Vane stepped into the train at Victoria the following afternoon, and
took his seat in the Pullman car. It was a non-stop to Lewes, and a
ticket for that place reposed in his pocket. What he was going to
do--what excuse he was going to make, he had not yet decided. Although
he knew the Suttons very well, he felt that it would look a little
strange if he suddenly walked into their house unannounced; and he had
been afraid of wiring or telephoning from London in case he should
alarm Joan. He felt vaguely that something would turn up which would
give him the excuse he needed; but in the meantime his brain was in an
incoherent condition. Only one thought rose dominantly above all the
others, and it mocked him, and laughed at him, and made him twist and
turn restlessly in his seat. Joan was going to marry Baxter. . . .
Joan was going to marry Baxter. . . .
The rattle of the wheels sang it at him; it seemed to fit in with their
rhythm, and he crushed the paper he was holding savagely in his hand.
By Heaven! she's not. . . . By Heaven! she's not. . . . Fiercely and
doggedly he answered the taunting challenge, while the train rushed on
through the meadows and woods of Sussex. It slowed down for the
Wivelsfield curve, and then gathered speed again for the last few miles
to Lewes. With gloomy eyes he saw Plumpton race-course flash by, and
he recalled the last meeting he had attended there, two years before
the war. Then they roared through Cooksbridge and Vane straightened
himself in his seat. In just about a minute he would come in sight of
Melton House, lying amongst the trees under the South Downs. And Vane
was in the condition when a fleeting glance of the house that sheltered
Joan was like a drink of water to a thirsty man. It came and went in a
second, and with a sigh that was almost a groan he leaned back and
stared with unseeing eyes at the high hills which flank the valley of
the Ouse, with their great white chalk pits, and rolling grass slopes.
He had determined to go to an hotel for the night, and next day to call
at Melton House. During the evening he would have to concoct some
sufficiently plausible tale to deceive the Suttons as to the real
reason for having come--but sufficient unto the evening was the worry
thereof. He walked slowly up the steep hill that led into the High
Street, and booked a room at the first inn he came to. Then he went
out again, and sauntered round aimlessly.
The town is not full of wild exhilaration, and Vane's previous
acquaintance with it had been formed on the two occasions when he had
attended race-meetings there. Moreover, it is very full of hills and
after a short while Vane returned to his hotel and sat down in the
smoking-room. It was unoccupied save for one man who appeared to be of
the genus commercial traveller, and Vane sank into a chair by the fire.
He picked up an evening paper and tried to read it, but in a very few
moments it dropped unheeded to the floor. . . .
"Know these parts well, sir?" the man opposite him suddenly broke the
silence.
"Hardly at all," returned Vane shortly. He was in no mood for
conversation.
"Sleepy old town," went on the other; "but having all these German
prisoners has waked it up a bit."
Vane sat up suddenly. "Oh! have they got prisoners here?" The excuse
he had been looking for seemed to be to hand.
"Lots. They used to have conscientious objectors--but they couldn't
stand them. . . ." He rattled on affably, but Vane paid no heed. He
was busy trying to think under what possible pretext he could have been
sent down to deal with Boche prisoners. And being a man of discernment
it is more than likely he would have evolved something quite good, but
for the sudden and unexpected arrival of old Mr. Sutton himself. . . .
"Good Heavens! What are you doing here, my dear boy?" he cried,
striding across the room, and shaking Vane's hand like a pump handle.
"How'd you do, sir," murmured Vane. "I--er--have come down to inquire
about these confounded conscientious prisoners--Boche objectors--you
know the blighters. Question of standardising their rations, don't you
know. . . . Sort of a committee affair. . . ."
Vane avoided the eye of the commercial traveller, and steered rapidly
for safer ground. "I was thinking of coming out to call on Mrs. Sutton
to-morrow."
