serenity. There's nothing like employing your hands when you want to
keep from losing your temper. A woman learns that, even when she's only
been married once. When she's been married three times," the cornflower
eyes became suddenly innocent, "she knows everything.--Will you touch
the bell? It'll save me getting up.--How, you ask. How do I know that
you've already renewed your searching? To a man who's as head over heels
in love as you profess to be all women, except the one woman, however
beautiful, ought to be hanks of hair and bags of bones. I read your
thoughts when I caught you gazing at my sister's portrait. You were
saying to yourself, 'What if she's the woman!' And you're even
sufficiently detached in your affections to acknowledge attraction in a
horrid little pestering, too-much-married person like myself."
IV
It was lucky that the maid selected that moment for answering the bell.
Things were getting uncomfortably personal. Tabs had the idea that
Maisie had been talking against time till she should hear the footsteps
of her reenforcements. As the maid entered, she turned towards her with
the brightness of relief.
"That's splendid of you, Porter. You guessed what we wanted.--Porter
always guesses what I want, Lord Taborley; she's my second self. And
Porter can tell your fortune from the cards--can't you, Porter? Only she
never reads the cards on a Sunday; she says it brings bad luck. If you
come here often, you must try her.--You might take that dish from
her.--Thanks awfully. There's room for it here on this corner of the
tray."
Tabs smiled inwardly while he did his awkward best to make himself
useful. He might know very little about women, but he knew intuitively
quite a lot about this particular woman. He knew that Porter had guessed
nothing, because nothing had been left to chance. He knew it as surely
as he had known what Maisie had been doing in front of her mirror while
he had been kept waiting. He knew that long before his arrival every
detail of his reception had been prepared and planned, and that Porter
had been instructed. The whole morning had been spent in dusting,
sweeping, polishing and making ready the various dishes of dainty cakes
and neatly-cut sandwiches which were being spread before him. He was
certain that the kindly patronage of Maisie's way of addressing Porter
was another part of the conspiracy.
Curiously enough it was Porter who made him like and trust her more than
he had done as yet. Porter's eyes, when they rested on her mistress,
embraced her with a slavish worship; when they rested on him, they
warned and dared him. He had the feeling that the man who made Maisie
cry was likely to feel a knife in his back. Maisie must be good to be
able to call forth such fanatical loyalty from a humble woman. He began
to be infected by this atmosphere of idolatry. And yet----
What was Maisie's object in belittling his love for Terry? What did she
hope to gain by it? He hardly dared allow himself to suspect; thinking
in her presence was like speaking aloud. She heard unspoken words as
plainly as those that were uttered. But the suspicion would not be
suppressed. Had she formed the audacious plan of winning him for
herself? And this despite her three previous marriages, despite her
knowledge of why he had visited her, despite his knowledge of Adair!
Quick as a flash her eyes turned on him with a scarcely perceptible
shake of her head. The door clicked discreetly as Porter left them. It
was like clearing a ring for the second round. The dangerous intimacy,
half tender, half inimical, returned.
"There's no harm in being pleasant," her voice was musical and pleading,
"however unpleasant the circumstances which have thrown us together.
Taking tea with me doesn't set up any social obligation. You won't have
to know me again or anything like that. Now that we understand each
other---- How do you like your tea? Is it two lumps?"
With the tongs poised ready to pounce, she waited for him to tell her.
But he didn't tell her; he smiled inscrutably. He wasn't sure at what
he was smiling. Perhaps it was that he was happy--happy in a
worldly-wise fashion that he had never been with Terry. He could say
anything to this woman and it wouldn't shock her--there was comfort in
that.
But she had scared up a doubt in his mind that he might have mistaken
his kingdom. Perhaps the recovery of youth wasn't everything. There were
things very precious in themselves, which were well lost under certain
circumstances. Maisie's youth, for instance. She was far more enchanting
now than she could ever have been as a girl. In losing her youth she had
gained in sympathy; it was that that made her understand him so well. In
a wife you wanted more than youth--the knowledge of a companion. It
began to dawn on him that there might be truth in what she had said.
Perhaps once again she had known him better than he knew himself. He had
been with her less than an hour. He didn't completely trust her, and yet
here was this astounding fact: by reason of her experience there were
things he could say to her that he would never dream of saying to the
girl whom he believed he loved best. And Adair, he, too----
"You hadn't expected that things would be like this," she was saying,
"just you and I, sitting like old friends and drinking tea together.
You'd nerved yourself up for a vulgar row. I know---- Well, since you
won't tell me how many lumps, I'll give you two."
As he bent forward to receive the cup, their hands touched. The contact
was electric. A rush of excited vitality seemed to pour into his body
from hers. The touch was only for a second, but it left him startled and
stark of pretenses. When he sought her eyes, they were calm as ever.
"You're a most bewildering woman--the most bewildering I ever met," he
confessed.
"Except my sister," she corrected.
He glanced up at the portrait and back to her, comparing the features.
"Yes, I see it now. She is your sister. I ought to have guessed. But I
haven't met her; so I don't except her."
Maisie busied herself with passing the dishes. She had a way of making
everything appear conventional by the unruffled quiet with which she
accepted it. At the back of her mind she seemed to be smiling at the
domestic scene she had achieved with this man, who should have been her
enemy.
"No, you haven't met her," she assented. "But until you've met her, you
won't rest; and after you've met her, you won't rest either.--And so you
think I'm bewildering! You thought something else, which you didn't have
the courage to put into words. Bewildering and dangerous--the most
dangerous woman you'd ever met--that was what you meant."
He smiled with a shade of embarrassment. "I might have called you the
most disconcerting woman; you're all of that. No man of sense, who
valued his peace of mind, would tell any woman she was dangerous."
"I don't see why. Why shouldn't he? Do tell me. I shan't be offended."
She leant forward, absorbing him with her childish eyes, her lips
parted with expectancy.
"Because----" Tabs checked himself while he studied the tantalizing
innocence of her expression. He felt certain that he was going to say
something irresistibly unwise. To gain time he looked away and commenced
aimlessly stirring his cup. "Well, if you must have it, because to tell
a woman that would be to tempt her to be dangerous."
"But I love to be tempted," she said eagerly; "temptation is the yeast
of life." And then in a whisper, speaking less to him than to herself,
"A woman knows that she's old when temptation ends."
Like ripples from a stone flung into water the poignancy of what she had
implied rather than uttered, spread away with a commotion which grew
ever fainter. They sat without change of posture at either end of the
couch, she bending towards him, he gazing down into his cup as though by
staring into it he could retain his grip on the conventions. There was
no sound, save the rustling of live coals in the grate. Outside the
window the toy boat floated, a symbol of men's and women's ineffectual
childishness, always dreaming of adventures on which they never set
sail. Tabs pondered the hidden profundity of her words. At last he
believed that through her he understood himself. It wasn't youth that he
or anybody coveted; it was the more supreme boon of not growing old. He
had just arrived at this new self-knowledge when she spoke.
"To be tempted means that one's wanted--wanted dreadfully, so that it
hurts. That's living--to be wanted. Not to be wanted is worse than
death. When you're dead, you're forgotten and you forget. To be
forgotten and to remember is the end of all things. Not to be wanted
when you're alive is to beat your flesh against the walls of a tomb.
Lord Taborley, I know what you came for." He had set down his cup. She
covered his bronzed hands with her own passionate white ones,
overwhelming him with a rush of words. "You came to accuse me, to bribe
me, to buy me. You didn't want to hear me; I was already condemned. Do
you think I don't know what's said about my marriages? I know too well.
But it isn't vanity that makes me want to be loved. It's so right to be
loved. It isn't wickedness. It's the terror of not being loved--the same
terror that makes you cling to Terry though she doesn't want you in
return---- We all want to believe that we're wanted. It's human. Without
that life's a blank. One can't face up---- And I----"
She tore her hands from him and buried her face, sobbing in the
cushions.
V
He had done it. By some unaccountable blunder he had made her cry. What
was it he had said? Only a minute ago she had been so radiant and
smiling. His first thought was of Porter; she must not know. This crying
must be stopped before she heard it. Any moment she might enter. Even
now she might be listening at the door, preparing to enter.
Another conjecture rushed into his mind--this sobbing might be part of a
prearranged plan. Tears are the jiu-jitsu of woman's art of
self-defense. To the world at large the man is always a villain who has
caused them. "But I didn't cause them," he protested to himself. And
then, "Dash it all! There's nothing gained by sitting here. I've got to
do something."
He roused himself and limped round the table to the end of the couch
against which her face was hidden. He could see nothing but the pale
gold of her hair, the ivory whiteness of her neck and the pitiful
heaving of her fascinating shoulders. She looked extraordinarily like a
doll--a broken doll which had been allowed to fall through some one's
carelessness.
"Confound it! What a brute I am!" he muttered. "What the dickens does
one do with a woman in hysterics?"
He laid his hand very timidly on her silky hair. He had had no idea that
it was so silky. "Cheer up!" he said softly. And then again, "I do wish
you'd cheer up."
She took not the slightest notice, save that a small white hand scuttled
out like a mouse from beneath the cushions and commenced a hurried
search. He watched it and formed a hasty guess. It couldn't find the
thing for which it had been sent, so he dropped his own large
handkerchief in its path, saw it take possession of it and dive again
beneath the cushions. It made no difference to the sobbing.
What ought he to do? He couldn't endure the sound--it wrenched him. He
bent over her, trying to turn her obstinately hidden face in his
direction.
"Maisie!" The word had slipped out. It didn't matter. It mattered so
little that he repeated the indiscretion. "Maisie, you mustn't break
your heart like that. No one thinks ill of you and you are wanted.
You're wanted most awfully. Heaps of people want you."
The shoulders ceased to heave for a fraction of a second, but her face
still refused to turn. "Who-oo--who wants me?" Her voice reached him
choked with tears and muffled.
Tabs frowned. The question was a poser. Who did want her? He was blessed
if he knew. There must be people who wanted her--Adair, for instance.
But the mention of Adair would provide her with a reason for a new
outburst. There was only one thing to say under the circumstances, so he
said it. "I do."
She lay so still that she might have been dead. It was frightening, this
sudden silence after such a storm of emotion. It was so frightening that
he had to say something more to prove to himself that she could hear.
"You're beautiful. You're so gay when you're not crying. I don't think
any man could prevent himself from wanting you." And then desperately,
in a last effort, "You're most tremendously charming."
Her face never stirred from the cushions, but he was aware that
surreptitiously his borrowed handkerchief was being employed
industriously.
He had just time to compose his features before a tear-wet eye blinked
up at him. It was an eye eloquent with gratitude and babyishly blue.
"You're a dear," a small voice whispered.
VI
He had been called many things from time to time, but never before "a
dear." To be called "a dear" by a beautiful woman was an entirely new
sensation for him. It made him distinctly uncomfortable--almost ashamed.
