"Oh, wisdom never comes when it is gold,
And the great price we pay for it full worth.
We have it only when we are half earth,
Little avails that coinage to the old."
GEORGE MEREDITH.
It was not quite so much "rather fun" as Joan had expected. It had, she
discovered, its serious and unpleasant side. Serious, because of the
strange undreamt-of woman that it awoke within her, and unpleasant
because of the deceit and the telling of lies which Gilbert insisted it
must involve. Joan hated deceit, she had one of those natures that can
never be really happy with an unconfessed lie on their mind.
Gilbert won her to do as he thought necessary, first by persuasion and
then by using the power which he had discovered he could wield over her
by his touch.
"For my sake, darling," he argued, "it is all right for us because we
understand each other, but the world would certainly describe me as a
cad."
So for his sake Joan told Mrs. Thomas, with whom she had been living,
that she had accepted a residential post as private secretary; packed up
her boxes and took her departure amidst a shower of good wishes and
warnings as to how she was to hold her own and not be put upon. To Aunt
Janet, with a painful twinge of regret, Joan wrote the same lie. She
wanted to tell the truth to Aunt Janet more even than she wanted to live
it out aloud to herself. The memory of Aunt Janet's face with its kindly
deep-set eyes kept her miserable and uncomfortable, and the home letters
brought no more a feeling of pleasure, only a sense of shame and
distaste.
How silly it was to connect shame with what she and Gilbert had chosen
as life! Yet, unfortunately for her peace of mind, the word was
constantly reverting to her thoughts. "It is the telling lies that I am
ashamed of," she would argue hotly to herself, and she would shut her
heart to the still small voice and throw herself because of it with more
zest than ever into their life together.
Gilbert's flat was high up in one of the top stories of a block of
buildings which fronts on to Knightsbridge, bright, airy and cheerful.
Not too big, "Just room for the two of us and we shut the world
outside," as Gilbert took pleasure in saying. It only consisted of four
rooms, their bedroom and dressing-room, the sitting-room and Gilbert's
smoking-room, a place that he talked vaguely of working in and where he
could entertain his men friends, without bothering Joan, when they
called to see him.
The windows of their bedroom opened out over the green of the Park.
Sometimes the scent of the heliotrope crept up even as far as that;
whenever it did Joan would have to hold her breath and stand quite still
because the fragrance brought--not Aunt Janet now--but Gilbert before
her. It had blown in just like that the first night she had been in the
room; the memories it could rouse were bewildering, intoxicating, and
yet ... Joan would have to push the disturbing thoughts from her and run
to find Gilbert if he were anywhere in their tiny domain, to perch on
the arm of his chair and rub her face against his coat. His presence
could drive away the vague feeling of uneasiness, his hands could win
her back to placid contentment or wake in her the restless passionate
desire which she judged to be love.
It had been on one of these occasions that, running to find Gilbert, she
had flung open the door of his smoking-room and got well inside before
she discovered that he had some men with him. Gilbert lifted his head
with a frown, that she noticed, while the guests struggled to their
feet. There was a little silence while they all looked at her, then,
with a muttered excuse, she retreated, closing the door behind her. But
before it quite shut she heard one of the men laugh and say:
"Hulloa, Stanning, so that is the secret of our bachelor flat is it?
thought you had been lying very low this last two months."
She did not catch Gilbert's reply, she only knew that the sense of shame
which had been but a fleeting vision before had suddenly taken sharp,
strong hold of her. She stood almost as it were battling against tears.
That evening across their small dining-table, after the waiter from the
restaurant downstairs had served the coffee and left them, she spoke to
Gilbert, crumbling her bread with nervous fingers, finding it difficult
to meet his eyes.
"Those men," she said, "who were here this afternoon, what do they
think of me? I mean," she flushed quickly, "what do they think I am?"
"Think you are," Gilbert repeated, "my dear girl, I suppose they could
see you were a woman."
"I mean, had you told them, did they know about us?"
"Silly kid," he smiled at her indulgently, "the world is not so
fearfully interested in our doings."
"No, but they are your friends," the hazel eyes meeting his held some
wistful question. "Wouldn't they wonder, doesn't it seem funny that they
shouldn't be my friends too?"
Gilbert rose, conscious of a little impatience. The strange thing was
that since the very commencement of their life together his conscience
had not been as easy as he would have liked to have had it. Joan's ideas
had been so ridiculously simple and straightforward, she was almost a
child, he had discovered, in her knowledge and thoughts. Not that he was
a person to pay much attention to principles when they came in contact
with his desires, only it annoyed and irritated him to find she could
waken an undreamt of conscience in this way. He shook off the feeling,
however, with a little laugh, and, rising from the table, crossed over
to her, standing behind her, drawing her head back against his heart.
"Not satisfied with our solitude," he teased; "find it dull?"
"No, it's not that," she answered; she had to fight against the
temptation to let things go, to lift up her lips for his kiss. "It's
because--well, you didn't introduce me, they must have thought it
queer."
"Oh, hang it all, dear," he remonstrated, "I could not pass you off as
my wife or sister, they would know it was not true. What do you want to
know them for anyhow? Sclater works at the office with me and the other
man is a pal of his, I have never met him before."
"I see," she agreed; he had not at all understood her, but she doubted
if she could quite explain herself. "It doesn't matter, Gilbert." She
sat a little away from him, sweeping the crumbs together with her
fingers.
