I
As he hurried from his brougham through the sombre hall to his study,
leaving his secretary far in the rear, he had already composed the first
sentence of his address to the United Chambers of Commerce of the Five
Towns; his mind was full of it; he sat down at once to his vast desk,
impatient to begin dictating. Then it was that he perceived the letter,
lodged prominently against the gold and onyx inkstand given to him on
his marriage by the Prince and Princess of Wales. The envelope was
imperfectly fastened, or not fastened at all, and the flap came apart as
he fingered it nervously.
"Dear Cloud,--This is to say good-bye, finally--"
He stopped. Fear took him at the heart, as though he had been suddenly
told by a physician that he must submit to an operation endangering his
life. And he skipped feverishly over the four pages to the signature,
"Yours sincerely, Gertrude."
The secretary entered.
"I must write one or two private letters first," he said to the
secretary. "Leave me. I'll ring."
"Yes, sir. Shall I take your overcoat?"
"No, no."
A discreet closing of the door.
"--finally. I can't stand it any longer. Cloud, I'm gone to Italy. I
shall use the villa at Florence, and trust you to leave me alone. You
must tell our friends. You can start with the Bargraves to-night. I'm
sure they'll agree with me it's for the best--"
It seemed to him that this letter was very like the sort of letter that
gets read in the Divorce Court and printed in the papers afterwards; and
he felt sick.
"--for the best. Everybody will know in a day or two, and then in
another day or two the affair will be forgotten. It's difficult to write
naturally under the circumstances, so all I'll say is that we aren't
suited to each other, Cloud. Ten years of marriage has amply proved
that, though I knew it six--seven--years ago. You haven't guessed that
you've been killing me all these years; but it is so--"
Killing her! He flushed with anger, with indignation, with innocence,
with guilt--with Heaven knew what!
"--it is so. _You've_ been living _your_ life. But what about me? In
five more years I shall be old, and I haven't begun to live. I can't
_stand_ it any longer. I can't stand this awful Five Towns district--"
Had he not urged her many a time to run up to South Audley Street for a
change, and leave him to continue his work? Nobody wanted her to be
always in Staffordshire!
"--and I can't stand _you_. That's the brutal truth. You've got on my
nerves, my poor boy, with your hurry, and your philanthropy, and your
commerce, and your seriousness. My poor nerves! And you've been too busy
to notice it. You fancied I should be content if you made love to me
absent-mindedly, _en passant_, between a political dinner and a bishop's
breakfast."
He flinched. She had stung him.
"I sting you--"
No! And he straightened himself, biting his lips!
"--I sting you! I'm rude! I'm inexcusable! People don't say these
things, not even hysterical wives to impeccable husbands, eh? I admit
it. But I was bound to tell you. You're a serious person, Cloud, and
I'm not. Still, we were both born as we are, and I've just as much
right to be unserious as you have to be serious. That's what you've
never realized. You aren't better than me; you're only different from
me. It is unfortunate that there are some aspects of the truth that you
are incapable of grasping. However, after this morning's scene--"
Scene? What scene? He remembered no scene, except that he had asked her
not to interrupt him while he was reading his letters, had asked her
quite politely, and she had left the breakfast-table. He thought she had
left because she had finished. He hadn't a notion--what nonsense!
"--this morning's scene, I decided not to 'interrupt' you any more--"
Yes. There was the word he had used--how childish she was!
"--any more in the contemplation of those aspects of the truth which you
_are_ capable of grasping. Good-bye! You're an honest man, and a
straight man, and very conscientious, and very clever, and I expect
you're doing a lot of good in the world. But your responsibilities are
too much for you. I relieve you of one, quite a minor one--your wife.
You don't want a wife. What you want is a doll that you can wind up once
a fortnight to say 'Good-morning, dear,' and 'Good-night, dear.' I think
I can manage without a husband for a very long time. I'm not so bitter
as you might guess from this letter, Cloud. But I want you thoroughly to
comprehend that it's finished between us. You can do what you like.
People can say what they like. I've had enough. I'll pay any price for
freedom. Good luck. Best wishes. I would write this letter afresh if I
thought I could do a better one.--Yours sincerely, Gertrude."
He dropped the letter, picked it up and read it again and then folded it
in his accustomed tidy manner and replaced it in the envelope. He sat
down and propped the letter against the inkstand and stared at the
address in her careless hand: "The Right Honourable Sir Cloud Malpas,
Baronet." She had written the address in full like that as a last stroke
of sarcasm. And she had not even put "Private."
He was dizzy, nearly stunned; his head rang.
Then he rose and went to the window. The high hill on which stood Malpas
Manor--the famous Rat Edge--fell away gradually to the south, and in the
distance below him, miles off, the black smoke of the Five Towns loomed
above the yellow fires of blast-furnaces. He was the demi-god of the
district, a greater landowner than even the Earl of Chell, a model
landlord, a model employer of four thousand men, a model proprietor of
seven pits and two iron foundries, a philanthropist, a religionist, the
ornamental mayor of Knype, chairman of a Board of Guardians, governor of
hospitals, president of Football Association--in short, Sir Cloud, son
of Sir Cloud and grandson of Sir Cloud.
He stared dreamily at his dominion. Scandal, then, was to touch him with
her smirching finger, him the spotless! Gertrude had fled. He had ruined
Gertrude's life! Had he? With his heavy and severe conscientiousness he
asked himself whether he was to blame in her regard. Yes, he thought he
was to blame. It stood to reason that he was to blame. Women, especially
such as Gertrude, proud, passionate, reserved, don't do these things for
nothing.
With a sigh he passed into his dressing-room and dropped on to a sofa.
She would be inflexible--he knew her. His mind dwelt on the beautiful
first days of their marriage, the tenderness and the dream! And now--!
He heard footsteps in the study; the door was opened! It was Gertrude!
He could see her in the dusk. She had returned! Why? She tripped to the
desk, leaned forward and snatched at the letter. Evidently she did not
know that he was in the house and had read it.
The tension was too painful. A sigh broke from him, as it were of
physical torture.
"Who's there?" she cried, in a startled voice. "Is that you, Cloud?"
"Yes," he breathed.
"But you're home very early!" Her voice shook.
"I'm not well, Gertrude," he replied. "I'm tired. I came in here to lie
down. Can't you do something for my head? I must have a holiday."
He heard her crunch up the letter, and then she hastened to him in the
dressing-room.
"My poor Cloud!" she said, bending over him in the mature elegance of
her thirty years. He noticed her travelling costume. "Some eau de
Cologne?"
He nodded weakly.
"We'll go away for a holiday," he said, later, as she bathed his
forehead.
The touch of her hands on his temples reminded him of forgotten
caresses. And he did really feel as though, within a quarter of an hour,
he had been through a long and dreadful illness and was now
convalescent.