SHE would read the paper to-morrow, she had said. But on the morrow she
awoke with a violent headache and stayed abed, and had only time to
scramble into her clothes and attend a twelve o’clock committee meeting
in Westminster. And for the remainder of the day, until she went to bed
exhausted at midnight, she had not a minute to spare. The next morning
she had her early appointment with Godfrey. She went forth into a raw
air with a threat of autumn in it, and a slight drizzle from an overcast
sky. The two-seater, with damp hood up, was waiting round the corner of
the Square. She opened the door and jumped in, almost before he was
aware of her approach, and rather hysterically flung her arms about him.
“Oh darling, be good to me! I’m feeling so tired and miserable.”
He proclaimed himself a brute for dragging her out on such a filthy
morning. It was super-angelic of her to come, but he had scarcely
expected her. Wouldn’t it be better to go back home and rest?
“No, no, dear,” she murmured. “This is my rest. Beside you. Storm or
sunshine, what does it matter, so long as we’re together?”
“It doesn’t matter to me,” said he, driving off. “Hell and damnation
would be Paradise if I always had you with me.”
And in the same emotional key they talked all the time during their
drive through a dank and dismal world. They felt like Paolo and
Francesca in Watts’s picture, clinging together alone in comfortless
space, remote from War Office and wars and other affairs of men. She
wailed:
“Oh, darling, if only I had met you before I made my wretched marriage!”
“Yes, by God!” said Godfrey, setting his teeth and feeling very fierce.
It did not occur to either of them, in their unhumorous mood, that when
she married he was a gawky boy of sixteen.
Gradually they came to vital things.
“If I were little Mrs. Tomkins, whom nobody knows, we could get a hidden
nest somewhere, you and I. It would be happiness, and it would be
hurting or betraying nobody. But I’m Lady Edna Donnithorpe, related to
half the peerage, and known by sight to everybody who looks at an
illustrated paper.”
“Why not cut everything and make a bolt of it?” asked Godfrey, glaring
straight in front of him at the cheerless, almost empty road, his young
face set very stem.
“Your career——”
He cursed his career.
“Your soldier’s post. How can you leave it? You’re doing a man’s work
for your country.”
“Hell take it!” said he.
“Take what?”
“The whole infernal universe,” he growled, and swerved viciously so as
to avoid imminent collision with an indignant motor-bus. Again they came
to the bed-rock fact of his soldier’s duty.
On their return journey it rained in torrents.
“You’ll get wet through if you walk,” said he, when they arrived at
their trysting spot. “I’ll drive you up to the house and chance it.”
He chanced it, helped her out of the car and stood on the pavement,
watching her until she had let herself in with her latchkey. She ran
upstairs, to be confronted with her husband at the door of his room
which was on the same landing. He was in his dressing-gown, and one side
of his face was shaven, the other lathered.
“I thought you went to a canteen in the mornings?”
“So I do,” she replied calmly.
“Does young Baltazar work there too?”
“Young Baltazar very often calls for me, when it rains, on his way to
the War Office, and gives me a lift home.”
“You’re seeing far too much of that young man.”
“The last time we discussed the Baltazar family,” she said with a
scornful laugh, “you accused me of an intrigue with his father. My dear
Edgar, go on with your shaving and don’t be idiotic.” She flung into her
room angry and humiliated. After all, Edgar had the right to consider
his good name, even though his jealousy could not proceed from betrayed
affection. This was the first time he had referred to Godfrey in any
way. Uneasiness beset her; so did the eternal question of the deceitful
wife: “How much did he know?” They did not meet that day till
dinner-time—it was one of the rare occasions on which they dined alone
together—when he seemed to be making amends for the morning’s attack by
more than usual courteous conversation on current events. They parted
amicably.
The next afternoon, arriving home very late, she was surprised at seeing
him coming, half dressed for dinner, from her room. He smiled in a
friendly way and held up a button-hook.
“Mine’s nowhere to be seen—that confounded new parlourmaid—I hope you
don’t mind.”