A gift of this sort, even though it hasn't been desired, puts the
recipient under an obligation. When once a woman has dubbed a man "a
dear," she expects him to live up to the part she has assigned him. Tabs
hoped that she hadn't been as sincere as she had sounded.
Taking himself off to the nearest French window, he stood staring out
morosely--staring out at the silly little rockery, with the silly little
pond at the foot of it, containing the silly little boat that never
sailed anywhere. He was cross with himself and even more cross with her.
Why couldn't she have behaved sensibly, instead of bursting like a
rain-cloud without warning? She made mysteries out of everything, out of
himself, Terry and even her sister's portrait. She never gave him a
complete answer to any question. She surrounded herself with the
atmosphere of a detective novel. He was half-minded to rush into the
hall and make good his escape before she involved him further. Sir
Tobias could come and conduct his own unpleasantness. How on earth was
he going to tackle her concerning Adair now that she had called him "a
dear"?
But beneath his irritation and always struggling to surmount it was a
quite different emotion--an emotion of tenderness. He kept seeing her as
she had lain there sobbing, so fragile and dispossessed and broken. It
was the whiteness of her neck that he remembered, the narrowness of her
shoulders and the silkiness of her pale gold hair.
He had been standing at the window for perhaps five minutes when her
voice reached him from a great distance. "Thanks muchly for the hanky.
I'm better now."
"I'm glad," he said with his back towards her, once again on his guard.
As he turned slowly, she greeted him with a smile of welcome and nodded
towards her sister's portrait. "She wouldn't have cried, you know."
"Wouldn't she?"
He had to say something; that seemed as good as anything. He made no
attempt to approach her, but stood at bay against the window just where
he had turned. He had arrived at one fixed determination; whatever
happened, he would not again be entrapped into sharing the couch with
her.
In answer to his unenthusiastic enquiry, Maisie shook her head
vigorously like a little girl. "No, Di wouldn't. She never cries. Even
when we were children we couldn't make her."
It flashed on Tabs that this conversation about the unknown woman was
intended as a kind of peace-offering. Not to be ungracious, he roused
himself to a show of interest. "Couldn't make her! Surely you weren't
so cruel as to try?"
"Here's your hanky," she said, tossing the moist, scrunched ball across
to him. "Cruel! We didn't mean to be cruel. I suppose we were. She used
to ask us to try. There was a game we played; we called it Christian
Martyrs. She was always the martyr; she liked it. All she ever did when
we hurt her was to say, 'Do it harder; I can bear more than that.' She
was as proud then as she is to-day of all that she could bear. I think
that's what made her husband furious. She seemed always to be saying to
him, 'Do it harder,' and he certainly did. But neither he nor any one
else has ever succeeded in making her cry."
Tabs glanced at the aloof beauty of the painted face--it was like the
face of a Roman Empress, so proudly secure in its serenity. "Make her
cry! Why should any one want to make her cry? To do that would be a kind
of blasphemy."
"That's why," Maisie clasped her hands eagerly. "You've said it for me
exactly. I've never known how to put it. It's the holiness of God that
tempts men to revile Him. He evades them, outlasts them and yet compels
their affection. They have no power over Him and can't destroy Him,
though they can destroy everything else in the world. What a man loves
and has no power over, he longs to destroy; either that, or to drag it
down to his own level, so that he can get his arms round it and comfort
its weakness and hug it to his breast. It was that way with Di and her
husband. He couldn't drag her down. He couldn't find her weakness. She
was always up there. So he reviled her."
A silence fell between them. They stared at each other across the room's
breadth, finding each in the other something at the same time intimate
and incomprehensible; each feeling that they stood on the verge of a
discovery. It was Tabs who spoke.
"_Was!_ Then he's dead?"
She barely nodded. "Killed at the Somme, poor fellow. He must have hated
her to the end. In everything else he was large and splendid."
"And his name?"
Again Tabs was striving to remember where he had seen the unknown
woman's face. He _had_ seen it--of that he was certain. He had the sense
that the circumstances under which he had seen it had been tragic. If he
could only make Maisie reveal the name, he might recall.
VII
"His name was Lord Dawn." Seeing the instant puckering of his brows, she
asked quickly, "You knew him?"
"Knew him!" Tabs pondered the question. "I'm not sure. But Lady
Dawn--I've heard a good deal about her. She had a nursing unit in
France, didn't she? Of course she had; you and Terry were with her. It
was in her hospital that Terry met Braithwaite. She passed me yesterday,
driving with the Queen in the Park; not that I noticed her. It was Terry
who did that." He came slowly over from the window to the fireplace and
stood gazing level with the picture above the mantelpiece. He spoke
wonderingly, "The most beautiful woman in England, they say! So this is
Lady Dawn!"
When he had finished his inspection, his interest and absorption were so
great that he did what he had vowed he would never do again--he sat down
for a second time on the couch beside her.
"There's something wrong," he said quietly. "Either you're misinformed
or I'm mistaken. Let's get things straight."
She made no attempt to conceal her amusement. She attributed his
seriousness to sudden infatuation--an infatuation which made him seem
ridiculously inconstant after his recent professions concerning Terry.
"Something wrong!" she echoed mockingly. "If you think that I've
exaggerated anything that I've told you about----" She glanced up at the
portrait. "I don't think I'm likely to be misinformed. After all, I'm
her----"
"I didn't mean that," he interrupted impatiently. "I was referring to
Lord Dawn. If he's the same man, I think both you and she have misjudged
him."
Maisie laughed. "Lord Dawn was sufficiently definite. I'm not misjudging
him. He left no room for misjudgment."
"But you said that he had died hating her."
"He did, as far as we know. He gave no sign to the contrary."
"But does she, Lady Dawn, think that?"
"Think that he hated her?"
"No, that he died hating her?"
Maisie picked up a cigarette from the table and looked to Tabs for a
match. She was getting bored. "Why, certainly. One doesn't want to be
cynical, but all the deaths on the casualty-lists weren't total losses.
Some of them were releases. They weren't all--well, to put it mildly,
occasions for wearing the deepest mourning. There were English wives to
whom German shells were merciful--more merciful than English law. If
they took lives, there were cases in which they restored freedom."
As Tabs struck a match and held it to her cigarette, his hand trembled.
He had to steady his passion before he asked his question. "And you
think that she, Lady Dawn, was one of these?"
Maisie blew out a lazy puff of smoke. "Everybody thinks so." Then she
added pointedly, "Everybody who knows her and has a right to an
opinion."
Tabs refused to be put off. There was a polite forbearance in his tone
when he spoke. "The first thing to do is to make sure that my Dawn was
the same as yours. Mine was known to us by no title; he was a Captain in
the same battalion as myself. He was killed in front of Pozieres.--Ah, I
see by the way you start, that so was yours! But here's where the
difference comes in; mine loved his wife, if she was his wife, more
dearly than any man I have known. His devotion was the talk of the
regiment."
She flipped the ash off her cigarette. "Then that puts him out of the
running, doesn't it?"
It was the studied carelessness of her gesture that released the trigger
of his indignation and made it leap out beyond control. There was in his
mind the vision of those blood-baths of the Somme, where men had
drowned in the putrescence and been flattened by shells like flies
against a wall. They hadn't all been good before they had reached their
ordeal. They had come, as most men come, from every kind of prison-house
of lust and human error. But they'd been good when they had died. They'd
been reborn into valor and tenderness. And now, to hear their
imperfections discussed in this pleasant room, so entirely feminine,
where everything was safe and warm! Their imperfections were so small as
compared with their sacrifice. Modern-day Christs, that's what they
were! Christs by the thousands, who had found no Josephs of Arimathea to
hide their defilement in garden-sepulchres. There they lay at this
moment in the wilderness of corruption where they had fallen, while
living people between puffs of cigarettes, undertook to explain why they
should not be regretted.
"Puts him out of the running! It doesn't."
He leapt to his feet and commenced to drag himself up and down the room,
limping backwards and forwards, while she pressed lazily against the
cushions at a loss to account for his excitement.
"It doesn't," he repeated, pausing opposite to her. "He's still in the
running. The Dawn whom I knew was a very silent man. He was a man with a
sorrow. It made him careless. He was in the war to die. We all knew it.
The men adored him because of it. He was the finest officer in the
finest of battalions."
He became aware that he was frightening her and sank his voice. The
lowered tone only made what he said the more dreadfully impressive.
"There was something funny about him." He all but whispered it.
"Something funny that we couldn't understand. We couldn't understand why
he should want so much to die. The reason why we couldn't understand was
a woman's photograph."
She looked up at him timidly. "Yes!"
"Wherever he went he carried it. When he went into an attack, he carried
it next his heart. In billets he slept with it beneath his pillow. He
pinned it against the walls of dug-outs. That was where I saw it. I
remember now. It was smeared with the mud of a hundred trenches--Boche
trenches as well as ours. It looked down on curious sights, did that
woman's printed face in the photo." He laughed harshly. "Sights that
those of us who were there will spend the rest of our lives in an effort
to forget. And here you and I sit and talk---- Well, as I was saying, we
couldn't fathom why he should be so keen on death when there was that
woman in the world for whom he cared--for whom he cared right up to the
last. It was at the Somme, in the attack on Pozieres, that he went west.
He was in command of a company that got cut off. When we found him, he
had that bit of cardboard so tightly clasped that we couldn't take it
from him."
He paused, suddenly exhausted. His indignation had burnt itself out.
"I'm tired," he apologized. "I'm afraid I let myself get out of hand. I
scared you for a moment. I'm sorry. Do you mind if I sit down?"
She pushed the table back to make it easier for him to take a place
beside her. "It's all right," she consoled him. "I know that you're only
just out of hospital. Terry told me. You're not really recovered yet.
Besides, it was my fault; I spoke lightly. I wasn't thinking what I
said. But I don't feel lightly about these things. I couldn't." Then she
said something which struck him oddly. "You know my man's out there."
What did she mean by _her man_? If she had said _her men_, he could have
comprehended. She had lost three husbands in the war. But why did she
particularize and say, "My man"? It seemed cruel to the rest. And which
of the three was it that she regarded as so peculiarly hers.
He jerked his thoughts back. "There was something you told me about Lord
Dawn; you said it explained him. How did it go? I think you said that he
hated his wife as men hate God, because they love Him so much and yet He
won't come down. Well, out there it wasn't like that. Dawn climbed up to
her; yes, and perhaps beyond her. Out there he didn't need to pretend to
hate her; he could afford to love her without loss of self-respect. I
suppose he thought it was too late to tell her after all that had gone
before."
"Either that," Maisie assented, "or else---- It would be like him. Or
else because he was too much of a sportsman. As it was, if he were
killed, she wouldn't need to be sorry. But if he wrote her that he loved
her and had always loved her, and then got killed---- Don't you see,
that's where her remorse would start?"
Tabs nodded. "And yet she was his last thought. She ought to know it.
It's monstrous that she should go on believing----" He broke off. And
then, "She must be told. It's merest justice--whatever it costs."