"To-morrow," snorted the kindly old man. "You'll do nothing of the
sort, my boy. You'll come back with me now--this minute. Merciful
thing I happened to drop in. Got the car outside and everything. How
long is this job, whatever it is--going to take you?"
"Three or four days," said Vane hoping that he was disguising any
untoward pleasure at the suggestion.
"And can you do it equally well from Melton?" demanded Mr. Sutton. "I
can send you in every morning in the car."
Vane banished the vision of breakers ahead, and decided that he could
do the job admirably from Melton.
"Then come right along and put your bag in the car." The old
gentleman, with his hand on Vane's arm, rushed him out of the
smoking-room, leaving the commercial traveller pondering deeply as to
whether he had silently acquiesced in a new variation of the confidence
trick. . . .
"We've got Joan Devereux staying with us," said Mr. Sutton, as the
chauffeur piled the rugs over them. "You know her, don't you?"
"We have met," answered Vane briefly.
"Just engaged to that fellow Baxter. Pots of money." The car turned
out on to the London road, and the old man rambled on without noticing
Vane's abstraction. "Deuced good thing too--between ourselves. Sir
James--her father, you know--was in a very queer street. . . . Land,
my boy, is the devil these days. Don't touch it; don't have anything
to do with it. You'll burn your fingers if you do. . . . Of course,
Blandford is a beautiful place, and all that, but, 'pon my soul, I'm
not certain that he wouldn't have been wiser to sell it. Not certain
we all wouldn't be wiser to sell, and go and live in furnished rooms at
Margate. . . . Only if we all did, it would become the thing to do,
and we'd soon get turned out of there by successful swindlers. They
follow one round, confound 'em--trying to pretend they talk the same
language."
"When is Miss Devereux going to be married?" asked Vane as the old man
paused for breath.
"Very soon. . . . Fortnight or three weeks. Quite a quiet affair, you
know; Baxter is dead against any big function. Besides, he has to run
over to France so often, and so unexpectedly, that it might have to be
postponed a day or two at the last moment. Makes it awkward if half
London has been asked."
The car swung through the gates and rolled up the drive to the house.
The brown tints of autumn were just beginning to show on the trees, and
an occasional fall of dead leaves came fluttering down as they passed
underneath. Then, all too quickly for Vane, they were at the house,
and the chauffeur was holding open the door of the car. Now that he
was actually there--now that another minute would bring him face to
face with Joan--he had become unaccountably nervous.
He followed Mr. Sutton slowly up the steps, and spent an unnecessarily
long time taking off his coat. He felt rather like a boy who had been
looking forward intensely to his first party, and is stricken with
shyness just as he enters the drawing-room.
"Come in, come in, my boy, and get warm." Mr. Sutton threw open a
door. "Mary, my dear, who do you think I found in Lewes? Young Derek
Vane--I've brought him along. . . ."
Vane followed him into the room as he was speaking, and only he noticed
that Joan half rose from her chair, and then sank back again, while a
wave of colour flooded her cheeks, and then receded, leaving them
deathly white. With every pulse in his body hammering, but outwardly
quite composed, Vane shook hands with Mrs. Sutton.
"So kind of your husband," he murmured. "He found me propping up the
hotel smoking-room, and rescued me from such a dreadful
operation. . . ."
Mrs. Sutton beamed on him. "But it's delightful, Captain Vane. I'm so
glad you could come. Let me see--you know Miss Devereux, don't you?"
Vane turned to Joan, and for the moment their eyes met. "I think I
have that pleasure," he said in a low voice. "I believe I have to
congratulate you, Miss Devereux, on your approaching marriage."
He heard Joan give a gasp, and barely caught her whispered answer: "My
God! why have you come?"
He turned round and saw that both the old people were occupied for a
moment. "Why, just to congratulate you, dear lady . . . just to
congratulate you." His eyes burned into hers, and his voice was
shaking. "Why else, Joan, why else?"
Then Mrs. Sutton began to talk, and the conversation became general.