“We’re getting quite domestic,” she said ironically.
“It’s pleasanter,” said he.
She wondered much at his graciousness for the next few days. He became
attentive, manifested dry solicitude as to her health and her social and
political interests. She dreaded a recrudescence of the thin sentiment
that, on his part, had sanctioned their marriage. The fear tainted the
joy of her visits to the mythical canteen. Sooner open hostility than
this semblance of conjugal affection.
“I’m sorry, darling, to have been so mouldy,” she said, taking leave of
Godfrey one morning, “but the situation is getting on my nerves. I’m fed
up.”
A day or two later Edgar Donnithorpe entered her sitting-room, where she
was writing letters.
“Sorry to interrupt you, Edna,” said he, “but have you definitely
decided to go to Moulsford this next week-end?”
“Certainly. I told you. The Barringtons and Susie Delamere and one or
two others are coming.”
“Do you mind if I don’t turn up till Sunday?”
“Of course not,” she replied. He was exceedingly polite.
“Thanks,” said he. “The fact is, I want to ask a dozen men or so to
dinner here. Only men, you know.”
She glanced at him rather puzzled, for his proposal was an unprecedented
departure from the custom of the house. Hitherto he had given his men’s
political dinner parties at his club. There had been no arrangement or
understanding between them as to this mode of entertainment, but so had
it chanced to be; and he was a creature of routine.
“Of course. Just as you like. But what’s wrong with the only place fit
to dine at in London?”
“It’s war time, my dear,” said he, eyeing her shiftily. “War time. All
the clubs have gone to the devil.”
“All right. If you’ll tell me how many are coming, I’ll see to it.”
“No, please don’t. Please don’t worry your head about it.” He made a
step forward and held up his thin hand in a deprecatory sort of way.
“I’ll fix it up. I don’t want it to be the slightest bit of a concern to
you. Thanks so much.”
He hurried out. Lady Edna frowned at her half-written letter. A devious
man, Edgar. What was in the wind? The cook the next day, however,
submitted to her a menu which, with a housewifely modification or so,
she passed, and thought no more of the material banquet.
During the week the hint of a rumour reached her, when, at a public
meeting, she ran up against the Rt. Hon. Sir Berkeley Prynne, a Member
of the Government who had been hostile to her husband for many years and
had only given the hatchet superficial burial during the party truce.
“I suppose you know a lot of us are quaking in our shoes?” he said, half
banteringly.
“I don’t,” she said. “But I’ve no doubt it’s good for you. What’s the
matter?”
“Signs of underground rumblings. Your quick ears have detected nothing?”
“No. Really. Honour bright. Do tell me.”
He shook his head and laughed. “It’ll be a wash-out,” said he, moving
away.
Gibe or warning, Sir Berkeley’s words were not devoid of significance.
They were aimed at her husband. Underground rumblings meant intrigue.
She had long suspected Edgar of half-hearted support of the Government;
but passionate devotion to anything was so foreign to his crafty,
opportunist nature, that she had not greatly troubled her mind about his
loyalty. Here, however, was cause for deeper consideration. The old
hacks, as she had said to Godfrey, were being squeezed out as decently
as might be, so as to give place to fresher and honester men, and
Edgar’s position was daily growing more insecure. But she had thought he
was sticking to it desperately. Was the worm about to turn? And had the
projected dinner-party anything to do with the turning?
She asked him casually who were coming.
“Men connected with the business of the Ministry,” he replied. “People I
must be civil to and who don’t expect us to worry about their
women-folk.”
And she had to be contented with the answer.
On the Saturday afternoon, at Moulsford, she was surprised to see
Rolliter, the old butler, who she thought was staying the night at
Belgrave Square to superintend the dinner party. Why was he here?
“Mr. Donnithorpe’s orders, my lady. He said he could get on quite well
without me this evening. I couldn’t insist, my lady, but I didn’t like
leaving at all, especially as Lord Trevanion was coming.”