VIII
The light had been failing while they had talked. A tap fell on the
door. Coming at that moment when their nerves were jangled, it sounded
ominous. Their heads turned sharply. Maisie's voice was unsteady when
she asked, "What is it? What do you want?"
"It's Porter, Madam. Dinner is served."
"Oh, come in, Porter. Have you laid a place for Lord Taborley?"
As the maid entered, Tabs rose. "I had no idea---- Why, I've been here
for hours. I really must apologize, Mrs. Lockwood, and be going."
However much his reception had been prearranged, dinner had formed no
part of the program. The slightly puzzled expression on Maisie's
watch-dog's face betrayed that fact to him at a glance.
Maisie laid an arresting hand on his arm. To the maid she said
cheerfully, "It's all right, Porter; Lord Taborley is staying."
As Porter was making her exit, he commenced again to protest. Maisie
silenced his objections by leaning against him warningly. "You've talked
of everything except me," she whispered; "it was about me you came to
talk. You _must_ before we part."
Following her across the hall to the dining-room, he reflected on her
ability for getting him into deeper and yet deeper water. He had the
feeling that he was being led somewhere against his will--somewhere that
might be for his good or for his harm, but which would inevitably cut
him off from many of his old affections. He had the discomforting sense
that he was doing something disloyal to Terry. Heaven knew what promises
might not be exacted from him before the evening ended. When would it
end? He would have to stay for at least an hour after coffee--that would
bring him to nine o'clock. Sir Tobias Beddow would have been expecting
him long before that to deliver his account of the result of his
mission. Furthermore, Sir Tobias would be demanding an explanation as to
how it was that, having asked for Terry's hand the night before, he was
still unengaged to her. If he postponed the interview till to-morrow, it
would create the appearance of lukewarmness. He couldn't very well
excuse himself by saying that he'd spent the afternoon and evening with
Maisie. And he couldn't get Maisie to let him off on the plea that Sir
Tobias, her harshest critic, was waiting for him. Besides, he had
accomplished nothing as yet; Adair Easterday had not been mentioned.
If ever he made good his escape, he prayed that he might never again
encounter a woman possessed of charm. His paramount desire was to seize
his hat and make a furtive exit. There was nothing to prevent him but
the politeness due from a man to a woman--and she traded on it. As he
passed into the dining-room he was secretly on his guard. "I wonder what
she'll do next to inveigle me?" was his thought.
"It'll be only a little dinner," she explained as they seated
themselves. "You weren't expected. But Porter always has something
hidden away for an emergency. Don't you, Porter?"
He was getting accustomed to these asides addressed to Porter. He began
to perceive that Porter had other uses besides gliding round the table
in a cap and apron. She was a conversational stop-gap when situations
grew awkward, as they frequently must between an ensnared bachelor and
an unchaperoned widow.
And she was eligible; he had to own it as they sat down to their first
meal together. Tea hadn't counted as a meal; you can serve tea to
anybody. But dinner for two, in an oak-paneled room, when the spring
dusk is falling is different. The table was lit by four naked candles.
Looped back from the windows hung the marigold-tinted curtains,
revealing in triangular patches the courtyard, with its mock
village-green and its quaintly timbered houses. It looked very real in
the half-light. An electric street-lamp stood out sharply against the
fading sky, placid and contemplative as an unclouded moon. Several
houses away a woman was singing. Sometimes her voice sank so that he
lost the air; but once, when it rose, he caught the words, "Crushing out
life, than waving me farewell." He knew what she was singing then and
followed the air in his imagination. The atmosphere of the room was
vibrant with romance; all that was lacking was his impulse to be
romantic.
Maisie was chattering gayly and forestalling his wants. He reserved a
small portion of his mind for her conversation--sufficient to enable him
to reply "Yes" or "No" when the occasion seemed to demand it. It was
clear to him that it made her happy to have a man so entirely at her
mercy. She meant immensely well by him. Behind her mist of words she
seemed to be saying, "Isn't it nice to be just we two together?"
But he was thinking of the other three soldiermen who had played the
game of being "just we two together" before him. The singing voice,
drifting through the courtyard, put into words the question of his
thought, "Where are you now? Where are you now?" Yes, where were they?
He felt pity and distaste for Maisie in equal proportions. Those men had
each in turn caressed her, dipped their hands in the largesse of her
pale gold hair, seen their souls' reflection in the cornflower innocence
of her eyes, drunk forgetfulness from the poppy-petals of her mouth and
gone away to die, believing she was wholly theirs. How little of her was
theirs now! She was almost virginal--as though she had never been
touched by their passion. And yet there seemed to be one of them whose
memory had outstayed the rest, for she had said, "You know, my man's out
there." Was she merely a light, predatory woman or---- Or very loving
and lonely?
She was speaking more seriously now. "We mustn't tell her. It's natural
to be sorry for him now that he's dead." He picked up the thread and
guessed that she was referring to Lord Dawn.
"We must tell her," he said.
"But we mustn't," she urged. "For years he tried to make her wretched.
There were rumors of other women. She's found peace at last. It wouldn't
help him to let her know that he had died loving her out there. He's
beyond any help of ours. They all are." He surmised who the _they_ were:
the three soldiermen who had sat there before him. In pleading for
silence for others, she was pleading for silence for herself. Again she
was defending herself against his thoughts. "All of the dead had their
chance. Lord Dawn had; there were so many years in which he might have
told her. To tell her now would be to rob----"
She broke off as the maid reentered with the coffee. Her tone changed
instantly to one of convention. "Not here, Porter. We'll have it in the
drawing-room."
As he followed her out across the hall, he glanced at his watch. It was
past eight o'clock. He could lose no more time. He must plunge boldly
into the subject of his mission and bring his visit promptly to an end.
He dreaded the temptation of that feminine room, with its coziness and
security and quiet. It made him too much alone with her; she was not a
woman that it was wise to be alone with too long.
The moment the maid had left them and the door had closed, he became
confirmed in the sanity of this decision. Everything in the room
appealed to him to procrastinate. The curtains before the French
windows were closely drawn. The hearth had been swept in their absence;
the fire glowed more companionably than ever. About the table, where the
coffee waited, a solitary lamp shed a golden blur. It was heavily shaded
with yellow silk, so that most of its light escaped their faces and fell
downwards.
She had seated herself on the couch. When she had filled both cups, she
glanced up at him smilingly, patting the vacant place beside her as a
sign that he should occupy it. He was standing before the fire, looking
immensely tall in the semi-darkness. He could see her plainly where she
sat beneath the lamp; but of him she could see nothing but his outline,
for his eyes were lost in shadow. When he seemed not to have noticed her
sign, "Come," she said coaxingly. "You don't spare yourself at all. You
make yourself tired by so much standing."
"Mrs. Lockwood----" She started as he called her that. Twice already she
had been Maisie to him. "Mrs. Lockwood, as you reminded me before
dinner, it was about you that I came here to talk. Let's get it over. I
haven't any idea how far things have gone. I should like to believe that
nine-tenths of what's said is nothing more than gossip. But why can't
you let him alone? He may mean nothing or a tremendous lot to you--but
why can't you?"
CHAPTER THE FIFTH
THE AIR OF CONQUEST
I
She sat very silently, the way he had seen men sit when they were
wounded. She had been expecting the blow and trying to postpone it; now
that it had fallen her only feeling was one of peace because the
expecting was ended. Her face remained turned towards him, as it had
been while he had been talking. As though a mask had dropped, the real,
very tired, very young, very lonely Maisie watched him. The wistfulness
of her beauty surprised and touched him. Several times her lips moved in
an attempt to say something. Then, at last, "What right have you to
ask?"
"I should like to claim the right of friendship."
"Of friendship!" She frowned slightly, peering from beneath the lamp in
an effort to make out his features. Then her eyes cleared and she
smiled. "If you don't mean it, please don't say it. You see, it would
hurt afterwards. And--and I should like to have you for my friend."
[Illustration: "_Mrs. Lockwood, why can't you let Adair alone?_"]
He came over from the fireplace and seated himself beside her. "We've
been almost enemies--just a little afraid of each other. Isn't that so?
It's ever so much more comfortable now; we'll be able to talk more
easily. Tell me honestly, what do you see in Adair?"
"See in him!"
She commenced sipping her coffee. She looked extraordinarily like Terry
used to do years ago, when she was a little lass and had been naughty,
and had come reluctantly to ask pardon. He thought that if he went on
talking he might make it easier for her.
"You'll wonder why I, who never knew you until to-day, should have taken
upon myself to broach this subject."
"I don't wonder," she headed him off. "I know. Terry's my friend. Her
father was determined to send somebody, so she worked things in order
that you might be sent. She thought that you would be the kindest
person."
"She thought that!" Tabs was a little taken back by her assertion; it
seemed to pledge him to kindness before he had learnt whether kindness
was required or deserved. It made him in a sense her partisan, when he
ought to have been impartial.
"I think I can be trusted to be kind," he said; "but you must remember
that I've got to be kind all round. I must be kind to Adair's wife and
to his children. If this goes much further it will spell tragedy for
them."
She shrugged her shoulders and laughed without mirth. "Adair's wife
should have remembered to be kind to herself. If a woman can't keep her
husband, she never deserved to have won him. And Adair--he's the
easiest man to keep in the world; far too easy to be exciting. If she
doesn't lose him to me, she'll lose him to some one else, unless----"
And then she surprised him, "But she won't lose him to me, for I don't
want him."
Tabs sighed with relief and lit himself a cigarette. "Then that's
settled. If you don't want him, the trouble's ended, and I think Sir
Tobias and all of us owe you an apology."
Again she laughed. This time some of her old mischief had come back.
"You go too fast, Lord Taborley. I shouldn't advise any of you to
apologize to me yet. It's true that I don't want him for keeps, but----"
Tabs guessed the way the ground lay and went back to the question with
which he had started. "What on earth do you see in him? That's what I
can't make out."
She kept him waiting for his answer. While he waited, like sunshine
struggling through cloud, amused happiness fought its way into her
expression. When she turned, she met his gaze with complete candor. She
was again a woman of the world. "What do I see in him? Not much--only a
makeshift, a second best. Only a man who needs me for the moment because
he's lost his direction. You remember our conversation of this afternoon
about having to feel that you were needed. He gives me that feeling, so
I'm grateful. That's why I have to have him."
"Are you so lonely as to stoop--well, to steal to get it?"
He was sorry he had asked it. She bit her lip in an effort to keep back
the tears and to force herself to go on brightly smiling. "Yes, as
lonely as all that," she nodded; "so lonely that it's almost a joke."