"It's about these German prisoners; they're giving a bit of trouble,"
Vane said in answer to her question. "And so we've formed a sort of
board to investigate their food and general conditions . . . and--er--I
am one of the board."
"How very interesting," said the old lady. "Have you been on it for
long?"
"No--not long. In fact," said Vane looking fixedly at Joan, "I only
got my orders last night. . . ." With the faintest flicker of a smile
he watched the tell-tale colour come and go.
Then she turned on him, and her expression was a little baffling. "And
have you any special qualification, Captain Vane, for dealing with such
an intricate subject?"
"Intricate?" He raised his eyebrows. "I should have thought it was
very simple. Just a matter of common sense, and making . . . er . . .
these men--well--get their sense of proportion."
"You mean making them get your sense of proportion?"
"In some cases there can be only one," said Vane gravely.
"And that one is your own. These--German prisoners you said, didn't
you?--these German prisoners may think it their duty to disagree with
your views. Doubtless from patriotic motives. . . ."
"That would be a great pity," said Vane. "It would then be up to me to
make them see the error of their ways."
"And if you fail?" asked the girl.
"Somehow I don't think I shall," he answered slowly. "But if I do--the
trouble of which I spoke will not diminish. It will increase. . . ."
"We pander too much to these swine," grumbled Mr. Sutton. "It makes me
sick when I hear of the way our boys are treated by the brutes. A damn
good flogging twice a day--you'll pardon my language, is what they
want."
"Yes--drastic measures can be quite successful at times," said Vane,
with a slight smile. "Unfortunately in our present advanced state of
civilisation public opinion is against flogging. It prefers violence
against the person to be done mentally rather than physically. . . .
And it seems so short-sighted, doesn't it? The latter is transitory,
while the other is permanent. . . ."
Joan rose and looked at him quietly. "How delightful to meet a man who
regards anything as permanent these days. I should have thought we
were living in an age of ever-changing values. . . ."
"You're quite wrong, Miss Devereux," said Vane. "Quite, quite wrong.
The little things may change--the froth on the top of the pool, which
everyone sees and knows about; but the big fundamental things are
always the same. . . ."
"And what are your big fundamental things?" she demanded.
Vane looked at her for a few moments before he answered her lightly.
"Things on which there can be no disagreement even though they are my
own views. Love and the pleasure of congenial work, and health. . . .
Just think of having to live permanently with anybody whose digestion
has gone. . . ."
"May you never _have_ to do it," said the girl quietly. Then she
turned and walked towards the door. "I suppose it's about time to
dress, isn't it?" She went out of the room and Mr. Sutton advanced on
Vane, with his hand upraised, like the villain of a melodrama when on
the point of revealing a secret, unaware of the comic relief ensconced
in the hollow tree.
"My dear fellow," he whispered hoarsely. "You've said the wrong
thing." He peered round earnestly at the door, to make sure Joan had
not returned. "Baxter--the man she's going to marry--is a perfect
martyr to indigestion. It is the one thorn in the rose. A most
suitable match in every other way, but he lives"--and the old gentleman
tapped Vane on the shoulder to emphasise this hideous thing--"he lives
on rusks and soda-water."
Vane threw the end of his cigarette in the fire and laughed. "There's
always a catch somewhere, isn't there, Mr. Sutton? . . . . I'm afraid
I shall have to ask you to excuse my changing; I've only got this khaki
with me."
Vane was standing in front of the big open hearth in the hall when Joan
came down for dinner. It was the first time he had seen her in an
evening dress, and as she came slowly towards him from the foot of the
stairs his hands clenched behind his back, and he set his teeth. In
her simple black evening frock she was lovely to the point of making
any man's senses swim dizzily. And when the man happened to be in love
with her, and knew, moreover, that she was in love with him, it was not
to be wondered at that he put both hands to his head, with a sudden
almost despairing movement.
