For three years, for three interminable years, Jim had borne the
stagnation of his married life at Eversfield, the door of his heart
shut against the whispering voices which bade him turn his back on his
heritage and come out into the free world once more. But now matters
had reached a psychological crisis. Something had happened to him;
something had opened the door again. And as he sat in his room that night
these voices seemed to assail him from all sides, enticing him to leave
England, coaxing him, wheedling him, jeering at him for his lack of
enterprise, and persuading him with the pictured delights of other lands.
“Give it up!” they murmured. “You were never meant for this sort of
thing: you can never find happiness here. Think of the sound of the
sea as it slaps the bow of the outbound liner; think of the throb of
the screw; think of the noisy boatloads surrounding the ship when the
anchor has rattled into the transparent water of a southern harbour;
the familiar sound and smells of hot little towns, sheltering under the
palms; the soft crunch of camels’ pads upon the desert sands; the far-off
cry of the jackals. Think of the unshackled life of the happy wanderer;
the freedom from the restraint of the Great Sham; the absence of these
posings and pretences of so-called respectability. Give it up, you fool;
and take your lazy body over the hills and far away: for your lost
content awaits you beyond the horizon, and it will never come back to you
in this stagnant valley.”
Until late in the night he allowed his thoughts to wander in forbidden
places, and when at last he sought comfort in sleep, his dreams were full
of far-away things and alluring scenes. In the early morning he lay awake
for an hour before it was time to take his bath; and through the open
window the sound of the chimes from the distant spires of Oxford floated
into the room.
“Confound those blasted bells!” he cried, suddenly springing from his
bed. “They have drugged me long enough. To-day I am awake: I shall sleep
no more!”
Of a sudden he formed a resolution. He would go away alone for two or
three months, in spite of any protest which his wife might make. And not
only would he take this single holiday: he would lay his plans so that
there should be another scheme of existence to which, in the future, he
could retire whenever his home became unbearable. His uncle had led a
double life: he, too, would do so; not, however, in the company of any
Emily, but in the far more alluring society of that Lady called Liberty.
James Tundering-West, Squire of Eversfield, from henceforth should be
subject to perennial eclipses, and at such times Jim Easton, vagrant,
should be resuscitated.
He would sell out a couple of thousand pounds’ worth of stock, and
generously place it as a first instalment to the credit of Jim Easton in
another part of the world; and nobody but himself should know about it.
For the last three years he had lived mainly on his rent-roll, and this
should remain the means of subsistence of his wife, and of himself so
long as he was in England. But the bulk of the remainder of his fortune
left of late almost untouched, should gradually be transferred, little by
little, to the credit of the wanderer.
At breakfast he was so enthralled with his scheme that he paid no
attention whatsoever to Dolly’s offended silence. He told her that he was
going to London for a few days, and that very possibly he would there
make arrangements to go abroad for a holiday.
“As you please,” she replied, coldly. “I, too, need a change; but I can’t
play the deserter. I must stay here, and try to do my duty.”
Driving into Oxford he turned the matter over in his mind unceasingly,
and in the train he thought of little else, nor so much as glanced at
the newspapers he had brought. The difficulty was to think out a means
whereby he could now place this capital sum to the account of Jim Easton,
and later add to it, without using his cheque book or any bank notes
which could be traced; for all the salt would be gone out of the proposed
enterprise if his recurrent change of personality were open to detection.
He wanted to be able to say to Dolly each year: “I am going away, and I
shall be back about such-and-such a date, until then I shall not be able
to be found, nor troubled in any way by the exigencies of domestic life.”
At length, as he reached the hotel where he was going to stay, the
simple solution came to him; and so eager was he to put the plan into
execution that he was off upon the business so soon as he had deposited
his dressing-case in the bedroom. In South Africa he had become an expert
in the valuation of diamonds, and now he proposed to put this knowledge
to use. He knew the addresses of two or three dealers who supplied the
trade with unset stones; and to these he made his way, with the result
that during the afternoon he had selected some twenty small diamonds
which were to be held for him until his cheques should be forthcoming.
The business was resumed next day; and by the following evening he had
depleted his capital by two thousand pounds, and in its place he held
a little boxful of diamonds which, so far as he could tell, were worth
considerably more than he had paid for them. These stones he proposed to
sell again, practically one by one, in various foreign cities, depositing
the proceeds in the name of Jim Easton at some bank, say in Rome; and, as
all the jewels were of inconspicuous size and small value, his dealings
would not be able to be traced beyond the original purchases in London,
even if so far as that.
Before returning to Oxford he decided to pay a call on Mrs. Darling
to invite her to go down to stay at Eversfield during his absence. He
regarded her as a capable, good-natured, and entirely unprincipled
woman; and she had invariably shown him that at any rate she liked him,
if she were not always proud of him. As a mother-in-law she had been
extraordinarily circumspect, and, in fact, she had effaced herself to
a quite unnecessary extent, seldom coming to stay at the manor, but
preferring to pass most of her time at her little flat in London.
She was at home when he called, and greeted him with affection,
good-temperedly scolding him for not writing to her more often.
“You might have peaceably passed away, for all I knew,” she said.