"No joke." He was at a loss what to say. "But you have friends. You go
everywhere. You----"
"Friends!" she interrupted, laughing with the high-pitched note of
breaking nerves. "What are friends? People to whom you say, 'How d'you
do?' here and 'How d'you do?' there, every one of whom can do without
you. I want some one who can't do without me for a second---- No joke,
you said. But it is almost a joke to be young, and eager, and
good-looking, and to know how to dress, and to be so willing to love,
and to live in the world just once, and to hear the world go by you
laughing, and to desire so much," she paused for breath, "and to want to
give so much that no one is willing to accept. If one didn't laugh over
it, it would be more than one could stand. If one didn't treat it as a
joke----"
He caught her hands. "Steady, Mrs. Lockwood. Stop laughing at once.
There's nothing to laugh about. You're nearly over the edge."
She stared at him with wide eyes, filled with panic, while little
ripples of laughter kept escaping from her, which she did her best to
suppress.
"Now, listen to me," he continued quietly: "You're not exceptional.
You've been expressing something that there's not a man or woman that
hasn't felt. I feel it when I realize that I may lose Terry; so does
Braithwaite. Lord Dawn felt it when he couldn't drag his wife down to
him and couldn't climb up to her. And his wife must have felt it too,
when she sat always by herself. Phyllis feels it when she sees that, for
the moment, you have more attraction for her husband than she has. And
Adair feels it as well, when he risks his good name for a little
desperate comfort and is willing to clothe you, for whom he professes to
care, with all the appearance of dishonor. You're no exception; it's the
feeling that you are exceptional that makes you unscrupulous in your
self-pity. Get that into your head, that you're not exceptional. Half
the world's with you in the same box; but it smiles and doesn't own it.
Have you got that?"
She nodded and tried to withdraw her hands; but he held them fast.
"And now as regards this desire to be wanted; that's perfectly right and
natural. There's nobody who doesn't share it. And I understand what you
say about mere friendship. It's unsatisfying and impermanent. It's like
a meal snatched at a restaurant; none of the dishes or napkins or tables
or chairs belong to you. They've been used by other people before you
and they'll be used by other people the moment your bill is settled.
What you want and what every one wants, is something more than
friendship--a human relation with one person who is so much yours that
your intimacies are a secret from all the world."
"Some one with whom I can be little," she whispered, "and foolish and
off my guard."
He smiled. "That's it exactly. But you won't get that sort of
relationship with a man who belongs already to another woman."
"One gets the pretense."
He shook his head. "Not even the pretense. There was a phrase you used
about Adair; you said he'd lost his direction. That's true; he has for
the moment. Presently he'll refind it and the road leads back to
Phyllis. You said something else: you called him a second best. That's
all he is, however you take him, whether as a husband, a father or a
lover. He lacks earnestness; he has always lacked it. I've been his
friend for years; his flabbiness sticks out all over him. But you're not
a second best, Mrs. Lockwood. You're a top-notcher--too fine for
anything but the best. You really are. You ought to set a higher value
on yourself."
She had regained her composure. He showed a willingness to release her
hands, but she let them rest where they were like tired birds, while she
regarded him with wistful kindness.
"Too fine for anything but the best! It's a long while since I heard any
one say that. Reggie used to say it in almost those very words. But then
Reggie," she caught her breath at the remembered ecstasy, "Reggie used
to think that the sun rose and set for me. He was different from all
other men. You advise me to reserve myself for the best. How can I do
that, Lord Taborley, when the best is in the past?"
She was very beautiful in the simplicity of her pathos--one of the most
beautiful women he had ever met. She had become a little child for the
moment and her littleness was baffling. He felt extraordinarily near to
her and alone with her. There was no longer any danger in their
aloneness. He realized why it was that she was able to give away so much
of herself; there was no value in the gift, for her heart was beyond the
capture of any man. She was the shuttered house of a vanished happiness,
inhabited by a restless ghost. The gold light from the lamp fell in a
pool about her. It revealed startlingly the whiteness of her arms and
throat, the blueness of her eyes and the primrose gleam of her polished
head. She seemed insubstantial as a dream, environed by shadows. And
what did she mean by saying that all her best lay in the past? Surely
she had misjudged! With her power of charm she could build her world to
any pattern.
"The best in the past! None of us know enough about the future to say
that. The best lies ahead--always. To believe that brings our best
within our grasp."
"For me it can't." She spoke hopelessly. "No believing can do that when
your best is dead."
The finality of her despair silenced him. He could feel it like fingers
tightening on his throat. He realized in a flash that this was how he,
too, would be tempted to speak were he to lose Terry--that, having lost
the best, any careless makeshift would suffice to comfort him. While he
considered, her hands snuggled closer in his clasp, establishing a new
sympathy.
"I think," he said at last, "even though my best were dead, I should
try to go on acting as if it lay still ahead. If I did that, round some
new turning I might find it waiting for me as a kind of recompense."
She leant forward, peering eagerly into his eyes. "Yes. You would do
that. I'm sure of it. I knew you had something to give me the moment we
met. That was why I wouldn't let you escape me. I've learnt the secret
at last--the secret of your air of conquest. It isn't that you get your
desires. It's not that. It's your belief that you will get them that
makes you strong."
Somewhere at the back of his head he remembered the pleading of Delilah
with Samson, "Tell me, I pray thee, wherein thy great strength lieth."
He laughed. "Perhaps you have guessed. I'm what you might call a
round-the-corner person. I have a philosophy all my own; it's a
round-the-corner philosophy. I believe that we find everything that
we've lost or longed for, if we'll only press on. Everything that we've
ever loved or wanted waits for us further up the road, round some hidden
turning. It's always further up the road and just out of sight. The
whole trick of living is to keep your tail up and march forward with the
appearance of success, no matter how badly other people say you've been
defeated. More often than not, we're nearer our hidden corners than any
of us guess; it's the pluck to struggle the last hundred yards that
swings us round the turning and wins our kingdoms for us."
She withdrew her hands and lay back against the cushions. "No amount of
courage----" She broke off and tried afresh. "Being brave wouldn't put
him again into my arms. You're wondering whom I'm talking about--Reggie
Pollock, my only husband. The other two didn't count, any more than
Adair counts. I don't say it unkindly. I do want you to believe that.
They were passers-by--that was all. They hung their hats in the hall
and, somehow, they stopped. They were nice boys, both of them. It seemed
a kind of war-work to let them marry me. You see, they needed me; so
when they said they loved me, I didn't have the heart to turn them out.
I suppose I was too amiable. But they didn't count--not at all."
"The war's over," Tabs reminded her with quiet humor. "How long is this
amiability going to last?"
She smiled dreamily. "Adair again! You don't leave him alone for long.
If you think that I ever let him make love to me, you're mistaken. It's
only that he's unhappy and I can do something for him."
Tabs wasn't at all sure that it was only that. This fatal amiability
might have raised quite different expectations in Adair. Like her two
latest husbands, he might take a notion to hang his hat in her hall. If
he did, would she abate her amiability sufficiently to tell him to hang
it somewhere else?
She was drifting; what she needed was either a tow-rope or a rudder. He
sent his gaze questing through the shadows.
"Those five photographs, all of the same man--they're of Pollock?"
"Yes."
"He was one of the first of all the aces, wasn't he? It was he who
brought down the Zeppelin over Brussels and went missing a few days
later. You see, I remember his record. He was outstandingly brave at a
time when the world was full of brave men. And you tell me he loved
you?"
An expression of triumph flitted across her face. "Not loved." Her voice
was full-throated. "He adored me, and to me he was a god whom I
worshiped. I'd have gone through hell for him. I'd----"
"No, you wouldn't."
The flatness of the contradiction pulled her up short. "No you
wouldn't," he repeated quietly. "You wouldn't even go through this for
him. You wouldn't play the game by him when he was dead. He always kept
his end up, whatever the odds against him; but you--you couldn't. This
was your chance to show that you were worthy of him. While he was alive,
you played a winning game; it was easy to be true to him. But he--he was
stauncher; he was most to be trusted when the game seemed all but lost.
You ought to have kept his spirit alive for us; but you've understood so
little of his spirit that you've been willing to put any stranger in his
place--to quote your own words, any stranger who chose to hang his hat
in your hall. Pollock was a soldier; he didn't need to be sure of
victory to show courage. It was in tight corners that he was at his
best. You're in a tight corner now, and you're his wife--the wife whom
he didn't love, but adored."
The brutal impact of the truth had struck her dumb at first. Her lips
had fallen apart. While she had listened, her face had gone white. Now
that he paused, she slipped back into the cushions, covering her eyes
with her hands. "For God's sake stop torturing me! Though you think I'm
as contemptible as that, don't say it. If you must speak, tell me what
you think I ought to do."
"Do! Until you find a living man who's his match, carry on as though he
were not dead."
She uncovered her eyes and sat upright, staring at him. "As though he
were not dead. But Reggie is dead. You know as well as I do that he's
dead."
Tabs nodded. "I'm not denying it. But for all that, try to live as
though he weren't--as though somewhere up the road, a day, a week, a
month, a year hence he would meet you round the corner."
Her interest faded forlornly. "What good would that do? It would only be
making believe with myself."
He spoke gently. "Yes, but games of make-believe come true. You couldn't
meet _him_, but you might meet some one his equal--a man who's, perhaps,
already waiting for you, while you squander yourself on makeshifts and
second bests."
The little silence which had ended his speech dragged on from seconds
into minutes. In the quiet room nothing stirred. She attempted to free
herself from his gaze by refusing to look at him. Against her will her
eyes crept up to his, clashed, evaded, fell back and again crept up to
them.
At last, speaking humbly, she said, "I was ashamed. You made me ashamed.
Whatever I'd done, if he came back, he wouldn't be ashamed of me. It
wouldn't matter how cowardly I'd been or however many husbands I'd had;
he'd be so glad to have me in his arms that he wouldn't find time to be
ashamed of me. So I'm not going to be ashamed any longer; I'm going to
start to live as if he were coming back. It'll be hard at first.
Adair--he was nothing. And yet---- I shall miss him, no doubt. You said
something this afternoon that you didn't mean."
"Didn't I? What was it?"
"It was when I was crying because nobody wanted me. Do you remember what
you said? You said, 'I do,' not meaning a word of it. Could you manage
to want me just a little, Lord Taborley? Not for long, you know; only
till I've got past the loneliest places--till I've begun almost to
persuade myself that he may come back. To think that you wanted me would
help."
Before he could answer, she had sprung to her feet, all but over-turning
the lamp. "What's that?"
A sharp rat-a-tat-tat had reverberated through the house. While she
spoke, it was repeated. Her over-strung nerves gave way. As Tabs rose,
she clung to him beseechingly. "Don't let him in. I'm not ready for him.
Don't let him in. Go outside and send him away. Tell him anything. But
don't let him enter."
Tabs had no clear idea to whom she was referring. It might have been to
Adair. It might have been to Pollock. It seemed more likely that it was
to her dead husband. This talk about living as though he might come
back had probably distraught an imagination already over-taxed.
"He sha'n't enter," he assured her. "There's no need to lose your
nerve."
As he passed into the hall, he heard the starchy approach of Porter. He
waited and halted her with, "Mrs. Lockwood asked me to answer it."
