NIGEL AND MARY
Nigel rushed back. On his way, he decided that he had got a real excuse
for a holiday; he had every right to go away for a time from such a
wife; and he found himself thinking chiefly about where he would go and
how he would amuse himself. If the husband had only known it, Bertha had
already, if not exactly forbidden him the house, discouraged his
calling, almost as distinctly, though more kindly, than Percy did.
Still, if Percy had not given him that piece of information, he would
have remained in London, and left it to chance that they might meet
again somehow. He was such an optimist, and was really so very much in
love with her. Curious that this news of Bertha should annoy and should
excite him so much! Why, it seemed to him to be a matter of more
importance and far more interest than in his own wife's case. That he
had taken quite as a matter of course, an ordinary everyday occurrence
"which would give her something to do." He was really disappointed when
he found that Mary did not absorb herself in her children, and found she
was only anxious--foolishly anxious--that he should not think that they
could take his place as companions.
Nigel was affectionate by nature, and if Mary had insisted on that
note--if she had made him proud of his children, encouraged his
affection for them, if she had played the madonna--his affection for her
would have been immensely increased. She would have had a niche in his
heart--a respect and tenderness, even if she had never been able to make
him entirely faithful, which, perhaps, only one woman could have done.
But, instead of that, Mary had been jealous and silly and violently
exacting. She wished him to be her slave and under her thumb, and yet
she wanted him to be her lover. Every word she had ever spoken,
everything she had ever done since their marriage had had the exact
contrary effect of what she desired. She had sent him further and
further away from her. That she knew he had married her for her money
embittered her and yet made her tyrannical. She wanted to take advantage
of that fact, in a way that no man could endure. Yet she was to be
pitied. Anyone so exacting must be terribly unhappy.
It was not in Nigel, either, to care long for anyone who cared for him
so much. And even if Bertha, who was now his ideal and his dream, had
been as devoted to him as Mary, and shown it in anything like the same
sort of way, he would in time have become cool and ceased to appreciate
her. He thought now that he would always adore her, and yet, when they
had been actually engaged, it had been he who had allowed it to lapse.
He might think that he cared for her far more now and understood her
better, and now no worldly object would induce him to give up the
possibility of their passing their lives together. And yet the fact
remained. She had loved him as a girl--worshipped him. But he had broken
it off. So now that he has lost all hope of his wish, he does not,
strictly speaking, deserve any sympathy; yet all emotional suffering
appeals to one's pity rather than to one's sense of justice. And Nigel
was miserable.
* * * * *
The letter Bertha had sent him the other day, though it put an end to
their meeting, had a sort of fragrance; a tender kindness about it. He
could make himself believe that she also was a little sorry. Perhaps she
did it more from motives of duty than from her own wish; something about
it left a little glamour, and he had still hope that somehow or other
circumstances might alter so much that even so they might be friends
again. But now! it was very different. Percy's quiet satisfaction showed
that they were on the most perfect terms, and he could imagine Bertha's
delight--her high spirits--and her charming little ways of showing her
pleasure. It forced itself on his mind against his will, that she was
very much in love with Percy after all these ten years, difficult as it
seemed to him to realise it.
So they were hardly going out any more! So they were going to the
country early to have a sort of second honeymoon! It seemed to him that
after ten years of gay camaraderie they were now suddenly going to
behave like lovers, like a newly married young couple.
How sickening it was, and how absorbed she would be now! People always
made much more of an event like that when it happened after some years.
Personally he tried to think it made him like her less, at any rate it
seemed to make her far more removed from him. But all the real
estrangement had been caused undoubtedly by his wife.
* * * * *
On the whole, to be just, that pompous ass, as he called him, Percy
Kellynch, had really behaved very well. He had accused Nigel of nothing;
he had suggested nothing about his wife, who was still, evidently, on a
pedestal; he had really done the right thing and been considerate to her
in the highest degree. Any man who cared for his wife would have
naturally requested him, Nigel, to keep away. And it was really decent,
frightfully decent of him, to let him see the letters, really kind and
fair. Of course what put old Percy in a good temper, in spite of all,
was this news, and, no doubt, Bertha was being angelic to him.
Nigel made up his mind to try and throw it off. But he couldn't do it by
staying with his wife.
To look at her would be agonising now.
Still he made up his mind he would be calm, he would not be unkind to
her; he would be firm, and, as far as possible, have no sort of scene.
* * * * *
When he went in, she was sitting in the boudoir looking out of the
window as usual. She saw him before he came in. It was not six o'clock
yet and quite light.
"Well, Nigel darling?" She ran up to him.
He moved away.
"Please don't, Mary. I've got something serious to speak to you about."
She turned pale, guiltily.
"What is it? What on earth is it?"
"You shall hear. Shall we talk about it now, or wait till after dinner?
I think I'd rather wait. I've got a bit of a headache."
"After dinner, then," murmured Mary.
This was very unlike her. Had she had nothing on her conscience, nothing
she was afraid of, she would never have ceased questioning and worrying
him to get it all out of him.