The girl, as she reached him, saw the gesture, and her eyes grew very
soft. Its interpretation was not hard to discover, even if she had not
had the grim, fixed look on his face to guide her; and in an instant it
swept away the resolve she had made in her room to treat him coldly.
In a flash of clear self-analysis just as she reached him, she
recognised the futility of any such resolve. It was with that
recognition of her weakness that fear came. . . . All her carefully
thought out plans seemed to be crumbling away like a house of cards;
all that she wanted was to be in his arms . . . to be kissed. . . .
And yet she knew that that way lay folly. . . .
"Why have you come?" she said very low. "It wasn't playing the game
after what I wrote you. . . ."
Vane looked at her in silence for a moment and then he laughed. "Are
you really going to talk to me, Joan, about such a thing as playing the
game?"
She stood beside him with her hands stretched out towards the blazing
logs. "You know how utterly weak it makes me--being near you. . . .
You're just trading on it."
"Well," said Vane fiercely, "is there any man who is a man who wouldn't
under the circumstances?"
"And yet," she said, turning and facing him gravely, "you know what is
at stake for me." Her voice began to quiver. "You're playing with
sex . . . . sex . . . . sex, and it's the most powerful weapon in the
world. But its effects are the most transitory."
"You lie, Joan, and you know it," Vane gripped her arm. "It's not the
most transitory."
"It is," she cried stamping her foot, "it is. Against it on the
other side of the balance lie the happiness of my father and
brother--Blandford--things that last. . . ."
"But what of your own happiness?" he asked grimly.
"Why do you think I shouldn't be happy?" she cried. "I've told you
that it's a purely business arrangement. Henry is very nice and kind,
and all that I'll be missing is a few months of the thing they call
Love. . . ."
Vane took his hand from her arm, and let it fall to his side. "I'm
afraid I've marked your arm," he said quietly. "I didn't know how hard
I was gripping it. There is only one point which I would like to put
to you. Has it occurred to you that in the business arrangement which
you have outlined so delightfully, it may possibly strike Mr.
Baxter--in view of his great possessions--that a son and heir is part
of the contract?" As he spoke he raised his eyes to her face.
He saw her whole body stiffen as if she had been struck; he saw her
bite her lip with a sudden little gasp, he saw the colour ebb from her
cheeks. Then she recovered herself.
"Why, certainly," she said. "I have no doubt that that will be part of
the programme. It generally is, I believe, in similar cases."
Vane's voice was very tender as he answered. "My grey girl," he
whispered, "it won't do. . . . It just won't do. If I believed that
what you say really expressed what you think, don't you know that I'd
leave the house without waiting for dinner? But they don't. You can't
look me in the eyes and tell me they do. . . ."
"I can," she answered defiantly; "that is what I think. . . ."
"Look me in the eyes, I said," interrupted Vane quietly.
Twice she tried to speak, and twice she failed. Then with a little
half-strangled gasp she turned away. . . . "You brute," she said, and
her voice was shaking, "you brute. . . ."
And as their host came down the stairs to join them, Vane laughed--a
short, triumphant laugh. . . .
Almost at once they went in to dinner; and to Vane the meal seemed to
be a succession of unknown dishes, which from time to time partially
distracted his attention from the only real thing in the room--the girl
sitting opposite him. And yet he flattered himself that neither his
host nor hostess noticed anything remarkable about his behaviour. In
fact he considered that he was a model of tact and discretion. . . .
Vane was drunk--drunk as surely as a man goes drunk on wine. He was
drunk with excitement; he was mad with the madness of love. At times
he felt that he must get up, and go round the table and gather his girl
into his arms. He even went so far as to picture the butler's
expression when he did it. Unfortunately, that was just when Mrs.
Sutton had concluded a harrowing story of a dead soldier who had left a
bedridden wife with thirteen children. Vane had not heard a word of
the story, but the butler's face had crossed his mental horizon
periodically, and he chose that moment to laugh. It was not a
well-timed laugh, but he floundered out of it somehow. . . .