When he had watched her retreat and vanish, he advanced towards the
door. Who was it out there in the darkness whose knock had power to
strike such terror? It was a terror the excitement of which he at least
remotely shared. The thought crossed his mind, "Is it possible that her
longing could have dragged him back?" He felt as though in the
stucco-fronted gloom of Mulberry Court, Fate itself stood waiting for
him on the other side of the panel. With conscious bravado he stretched
out his hand and drew back the latch.
II
"Is it Mr. Easterday?"
It was a woman's voice that asked the question--a deep voice, thrilling
with emotion, that made him wonder what it would sound like with all the
stops pulled out. He had opened the door only a little way, expecting
that he would have to refuse admittance. At the sound of a woman's
voice, his sense of the conventions sprang to life. It must be a good
deal past ten and here he was answering Maisie's door as though he were
her butler. The kind of conclusions that could be drawn were made plain
by the caller's question, "Is it Mr. Easterday?" To be mistaken for
Easterday annoyed him. It was tantamount to an accusation. It implied
that, even though he were not Easterday, the proprietory way in which he
attended to other people's doors at after ten o'clock put Him well
within Easterday's class. Tabs was particularly annoyed to hear himself
accused by a voice so gracious and pleasant. His surprise had evidently
impressed her as furtiveness, for she said, "So it is Mr. Easterday?"
He was at a loss what to do with her--how to turn her away. For Maisie's
sake she must not be allowed to enter, for then she would discover that
they had been alone. He opened the door a few inches wider and parried
to gain time. "If it's Mr. Easterday that you're wanting, you've made a
fortunate mistake. This is Mrs. Lockwood's house. But I happen to know
an Easterday--an Adair Easterday; he's a personal friend. Perhaps he's
the man you're looking for. If so, I can give you his address."
This sally was greeted with a quiet, rather mocking laugh. He was using
his eyes, trying to form an estimate of the visitor. She had arrived in
a car, which he judged to be private, for in the light reflected from
the windshield he could make out the livery of her chauffeur. She was
swathed in a sumptuous wrap which looked as though it were of sable. She
held it gathered closely about her, so that it fell in soft folds,
revealing and at the same time concealing her figure. He was anxious to
read her face, but the lower part was snuggled into the fur of the deep
collar and the upper part was shadowed by a broad-brimmed tulle hat,
from which two bird of paradise plumes spread back like wings on the
helmet of a viking. For the rest, she had white kid gloves, which
reached up to her elbows. Outside the glove of the left hand she wore a
bracelet; every time she stirred the stones struck fire in the
semi-darkness. Her hands were very small. Peeping out from below her
gown, the buckles on her high-heeled shoes twinkled. She was mysterious,
taunting, and strangely commanding. As she hovered there across the
threshold, a faint perfume drifted up to him like the intoxicating
romance of June rose-gardens under moonlight.
She, too, seemed to have suffered a surprise at hearing the tones in
which he had spoken. "His address! Oh, no, it wasn't Mr. Easterday I was
wanting. I only supposed---- If Mrs. Lockwood's at home, I should like
to see her."
Her voice was like a chime of contralto bells. It made him think of
Bernhardt. It imparted to the commonplaces she uttered a quite
disproportionate intensity of drama and tragic depth. The way in which
she had said, "Oh, no," reverberated in his memory as though the sound
still lingered on the air.
"I don't know at all," he commenced. Then he smiled at his confusion.
"You see I'm not used to answering doors, and Mrs. Lockwood's not quite
herself. She was very tired just now. But if you'll give me your name,
I'll----"
If he'd been left to himself, he might have succeeded in creating the
impression that he was Maisie's physician. As it was, his conscience
was spared the deception by the advent of the inevitable Porter. She
sailed up behind him with an appearance so immaculate that it would have
shed propriety on the most compromising circumstances. He instantly
stood aside to make room for her. "Porter, here's a lady enquiring
for----"
But the lady took matters into her own hands. "Mrs. Lockwood in,
Porter?"
"Why, certainly, your Ladyship."
"Then why was I shut out? Who is this gentleman who----"
The rest was lost as their voices sank. The next words he caught were
her Ladyship's, running up the scale of laughter. "Then I'm not _de
trop_! That's a blessing!"
He fell back, trying to obliterate himself, as with every sign of
deference Porter admitted her; but in crossing the hall, she had to pass
him. Scarcely pausing, she swept him with a pair of stone-gray eyes,
made mischievous for the moment with merriment. "You're no good as a
butler," she whispered. "You carry discretion too far."
To his chagrin he recognized her--the one woman whom he would most have
chosen to have met in an attitude that was dignified. She entered the
drawing-room and was lost to sight. But she had left the door ajar and
he heard Maisie's delighted exclamation, "Why, Di, what brings you here
so late? This is darling of you!" His position was elaborately false. It
grew more false every minute he delayed. He foresaw himself apologizing
and being explained. He had no appetite for explanations. Since he had
adventured into Mulberry Tree Court, he had twice been tempted to bolt
for safety. Now that he was tempted for a third time, he acted blindly
on the impulse. Having played the role of butler with too much
discretion, he seized his hat and, without a thought of ceremony,
adopted a butler's mode of escaping.
III
In the shrouded emptiness of the London night he felt himself free
again. He came into possession of himself and found that he could think
with his old definite clearness. In the last few hours events had rushed
him off his feet; he had no sooner realized their significance than he
had discovered himself in the throes of a new crisis. Now, for the
moment, he stood aloof and could consider his actions in their true
perspective.
As he turned out of Mulberry Tree Court, he had thought he had heard a
voice calling after him. "Lord Taborley! Lord Taborley!" He had looked
back across the imitation village-green, where the white posts showed
dimly like smudges of chalk. The door of Maisie's house had been opened
wide, making a lozenge of gold against the blackness. He had fancied
that he had seen her standing there framed, leaning out, and
then----Yes, surely he had heard the running of slippered feet along the
pavement. He had not waited. He scarcely knew from what he was
escaping--perhaps from his fate, from which there is ultimately no
escape. He seized his respite, however, for the dread of recapture was
strong upon him.
And now all hint of pursuit had died out. Tall houses stood muted
against the sky; dim trees cast a leafy obscurity; stars glinted
remotely like diamonds set in gun-metal. He found a healing chastity in
his sudden aloneness; it roused in him an almost angry desire to recover
his lost monasticism.
He was amused to discover himself speculating as to whether women were
worth the trouble they occasioned. They coerced men with sentimental
arguments to which there were no replies. They wore away men's fortitude
with the continual flowing of their tears. They molded men's strength
into weakness with the magic caressing of their sex. They promised and
disappointed, flattered and allured, captured and despised. Their
curiosity was insatiable to possess themselves of secrets, which were no
longer valued the moment they were divulged. Their little teasing hands,
so destructive and lovable, had commenced the debacle of every human
greatness. Throughout the ages, their coaxing, pleading voices could be
heard wheedling men's hearts to the same purpose. "Tell me, I pray thee,
wherein thy great strength lieth, and wherein thou mightest be bound to
afflict thee." The strength of men had eternally roused their
resentment, whether they were the Delilahs of long ago or the Maisies of
a modern generation. The goal of all their passion, even when it was
unselfish, was to bind.
He had nearly been bound, but he had escaped. At the thought that he
had escaped, he felt a flood of exultant joy sweep through him. He
smiled, believing he had discovered a humorous and more human motive for
the exhausting piety of the anchorites. It wasn't their religious
self-abnegation that had made them flee to scorched river-beds and
desert hiding-places; it was their triumphant satisfaction at having
tantalized and eluded feminine pursuit. They fled in order that they
might possess, not deny themselves. As they became more emaciated and
scarred and as their needs grew less, they listened. What they heard was
ample compensation for all that they had foresworn at the hands of life.
Far blown from distant haunts of habitation came a sound which in their
ears was sweetest music: day and night the painful dragging of chains
and the groan of men toiling in servitude to women.
"The Philistines be upon thee, Samson!" When the last sleepy caress had
been given, all men who lacked the caution of the anchorite, were sooner
or later destined to hear that cry.
How much nobler men had been in a womanless world! Some of them had had
to become womanless before they could be noble. Pollock plunging to his
death from the clouds, like an eagle struck by a thunderbolt! Lord Dawn
with the smile of calm remembrance on his lips, purged of all his
fruitless sex-contentions, lying white and quiet beneath the crack and
spatter of exploding shells! Braithwaite, the ex-valet, who had proved
himself an aristocrat in courage! And he himself, thinking only of duty,
with every jealous ambition laid aside!
And now---- The mate of the eagle was a trifler with peacocks and
vultures. The man whose face had been molded by his last thought into an
expression of serene faithfulness, was recalled only as one who had
lived envenomed by disloyalty. Braithwaite, the aristocrat in courage,
was now distinguished for his cowardice; he himself was at one and the
same time Braithwaite's rival and grudging critic. _The Philistines be
upon thee, Samson! And he awoke out of his sleep and said, I will go out
as at other times and shake myself_----Asleep! He felt that he, too, had
been asleep. All the men who had been giants in the past five years were
either dead or sleeping. And this sudden transformation was the work of
women, because men had come back to walk and rest with them in the soft,
desired places. The little feminine hands had stripped them of their
charity, had taken away their valor and had concealed liers-in-wait in
the chamber of their affections.
So his thoughts ran on, amplifying, magnifying, exaggerating the theme
of the debilitating effects of women. But from all his accusations he
exempted Terry. She was the Joan of Arc of his imagination, who rode on
unvanquished across life's battlefields, inspiring to heroism with her
shining purity. And he made one other exception--Lady Dawn. It was the
Lady Dawn of the portrait he exempted, not the Lady Dawn who had mocked
him in passing with her steady stone-gray eyes. In a strange way he
discriminated between the portrait and the living woman. The portrait
was almost his friend; the living woman was a stranger. The woman in
the portrait was after his own heart; she had never been known to cry.
"Do it harder; I can bear more than that." He thrilled to the pride of
her defiance.
Then he pulled himself up with a start. Again he was thinking about her.
Yes, and though he might discriminate between the portrait and the
living woman, it was the living woman's eyes that gleamed in the
blackness of his mind. There was truth in what Maisie had said, that
were he as much in love with Terry as he professed all other women,
however beautiful, except the one woman, should be hanks of hair and
bags of bones. He consoled himself by arguing that that was precisely
what he had been trying to prove them by his sweeping applications of
the conduct of Delilah.
Whichever way he viewed his situation, things were in a pretty fair
muddle--a muddle which annoyed him because it was so unmerited. He was
pledged to Terry, while she held herself unpledged. He was committed to
help Maisie--a distinctly unwise little lady for any bachelor to help.
As a third party to his problem, Lady Dawn intruded herself--though why
she should, he wasn't certain. He would have to see her, however much
Maisie dissuaded; it was right that she should know about her husband.
