account of all my movements, Frank."
He whistled gently and compassionately.
"Like a schoolgirl!"
"How well you follow the metaphor, Frank! So I can't come in. I'll go home. No, don't you come."
"I'll come a bit farther with you. Oh, it's quite dark."
"Well, not arm in arm!"
"But doesn't that look more respectable?"
"You're entirely incurable," she said, with her old pleasure in him all revived.
"It's infernal nonsense," he went on. "Just you stand up for yourself. It's absolute humbug in him. He's debarred himself from taking up any such attitude—just as much as he has from making any public row about it. Hang it, he can't have it both ways, Christine!"
"I've got to live with him, Frank."
"Oh, you said that before."
"And I'm very fond of him."
"What?" He turned to her in a genuine surprise and an obvious vexation.
"Yes, very. I always was. We used to spar, but we were good friends. We don't spar now; I wish we did. It's just iciness. But I'm very fond of him."
"Of course, if you feel like that——"
"I always felt like that, even—even long ago. I used to tell you I did. I suppose you thought that humbug."
"Well, it wouldn't have been very strange if I had."
"No, I suppose not. It must have looked like that. But it was true—and it is true. The only thing I've got left to care much about in life is getting to be friends with John again—and I don't suppose I ever shall." Her voice fairly broke for a moment. "That's what upset me so much when I saw those silly children at Kate Raymore's."
Caylesham looked at her. There was a roguish twinkle in his eye, but he patted her hand in a very friendly sympathy.
"I say, old John's cut me out after all!" he whispered.
"You're scandalous! You always were," she said, smiling. "The way you put things was always disreputable. Yes, it was, Frank. But no; it's not poor old John who's cut you out—or at least it's John in a particular capacity. Life's cut you out—John as life. John, as life, has cut you out of my life—and now I've got to live with John, you see."
Caylesham screwed up his mouth ruefully. Things certainly seemed to shape that way. She had to live with John. John's conduct might be unreasonable and unjustifiable, but people who must be lived with frequently presume on that circumstance and behave as they would not venture to behave if living with them were optional. John really had not a leg to stand on, if it came to an argument. But arguing with people you have to live with does not conduce to the comfort of living with them—especially if you get the better of the argument. He was exceedingly sorry for Christine, but he didn't see any way out of it for her.
"Of course there's a funny side to it," she said with a little laugh.
"Oh, yes, there is," he admitted. "But it's deuced rough luck on you."
"Everything's deuced rough luck." She mimicked his tone daintily. "And I don't suppose it's ever anything worse with you, Frank! It was deuced rough luck ever meeting you, you know. And so it was that John wanted money and sent me to you. And that Harriet's got a temper, and, I suppose, that we've got to be punished for our sins." She took her arm out of his—she had slipped it in again while she talked about John as life. "And here I am, just at home, and—and the corner's waiting for me, Frank."
"I'm devilish sorry, Christine."
"Yes, I'm sure you are. You always meant to be kind. Frank, if ever I do make friends with John, be glad, won't you?"
"I think he's behaved like a——"
"Hush, hush! You've always been prosperous—and you've never been good." She laughed and took his hand. "So don't say anything against poor old John."
"I tell you what—you're a brick, Christine. Well, good-bye, my dear."
"Good-bye, Frank. I'm glad I met you. I've got some of it out, haven't I? Don't worry—well, no, you won't—and if I succeed, do try to be glad. And never a word to show John that I've told you he knows!"
"I shall do just as you like about that. Good-bye, Christine."
He left her a few yards from her house, and she stood by the door watching his figure till it disappeared in the dark. He had done her so much harm. He was not a good friend. But he was good to talk to, and very kind in his indolent, careless way. If you recalled yourself to him, he was glad to see you and ready to be talked to. A moment of temptation came upon her—the temptation to throw up everything, as Tom Courtland had thrown everything up, to abandon the hard task, to give up trying for the only thing she wanted. But Caylesham had given her no such invitation. He did not want her—that was the plain English of it—and she did not want him in the end either. She had loved the thing and still loved the memory of it; but she did not desire it again, because in it there was no peace. She wanted a friend—and John would not be one. Nobody wanted her—except John; and because he wanted her, he was so hard to her. But Frank Caylesham had been in his turn too hard on John. She was the only person who could realise John's position and make allowances for him. Yet all the light died out of her face as she entered her home.