“Lord who?” she cried, for he had mentioned a name that was anathema
maranatha in Government circles.
“I think it’s Trevanion, my lady,” said the butler, rather taken aback
by her expression of incredulity. He fished a paper from his pocket and
consulted it. “Yes, my lady. I saw the list on Mr. Donnithorpe’s table,
so I copied it out so as to write the name-cards before I left.”
An idea struck her. “You did this without Mr. Donnithorpe’s orders?”
“Why, yes, my lady. Mr. Donnithorpe being so busy, I thought it might
slip his memory.”
“Did you write the cards?”
“No, my lady. When Mr. Donnithorpe told me to come down here, I asked
him about the name-cards, and he said he didn’t want them.”
“Let me see the list,” she said, recovering her languid manner.
“Certainly, my lady.” He handed her the paper. “The only reason I
mentioned Lord Trevanion,” he continued, “was because I happen to know
his lordship is one of the most particular men in England, and I
couldn’t bear to have things done anyhow when he was dining at the
house.”
She laughed in her charming way. “The blood’s on Mr. Donnithorpe’s head,
not yours, Rolliter.”
Rolliter had been in her father’s service before she was born and had
followed her, as butler, when she married.
“Thank you, my lady,” said he, retiring and leaving her with the list of
guests.
It was an instructive and at the same time bewildering document. It
contained the names of representatives of all the disgruntled and
pacifist factions in England. No wonder Edgar dared not face the
publicity of a club or restaurant dinner! No wonder he had lied to her
about his guests. No wonder he had sent Rolliter to the country without
writing out the cards. He wanted to hide the identity of his guests even
from his butler! At each name a new shiver went down her back. Lord
Trevanion, blatant millionaire Little Englander whom even the Radical
Government of 1906 had joyfully allowed to purchase a peerage, so as to
get him out of the House of Commons. There were Benskin and Pottinger
and Atwater, members of a small Parliamentary gang who lost no
opportunity of impeding the prosecution of the war. Lady Edna gasped.
Finch of the Independent Labour Party. Was Edgar going mad? Samways,
M.P. and Professor of History, pessimistic apostle of German efficiency
and preacher of the hopelessness of the Allies’ struggle. Editors of
pacifist organs—Featherstone, the most brilliant, whose cranky brain
had made him the partisan of England’s enemies all through his
journalistic career; Fordyce, snaky in his intellectual conceit;
Riordan, dark and suspect. . . . There were others, politicians and
publicists, self-proclaimed patriots and war-winners, but openly hostile
to the Government. Altogether the most amazing crew that ever Minister
of the Crown delighted to honour.
That the ultimate object of this gathering was the overthrowal of the
Government there could be no doubt. How they were going to manage it was
another matter. A rabble like that, thought Lady Edna scornfully, could
not upset a nervous old lady. It looked rather like a preliminary
meeting, held in secrecy, to start the network in which greater
personalities should be enmeshed and involved. At any rate, on the part
of Edgar Donnithorpe it was black treachery. The more she scanned the
list the more did her soul sicken within her. It seemed intolerable that
this pro-German orgy should take place in the house of which she was the
mistress, while she remained here, fooled, with her little week-end
party. She burned with vengeance against her husband.
It was half-past four. She stood in the drawing-room, which she had
entered a few minutes before, leaving her guests on the lawn, in order
to give some trivial order, and twisted the accusing paper in her hands,
her lips thin, deep in thought. Presently into her eyes crept a smile of
malice, and she went out of the French window and crossed the grass and
joined her friends. There were only three, Colonel and Mrs. Barrington
and Miss Delamere. A couple of men who were to have come down had
providentially been detained in London.
“My dear people,” she said, smiling. “The war has spread to Moulsford.
There’s nothing in the house for dinner. There’ll be heaps to-morrow,
but none to-night.”
“I’ll go down to the river and angle for a roach,” said Colonel
Barrington.
“Or else come with me to town and dine at the Carlton. I’ll take you all
in the Rolls-Royce. It will be a lovely run back.”