Yet was that the entire reason why he was so keen to see her? He assured
himself very earnestly that it was, and dismissed her from his mind.
For the rest of the journey home he conscientiously narrowed his
imaginings to thoughts of Terry.
IV
It was with thoughts of her that he fitted his key in the latch. The
Square was full of newly married couples, some of them little more than
boys and girls--youngsters who had waited impatiently and had run
together the moment war was ended. Others had been married just long
enough to be proudly parading their first baby. Every morning white
prams were wheeled out into the garden, there to be watched over by
softly spoken nurses. Every night, as dusk came down, expectant mothers
paced gently through the shadows, leaning on the arms of ex-officer
husbands. It wasn't only in the trees that nests were being built. The
Square's name might well have been changed to Honeymoon Square.
And now, as Tabs pushed the door open, preparing to enter, he knew that
all up and down the Square, behind the pall of darkness, other doors
were being pushed back. Young couples were coming home from dinners and
theaters. He could hear the murmur of their laughter, subdued and
secret, hinting at intimacies of affection. The men had misplaced their
latch-key perhaps; the girls were advising that they search another
pocket. Or the lock refused to turn and the girls were whispering how it
could be persuaded. Some of them were arriving in taxis; others, less
lucky or more economic, were tripping by on foot along the pavement. He
noticed how closely they clung together and he thought of Terry. It
would be jolly to be young, to build a nest and, by and by, to see your
own white pram wheeled out to take its place in the blowy greenness of
the garden. He withdrew his key and entered, closing the door behind
him.
The house was very still. It was nearly midnight. The maids had gone to
bed, leaving lights in the hall and on the landings. As he hung up his
hat, the stillness was broken by the sudden ringing of the telephone. It
rang in a peevish, scolding manner, as though this were not the first
time and it had lost its temper with waiting. He climbed the flight of
stairs to his library and, without waiting to switch on the lights, sat
down at his table, taking up the receiver.
"Yes."
"Is this Lord Taborley?" a voice inquired.
"Lord Taborley speaking."
"This is Sir Tobias Beddow." There was a pause, followed by a little
asthmatic cough. Then, "How are you, my dear fellow? I've been trying to
reach you all evening. I was expecting to see you round here this
morning at eleven.--No, I don't mean perhaps what you infer. Besides, it
wouldn't have been any good if you had called; Terry wandered out,
without leaving word where she was going. She didn't get back till
nearly lunch-time. Most unaccountable conduct under the circumstances;
but since your conduct was equally unaccountable, perhaps it was just as
well. But that wasn't what I called you up about."
Tabs smiled in the darkness. Sir Tobias was as simple and crafty as a
child; he couldn't keep anything back. Then his mind jumped to the
obvious conclusion. Terry hadn't told her parents about her morning
interview; her parents naturally supposed that it was his fault that he
was not engaged to her as yet. Making an effort to be diplomatic, he
said, "Perhaps I can explain my apparent negligence to you later. It
must seem unpardonable. I've been busy every minute over things that
absolutely couldn't be avoided."
"Of course. Of course." The words were spoken soothingly, but without
conviction. "We men understand. It's Lady Beddow who---- Such events are
women's great occasions. She's a stickler for form. As you say, you can
explain later---- But that wasn't what I called you up about."
Tabs stifled a yawn. He had suddenly discovered he was sleepy.
"What was that you said?" Sir Tobias enquired suspiciously.
"I didn't say anything," Tabs replied politely. "But I think I know what
you called me up about. It was about Maisie--I mean Mrs. Lockwood."
"What about her?" The question was asked carelessly; he knew at once
that he had missed his guess. It was strange, even though he had guessed
wrongly, that Sir Tobias should not display more interest.
"What about her? Only that I've spent the last six hours with her. You
asked me to see her as soon as possible, you remember. I had only just
got home from being with her, when the telephone rang. She's not the
woman we thought her."
"Eh? What's that?"
He repeated what he had said. He was perfectly certain that Sir Tobias
had heard the first time. "She's not the woman we thought her." And he
added, "There's been some mistake. She hasn't and never did have any
designs on Adair. After we'd talked things over, she agreed of her own
accord never to see him again."
"She did!" There was a long pause, expressive of skepticism,
dissatisfaction, or anything that he cared to conjecture. Then, "When we
meet, you can tell me. But that wasn't what I called you up about."
Tabs waited for him to tell him why he had called him up. He waited so
long that it seemed to be a competition to see who would compel the
other to break the silence first. At last he gave in. "If that wasn't
why, why did you?"
He almost heard Sir Tobias blink his eyes--those faded eyes that looked
so blind and saw so much. "I called you up about this General
Braithwaite. He's been here to see me on the biggest fool's errand, with
the most unusual story which, if it's true, partly concerns yourself.
It's too late to enter into details this evening. But I thought I'd let
you know---- Good night."
"One minute, Sir Tobias----"
Before he could get any further Sir Tobias had hung up. For a few
seconds he sat there in the darkness listening; then he hung up also and
took himself off to bed.
What object had Braithwaite had in going to see Sir Tobias? Was it his
first step in trying to play fair? Was his "fool's errand" a formal
request for Terry's hand in marriage and his "unusual story" a manly
recital of the facts? And had this great advance in frankness included
the telling of Ann? As he tossed sleeplessly from side to side, other
problems leapt up to confront him. Had he done wisely in promising
Maisie that, in a measure, he would compensate her for the loss of
Adair? What would Sir Tobias think of such an intimacy when he got to
hear of it? What would even Adair think of it? There was only one person
who would not doubt his integrity; that was Terry. And then Lady
Dawn--had he actually any moral right to interfere in her affairs? "Do
it harder; I can bear more than that." He could hear her saying it in
that deep, emotional voice of hers. He could feel her honest stone-gray
eyes, probing his soul for motives in the darkness.
Day was breaking and birds were stirring in the mist of greenness that
topped his windows, before his eye-lids closed and he slipped off into
forgetfulness.
V
"To-morrow's another new day," he thought as he awoke. One could meet
any and every indebtedness to life if he only had a sufficient fund of
to-morrows in his bank.
He looked at his watch and leapt out of bed. Nine o'clock! He had slept
late. He didn't hurry over his dressing. He could afford to be late for
once. The mood of conquest was upon him. Maisie had said that. No, it
wasn't _the mood_ but _the air_ of conquest that she'd said he had.
Whichever it was, he would prove her a true prophetess. He might not
gain all his desires, but he'd at least wear the air of one who was
going to gain them. To-morrow was another new day, and to-morrow had
arrived.
On coming down to breakfast he scrutinized Ann's features closely to
learn whether she had heard anything from Braithwaite. They told him
nothing. Presently, however, while she served him, she began to open
out.
"Did your Lordship speak to the gentleman at the War Office?"
Tabs had been glancing through the morning paper. He looked up. "Yes, I
did, Ann. I placed your letter in his hands, and saw him read it."
"Did he say anything or promise anything to your Lordship?"
Tabs pursed his lips judicially, trying to avoid a lie. "You know what
these War Office officials are. They never make promises to any one. But
I believe this one's a good-hearted chap. When he realizes how much this
thing means to you, I think he'll do his best."
"Then he didn't show your Lordship my letter?"
Tabs had dipped into his newspaper again. He detested the well-meant
deceit he was compelled to practice. This time, when he answered, he
didn't raise his eyes. "No, he didn't."
But she didn't efface herself, as he had expected. She stood there, to
one side of his chair. He felt that she was looking down at him. Just
above the edge of his paper he could see her hands clasped together,
pressing against each other in agitation. He abandoned his refuge and
dropped the paper to the carpet.
"Something more that you want to ask me? What is it?"
"Your Lordship said that when the gentleman realized how much all this
meant to me, he'd do his best."
"That's what I said and I'm sure of it."
"What I wanted to ask was, does your Lordship think he has realized?"
It was the way she said it that roused his curiosity. Could she have
guessed? Had she read the address on that letter which he had given her
to post to General Braithwaite, and put two and two together?
He met her eyes--good, gray eyes, with something of Lady Dawn's grave
honesty in their expression. "I think he has realized."
"Thank you, sir; and I'm sorry I had to trouble you."
She withdrew, leaving him with the disturbing sense that she had
intended more than she had said. He gathered up the paper from the floor
in the hope that a perusal of it might enable him to recover his lost
equanimity. In so doing he caught sight of the last page, which
contained the photographic items. Braithwaite's face stared up at him.
Above it was printed the caption, "_Youngest Ranker Brigadier Demobbed
Yesterday_."
If she had seen that, she knew. If she had seen it, what would be her
next move--appeal or revenge? What had been the significance of her
final question, "Does your Lordship think he has realized?" Did she know
now; had she even known when she had written her letter that it would be
received by Braithwaite himself?
If she didn't know and had not seen the paper, he was determined that
she should not see it. Before leaving the room, he stuffed it into the
empty grate and applied a match. He would play fair by Braithwaite. He
was so eager to play fair that he did not turn to go upstairs till every
vestige of print had been licked to ashes.
VI
His library occupied the whole of the second story; even at that it was
not very large. It had two long French windows, opening onto a veranda
which looked out over the Square. The veranda was constructed of wrought
iron, painted green, and ran straight across the front of the house. Ann
used it for giving her plants an airing; they usually formed a truant
garden beyond the panes. There was a smaller window at the back, from
which a view could be obtained of the Oratory.
The room was furnished in English red lacquer, which had been
transferred from the collection at Taborley House, when Taborley House
had been lent to the Americans for a military hospital. The walls were
hung with landscapes by Zuccarelli and with Chinese portrait-groups of
the Eighteenth Century.
He had scarcely entered before the telephone renewed its irritating
clamor, like a fretful child which yelled whenever it heard his
footstep. He responded to its fretfulness in very much the same mood,
seizing hold of the receiver as though he would shake it into silence.
"Yes. Hullo! Hullo! Yes, this is Lord Taborley. What's that? You didn't
catch what I---- It's Lord Taborley speaking, I said."
"Well, I must say you don't sound very nice." It was a woman's amused
voice. "Even at this distance, you make me almost afraid. I do hope you
haven't been like that all night."
Tabs made his tones more smiling. "I'm sorry if I don't sound
sufficiently pleasant. But who are you?"
"Well, who do you think?" There was a snatch of laughter. "I'm Maisie; I
mean Mrs. Lockwood. You needn't tell me that you're not frowning,
because I can feel it. What's the matter?"
He pulled a wry face at himself in the opposite mirror and shrugged his
shoulders. Down the 'phone he said with excessive amiability, "Nothing.
I'm top-hole. How are you feeling?"
Her answer came back like a flash, "Vulgar and not very safe." It was
followed by a gurgle of merriment.
"I'm not sure that I understand your symptoms."