John was waiting for her. His mind was full of how well things were going in the City. In the old days this would have been one of their merry, happy, united evenings. He would have told her of his success, and "stood" a dinner and a play, and brought her home in the height of glee and good companionship, laughing at her sharp sayings, and admiring her dainty little face. All this was just what he wanted to do now, and his life was as arid as hers for want of the comradeship. But he would not forgive; it seemed neither possible nor self-respecting. That very weak point in his case, with which Caylesham had dealt so trenchantly, made him a great stickler for self-respect; nothing must be done—nothing more—to make her think that he condoned her offence or treated it lightly. It was part of her punishment to hear nothing of the renewed prosperity in the City, to know nothing of his thoughts or his doings, to be locked out of his heart. This was one side; the other was that obligation to make full disclosure of all she did, and of how her time was spent. She must be made to feel the thing in these two ways every day. Yet he considered that he was treating her very mercifully; he was anxious to do that, because he was all the time in his heart afraid that she would throw Caylesham's money—the money which was bringing the renewed prosperity—in his face.
She faced the punishment with her usual courage and her unfailing humour. There was open irony in the minuteness with which she catalogued her day's doings; she did not sit down, but stood on the other side of his writing-table, upright, and with her hands actually behind her—because she liked the schoolgirl parallel which Caylesham had drawn. John saw the humour and felt the irony, but he was helpless. She did what she was told; he could not control the manner in which she did it.
"And then I walked home—yes, walked. Didn't take a bus, or a tram, or a steam-engine. I just walked on my two legs, going about three miles an hour, and oh, yes, taking one wrong turn, which makes me five minutes later than I ought to be. Quite a respectable turn—just out of the way, that's all. May I go and get myself some tea?"
He did so want to tell her about the successes in the City. And in fact he admired the courage and liked the irony. They were her own, and of her. Doing justice was very hard, with that provoking dainty face at once resenting and mocking at it. But justice must be done; his grievance should not be belittled.
"I'm not stopping you getting yourself tea. Is it a crime to ask where my wife's been?"
"It's mere prudence, I'm sure. Only what makes you think I should tell you the truth?"
She had her tea now—a second tea—and was sipping it leisurely.
"At any rate I know your account, and if I heard anything different——"
"That's the method? I see." Her tone softened. "Don't let's quarrel. What's the good? Had a good day in the City?"
"Just like other days," grunted John.
"Nothing particular?"
"No."
"There never is now, is there?"
He made no answer. Opening the evening paper, he began to read it. Christine knew what that meant. Saving what was unavoidable, he would talk no more to her that evening.
The wound to her vanity, her thwarted affection, her sense of the absurdity of such a way of living together, all combined to urge her to take Caylesham's view of the position, and to act upon it—to make the one reply, the one defence, which was open to her. The very words which she would use came into her mind as she sat opposite to John at dinner. Living on Caylesham's generosity—it would be scarcely an exaggeration to say that. And from what motive came the bounty? It would not be hard to find words—stinging words—to define that. John could have no answer to them; they must shame him to the soul. At every sullen short word, at every obstinate punitive silence, the temptation grew upon her. Knowing that she knew all, how could he have the effrontery to behave in this fashion? She steeled herself to the fight, she was ready for it by the time dinner was done and they were left alone, John sitting in glum muteness as he drank his port, Christine in her smart evening frock, displaying a prettiness which won no approving glances now. It was insufferable—she would do it!
Ah, but poor old John! He had been through so many worries, he had so narrowly escaped dire calamity. He had been forced into a position so terrible. And they had been through so many things together; they had been comrades in fair and foul weather. What would be the look in his eyes when he heard that taunt from her? He would say little, since there would be little to say—but he would give her a look of such hopeless fierce misery. No; in the end she was responsible for the thing, and she must bear the burden of it. Caylesham's view might be the man's view, perhaps the right view for a man to take. It could not be the woman's; the wife was not justified in looking at it like that. No, she couldn't do it.