And then just as the soup came on--or was it the savoury?--he knew, as
surely as he could see her opposite him, that his madness was affecting
Joan. Telepathy, the wiseacres may call it, the sympathy of two
subconscious minds. . . . What matter the pedagogues, what matter the
psychological experts? It was love--glorious and wonderful in its very
lack of restraint. It was the man calling the woman; it was the woman
responding to the man. It was freedom, beauty, madness all rolled into
one; it was the only thing in this world that matters. But all the
time he was very careful not to give away the great secret. Just once
or twice their eyes met, and whenever that happened he made some remark
more inordinately witty than usual--or more inordinately foolish. And
the girl opposite helped him, and laughed with him, while over the big
mahogany table there came leaping her real message--"My dear, I'm
yours. . . ." It whispered through the flowers in the big cut-glass
bowl that formed the centrepiece; it echoed between the massive silver
candlesticks with their pink shaded lights. At times it sounded
triumphantly from every corner of the room, banishing all the
commonplace surroundings with the wonder of its voice; at times it
floated softly through the warm, scented air, conjuring up visions of
nights on the desert with the Nile lapping softly on the hot sand, and
the cries of the waterboys coming faintly through the still air.
But ever and always it was there, dominating everything, so insistent
was its reality. As assuredly as if the words had been spoken did they
see into one another's hearts that evening at dinner while a worthy old
Sussex squire and his wife discussed the war, and housing problems, and
the futility of fixing such a price on meat that it paid farmers to put
their calves to the cow, instead of selling the milk. After all, the
words had been spoken before, and words are of little account. There
are times--not often, for artificiality and civilisation are stern
taskmasters--but there are times when a man and woman become as Gods
and know. What need of words between them then; a mathematician does
not require to consult the multiplication table or look up the rules
that govern addition and subtraction.
But the condition is dangerous--very dangerous. For the Law of the
Universe has decreed that for every Action there is an equal and
opposite Reaction. No account may be taken of madness--even though it
be Divine. It avails not one jot when the time comes to foot the bill.
By that time the madness has passed, like a dream in the night; and
cold sanity is the judge before which a man must stand or fall. A few,
maybe, there are who cheat the reckoning for a space; but they live in
a Fools' Paradise. Sooner or later the bill is presented. It must
be--for such is the Law of Things as they Are . . . . And all that a
man may pray for is that he gets good value for his money.
After dinner Joan sang once or twice, and Vane, from the depths of a
chair near the fire, watched her through half-closed eyes. His hostess
was placidly knitting and the old gentleman was openly and unashamedly
asleep. The girl had a small voice, but very sweet and pure; and,
after a while Vane rose and went over to the piano. With his elbow
resting on it he stood there looking down at her, and once, as their
eyes met, her voice faltered a little.
"Ah! when Love comes, his wings are swift,
His ways are full of quick surprise;
'Tis well for those who have the gift
To seize him even as he flies. . . ."
She sang the simple Indian love song with a sort of wistful tenderness,
and it seemed to the man watching her as if she was singing to herself
rather than to him. It was as the last note of the refrain trembled
and died away that Mr. Sutton awoke with a loud snort and looked round
guiltily. Quite satisfied that no one had observed his lapse, he got
up and strode over to the piano.
"Delightful, my dear, delightful," he said heartily. "My favourite
tune." The number of the old gentleman's favourite tunes heard under
similar circumstances was large.
"Come along, my boy," he went on, turning to Vane. "Pool or billiards,
and let's see if the old man can't show you a thing or two."
With an inward groan Vane professed himself delighted. "Perhaps Miss
Devereux will come and score for us," he murmured.
"Do, my love," said Mrs. Sutton. "And then I'll go to bed."