“But, my dear, it’ll be joy-riding!” cried Mrs. Barrington.
“It will be indeed,” said Lady Edna.
“But suppose we’re held up?”
“I’ll say I have to see my husband on important political business.”
“And I’m a soldier on active service,” said Colonel Barrington, “and
must be fed.”
“You don’t mind, do you?” asked Lady Edna.
Mind? Not they. What could be pleasanter on a perfect summer night?
Besides, they had not tasted the guilty sweets of joy-riding for many
months. It would be an adventure.
They started merrily about six o’clock. Lady Edna was in gay spirits, as
though enjoying a schoolgirl’s freak. Through the perfumed leafiness of
Streatley, Basildon, Pangbourne, they flew at the high speed of the
great car, through Reading and Maidenhead and Slough, through Hounslow
and Brentford. What was fifty miles? As they approached London Lady Edna
said:
“Will you think me funny if I look in at Belgrave Square for a minute?”
She spoke a word to the chauffeur. A while later the car swerved to the
right from the direct route to Piccadilly, and at eight o’clock pulled
up at the Donnithorpes’ house in Belgrave Square. Lady Edna sprang from
the car and tripped up the steps.
“I’ll let myself in with my latchkey,” she cried to the chauffeur who
was about to ring the bell.
In the hall she threw off her wraps, gave an instinctive tidying touch
to her hair before a mirror, and walked smiling on her errand. She waved
aside the hired stranger men-servants busy with plates outside the
dining-room door and boldly entered.
For a second or two no one observed her, then one or two guests caught
sight of the slender figure stately in her evening gown, and half rose
from their chairs. So the attention of all was called to her. Edgar
Donnithorpe, sitting at the head of the table with his back to the door,
turned and sprang to his feet with a gasp. To stay polite commotion she
laughed and held up her hand.
“Please don’t anyone get up.”
Her husband, in white anger, said:
“I thought you were at Moulsford, Edna. Is anything the matter?”
“Only your dinner party,” she replied with derisive graciousness. “I
happened to be dining in town, and it occurred to me to look in and see
that your guests had everything they wanted—especially”—she scanned
the faces deliberately—“as they are all new to the house.”
She bowed and withdrew. Her husband threw down his napkin and followed
her. Neither spoke till they reached the hall, when they faced each
other.
“I couldn’t make a scene before all those men,” he began.
“Of course you couldn’t. I knew that,” she interrupted.
“But I’ll make one now. By God I will! What do you mean by this
outrageous behaviour?”
“To queer your game, my friend. I thought it would be amusing to show
all your pretty conspirators that the gaff was blown.”
“I’m free to ask anyone to my own house. I’m master here, and the sooner
you learn it the better. Are you aware that you’ve insulted the whole of
my guests?”
“I flattered myself I behaved with peculiar courtesy,” said Lady Edna.
“It’s you who are being rude to them. You had better go back. Are you
coming down to Moulsford to-morrow?”
“No, I’m damned if I am!”
He flung away from her, then turned.
“By God! you shall pay for this.”
“Willingly. It’s worth a lot.”
He glowered at her impotently. What scene could he make other than one
of vulgar recrimination? She had caught him in a domestic lie and a
public act of treachery. For the moment his wife had all the weapons. So
they stood there in the rosy light of the hall, deadly enemies; she
triumphant, radiant in her scornful beauty; he small, thin, foxy and
malignant. Presently, with a laugh she moved to the front door.
“I never thought you particularly clever, Edgar,” she said. “But in
diplomatic crudity you could give lessons to the Wilhelmstrasse.”
With which Parthian shot she opened the door and rejoined her friends in
the car.
“Forgive me, dear people,” she said, settling in her place. “I’ve been
having the time of my life.”
* * * * *
She returned to town with her guests on Monday morning, but did not see
her husband until late in the afternoon, when, on his return from the
Ministry, he found her alone in her sitting-room.