But neither could she go on living like this. Her eyes rested thoughtfully on him. He was looking tired and old. Poor old John! He wanted livening up, some merriment, a little playful petting to which he might respond in his roughly jocose, affectionately homely fashion—with his "old girl" and "old lady" and so on. He never called her "old girl" now. Would she hate it as much now? She longed for it extraordinarily, since it would mark happiness and forgetfulness in him. But it seemed as if she would never hear it again. Suddenly she broke out with a passionate question:
"Are we to live like this always?"
He did not seem startled; he answered slowly and ponderously; "What have you to complain of? Do I say anything? Do I reproach you? Have I made a row? Look at what I might have done! Some people would think you were very lucky."
"It makes you miserable as well as me."
"You should have thought of all that before."
He took out a cigar and lit it, then turned his chair half-way round from the table, and began to read his paper again. Christine could not bear it; she began to sob softly. He took no visible notice of her; his eyes were fixed on a paragraph and he was reading it over and over again, not following in the least what it meant. She rose and walked towards the door; he remained motionless. She came back towards him in a hesitating way.
"I want to speak to you," she said, choking down her sobs and regaining composure.
He looked up now. There was fear in his eyes, a hunted look which went to her heart. At the least invitation she would have thrown herself on her knees by him and sought every means to comfort him. She was thinking only of him now, and had forgotten Caylesham's gay attractiveness. And in face of that look in his eyes she could not say a word about Caylesham's money.
"I'm going away for a little while, John. I'm going to ask Sibylla to let me come down to Milldean for a bit."
"What do you want to go away for?"
"A change of air," she answered, smiling derisively. "I can't bear this, you know. It's intolerable—and it's absurd."
"Am I to blame for it?"
"I'm not talking about who's to blame. But I must go away."
"How long do you want to stay away?"
"Till you want me back—till you ask me to come back." He looked at her questioningly. "It must be one thing or the other," she went on.
"It's for me to decide what it shall be."
"Yes; which of the two possible things. It's for you to decide that. But this state of things isn't possible. If you don't want me back, well, we must make arrangements. If you ask me to come back, you'll mean that you want to forget all this wretchedness and be really friends." Her feeling broke out. "Yes, friends again," she repeated, holding her arms out towards him.
"You seem to think things are very easily forgotten," he growled.
"God knows I don't think so," she said. "Do you really think that's what I've learnt from life, John?"
"At any rate I've got to forget them pretty easily!"
She would not trust herself to argue lest in the heat of contention that one forbidden weapon should leap into her hand.
"We can neither of us forget. But there's another thing," she said.
He would not give up his idea, his theory of what she deserved and of what morality demanded.
"You may go for a visit. I shall expect you back in two or three weeks."
"Not back to this," she insisted.
He shrugged his shoulders and held the paper up between them.
"If you don't want me back, well, I shall understand that. But I shan't come back to this." She walked to the door, and looked back; she could not see his face for the paper. She made a little despairing movement with her hands, but turned away again without saying more, and stole quietly out of the room.
John Fanshaw dashed his paper to the ground and sprang to his feet. He gave a long sigh. He had been in mortal terror—he thought she was going to talk about the money. That peril was past. He flung his hardly lighted cigar into the grate and walked up and down the room in a frenzy of unhappiness. Yes, that peril was past—she had said nothing. But he knew it was in her heart; and he knew how it must appear to her. Heavens, did it not appear like that to him? But she should never know that he felt like that about it. That would be to give up his grievance, to abandon his superiority, to admit that there was little or nothing to choose between them,—between her, the sinner, and him, who profited by the sin, whose salvation the sin had been, who knew it had been his salvation and had accepted salvation from it. No, no; he must never acknowledge that. He must stick to his position. It was monstrous to think he would own that his guilt was comparable to hers.