If Vane remembered little of dinner that evening, he remembered still
less about the game of billiards except that he was soundly beaten, to
Mr. Sutton's great delight, and that he laughed quite a lot over silly
little jokes. Every now and then he stood beside Joan at the scoring
board, and touched her arm or her hand; and once, when his host, intent
on some shot, had his back towards them, he bent very quickly and
kissed her on the lips. And he felt her quiver, and then grow rigid at
his touch.
He played execrably, and when he tried to pull himself together to get
the game done quicker, he played worse. If only the old man would go
to bed, or something, and leave them. . . . If only he could get a few
moments alone with Joan, just to kiss her, and take her in his arms.
But the old man showed no signs of doing anything of the sort. He did
not often get a game of billiards; he still less often beat anybody,
and he fully intended to make the most of it. Then at last, when the
game was finally over, he played half of his shots over again for
practice. And Vane, with his cue grasped in both hands, contemplated
braining him with the butt. . . .
But worse was still to come. Mr. Sutton prided himself on being old
fashioned. Early to bed and early to rise, a proverb which Vane had
always considered the most detestable in the English language, was one
of his host's favourite texts. Especially when applied to other
people. . . .
"Now, my dear," he said to Joan after he had missed an easy cannon
three times, and felt he required a little justification, "off you go
to bed. Can't have you missing your beauty sleep so close to your
marriage, or I'll have Baxter down on me like a ton of bricks."
Vane turned abruptly to the fire, and it is to be feared that his
thoughts were not all they might have been. In fact, he registered a
mental vow that if ever he was privileged to meet a murderer, he would
shake him warmly by the hand.
"Good night, Captain Vane." Joan was standing beside him, holding out
her hand. "I don't think you were playing very well to-night, were
you?"
The next moment the door had closed behind her, and Vane turned slowly
to answer some question of his host's. And as he turned he laughed
softly under his breath. For Joan had not even looked at him as she
said "Good night," and though the room was warm, almost to stuffiness,
her hand had been as cold as ice.
Vane closed the door of his room, and went thoughtfully over to the
fire. He was feeling more or less dazed, like a man who has been
through a great strain, and finds for the moment some temporary respite.
He did not profess to account for it; he did not even try to. There
had been other days that he had spent with Joan--days when he had been
far more physically close to her than he had been that evening. Save
for that one brief kiss in the billiard-room he had barely touched her.
And yet he felt more vividly alive to her presence than he had ever
been before.
Vane was no psychologist, and any way the psychology of sex follows no
rules. It makes its own as it goes along. And the one thought which
stood out from the jumbled chaos in his brain was a fierce pleasure at
having beaten Baxter. The primitive Cave man was very much alive in
him that night. . . .
Joan was _his_; he knew it, and she knew it--and there was no more to
be said. And with a short, exultant laugh Vane drew up an easy chair
to the fire and lit a cigarette. He heard Mr. Sutton pass along the
passage and go to his own room; and then gradually the house grew
still. Outside the night was silent, and once he rose and went to the
window. He stood there for a time staring out into the darkness, with
his hands thrust deep in his pockets; then he returned to his chair
again. He felt no wish to go to bed; he just wanted to sit and think
of his girl.
Three days is a long time when one is at the beginning of it; and in
all probability they would give him an extension. Three days with
Joan--three whole complete days. . . .
They would go for a few long glorious tramps over the Downs, where the
turf is springy to the foot, and the wind comes straight from the grey
Atlantic, and the salt tang of it makes it good to be alive. And then
one afternoon when they got home Joan would find a telegram awaiting
her to say that coal had been discovered at Blandford, and did she
think it would matter having the main shaft opening into the
dining-room?
Something like that was bound to happen, and even if it didn't things
would be no worse off than they were now. And in the meantime--three
days. . . . For Vane had passed beyond the thinking stage; he was
incapable of arguing things out or calling a halt even if he wanted to.
It seemed to him that everything was so immeasurably little compared
with the one great fact that Joan loved him.