* * * * *
He went up to his room, and asked her to leave him, and this she
actually did. She wanted time to think!
With the weak good nature that was in Nigel, curiously side by side with
a certain cruel hardness, he now felt a little sorry for her. It must be
awful to be waiting like this. And she really had been in the wrong. It
was an appalling thing to do--mad, hysterical, dangerous. It might have
caused far more trouble than it had! Suppose Percy had believed it all!
Nigel thought of scandals, divorces, all sorts of things. Yes, after
all, Kellynch had really been kind; and clever. He was not a bad sort.
Then Nigel found that last little letter of Bertha's. How sweet it was!
But he saw through it now, that she was deeply happy and didn't want to
be bothered with him. She forgave the scene his wife had made at the
party, as not one woman in a hundred would do--but she didn't want him.
The moment she realised that he wanted to flirt with her, that there was
even a chance of his loving her, she was simply bored. Yes, that was
it--gay, amusing, witty, attractive Nigel bored her! Dull, serious,
conventional Percy did not! She was in love with him.
In books and plays it was always the other way: it was the husband that
was the bore; but romances and comedies are often far away from life.
Curious as it seemed, this was life, and Nigel realised it. He destroyed
her letter and went down to dinner.
They were quiet at dinner, talked a little only for the servants. Nigel
asked about the little girl.
"How's Marjorie getting on with her music lessons?"
Mary answered in a low voice that the teacher thought she had talent.
...
They were left alone.
"Well, what is it, Nigel?" She spoke in querulous, frightened voice.
They were sitting in the boudoir again. Coffee had been left on the
table.
Nigel lighted a cigarette.
He was still a little sorry for her. Then he said:
"Look here, Mary, I'm sorry to say I've found out you've been doing a
very terrible thing! I ask you not to deny it, because I know it. The
only chance of our ever being in peace together again, or in peace at
all, is for you to speak the truth."
She did not answer.
"I've forgiven heaps of things--frightful tempers, mad suspicions, that
disgraceful scene you made at our party--but I always thought you were
honourable and truthful. What you've done is very dishonourable. Don't
make it worse by denying it." He paused. "You have written five
anonymous letters, dictated in typewriting, about me and Mrs. Kellynch
to her husband. I don't know what you thought, but you certainly tried
to give the impression that our harmless conversations meant something
more. That there was an intrigue going on. Did you really think this,
may I ask?"
"Yes, I did," she said, in a low voice, looking down.
"Well, first allow me to assure you that you are entirely wrong. It was
completely false. Can't you see now how terrible it was to suggest these
absolute lies as facts to her husband? Did you write the letters?"
"Yes, I did; I was in despair. I couldn't think of anything else to stop
it."
Nigel gave a sigh of relief.
"Thank God you've admitted it, Mary. I'm glad of that. At least if we
have the truth between us, we know where we are."
"Did she--did she--tell you?"
"She knows nothing whatever about it," said Nigel. "She has never been
told, and never will be. You need worry no more about the letters. Her
husband gave them to me this afternoon, and I destroyed them before him.
And he doesn't know who wrote them."
Nigel forgot that he had told Percy or did not choose to say.
"They're completely wiped out, and will be forgotten by the person to
whom you sent them. The whole affair is cleared up and finished and
regarded as an unfortunate act of folly."
"Oh, Nigel!" Mary burst into tears. "You're very good."
"Now listen, Mary ... I can't endure to stay with you any more at
present."
"What!" she screamed.
"If I continue this existence with you I shall grow to hate it. I wish
to go away for a time."
"You want to leave me!"
"Unless I go now for a time to try and get over this act of yours, I
tell you frankly that I shall leave you altogether."
He spoke sternly.
"If you will have the decency not to oppose my wishes, I will go away
for six or seven weeks, and when I come back we'll try and take up our
life again a little differently. You must be less jealous and exacting
and learn to control yourself. I will then try to forget and we'll try
to get on better together. But I must go. My nerves won't stand it any
longer."
She sobbed, leaning her head on the back of an arm-chair.
"If you agree to this without the slightest objection," said Nigel, "I
will come and join you and the children somewhere in the first week in
August. Till then I'm going abroad, but I don't exactly know where. You
shall have my address, and, of course, I shall write. I may possibly go
to Venice. I have a friend there."
She still said nothing, but cried bitterly. She was in despair at the
idea of his leaving her, but secretly felt she might have been let off
less lightly.
One thing Nigel resolved. He would not let her know he had been
forbidden the house. She would be too pleased at having succeeded. But
he said:
"One thing you may as well know, I shall see nothing more of the
Kellynches, because they are going into the country in a few days. They
have had no quarrel, they are perfectly devoted to each other, and she
has not the faintest idea of it. So you see you haven't done the harm,
or caused the pain you tried to, except to me. I was ashamed when I
saw----"
"Oh, Nigel, forgive me! I am sorry! Don't go away!"
"Unless I go away now, I shall go altogether. Don't cry. Try to cheer
up!"
With these words he left the room.