He sank back into his chair again and looked round the empty room. He thought of Christine upstairs, alone too. What a state of things! "Why did she? My God, why did she?" he muttered, and then fell to lashing himself once more into a useless fury, pricking his anger lest it should sleep, setting imagination to work on recollection, torturing himself, living again through the time of her treachery, elaborating all his grievance—lest by chance she should seem less of a sinner than before, lest by chance his own act should loom too large, lest by chance he might be weak and open his heart and find forgiveness for his wife and comrade.
"By God, she had no excuse!" he muttered, striking the table with his fist. "And I—why, the thing was settled before I knew. It was settled, I say!" Then he thought that if things went on doing well he would be able to pay Caylesham sooner than the letter of his bond demanded. Then, when he had paid Caylesham off—ah, then the superiority would be in no danger, there would be no taunt to fear. Why, yes, he would pay Caylesham off quite soon. Because things were going so well. Now to-day, in the City, what a stroke he had made! If he were to tell Christine that——! For a moment he smiled, thinking how she would pat his cheek and say, "Clever old John!" in her pretty half-derisive way; how she would——
He broke off with a groan. No; by heaven, he'd tell her nothing. His life was nothing to her—thanks to what she'd done—to what she had done. Oh, he did well to be angry!—Even to think of what she had done——!
So he struggled, lest perchance forgiveness and comradeship should win the day.
As soon as the first shot was fired, Tom Courtland struck his flag. There was no fight in him. His career was compromised, and by now his affairs were seriously involved. He resigned his seat; he wasn't going to wait to be turned out, he said, either by divorce or by bankruptcy, or by both at once. He never went home now. As a last concession to appearances, he took a room at his club. Mrs. Bolton now urged him to fight—since things had gone so far. Of course he would have to tell lies! But there were circumstances in which everybody told lies! She was ready to back him through thick and thin. If they could get Lady Harriet into the box and cross-examine her thoroughly, they could rely on a great deal of sympathy from a jury of husbands. It was really a good fighting case—given the lies, of course. She urged fighting, which was unselfish of her from one point of view, since an undefended case would do her little real harm, while a cross-examination in open Court could not be a pleasant ordeal for her, any more than it ought to be for Harriet Courtland. But she liked Tom—although incurable habit had caused her to make his affairs so involved—and she hated that Harriet should "have a walk over." She was angry with Tom because he gave in directly, and took it all "lying down," as she said. But Tom was broken; he could only mutter that he did not "care a damn" what they did; it was all over for him. His bristly hair began to turn a dull grey in these troublesome days. When he was not with Mrs. Bolton he was haunting the streets and parks, hoping he might meet his girls taking their walk with the maid or with Suzette Bligh. Such stray encounters were his only chance of ever seeing them now—the only chance of ever seeing them in the future, he supposed, unless the Court gave him "access." And much pleasure there would be in access, with Harriet to tell them the sort of man he was before every such visit as the law might charingly dole out to him! He grumbled disconsolately about everything—the suit, his affairs, his children, the access, all of it—to Mrs. Bolton; but he did and tried to do nothing. He was in a condition of moral collapse.