He whistled softly under his breath, and started to unlace his shoes.
"We'll cheat 'em yet," he muttered, "some old how." And even as he
spoke he stiffened suddenly and stared at the door. On it had come two
low faltering knocks. . . .
For a moment he remained where he was, incapable of movement, while his
cigarette, bent in two and torn, fell unheeded in the grate. Every
drop of blood in his body seemed to stand still, and then to pound
madly on again, as the certainty of who was outside came to him. Then
with two great strides he crossed to the door, and opened it. . . .
"Joan," he whispered, "my dear. . . ."
She was in a silk dressing-gown, and he could see the lace of her
nightdress through the opening at her neck. Without a word she passed
by him into the room, and crouched over the fire; while Vane, with his
back to the door, stood, watching her with dilated eyes.
"Lock the door." He heard her words come faintly through the roaring
in his ears, and mechanically he did as she asked.
Slowly, with short, hesitating steps he came towards the fire, and
stood beside her, while his nails cut into the palms of his hands.
Then she rose and stood facing him.
"You've won," she said simply. "I've come to you." She swayed into
his arms, and so for a long while did they stand, while the man twisted
the great masses of hair that hung over her shoulders round and round
his fingers. He touched her forehead and her cheeks with hands that
shook a little, and suddenly he kissed her fiercely on the lips--so
that she gasped, and began to tremble. He could feel her body against
him through the thin silk wrap, and he clasped her tighter in his arms
as if to warm her.
"My darling," he whispered, "you're cold . . . so cold. . . . Take my
dressing gown. . . ."
But the girl only clung to him the more, and the man, being just a man,
felt his senses beginning to swim with the wonder of it.
And then of a sudden she pushed him away, and with her hands on the
mantelpiece stared into the fire.
Vane's breath came quickly. She looked so utterly desirable with the
red glow of the fire lighting up her face, and her hair falling about
her. He stretched out his hand and put it on her arm, as if to make
sure that it was not a dream, and with the touch of his fingers
something seemed to snap. A great wave of colour flooded her face,
spreading down to her neck, and she began to shake uncontrollably. He
bent over her, whispering in her ear, and suddenly she put both her
arms round his neck. And then like a little child who goes to its
mother for comfort she laid her head on his shoulder, and the tears
came.
He soothed her gently, stroking her hair with his hand, and gradually,
as the minutes went by, the raging storm in his mind died down, and
gave place to a wonderful peace. All that was best in his nature was
called forth by the girl crying so gently in his arms, and with a
little flickering smile on his lips he stared at the flames over her
head.
The passion had left him; a great sense of protection--man's divine
heritage through the ages--had taken its place.
And so after a while he picked her up in his arms and laid her on his
bed. He pulled the clothes around her, and taking her hand in his, sat
down on a chair by her side.
All through the night he watched beside her, and as he listened to the
hall clock striking the hours, gradually the realisation of what he
must do came to him.
For he had not beaten Baxter; he had only beaten the girl. Baxter
still stood where he was. Baxter still represented the way out for
Joan. As a rival--man to man--he failed to count; he might just as
well have been Jones or Smith. But as a weapon against the order of
things Baxter remained where he was--the winner.
And even as he cursed that order of things, it struck him with a sort
of amazed surprise that here he himself was actually up against one of
Ramage's vested interests. . . . If Blandford had been nationalised,
the problem would have been so easy. . . .
He moved irritably in his chair. What a muddle the whole thing
was--what a muddle. And then with the touch of a woman he bent over
the sleeping girl, and wiped away two tears that were glistening on her
eyelashes. Poor little girl--poor little Joan. . . .
A sense of overwhelming pity and love for her drowned every other
thought. Right or wrong, she was doing what she believed to be her
job; and now he had come and made things a thousand times harder for
her.
