"She said, 'Be good with me; I grow
So tired for shame's sake, I shall die
If you say nothing:' . . ."
A. C. SWINBURNE: _The Leper_.
1
For a fugitive from justice London is either the best hiding-place in
the world, or else the worst; I have never had an opportunity of
deciding, and Mrs. O'Rane's experience has not helped me.
She left Milford Square in the first week of December; in the middle of
January her husband and friends gleaned their first news of her. So both
succeeded and both failed.
She has told me that her first action after leaving Grayle was to enter
a tube station and to study a railway map of London. Her knees were
trembling violently, and her brain was numbed so that she stared at
names without reading them until something inside her head like the
ticking of a watch, now silent, now intrusive, as her attention was
captured or left free, warned her to concentrate her thoughts; she had
to get away, and time was being lost, time was being lost....
The "inner city" was _ex hypothesi_ closed to her; Chelsea, Kensington
and Hampstead each contained a sprinkling of friends; beyond them she
spelled out the names of places on the outer fringe through which she
had passed on her way north, west or south from London. Willesden--you
met Willesden on your way to Holyhead or the west of Scotland;
Wimbledon--that was an old friend, encountered every time that you went
by the London and South Western to Melton; Croydon--surely Croydon lay
on the way to Dover? But nobody _lived_ there.... Certainly no woman in
her senses journeyed to Croydon and inexplicably put up at an hotel.
What was one to do during the day? Invent excuses to get away from the
hotel between meals? But one must not stray towards London. For three
hours, morning and afternoon, one could walk between interminable rows
of villas....
Yet why confine herself to London, when the whole of England lay before
her? She had only to drive to King's Cross, Euston, Waterloo,
Paddington.... But she stood in a blouse, skirt and fur-coat; and all
her other clothes were at "The Sanctuary" or in Milford Square. She
could buy others, of course, but her one prayer was to avoid meeting
people. They were talking about her, they would stare past her, when
they met, or else--worthy souls!--warn her for her good that Colonel
Grayle's name was being coupled with hers,--when he had flung her out of
the house! An hour before she had her speeches ready; she was nervously
anxious, after the long strain of waiting, to defend herself and defy
society in the same breath,--but there was now nothing to defend. She
had bought her last dress a fortnight ago at Worth's,--and Grayle had
accompanied her to the shop....
But the clothes were a trifle--though she would have to start from the
beginning, buy a portmanteau, have it sent to--well, to her temporary
headquarters, paying for her room in advance,--assuming that the
management would take her in--awaiting the brand-new trunk and the
succession of parcels and milliners' boxes. There was not very much
privacy about such an escape.... And, if you _got_ your clothes and
_got_ away, you were compelled since the war to give your true name
wherever you went; anyone who chose to enquire of the police
anywhere.... And you could not get even to Ireland without a permit. It
was natural enough, but hard on her, when she was so bruised and beaten,
when she wanted so desperately to hide....
No weakness or self-pity! Back to the map, though it were but the map
of London. All England might lie stretched in a welcoming expanse, but
it was lamentably true that one knew very little of England. One had
stayed in country houses here, there and everywhere; one had gone to an
hotel in Harrogate, an hotel in Brighton, perhaps three more; one had
never explored England like a Cook's tourist or a commercial traveller.
One's imagination would not venture beyond a familiar ring--Brighton,
Harrogate, Oxford or London.
She stared at the map until a furtive young man who had passed and
repassed, slily trying to catch sight of her face, asked whether he
could be of any assistance. The shock of being addressed by a strange
voice and the need of collecting herself to answer it cleared her brain.
"I want to get to--Euston," she said--and was surprised by the ease and
assurance of her tone, steady and authoritative.
"You change into the Hampstead Tube at Leicester Square," he told her.
She waited until he had turned his back and then went upstairs to a
public telephone and rang up Grayle's house. It was prostitution of her
pride to communicate with the house even from a distance, but she had to
have clothes. The butler answered the telephone, and, in the same
steady, authoritative voice she asked him to send everything to the
Grosvenor Hotel. There was no difficulty about engaging a room, if she
could say that her luggage was coming later; no difficulty about
anything, if she kept her head.... And then she could look round at her
leisure, though she would have to change her hotel next day, since she
had revealed where she was going.