The gurgle was repeated. "You wouldn't. Lord Taborley never feels vulgar
and he's always safe. But this is one of my vulgar days, when I'm not
to be trusted. I always have one when Di has been to visit me; it's the
relapse after contact with too high standards of respectability. I'm
liable to do anything. I married Gervis and Lockwood after being with
her. I shall break out to-day if you don't come at once and stop me.
Unless--unless you don't want to stop me and would prefer the experiment
of being vulgar together."
"The prospect sounds alluring." He was trying to let her down lightly.
"But I'm afraid I have too many engagements on hand."
"Oh!" It was the _oh_ of disappointment. When she spoke again her gay
irresponsibility had vanished and a coaxing quality had come into her
voice. "I know you've only just got home from being with me--I mean
comparatively speaking. I don't want to make myself a burden to you,
but---- It's such a jolly day. Have you been up long enough to look out
of the window? I thought we could go off somewhere--to the Zoo, perhaps,
and drink lemonade all among the monkeys and the nuts. I woke up
planning it. We'd limit our spending money to five shillings like
kiddies, and do all our riding on busses. Doesn't that sound jolly?"
"Immensely," he agreed; "but I'm afraid no amount of jolliness could
tempt----"
She broke in on him. "It's the kind of thing I used to do with Adair."
The meaning of this last remark was plain; she was reminding him that if
the pair of shoes vacated by Adair were to remain vacated, he must pay
the promised price on occasions by wearing them himself. He determined
to get behind her diplomatic hints with frankness.
"I don't want you to think, Mrs. Lockwood, that because I have to refuse
your first request I'm going back on our contract. There'll be plenty of
other opportunities."
He caught her sigh of relief across the line. When she spoke again it
was with a new brightness and reasonableness. "I'm glad you said that.
So you really are going to help me? I was a wee bit afraid that you'd
gone back on your bargain by the way you ran away."
It was his first experience of the advantage a woman gains when she
attacks a man from the other end of a telephone. He had trouble in
making his voice sound patient. He replied with conscious hypocrisy,
"I'm sorry I created the impression of running away."
"You did." Her answer came back promptly. "You created the same
impression on us both. I had to do a lot of explaining to Di."
"And I was trying to save you embarrassment," he excused himself.
"Eh! What's that?"
To his immense surprise a third voice--a man's--jumped in on the
conversation. "Are you there? Is this Lord Taborley?"
Tabs was just getting ready to confess that he was there and that he was
Lord Taborley, when Maisie took matters out of his hands by informing
the intruder that the line was occupied and that he was interrupting a
conversation.
"I'm sorry," the intruder apologized, "but my time's valuable. I've been
kept waiting for the best part of quarter of an hour. Are you the
telephone-girl that I'm talking to?"
"Indeed I'm not," said Maisie with considerable haughtiness. "Please get
off the line." And then to Tabs, "Are you still there, Lord Taborley?
This is Mrs. Lockwood. Can't you postpone some of those engagements so
that we can meet to-day?"
At that moment the girl at the switch-board took a hand. There was a
confused gabbling and buzzing of voices, out of which the suave tones of
the intruder emerged triumphant, saying, "This is Sir Tobias Beddow. Can
I speak with Lord Taborley?"
Perhaps Maisie had heard. At all events, the moment Sir Tobias declared
himself the line cleared.
But it wasn't what Maisie had overheard that disturbed Tabs; it was the
uncertainty as to how much of her conversation had been listened to by
Sir Tobias. After all, prospective fathers-in-law are only human and as
likely as any other class to jump to damaging conclusions. Tabs hung up
the receiver, making it necessary for him to be summoned afresh before
he acknowledged his presence at the 'phone. Then, "Good morning, Sir
Tobias."
"Good morning, my dear fellow." Sir Tobias was as courtly and friendly
as ever. "I called you up to know whether you could run round to see me
between now and the forenoon. Yes, the matter I mentioned to you last
night. About eleven, you say? Very well, then, I shall expect you."
VII
No sooner had the butler with the velvet-plush manners admitted him than
he found himself face to face with Terry. She must have known that he
was expected and have been lying in wait for him. Before he could say a
word, she pressed a finger to her lips, signaling caution. To the butler
she said in a low tone, "It's all right, James; you don't need to wait.
I'll announce Lord Taborley." The discreet James showed a fitting
appreciation of romance by folding his plump hands across the pit of his
stomach, making the ghost of a bow and tiptoeing noiselessly into the
nether regions with the stealth of a conspirator.
Terry's face was a picture of innocence. After Maisie she struck him as
very young--much too young to love or to know the meaning of love. The
sight of her freshness was forbidding. It made him seem jaded. It filled
him with a reverence that was not far short of worship. He felt it
impossible to think of her as performing the ordinary acts of a mortal
world. He had the feeling that she moved on higher levels--that she was
a creature too shy and perfect to be made the instrument of passion. She
should be guarded in her purity like a vestal virgin, so that her
straight young body might be forever valiant and her eyes might never
learn the cowardice of tears.
In the brave March sunlight which shafted down on her, her head looked
more like a Botticelli angel's than ever. The raw gold of her bobbed
hair shone solid as metal, making a sharp edge where it ended against
the ivory pallor of her throat. She was dressed in a white tailor-made
serge. Her violet eyes danced with eager secrets.
"What are you doing to-day?" she whispered.
"Nothing!" he whispered, "if you want me."
"Then invite me out to lunch. I've such heaps to tell you. Don't let
Daddy take you to his club--I know he's going to ask you. And, oh,
before I forget, I've told them nothing about yesterday, so don't give
me away by accident." Then in a sly aside, just as she was turning the
door-knob to admit him to her father's library, "You've been getting on
famously with Maisie, haven't you?"
Before he could reply, they were across the threshold. There was a sound
as of a rheumaticky hen stirring in its nest. The neck of Sir Tobias
craned painfully round the corner of a high-backed chair.
"Here's Lord Taborley to see you, Daddy. Don't keep him forever. He's
just invited me to go out with him to lunch."
Having shot her bolt, with the masterly strategy of her sex, she
vanished, pulling the door behind her.
What would Shakespeare have said under the circumstances, and what would
a suitor have said to Shakespeare when he knew that he was suspected of
having gone back on his request for the daughter's hand in marriage?
Tabs almost felt that he was in the actual presence of the bard of
Stratford, Sir Tobias looked so ineffectually pompous and overweighted
with gravity. Both Sir Tobias and Shakespeare, in the opinion of Tabs,
were vastly overrated persons; but the only thing Shakespearian about
Sir Tobias this morning was the magnificent calmness of his forehead;
his podgy body, supported by its stiff little pen-wiper legs was more
reminiscent of Punch, as portrayed on the cover of the famous weekly
which bears his name.
"Immensely considerate of you to come," puffed Sir Tobias, levering
himself out of his chair in order that he might shake hands.
"Not kind at all," Tabs contradicted cheerfully. "I kill two birds with
one stone; I have my conversation with you and in half an hour I carry
off Terry."
That'll make him hurry up with whatever he has to say, he thought; it
sets a time limit.
The old gentleman seemed put out to find himself deprived of his
prerogative to be elaborate and prosy. He made a gesture, indicating
that Tabs should copy his example and choose a chair. But Tabs ignored
it. He had learnt that a man on his feet has the advantage, especially
if he stands six foot two in his socks.
"You'll be wanting my news," he suggested. "I told you pretty well
everything across the telephone. I think it's a case of everybody having
got the wind up--Phyllis particularly. Mrs. Lockwood's a very restful
woman. I should call her a man's woman. She's bright and entertaining
and pretty, and she owns a charming little house. She had no
responsibilities, so she's free to entertain from morning till night.
Adair has without doubt visited her more often than was wise. It was
remarkably foolish of him to have made a woman-friend whom he didn't
share with Phyllis. But I suppose he didn't dare to introduce them after
he'd seen that Phyllis was jealous. However that may be, this dread that
they may run away together is moonshine. Mrs. Lockwood sets too high a
value on herself. Besides, there's only one man whom she loves or ever
has loved for that matter. He happens to be dead!"
"One moment, my dear fellow," Sir Tobias interrupted, "I always
understood that the lady had had three husbands. Was this man one of
them or did she have no affection for any of the men she married?"
Tabs felt himself cornered--and he had been getting on so well. He
realized that if once he allowed Sir Tobias to start questioning him he
would get tangled up. "She's complex," he explained; "she's complex in
her simplicity. She's one of the most simply complicated and
complicatedly simple women that I ever met. To understand her you have
to talk with her. I talked with her for six hours. The upshot was that
she promised to shut her door against Adair."
The innocent old eyes blinked. "I'm not modern, like you, Lord Taborley.
I have my suspicions of these simply complicated and complicatedly
simple women. Set me down as old-fashioned. Having been only once
married, I can't enter into the refinements of feeling of such
matrimonially inclined boa-constrictors as Mrs. Lockwood. I sha'n't give
myself the chance of meeting her. I'm an old man; it would be too
upsetting. If I talked with her, I shouldn't understand. So I must take
your word for it that, however much appearances may have been against
her, her motives were beyond question." He slipped forward in his chair
with a disconcerting suddenness; for a moment his filmy eyes became
penetrating. "She seems to have made a deep impression on you, my dear
fellow. If your optimism proves correct and through your efforts Adair
is free from her clutches, we all owe you a debt of gratitude. But--and
I'm sure you won't take amiss what I'm saying--I would advise you, now
that you've effected Adair's rescue, not to see too much of her
yourself. In fact, if I were you, I wouldn't see her any more if I could
help."
It was clear that the benignant, sly old gentleman had overheard a
substantial part of Maisie's telephone conversation. It was equally
clear that his interference was wisely and kindly intended. He had a
perfect right to be scrupulous about the conduct of a man whom he
regarded as his future son-in-law; but he had no right to take advantage
of the worst managed telephone-system in the world to eavesdrop on a
private conversation. At the same time Tabs could hardly accuse him of
eavesdropping, so he fell back on his dignity for defense.
"I've always been very well able to take care of myself," he said
quietly. "If I hadn't been, I shouldn't have undertaken your mission
and have gone to interview the kind of woman you described. I found,
however, that she didn't live up to your description of her; in fairness
to her I have to let you know that. I don't think you appreciate, Sir
Tobias, what a delicate situation you created for both of us. She's a
woman of breeding; which goes without saying since she's Lady Dawn's
sister--a fact which you withheld from me. You sent me to her house as a
kind of moral policeman with a warrant for her arrest. She was well
aware of that and she was also aware that the charge you laid against
her was almost libelously mistaken. All I can say is that she has
behaved very handsomely. Since you and Phyllis have misunderstood her
friendship for Adair, she's willing to break off relations. The most
courteous and only decent thing that we can do is to cease discussing
her. It's an incident which does none of us much credit."
As he had warmed to her defense, Tabs had been very conscious that he
was being more than generous--perhaps even more generous than truthful.
It hadn't been his intention at the start to depict her as a wronged and
spotless angel; but the skepticism of the attentive old image, bleached
with disillusions and faded with years, had goaded him to excess.