Jim smiled. “Oh, I think Dolly would have mentioned it, if I had,” he
replied. He gazed around the room: it was always a source of profound
astonishment to him. The walls were silver-papered, the woodwork was
scarlet, the furniture was of red lacquer, the carpet was grey, and the
chairs and sofa were upholstered in grey silk, ornamented with much
silver fringe and many tassels of silver and scarlet. Upon the walls were
a dozen Bakst-like paintings of women displaying bits of their remarkable
anatomy through unnecessary apertures in their tawdry garments; and as
Jim stared at them he was devoutly thankful that Mrs. Darling had not
robed herself in like manner.
She followed the direction of his gaze. “Hideous, aren’t they?” she said.
“They are, rather,” he replied. “Why do you have them?”
“Well, you see,” she answered, “so many milliners and dressmakers come to
see me in connection with my monthly fashion articles; and they would of
course think nothing of my taste if I had any really nice pictures on my
walls.”
She dived behind the sofa and rose again with her hands full of a medley
of startling nightgowns.
“Look at these!” she laughed. “They were left here for me to criticise
by a shop which calls itself ‘Frocks, Follies, and Fragrance.’ Horrible,
aren’t they? The only nice thing about them is their exquisite material.
I always say to all young married women: ‘Flannel nightgowns may keep
_you_ warm, but _crêpe-de-Chine_ will keep your husband.”
Jim stared at the wildly coloured garments long and thoughtfully. “I
sometimes think,” he said at length, “that women have no sense of humour.”
“No more has Nature,” she replied. “Look at the camel.” She changed the
conversation. “Tell me,” she said, “how is Dolly?”
“Top hole, thanks,” he replied.
“I notice,” Mrs. Darling remarked, as they sat down together on the big
sofa, “that you don’t bring her to Town with you nowadays. I hope you’re
not leading a double life?”
“No,” he answered.
“That’s right,” she said. “That’s a good boy! Have you taken to drink
yet?”
Jim laughed. “No, why should I?”
“Most married men do,” she told him. “My own husband did. He never really
showed it; but I’ve seen him get up the morning after, turn on a cold
bath, drink it, and go to bed again.”
“Well, as a matter of fact,” said Jim, “I _am_ thinking of breaking loose
for a bit. That’s really what I’ve come to see you about. I want your
advice.”
“Advice! Advice from _me_?” she exclaimed. “Why, my dear boy, my advice
on domestic affairs would be worth about as much as the figure 0 without
its circumference-line.”
“Well, not your advice exactly, but your help. The fact is, I want to get
away. I’ve grown flat and stale down at Eversfield, and I think Dolly
finds me rather a bore sometimes. I have an idea that it would do us both
a lot of good if I were to go off for a bit by myself.”
Mrs. Darling looked anxiously at him, and her jesting manner left her for
a moment. “I hope nothing has gone wrong between you?” she said earnestly.
Jim hastened to assure her. “Oh, no, everything is quite all right.”
“I’m sure I hope so,” she replied. “But I know Dolly is rather exacting.”
“It’s my own fault,” he remarked, quickly. “I must be quite impossible as
a husband.”
Mrs. Darling uttered an exclamation of distress. “Oh, then there _is_
something wrong?” she said. “I thought so, from the tone of her letters.”
Jim was embarrassed. “No, I only want to get away because I’m not very
well, and also because I want to polish up some old verses of mine.”
She looked at him earnestly. “My dear boy,” she said, “if you’ve lost
your trousers, it’s no good putting on two coats. If you’re unhappy at
home, it’s no good kidding yourself with other reasons for getting away.”
“I assure you ...” Jim began.
She interrupted him. “Come on, now—what d’you want me to do? D’you want
me to persuade Dolly to let you go?”
He shook his head. “No,” he answered. “I am going anyhow. What I want
you to do is to keep an eye on her while I’m gone. Take her away for a
holiday, if you like: I’ll gladly pay all expenses. Keep her amused.”
“How long to you intend to be away?” she asked.
“Oh, a couple of months or so,” he replied. “I don’t exactly know....”
She turned to him, searchingly. “Is it another woman?”
“No, no,” he laughed. “I dislike women intensely.”
“Thank you!” she smiled. “On behalf of my daughter and myself, thank
you!” She was silent for a while. “I wonder why you ever married?” she
said, at length.
“We all have our romances,” he answered.
“Romances!” She uttered the word with bitterness. “What is romance?
Just Nature’s fig-leaf. It is something that Youth employs to disguise
something else. Youth is a calamity. I really sometimes thank Heaven
for middle age and old age: they bring one at any rate the blessing of
indifference. I’m thankful that I’m an old woman.”
“You’re not old,” Jim replied. “You don’t look forty. And you’re in the
pink of health.”
“Yes, my dear,” she said. “I’ve nothing much to complain of in that
respect. All I want is a new pair of legs and a clean heart....”
“Oh, your heart’s all right,” he told her, putting his hand on hers.