The next thing? Money. She drove to her bank, drew twenty pounds and
enquired the balance. For some weeks she could be easy in her mind on
the score of money. Of course, if her father heard anything and thought
fit to stop paying her allowance.... The drive from the bank to the
hotel was the worst ten minutes of her life. Hitherto she had only
wanted an asylum where she could shelter until she was strong enough to
face the world disdainfully; now she knew that she could never face the
world and that she must prowl from one hiding-place to another,
lingering apprehensively until she was identified and then wearily
slinking away into greater seclusion.... Of _course_ her father would
hear, everyone would hear. And it would give such pleasure to her
enemies when they saw that they could put her out of countenance!
Everyone had enemies; the most popular and beloved girl of her
acquaintance had been prosecuted for some fraud over the insurance of
jewellery, and a chorus of jubilation had gone up from these
smooth-faced, false friends. And, when she herself had broken off her
engagement with Jim Loring, the vilest things were said; she heard them
years later from other friends who wanted to make mischief. Women were
contemptible creatures. And there would be a thunder of exultation at
_her_ downfall. They hated her because she told them frankly that women
bored her; they were jealous because she was admittedly one of the
greatest beauties in London; for years men had been falling in love with
her and begging her to marry them; she could have had her choice....
And now she had been turned out of her lover's house! And the world
would know it any day. Already her husband's solicitors had written to
Grayle, asking for his solicitor's name and address. The letter had been
on the Buhl cabinet, and she had opened it in his presence. From the
very first she had always opened his letters like that; he had enjoyed
it; it had seemed to bring them closer.... But this time he was furious.
That was the first of the big scenes which had ended with her leaving
the house.... She did not know when the case would be heard, but the
story would race round London; and other stories would be reminiscently
tacked on to it--her two broken engagements before she married; it would
be said that no man could endure her for more than six months.... She
found herself shaken with quivering, dry sobs.
In the hall of the hotel a man bowed to her, and she tried not to see
him, as though she had no right to be there. And, when the room had been
allotted her, she hurried to it and locked herself in; no one could
stare at her there, no one could begin to speak and then recollect and
break off. She looked at her watch, dreading the descent to the
dining-room, though it was not yet four o'clock; and suddenly she
remembered that she had promised to dine with Lord Pentyre and go to a
play. He was home on short leave, they had met at luncheon two days
before, and she had chosen the restaurant and the theatre....
It was a test case. Since leaving "The Sanctuary" she had occasionally
dined out with Grayle, occasionally met him by chance at other houses
and often dined with him at home; they had also dined separately with
their respective friends, trying to reveal no outward change in their
lives until it was forced upon them. Soon people would refuse to meet
her, for, whatever else the altercation with Grayle had made clear, they
were being of a sudden universally discussed. Bobbie Pentyre had said
something about bringing his mother, who had come to London for his
leave and wanted to see as much of him as possible. If Lady Pentyre
refused to come ... if her absence had to be laboriously explained....
The telephone meant questions. She wrote out a telegram and sent it down
by the hand of her chambermaid; then she lay down on the bed and tried
first to make her mind a blank, but Grayle's voice was echoing in her
ears, then to surrender to her headache, but it absorbed only half her
attention. If she could explain and cry to someone ... a man.... Staring
dully at the clock, she told herself that _now_ she would have been
dressing, _now_ telling the butler to get her a taxi; now, when her
dinner was brought in on a tray, Lord Pentyre would be waiting in the
lounge at Claridge's; another moment, and he would have been hurrying
forward to shake her hand, order her a cocktail, offer her a
cigarette....