Harriet Courtland's state was even worse. She was almost unapproachable by the children and Suzette Bligh—and none other tried to approach her. She had no friends left. Not one of Tom's set was on her side; she had wearied them all out. The last to keep up the forms of friendship was Christine Fanshaw. Now that was at an end too. She had heard nothing from Christine. From the day of John's visit there had been absolute silence. She knew well what that meant. She brooded fiercely over what she had done to Christine—her one remaining friend—had done not because she wanted to hurt Christine or to lose her friendship, had done with no reasonable motive at all, but just in blind rage, because in her fury she wanted to strike and wound John, and this had been the readiest and sharpest weapon. She could not get what she had done out of her head; she was driven to see what a light it cast on the history of her own home; it showed her the sort of woman she was. But she held on her way, and pressed on her suit. Realising what she was bred in her no desire to change. There was no changing such a woman as she was—a cursed woman, as she called herself again and again. So there she sat, alone in her room, save when her nervous children came perforce to cower before her—alone with the ruin she had made, in bitter wrath with all about her, in bitterest wrath with herself. She was a terror in the house, and knew it. Nobody in the house loved her now—nay, nobody in the world. It had come to this because of her evil rage. And the rage was not satiated; it had an appetite still for every misfortune and every shame which was to afflict and disgrace her husband. In that lay now her only pleasure; her sole joy was to give pain. Yet the thought that her girls had ceased to love her, or had come to hate her, drove her to a frenzy of anger and wretchedness. What had they to complain of? How dared they not love her! She exacted signs of love from them. They dared not refuse a kiss for fear of a blow being given in its place; but Harriet knew now why they kissed her and accepted her kisses. "Little hypocrites!" she would mutter when they went out, accusing the work of her own hands. But they should love her—aye, and they should hate their father. She swore they should at least hate their father, even if they only pretended to love her. The woman grew half mad at the idea that in their hearts they loved their father, pitied him, thought him ill-used, grieved because he came no more; that they were in their hearts on their father's side and against her. She wished they were older, so that they could be told all about the case. Well, they should be told even now, if need be, if that proved the only way of rooting the love of their father out of their hearts.
An evil case for these poor children! They had no comfort save in gentle colourless Suzette Bligh. To all her friends she had seemed a superfluous person. She used to be invited just to balance dinner-parties, or on a stray impulse of kindness. But fate had found other work for her now. The once useless superfluous woman was all the consolation these three children had; any love they got she gave them. She stood between them and desolation. She warned them what temper their mother was in, whether it were safe to approach her, and with what demeanour. More than once her love gave the meek creature courage, and she stood between them and wrath. Lamentable as the state of affairs was, Suzette had found a new joy in life. She took these children into her life and her heart, and became as a mother to them. Gradually they grew to love her.
But none the less—perhaps all the more—they tormented her, bringing to her all the doubts and questions which were rife in their minds. The portentous word "divorce" had come to their ears—Harriet was not careful in her use of it. They connected it quickly with their father's now continuous absence. Whatever else it might mean—and they thought it meant something bad for their father, to be suffered at the hands of their mother—they understood it at least to mean that he would be with them no more. Suzette knew nothing at all about "access," and could only fence feebly with their questions; they ventured to put none to Harriet. They grew clear that their father had gone, and that they were to be left to their mother.
One and all they declined such a conclusion. They loved Tom; they did not love Harriet. Tom had always been a refuge, sometimes a buffer. They had no doubt of what they wanted. They wanted to go to their father, and to take Suzette Bligh with them. That scheme conjured up the vision of a happy home, free from fear, where kisses would be volunteered, not exacted, and the constant dread would be no more.
"But we daren't tell mamma that," said Sophy, in a tremble at the bare idea.
Lucy shook her head; Vera's eyes grew wide. They certainly dared not go to Harriet with any such communication as that. They had been shrewd enough to see that they were expected to hate their father: Vera had been roughly turned out of the room merely for mentioning his name.
After much consultation, carried on in a secrecy to which not even Suzette was privy, a plan was laid. They would write to their father and tell him that, whether he were sentenced to divorce or not, they wanted to come and live with him—and to bring Suzette if they might.
"We won't say anything about mamma. He'll understand," Sophy observed.
Vera piped out in terror:
"But when mamma finds out?"
"We shall be gone, don't you see?" cried Lucy. "We shall ask papa to meet us somewhere, and he'll take us with him, and then just write and tell mamma."
"He can say we're sorry when he writes to tell mamma."
"Oh, yes, I see," said Vera. "It will be splendid, won't it? I wish we could tell Suzette!"
The elder girls were dead against that. Suzette was a dear, but she was too much afraid of mamma; the great secret would not be safe with her, and if it were discovered before they were out of reach—significant nods expressed that situation with absolute lucidity.
So Sophy—who wrote the best hand—squared her elbows and sat down to her task in the schoolroom. A scout was posted at the foot of the stairs, another at the top. On the least alarm the letter was to be destroyed, and the scribe would be discovered busy on a French exercise.