“My dear Edna,” said he, in a conciliatory tone, “we owe each other a
little mutual understanding. It’s so undignified to quarrel.”
She put the book she was reading pages downward on her knee.
“Most undignified,” she assented.
“You were rather under a misapprehension as to Saturday night.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said, “for I was going to ask you a
question.”
“What was that?”
“Have you sent in your resignation to the Prime Minister?”
“No, no. Of course not. That’s where your error in judgment, if I may be
allowed to say so, comes in. I’m aware I couldn’t be seen publicly with
that crowd. I had to manage a secret meeting. But it was in order to get
them on our side. I thought a frank discussion with them might produce
good results.”
“Has it?”
“I think so,” said he. “Oh yes, I think so. I’m speaking at Bristol
to-night. You’ll see from my speech what my position is. I mean to
define it unmistakably.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
She turned away, hating him and despising him more than ever. She passed
a hideous day, overwhelmed with fears of treason and disaster.
They were justified the following morning when, looking through the
newspapers brought to her bedside, she first glanced at and then pored
over the leading article in the important daily edited by Fordyce, one
of the guests at the amazing dinner-party. It was an attack on the
Government’s conduct of the war, based, ostensibly, on the rumours whose
inaccuracy Godfrey had begged her to contradict, but, to those with
inner knowledge, on the real facts of the plan of the High Command. It
was done with diabolical craft. Challenged as to the source of his
information, Fordyce could point to the article and defy anyone to prove
that he was possessed of any esoteric information at all. It was mere
logical deduction from the general trend of the war policy of the Allied
Military Authorities. And yet the shivering woman knew that the scheme
had been divulged to Fordyce. How? In terror she sprang from her bed and
opened the secret drawer of her desk. The sheet of notepaper was there
just as she had left it. For a moment or two she stood, her hand on her
breast, laughing in a silly way. Edgar was capable of many things; but
not of rifling her private papers. He was capable of betraying the
Government to Fordyce, but as a Minister, she reflected, he would
possibly be aware of the scheme. As the Saturday evening host he had
communicated it to Fordyce. Possibly to others. But no. That would have
been madness. A man does not blacken himself to a dozen men at once. The
others he had assembled so as to prepare them, in his underhand,
insinuating way, for this master-stroke. . . . She closed the secret
drawer with an impatient snap, and went about the room clenching her
hands and uttering futile words.
“The villain! The infernal villain!”
No. Life with him henceforth was impossible. She would break away. . . .
She had her house at Moulsford, her own income. As for her London life,
she could take a suite at Claridge’s. In the indignant moment she almost
forgot Godfrey. Loathing of Edgar overspread all other thoughts.
Suddenly she remembered his Bristol speech, and ran through the _Times_
to find the report. Condensed, it contained nothing but the facile,
uninspired claptrap that had characterized his public utterances since
the beginning of his career. He was lying to the country which he had
set out to betray. . . . Meanwhile—so her excited fancy told her—he
was a peril running loose about the world. What could she do? Drive off
then and there and denounce him to the Prime Minister? He would
certainly ask her why she connected the leader in _The Morning Gazette_
with the dinner-party given to her husband’s political opponents. Whence
did she derive her knowledge that anything more than conjecture underlay
the criticism in Fordyce’s paper? And she would not have a word to say.
Once again she opened the drawer and took out Godfrey’s notes. Better
destroy them. Her fingers met in the middle of the sheet prepared to
tear. Then she paused. No. She thought of Sir Berkeley Prynne—a man of
unstained honour in private and public life. She would go to him, this
in her hand, tell the whole story and ask his advice. She thrust the
paper back into the drawer, rang for her maid and dressed.
A busy woman’s correspondence kept her occupied all the morning. At
half-past twelve came a telephone call from Godfrey:
“When and where can I see you? Something most important.”
“Oh, darling, what is it?” Her voice shook. “Where are you?”
“War Office. I can’t tell you anything over the phone. Besides, I
haven’t a minute. I’ll be free in about half an hour.”