The hotel would be filled with people that she knew and wanted to
see--not that she cared about them, but because there was something
friendly about knowing and being known. She loved living in a crowd. In
her first season, when she came up from the country and was uncertain of
herself, she could have cried with mortification when everyone else was
so much at ease and she was left in the cold until she spoke of
comparative strangers by their Christian names, like the others, to
pretend that she, too, had known them since she was a child. Instead of
which.... She _was_ extraordinarily attractive, her father never grudged
money, her mother worked indefatigably; and--there was no harm in saying
it, when it was all over,--she had been taken at her own valuation,
socially boomed.... When she was engaged to Jim Loring--she could see it
now--what a _mésalliance_ the old marchioness must have thought her
beloved boy was making! It was all over now, but, when she dined with
Bobby Pentyre, she _did_ rather like seeing two-thirds of the people
bowing to her and knowing that the rest were whispering, "Isn't that
Sonia Dainton? Sonia O'Rane, I should say. Who's she with?" In her first
season someone would only have said "Pentyre's got a very pretty girl
with him."
But it was all over--with that night. And how petty, when you were flung
against realities! To-morrow, if Pentyre dined at Claridge's, the idlers
would nod to him and say to one another, "Pentyre reminds me. Usen't he
to be rather _lié_ with Sonia O'Rane? Someone was saying at lunch...."
And it would all come out! At least, it wouldn't.... She didn't care a
_damn_, if _anyone_ knew the _truth_, but, when they whispered and the
women pretended not to be listening for fear it was improper--listening
all the time till their ears flopped out of their heads ...!
To-morrow--She started guiltily. To-morrow they would be expecting her
at ten for the Belgian Refugee Committee. And she was lunching out with
someone--her head ached too much to recollect who it was; she had
promised to lunch and dine out for a fortnight, as she always did;
luncheon was arranged for one o'clock at the Piccadilly Grill Room (so
it must be some _very_ young admirer!), because she had to go on to a
charity performance at the Alhambra, where she was appearing in a
_tableau_ with Lady Sally Farwell and a crowd of other people--something
eighteenth-centuryish, but she had never found out precisely what they
were supposed to represent.... And the day after she was starting a
great housing scheme for the refugees in London, begging for unoccupied
houses with one hand and superfluous furniture with the other, bringing
the two together. _That_ was the kind of war-work she liked.... Sir
Adolphus Erskine had promised her one of his cars, and she was going
round to call on house agents in a new green and black hat with broad
green ribbons at the back and a silk cloak bordered with Valenciennes
lace.... Grayle had sat, beating a stick against his leg, while she
chose it....
That was all over, too. A bigger woman, she supposed, would have gone on
her way unperturbed, refusing to be frowned out of existence and regally
contriving to place everyone else in the wrong--"The Second Mrs.
Tanqueray" in her rehabilitation. Though that was on the stage, of
course; she had never seen it in real life.... Anyway, she could not sit
on a committee with Violet Loring and know that she was saying to
herself, "I can't make out why Jim didn't see through her." Jim never
_had_ seen through her, he would have cut off his hand to marry her, cut
off both hands when she broke the engagement. But Violet Loring would
think that God had stepped in just in time to save him--"You're well out
of it, my dear! Rather even poor David than you."
It was a long time since she had concentrated her thoughts on David, but
it was too late in the evening to fit him into his place. At least it
was only half-past nine, but she was too tired to think. It was not much
use going to bed, because she obviously could not sleep, but it would be
something to turn the lights out. Undressing slowly, she discovered that
she had not begun to unpack; all the things that she did not want would
be at the top, and all the things that she wanted at the bottom. It
really was not worth it.... She climbed into bed, wondering for a
moment why the sheets were so warm and discovering that she had not
taken off her stockings. As she pulled the pillow into the nape of her
neck, a comb pressed hard against her head, and she found that she had
not brushed her hair. "I suppose a man's like this, when he goes to bed
drunk," she told herself. Then her eyes closed, and she fell asleep.
At two, five and seven she woke suddenly, wondering what the vague
menace was that had frightened her. It stabbed her mind; her heart
quickened its beat, and she lay panting until gradually she passed into
a waking dream. At nine she was roused by the chambermaid, who said that
a gentleman had called to know if Mrs. David O'Rane was staying in the
hotel. He gave no name of his own, but hers was set out in printed
capitals.