“No,” she answered. “I’m a bad old woman. I earn a living by writing
indecently about women’s clothes, and how to wear them so as to destroy
men’s virtue. I sit about in night-clubs; I play cards on Sundays; I’ll
dine with anybody on earth who’ll give me a good dinner and a bottle of
wine; and I never go to church. What d’you think Eversfield would say to
that?”
“Oh, Eversfield be hanged,” he replied, with feeling. “You’re a good
sort, and you’re kind. That’s better than all the rotten respectability
of Eversfield.”
“I’m not so sure,” she said. “Respectability has its merits. You go and
spend a few weeks with the sort of people I mix with, and you’ll find
Miss Proudfoote of the Grange like a breath of fresh air.”
“I’m sure I shouldn’t,” Jim answered with conviction.
She shrugged her shoulders, and presently their conversation turned in
other directions.
When at length he rose to go, he startled her by remarking that he would
not see her again until his return from his travels; and to her surprised
question he replied that he was going down to Oxford next morning, and
that on the following day he would set out on his wanderings.
She looked anxiously at him once more. “There isn’t any real quarrel
between you and Dolly, is there?” she asked again.
He reassured her. “No, none at all. It’s only that I have a craving for
Italy....”
“Well,” she said, “if you live in a thatched house, don’t start letting
off Roman candles.”
“What d’you mean?” he laughed.
“I mean,” she replied. “ ... Oh, never mind what I mean. Don’t go the
pace, and don’t stay away too long; or there’ll be trouble. Don’t forget
that you’ve got a tradition to keep going. Don’t forget your uncle’s
tombstone. What does it say?—‘A man who nobly upheld the traditions of
his race....’”
“Yes, isn’t it rot?” he answered. “Do you know I came across some of his
letters, and I can tell you his respectability was only skin-deep. All
his life he lived a lie, and now he lies in his grave, and his epitaph
lies above him.”
She took his proffered hand in hers and held it for a moment. “Jim,
my boy,” she said, “I’m only a wicked old woman; but I’ve got a great
respect for virtue, even when it’s only skin-deep. It’s the people who
don’t care what their neighbours say who come to grief.”
When Jim returned to Oxford and broke the news of his immediate departure
to Dolly, she received it with a calmness which he had not expected. He
had anticipated a painful scene, and he was even a little disappointed
that she fell in so readily with his plans.
“Yes,” she said. “If you’ve made up your mind to go, it’s no good hanging
about here. You’ve been finding rather a lot of fault with me lately.
Perhaps when you are alone you will appreciate all I’ve done for you.”
“Of course I shall, dear,” he replied.
Quietly, and in a very business-like manner, she asked him what
arrangements he had made about the money she was to draw; and this being
settled to her satisfaction she approached, with apparent diffidence, a
more important subject.
“I do hope you aren’t going to any dangerous places,” she said. “You
mustn’t take any risks.”
He assured her that he had no intention of doing so.
“But supposing anything happened to you,” she went on, “what would become
of me?”
“I’ll make my will, if you like,” he laughed.
She uttered a gasp of horror. “What a dreadful thought!” she murmured.
She was silent for a few moments, her eyes gazing out of the window, her
mouth a little open. Then, without looking at him, she said: “I suppose
just a line on a sheet of paper will do? You only have to say that you
leave everything to me ... at least I take it that there’s nobody else to
leave it to?” She turned to him with an innocent smile.
“Oh, no, it’s all yours if I die,” he replied.
“Well, you’d better do it now before you forget,” she said, smiling at
him and patting his hand. She pointed to the writing-bureau in the corner
of the room. “You just scribble it on a half-sheet, and seal it up, and
write on the envelope ‘to be opened in the event of my death,’ and post
it to your solicitors. That’s all.”
“You seem to have thought it all out,” he laughed, going to the bureau.
“Oh, James!” she exclaimed, reproachfully. “What dreadful things you do
say!”
His departure on the following morning was unceremonious. In spite of
Dolly’s anxieties in regard to his safety, the fact remained that he
was only going away for a couple of months or thereabouts. He was to
take but a single portmanteau with him; his precious diamonds were to be
carried in a knotted handkerchief in his pocket; and in his hand he would
hold only a stout walking-stick. The only persons who appeared to be
concerned at his going were the two little girls; and even they—as is the
habit of children—returned to their play before the carriage had left the
door.
Dolly had said she would drive with him into Oxford to see him off in the
train; but, as he was to depart at an early hour, she was not dressed
in time, and was therefore obliged to bid him “good-bye” at the foot
of the stairs. She looked a pretty little creature, standing there in
a pink dressing-gown, with the morning sunlight striking upon her fair
hair, which fell around her shoulders, as though she had been disturbed
in the act of combing it, and with a background of the dark portraits of
previous owners of the manor. In her hand she was carrying a large bunch
of apple-blossom, which she accounted for by saying that she had just
been picking it from outside her bedroom window at the moment when he
called out to her. Knowing her habit of studying effects, Jim felt sure
that she had thought out this charming picture, and had never had any
intention of accompanying him to the station; nor had he the heart to ask
her why, if she had but now plucked the blossom from the tree, the stems
should be dripping with water as though just lifted from a vase.
“Every picture tells a story,” he muttered to himself as he drove away,
“and some tell downright lies.”