Sir Tobias had listened, scratching his pointed beard thoughtfully, with
entire amiability. He was utterly unimpressed and visibly unashamed.
"You're a man of the world, my dear Taborley, and you have the advantage
of having seen her. From what you say I gather that she's not bad
looking. To the not bad looking much is forgiven. Nevertheless, I stand
by my opinion that she's not a safe woman to see too often. However,
you're master of your own actions and that's neither here nor there."
He commenced to fumble through his pockets. When he had found his
cigarette-case, he proffered it to Tabs, who refused it.
"I wish you'd sit down, my dear fellow."
Tabs glanced at his watch. There was only a quarter of an hour left of
the time he had allotted. As a concession to Sir Tobias he seated
himself. "It was about General Braithwaite that you called me up last
night?"
"Yes. But there's no hurry. We can discuss that over lunch."
Tabs considered that the time had come to be firm. "I'm sorry, Sir
Tobias. Terry's lunching with me. We start in something less than
fifteen minutes."
Sir Tobias screwed himself round and surveyed his future son-in-law with
a mild amazement. For forty years he had been accustomed to having his
own way unchallenged. "Terry can wait." He spoke as though the matter
was now settled. "What I have to tell you is important."
"And so is what I have to tell Terry." Tabs emphasized his statement by
glancing again at his watch.
For a few seconds Sir Tobias was at a loss. To hear himself opposed was
a novel experience. Then he thought he had discovered a consoling
reason for this obstinacy and smiled loftily, as Shakespeare retired to
Stratford might have smiled at hearing himself reminded by Ann Hathaway
that he was not so great a man as London had imagined.
"Very well, my dear fellow," he conceded; "young blood will have its
way. I withdraw for this once, since your plans are already made."
His forgiveness was brushed aside. Time was pressing. Tabs forced him to
the point without further ceremony or waste of words. "When you phoned
yesterday evening it was nearly midnight, so the matter must have seemed
urgent. You said that General Braithwaite had been to see you on a
fool's errand, with a story that partly concerned myself. May I ask how
it concerned me?"
"You're brusque, very brusque," Sir Tobias complained. "We could have
talked this over much better at my club."
When Tabs showed no signs of relenting, he revealed his real feelings
testily. "You know this fellow Braithwaite. You must have recognized him
the moment you clapped eyes on him. Why didn't you tell me?"
Tabs looked up quickly, taken aback and slightly resentful at the
peremptory tones in which he was addressed. "It wasn't my business.
Apart from that, I was aware of nothing to his discredit." Once again as
in the case of Maisie, he was allowing himself to be goaded out of
justice into excessive generosity.
"Nothing to his discredit! That depends on your point of view." Sir
Tobias sniffed audibly. He could be as a rude as a spoilt child. "That
depends on how deeply interested you're in--in my daughter."
"I think I gave you proof of my interest, Sir Tobias, the other evening
when I asked----"
"Pshaw! You know very well what I'm driving at, Taborley."
"Nevertheless, I should like to hear you put it into words."
Sir Tobias gave one of his remarkable exhibitions of youthfulness.
Flinging aside his decrepitude, as though it had been no more than an
affectation, he shot bolt upright, gripping the arms of his chair. "Last
night, within a handful of hours of my forbidding him the house, he had
the impertinence to call here to inform me that he was in love with
Terry. Not content with that, he added insult to his impertinence by
telling me that he had been your valet. How is it, Taborley, that on
that evening when you dined here as his fellow-guest, you never once
hinted by look or word that he wasn't the part he was playing? I can't
consider that very honorable of you. As an old friend, quite apart from
any new relationship, I had the right to expect that my interests were
nearer to your heart. It upsets me to find I was mistaken. Have you so
little pride in the girl you propose to marry that it doesn't offend you
to see her gadding about with ex-servants? You saw them get up and leave
the table that night. You heard the front-door bang and knew that they'd
gone out together--my daughter with the fellow who used to put the studs
into your shirts! And there you sat with me, sipping your coffee and
chatting as though it were all perfectly right and normal. Upon my soul,
Taborley, you're beyond my comprehending. If I, her father, can feel
this indignation, what ought not you to feel? You're supposed to be her
lover and you're not jealous. So far as I can see, you're not even
disturbed."
Tabs' face had gone suddenly white. He acknowledged to himself that, had
he been Terry's father, he would have said no less. When he spoke it was
with quiet intensity.
"I am annoyed, Sir Tobias--a good deal more annoyed than I care to own
to myself; but I try not to let my annoyance obscure my sense of
justice. It isn't fair to consider Braithwaite in the light of a
servant. He isn't a servant; he's won his spurs. He arrived at the
position he occupies to-day through original and unaided merit. That the
man who was my servant, happens to be my rival, is bitterly galling. But
I'm not going to let it blind me to the fact that he has qualities of
greatness. He proved those qualities, even more than on the battlefield,
when he came to you and pluckily told you the truth about himself. God
knows what he thought to gain by it; but I'm hats off to him."
Sir Tobias threw out his hands in a disowning gesture. "I don't want to
quarrel with you--that's the last thing I desire. But I must confess
that I fail to sympathize with your attitude of mind. Magnanimity is all
very well, but it's easy to be magnanimous where your affections aren't
too deeply concerned. A man in love has no right to be magnanimous--it
isn't a healthy sign. Lady Beddow used those very words to me this
morning. She feels as I do, that in your attitude to Terry you lack
something. You've let two days elapse since you asked my permission to
approach her---- You're the same with this Maisie woman--inhumanly,
unsatisfactorily magnanimous. You don't identify yourself with our
antipathies--you almost side with the people who affront us. It's
estranging and distressing. I like a man to be more emphatic in his
loyalties and aversions. I like him to show more fire. In days that I
can almost remember, Braithwaite's intrusion would have been an occasion
for a duel. Terry's mother feels the same about you; it makes her
unhappy. 'He lacks ardor'--that was how she expressed it. 'Perhaps,
after all, he's too old for Terry,' she said. Personally I don't go as
far as that."
Now that he had made an end, Sir Tobias attempted to beam on Tabs with
his accustomed suavity. He was skillful in saying offensive things with
an air of consideration. When he had said, "Personally I don't go as far
as that," he had leant out and patted Tabs' hand with a senile display
of affection.
_Too old for Terry!_ Tabs sat pondering the words. They voiced his own
doubt--the doubt that had haunted him from the moment of his return. The
antiquated version of Shakespeare sat watching him, plucking at his
pointed beard and blinking his faded eyes shrewdly.
Suddenly with a cavalier smile of conquest, which was strangely
unwarranted, Tabs swung himself to his feet. "Well, Sir Tobias, we've
talked for more than our half hour. After all, it doesn't matter a
continental what you, or I, or Lady Beddow feels. It's Terry's feelings
that count. I shall know what she feels before the afternoon is ended."
He was holding out his hand to the surprised old gentleman, when the
door opened just sufficiently to admit Terry's head.
"Come on, your Lordship!" she laughed mockingly, "you've kept me waiting
long enough."
CHAPTER THE SIXTH
TRAMPLED ROSES
I
As Tabs emerged from his interview with Sir Tobias, he found Terry
standing in the hall, doing up the last button of her gloves. James, of
the velvet-plush manners, lost no time in proffering him his hat and
cane, and in flinging the front-door wide. He did it with the air of a
sentimentalist who was aiding and abetting an elopement. Tabs had the
feeling as he limped along the pavement with Terry tripping at his side,
that the eyes of the house which they had left followed them--followed
them jealously, romantically, expectantly. There was only one way in
which they could give satisfaction and that was by returning to it
engaged.
"He lacks ardor. Perhaps, after all, he's too old!" Lady Beddow's
criticism drummed in his mind. Not very pleasant hearing!
Silence was maintained till they had rounded a corner and the tall buff
house was left behind. Then Terry raised a shy, laughing face.
"Downcast, Tabs? You look as though you were bearing the sins of all the
world."
"Not of all the world!" he corrected gravely. "Only of three people."
"Then I'm one of them. Who are the other two?"
"You know already--Mrs. Lockwood and Braithwaite. I saved all your
necks, but I broke my own."
She brushed against him affectionately. "Tabs, you're a trump."
Her praise displeased him. "I didn't tell you for that."
"Then why?"
"Because I thought you ought to know." He slackened his pace. "I thought
you ought to know that your father isn't as keen on me as he was,
Terry."
"That's all right," she said cheerily; "I am. But what have you been
doing to Daddy?"
"Describing Mrs. Lockwood as a lady above reproach and accusing him of
uncharity towards Braithwaite."
She tossed her head and laughed outright. "You _have_ become converted!"
"Converted!" He pondered her assertion. "No. I'll acknowledge that I was
inclined to be too harsh at first. I may have become more pitiful; but
I've not become converted, if by that you mean that I condone what these
two people have done. I still think that Mrs. Lockwood's conduct with
Adair was inexcusable and that Braithwaite's holding back the truth from
you was dishonorable. In talking with your father I gave Braithwaite all
the credit for speaking out to him like a man, and I let him suppose
that Mrs. Lockwood had given up Adair unconditionally. As you know,
Braithwaite didn't come up to scratch till I'd handed him your
ultimatum; and Mrs. Lockwood---- But you don't know about her yet. I
haven't told you."
"I know," Terry smiled roguishly. "Maisie's a great abuser of the
telephone. She called me up this morning to ask whether she might share
you with me for a few weeks. When I asked her why, she said to help her
to forget Adair. Of course I consented."
Tabs looked down at his companion to see whether her last remark had
been sarcastic; to his discomfort he found that it hadn't. "I'm not sure
that I like to be lent round like that," he objected. "I was sorry for
her last night and promised to help her; but this phoning you up to ask
your permission puts an entirely erroneous complexion on the affair."
"Not erroneous if I understand," she assured him, glancing up with
tender frankness.
He smiled at the way she cozened him. Was she willing to lend him to
another woman because she was so sure of him, or because she didn't care
whether she lost him?
"Your father suspects me of being lukewarm about you," he said; "and I
can't blame him. He knows nothing about our meeting yesterday. He
doesn't know that you care for Braithwaite. All he knows is that I asked
his permission to approach you and then let two days elapse. When I did
come to his house again it was to defend the two people who have caused
him most annoyance. My reason for defending them was that I might make
things easier for you. But my position is false, Terry. Every day your
parents are expecting that we'll become engaged; every day that we
don't----"
They had come to the Marble Arch. "Shall we hop into a taxi?" he
enquired.
She shook her head. "Let's walk a little farther--down to Hyde Park
Corner. It's easier to say things."
When he had helped her through the traffic and they were sauntering
through the Park, she took up the thread of their conversation. "I told
you yesterday that I was willing to become engaged to you. I'm willing
to-day."
"_Willing!_" he emphasized. "But you don't _want_. The man you love is
Braithwaite. What difference has this confession of his made?"