"Mrs. David O'Rane," she murmured, taking the paper and trying at once
to seem unconcerned and yet to identify the writing of the printed
letters. "No, it can't be for me. Who did you say brought it?"
"He didn't give any name, ma'am."
"But what was he like?" she asked, conscious that she was speaking too
quickly for perfect composure.
"I didn't see him, ma'am. One of the porters brought it up. I'll
enquire, if you like."
"Oh, it doesn't matter," Mrs. O'Rane answered. "I was only wondering....
Mrs. David O'Rane.... It can't be meant for me...."
It was well that she had registered without a Christian name, though she
had been compelled to give "The Sanctuary" as her address--she had no
other; her unknown visitor had apparently not troubled to carry his
investigations so far. It was an escape; it was also the first verbal
lie that she had ever told.
Then for the day's engagements.... Perhaps nothing would be known as
yet; but to-morrow or the next day it _would_ be known, she would not be
expected at her Committee; at least, they would wait wondering whether
to expect her or not.... It was better to telegraph and say that she
was slightly indisposed....
The past was closed as she left the telegraph office. She had to dodge
back, as she caught sight of Lady Loring and the Dowager walking away
from the Cathedral, no doubt going through the Park on foot to kill time
before their joint committee meeting. She _must_ get far away from all
these associations and reminders; and she _must_ find something to do.
All her life she was so restless, she had tried to do too much, she was
always looking for new excitements; motherly souls like Lady Maitland
always told her that--and then asked her to sell flags outside the War
Office. And with every man who fell in love with her there was a phase
in which he implored her tenderly and unselfishly to take better care of
herself--and then robbed her of her afternoon rest in order to dine
early and go to a play. People were wonderfully selfish at heart,
especially those like David and Vincent, who made most parade of their
unselfishness and devotion.... Even when she stayed away in the country
and was supposed to be doing nothing, she was never happy without some
diversion; she _could_ not sit down and read or wander about a garden,
or go for aimless, dreary walks; she had always needed the stimulus of
something to shew her off, to polish and sharpen her, something rival
and competing, an audience....
It was not going to be easy to fill her endless day, her life of endless
days. When war first broke out, she found that her world was come to an
end, that the men were taking commissions and the women training
themselves to nurse. She, too, had tried to nurse--and had given it up
because the physical strain was too great. Then after her marriage she
had collected these committees and acted and sung for charity, but there
were very few things that she _could_ do. And she had not learnt to do
anything in the interval. A government office might engage her, if she
chose to furnish satisfactory references, on unskilled, mechanical work.
She would go unrecommended, without qualification.... No. _That_ could
be dismissed. She was not going to the Foreign Office, say, to have
Gerald Deganway sniggering to his friends about her; or to find herself
unexpectedly carrying an armful of papers to Sir Harry Merefield, or
Lord John Carstairs, who had been transferred from the Diplomatic. She
_knew_ people in all these offices. Before the war she had met them
every night at dances....
Of course, a man like Sir Adolphus Erskine with his spider's web of
commercial interests would find her work, but she was not going to take
_him_ into her confidence; he had known her in her glory, when London
was at her feet. If she had been in the mood to discuss herself or ask
for sympathy, she would have gone the day before to Crowley Court and
braved her mother. She had not gone, she would never go; if she had
brought this kind of thing on herself, she would go through with it
single-handed.
As soon as the Lorings were safely out of sight, she walked into Ashley
Gardens on her way back to the hotel. Opposite the Cathedral a car,
driven by a girl in livery, was awaiting its owner. Mrs. O'Rane suddenly
decided to go up and speak to her.
"I wonder if you'll give me some information," she began with a smile.
"I want to know where you have to go to get taken on for a job like
that."
"Can you drive a car?" the girl asked.
"I've driven a Fiat and an Argyle and a Mercedes."
"Repairs?" the girl asked in a business-like voice.
"I took the Mercedes up to Scotland single-handed once. I don't say I
could take an engine down, but I'm equal to the ordinary things."
The girl considered.
"The General--I drive for General Calverly, you know--" Mrs. O'Rane
nodded and turned apprehensively to see whether the General was in
sight. They had met a week before at dinner with the Duchess of Ross.