“Come round here. I shall be alone.”
“Right.”
He switched off, leaving her in throbbing suspense. Naturally he was
coming to her about _The Morning Gazette_ article. To her excited fancy
the whole War Office was in a state of blind ferment like an ant-heap
bombed with a drop of kerosene. His tone, too, had been brusque,
imperious, that of a man dealing with crisis. She wished she had gone at
once in search of Sir Berkeley Prynne, instead of wasting her morning
over correspondence. Still, when one is Chairman and Treasurer of
practical concerns, their business has to be attended to. She went on
with her work, her eyes on the little agate clock in front of her.
The rattle of a car. A moment of horrible waiting. Rolliter at the door.
“Captain Baltazar, my lady.”
They stood for a breathless second until the butler had closed the door
behind him. Then he strode up and caught her in his arms. When she could
collect herself she looked into dancing, triumphant eyes. A wave of
relief swept through her. Suddenly she caught the echo, as it were, of
Rolliter’s announcement.
“Captain——?”
“Yes. And more than that. I’m going to France.”
She felt herself grow pale. “My dear——”
“It’s a great stunt,” he said exultantly. “Northby has got an Army
Corps. He wants me on his staff. I’m going out as the Brainy One, with a
step in rank. Old man Widdowes talked to me as if I were an infant Haig.
You could have knocked me down with a bunch of straw.”
“I’m so glad, dear. I’m so glad you’ve got what you want.”
“My God, yes!” said he, all aglow. “It’s the best thing a one-footed
cripple has done up to now. The W.O. isn’t the real thing. Out there it
is. As soon as I met you, I swore I’d make good. To be worthy of you, if
such a thing is possible.”
“I’m a proud woman,” said Lady Edna. “But I don’t understand—General
Northby—I never heard——”
“Of course you didn’t. Neither did I. It was all secrecy and
suddenness.”
He explained roughly the circumstances.
“And when do you go out?”
“In three days’ time. I’m on leave till then.”
“Three days?” She looked at him aghast. “And then you go away
indefinitely?”
She paused, drew a long breath or two, and sank limply into a chair. He
looked at her rather wonderingly.
“What about me, Godfrey?”
In the gratification of his wildest boyish ambitions he had forgotten
her woman’s point of view. He had expected her to share his elation.
Remorseful, he bent quickly over her, reddening and stammering. He was a
selfish brute. Did he really matter so much to her? If she would but say
the word, he would go straight back and refuse the appointment.
“Don’t talk like a child,” she said. “If you did such a thing, we should
despise each other for the rest of our lives. But three days—only three
days! And I’m at my wits’ end with unhappiness.”
He sank lover-like by her side and took her hand. What was wrong?
“Have you seen _The Morning Gazette?_”
He laughed. “Oh yes! There’s a hell of a hullabaloo! But the beauty of
it is, that the whole thing went fut three or four days ago. I can’t
tell you why. We’re working out quite a different plan. All the same,
there’s loud cursing in the camp.” He looked at her with one of his
swift man’s glances. “Of course, dearest—I’m bound to ask—you never
breathed a word to anybody of what I told you?”
“Not a word.”
“And you destroyed that paper at once?”
“Of course.”
The lie was out before she realized it. Well, it didn’t matter. The
thing was obsolete. She would tear it up. No. She wouldn’t. She still
had to wage her war against her husband, with the aid of Sir Berkeley
Prynne, and the document would be of great value.
“It was he who gave it away to the editor of _The Morning Gazette_,” she
said, vindictively.
“But how the deuce could he have known?” asked Godfrey. “These things
are dead secrets. They never go beyond the Army Council.”
“He did know, anyhow. I’ve not seen you since. I’ve a lot to tell you.”
She told him. He scrambled to his feet.
“My God! what a swine! You must leave him.”
“I’m going to. I’m going to hound him out of public life.”
“And then?”
“It’s for you to say.”
An hour later Godfrey ran down the steps of the house in Belgrave
Square, his head in a whirl.