Behind her back Gilbert shrugged his shoulders and allowed the frown to
show for a second on his face. Then he turned aside and lit a cigarette.
"Let's do a theatre to-night, Joan," he suggested, "I am just in the
mood for it."
She was not just in the mood for it, but she went; and after the theatre
they had supper at the Monico and Gilbert ordered a bottle of champagne
to cheer them up; with the lights and music all round them and Gilbert's
face opposite her, his lips smiling at her, his eyes caressing her, Joan
forgot her mood of uneasiness. In the taxi going home she crept close up
against him, liking to feel the strong hold of his arms.
"You love me, and I love you, don't I, Gilbert?" she whispered; "that is
all that really counts."
"It counts more than all the world," he answered, and stooped to kiss
her upturned lips.
She made no new friends in her life with him, the old ones naturally
fell rather into the background; it was impossible to keep up girl
friendships when she was never able to ask any of them home with her.
Once she went back to see Mrs. Thomas, but the torrent of questions,
none of which could be answered truthfully, had paralysed her. She had
sat dumb and apparently sulky. Mrs. Thomas had written afterwards to
Aunt Janet:
"I do not think Joan can be really happy in her new post. She
is quite changed, no longer her bright, cheery self."
And that had called forth a long letter from Aunt Janet to Joan. If she
was not happy and did not feel well she was to leave at once. It had
been her own wish to go to London, they had never liked the idea. "You
would not believe, Joan, how dull the house is with only John and me in
it, we miss your singing and laughter about the place. Come back home,
dear; even if it is only for a holiday, we shall be delighted."
There was a hint behind the letter that unless she had a satisfactory
reply at once she or Uncle John would come up to London to see Joan for
themselves! Joan could imagine the agitation and yet firm purpose which
would preface the journey. She wrote hastily. She was perfectly happy
and ridiculously underworked. Everyone was so good to her, one day soon
she would take a day off and run down and see them, they should see how
well she was looking.
But the writing of the letter brought tears to her eyes, and when it was
sealed up and pushed safely out of harm's way she sat and cried and
cried. Once or twice lately she had had these storms of tears, she was
so unused to crying that she could not account for them in any way
except that she hated having to tell lies. That was it, she hated having
to tell lies.
It was about a fortnight later that Gilbert at breakfast one morning
looked up from a letter which the early post had brought him with a
frown of intense annoyance on his face. Also he said "Damn!" very
clearly and distinctly.
Joan pushed aside the paper and looked at him.
"Anything wrong?" she asked; "is it business, or money, or----"
"No, it is only the mater," he answered quickly; "she writes to say she
is coming to pay me a little visit, that I am to see if I can get her a
room somewhere in the building, she is going to spend two or three days
shopping in town and hopes to see a lot of me."
"Oh," said Joan rather blankly. Gilbert never talked very much of his
people; once he had shown her a photograph of his mother because she had
teased him till he produced it. "Don't you like the idea? Gilbert, was
that what you said 'damn' about?"
"Not exactly," his eyes travelled round the room; "you'll have to clear
out, you know," he said abruptly.
"You mean you want her to have our room and take another one in the
building for yourself?" asked Joan. "I daresay Mrs. Thomas would give me
a bed for a night or two."
"Yes, that is it," he agreed; "and you will have to hide away all traces
of yourself, mustn't leave anything suspicious lying about. The old lady
might have given me a day or two's notice;" he had returned to his
letter, "hang it all, she says she will be here to-morrow."
Joan had pushed her chair back and stood up, her breakfast unfinished.
She was staring at his down-bent head, struggling with a wild desire to
scream, to cry out against the curtain of shame he was so wilfully
sweeping across their life together. She fought down the impulse though
and moved over to the window.
"You want me to go away and hide?" she asked from there, her voice
dangerously quiet.
He glanced up at her. "Keep out of the mater's way," he acknowledged,
"she would have seven fits."
"Why?" asked Joan.
"Why," he repeated, "good Lord, you don't know the mater. She----"
Joan interrupted. "You are ashamed of me," she spoke quickly, her face
had flushed. "You have always been a little ashamed of me. You have
never really looked at it as I did. I thought----" she broke off and
turned away from him, stupid hot tears were blinding her eyes, she did
not want to cry, it was so useless and childish.
Gilbert stuffed his mother's letter into his pocket and rose to his
feet, stretching a little as he moved.
"Don't be ridiculous, kiddie," he said, "you must see it would not do
for you to meet the mater. She is old-fashioned and--well, she would not
understand."
"We could make her understand," Joan whispered, "if she saw we both
really meant it."
"Well, I don't want you to try," he answered bluntly.
"Don't you feel the same about me as if I were your wife?" She knew he
was close beside her, but she did not turn to look at him.
Gilbert put an arm round her and drew her close. "Of course I do," he
said, "but mother wouldn't. One does not exactly introduce one's mother
to one's mistress."
The inclination to tears had left Joan, a very set calm had taken its
place. Suddenly she knew, as she stood there stiff held within the
circle of his arms, that it was all ended. The dream, if it had been a
dream, was finished, she could not live in it any longer.
"Very well," she agreed listlessly. "I will see about going away, the
place shall be all ready for her to-morrow."
She moved away from him, he did not notice how purposely she shook the
touch of his hands from off her.