"He was asking me the other day if I could find anyone for a friend of
his, some man in the Admiralty. I suppose you know your way about
London? If you like to give me your address, I'll mention it to the
General. Or, of course, you can go to the school where I went, get
yourself tested and then choose for yourself when someone applies. It's
the 'Emergency Motor Drivers' in Long Acre. Aren't you Mrs. O'Rane?"
"I am. How did you know that?"
"I thought you must be," the girl answered with a laugh. "I've seen your
photograph in the papers so much. The General will probably want you to
come and drive for him."
Mrs. O'Rane tried to seem pleased by the compliment when she was only
thankful for the warning.
"I'd better go to the school, I think," she said. "They may say I'm not
good enough, and I don't like disappointing people. Thanks most awfully.
Good-bye."
She hurried away as a portly figure in uniform clattered down the steps,
screwing an eye-glass in place, while his driver stiffened to attention.
2
On the morning after my council of war with the Oakleighs, I telegraphed
to Dainton that I was motoring down and suggested that I should pick him
up at Crowley Court and drive him into Melton for an interview with
O'Rane. He must have guessed, I should have thought, that my mission
overnight had failed, but I could see, when we met, that he and his wife
were emptily hoping. Both were waiting at the door when I arrived; both
looked past me into the empty car, as I got out.
"You couldn't get her to come?" Dainton enquired anxiously. "Ah!"
He was a flabby, ineffectual little man at the best of times, and the
shock had made him pathetically more flabby. God knows! it was not my
tragedy, and I cannot boast that I am capable of an unusually brave show
under affliction, but I wanted to make Dainton throw out his chest and
hold his head up--and do some hard manual work and a few physical
exercises. I wished, for her elevation, too, that his daughter could see
the state to which she had reduced him; she was not sufficiently clever
or detached to realise how much his limp indulgence had contributed to
her pampered, neurotic wilfulness, but the consequences were there for
all to mark. Lady Dainton shewed no sign of weakness. She had not slept
much, I dare swear, since her husband returned, but she was collected
and equal to every demand.
"I expect we shall find lunch waiting," she said, as I came in. "We can
only give you cold comfort, I'm afraid. When we turned the house into a
hospital, Roger and I only kept two rooms for ourselves, so, if you find
my nurses running in to see me every two minutes, don't you know?... I'm
glad you were able to come, because we're spending your money here and I
want you to see that we're spending it properly."
A table had been laid for us in a room which from its "Vanity Fair"
cartoons, gun-cases, "Badminton Library" and estate-maps, I judged to be
Dainton's study. The servants were hardly out of the room before he
turned to me.
"What happened?" he demanded anxiously. "Catherine knows everything."
"I'm afraid it's rather more and perhaps rather worse than either of you
know," I warned him. "I called at the house, and she wasn't there.
They'd had a quarrel, and she'd--left him. I've no idea where she is,
though George Oakleigh was going to make all possible enquiries to-day.
You've not seen O'Rane since last night?"
He shook his head, turning his face away abruptly so that I should not
see it, and seemed unable to speak.
"We thought it better to wait till we'd heard from you," explained Lady
Dainton. "She's--left this man, you say? I shall want a moment to
consider this."
I only broke a long silence because I observed her husband preparing to
speak and knew that he would contribute nothing worth hearing.
"As I see it, Lady Dainton," I said, "there's an element of hope. We can
never set things as they were before, but we may prevent them from
growing worse. On the one hand, O'Rane may _now_ consent to stop
proceedings. I've not seen him since he made up his mind to move, I
can't say what decided him, but, _if_ we're all agreed that we don't
want the scandal of a divorce, you may be able to stop it. On the other
hand, I've been thinking this over the whole way down and I'm not sure
that a divorce isn't the necessary and the best thing for both of them,
however painful it may be at the time. Quite clearly your daughter and
O'Rane can never take up their old life; you see, there are no children
to keep them together, even in appearance; they're both quite young, and
I question whether it's fair on either to condemn them to their present
state. O'Rane can't wake up in ten years' time and discover that it
would be a good thing for both of them to resume their liberty."