Very gently he withdrew his hand from hers and rose from his chair. He
made up the fire again, and then started to pace slowly up and down the
room. The drifting period was over; the matter had to be settled now.
He was no fool, and incidentally he knew as much about women as a man
may know. He realised exactly why she had come to him that night; as
clearly as if she had told him he understood the wild seething thoughts
in her mind, the chaos, the sense of futility. And then the sudden
irresistible longing to get things settled--to give up fighting--to
take hold of happiness or what seemed to her to be happiness at the
moment.
And supposing the mood had not broken--supposing the tears had not
come. . . . He stopped in his slow walk, and stared at the sleeping
girl thoughtfully. . . . What would have been the state of affairs by
now?
"Sex--sex--sex. The most powerful thing in the world, and the most
transitory." Her words before dinner, as they had stood in the hall
came back to him, and he took a deep breath. That was the weapon he
was using against her; he made no attempt to deceive himself on that
score. After all--why not? It was the weapon that had been used since
the beginning of things; it was the weapon which would continue to be
used till the end. It was Nature's weapon . . . and yet. . . .
Once again he resumed his walk--six steps one way, turn, six steps
back. He moved slowly, his chin sunk on his chest, and his hands
twisting restlessly behind his back. Supposing she was right,
supposing in a year, or in five, she should turn on him, and say:
"Against my better judgment you overruled me. Even though I loved you,
even though I still love you--you have made me buy my happiness at too
great a price?"
Supposing she should say that--what then? Had he any right to make her
run such a risk? Was it fair? Again and again he turned question and
answer over in his brain. Of course it was fair--they loved one
another; and love is the biggest thing in the universe. But was it
only love in his case--was it not overmastering passion as well?
Well--what if it was; there are cases where the two cannot be
separated--and those cases are more precious than rubies. Against such
it were laughable to put the fate of Blandford. . . . Quite--but whose
point of view was that--his or hers?
Vane was essentially a fair man. The average Englishman is made that
way--it being the peculiar nature of the brute. If anything--as a
referee or a judge--he will give the decision against his own side,
which is the reason why England has spread to the ends of the earth,
and remained there at the express wish of the Little Peoples. Bias or
favouritism are abhorrent to him; as far as in him lies the Englishman
weighs the pros and the cons of the case and gives his decision without
partiality or prejudice. He may blunder at times, but the blunder is
honest and is recognised as such.
And so as Vane walked restlessly up and down his room, every instinct
in him revolted at the idea of taking advantage of an emotional crisis
such as he knew had been stirred in Joan that evening. It seemed to
him to be unfair.
"It's her you've got to consider," he said to himself over and over
again. "Only her. . . . It's she who stands to lose--much more than
you."
He felt that he would go right away, clean out of her life--if, by
doing so, it would help her. But would it? That was the crux. Was he
justified in letting her make this sacrifice? As clearly as if he had
seen it written in letters of fire upon the wall, he knew that the
issue lay in his hands.
Once again he went to the window and looked out. In the east the first
streaks of dawn were showing in the sky, and for a long while he stood
staring at them, motionless. How often in France had he watched that
same birth of a new day, and wondered what it held in store for him.
But over there a man is a fatalist--his part is allotted to him, and he
can but tread the beaten path blindly. Whereas here, however much one
is the sport of the gods that play, there comes a time when one must
play oneself. Incidentally that is the part of the performance which
amuses the gods. They plot their fantastic jig-saws; but one of the
rules is that the pieces must move themselves. And of their kindness
they let the pieces think they control the movement. . . .
Suddenly Vane turned round, and crossed to the girl. He picked her up
in his arms, and having silently opened the door he carried her to her
room.
Utterly exhausted and worn out, she barely woke up even when he placed
her in her own cold bed. Her eyes opened drowsily once, and he bent
over and kissed her gently.
"Little Joan," he whispered. "Dear little grey girl."
But she did not hear him. With a tired sigh she had drifted on to
sleep again.