“I’m going out,” he said shortly. “Don’t wait for lunch. I shan’t be
back till seven. I shall come back then—this time. But if ever you say
such a thing again or anything like it, I shall walk right out for
good.”
He picked up his hat and coat and passed out of the room. . . .
Rome has much to offer. She offered much to Broke that April morning.
But all he took was the aged Appian Way, tramping this steadily with an
empty pipe between his teeth and the thin rain playing on his face. He
had no eyes for his flank-guards, no thoughts for the pomp of traffic
that had swept or stalked or stumbled over his present path to build a
world. He was aware only of a proud, passionate face, angry, yet
exquisite in anger—the face of a spoiled child.
Sixteen miles he covered before he returned to the hotel, hungry and
healthily tired, but with a clear brain and steadfast heart.
He had been checking and weighing many things. He had reviewed his
married life, faced the mistakes he had made and steeled himself to pay
for every one of them. He had found himself wanting in patience, slow to
make due allowance, visiting Eve with ills which his own shortcomings
had begotten. More. The bill his heart had run up was truly formidable.
To do his darling pleasure he had let everything rip for month after
flashing month. He had smiled at this extravagance, abetted that whim,
encouraged that vanity. They had drifted—gone as they pleased. The
trivial round had been bought off; the common task compounded with.
Discipline had become a dead letter; indulgence, Lord of Misrule. . . .
And it was his fault. She was a child and—she had great possessions; so
Life and Love had become two excellent games, effortless, fruitful.
Indubitably it was his fault. He should have pointed the child, steadied
her, used his experience. His failure was inexcusable, because he had
been through the mill, seen that Life, at any rate, was no game—a
stroll or a struggle, perhaps, according as Fate laid down, but not a
game. The pity was they might have strolled so pleasantly. . . .
Jeremy had also reviewed the recent affray. He had decided that he had
been clumsy, quick to anger and blunt. But he was perfectly certain,
first, that his contention had been sound, and, secondly, that his
withdrawal was wholly justified. Moreover, cost what it might, if ever
again Eve laid such a whip across his shoulders, he would have to go.
Had he been less punctilious, had he ever given his wife the slightest
cause, it would have been different. As it was, to condone such usage
would be fatal. Her respect for him, his respect for himself, would
rapidly bleed to death, and Happiness would shrivel like a fallen leaf.
There would, in fact, be nothing at all to stay for—unless one cared
for Love with his tongue in his cheek. . . .
That she had drawn such a whip had opened Broke’s eyes. He had been
hurt—naturally; but he was far more concerned. Ten months ago . . .
Jeremy blamed himself very much indeed. He was, of course, most deeply
in love with his wife. . . .
And she with him.
When he came in that evening she flung her arms round his neck and burst
into tears.
“What do you think of me?” she wailed. “I must have been mad. You are so
wonderful, Jeremy, so wonderfully sweet about it all: and then I take up
your sweetness and slash you across the face. Jeremy boy, you’ve got a
cad for a wife.”
Jeremy kissed her hair.
“My lady,” he said. “My darling.”
Eve shook her glorious head.
“No,” she said. “No lady. Don’t call me that again. I’ve done the
unspeakable thing. I know it. If you’d given me cause, it would’ve been
the grossest form. But as things are . . .” She drew away and passed a
hand over her eyes. “I think I must be possessed, Jeremy. Of course I
hadn’t a leg—about the drinks, I mean. You were perfectly right. But I
can mend that. I’ll never touch a cocktail again as long as I live. But
I can’t mend the other.”
“It’s mended,” said Jeremy, taking her hands in his. “I made you mad as
a hornet. I didn’t mean to, dear, but I’m clumsy, you know. Well, when
you’re mad, you just pick up the first brick. You don’t care what it’s
made of or what it is. The point is it’s something to heave.”
Eve looked him in the face.
“There was a label on that brick—‘=Not to be Thrown=,’” she
said. “We’ve all got two or three bricks labelled like that—‘DO NOT
TOUCH,’ ‘DANGEROUS.’ . . . I think from what you said that brick is
marked ‘DANGEROUS’ too.”
Jeremy bowed his head.
“Yes.”
“Jeremy,” said Eve, “you’ve something I haven’t got—thousands of
things, of course, but especially one. And that’s my respect.”
Her husband smiled.
Then he extended his arms and brought her face to his chin.
“You’ve got mine, any way,” he said.
“Rot.”
Jeremy nodded solemnly.
“To tell you the truth,” he said, “you never lost it. If you could have
seen yourself. . . .”
“A sulky child,” said Eve.
“No,” said Broke. “A—a princess.”
“That’s not what you married.”
“I know. But that was your fault. You went and gave me my choice.”
A mischievous look stole into the big brown eyes.
“What a fool I was,” said Eve and put up her mouth.
* * * * *
If the Brokes had slid back for ten months, for the next six they went
steadily forward, hand in hand. It was the strangest progress. Luxury,
Idleness, Ease certainly came behind, but dutifully, as servants should.
A jovial Discipline jogged by their side. Respect and Self-Respect
marched solemnly ahead.
Jeremy did admirably.
Eve had never been mouthed—and she was twenty-six. She was worth twenty
thousand pounds a year. Finally, she was American. . . .
With infinite patience, with gentleness, firmly her husband went to
work—helping his wife, helping himself, helping his wife to help him
and always giving her the glory. Eve gave it back always, with a look in
her eyes that money cannot buy.
The vanities of a wicked world were against her, but her love and
respect for Jeremy beat them back. She began to see the smile on
Discipline’s face, look for his cheerful wink, glow before his bluff
praise.
One November morning Jeremy woke to find her fully dressed.
This was unusual. That one’s fast should be broken in bed was one of the
articles of Mrs. Broke’s faith.
So soon as her husband could speak, he asked what was wrong.
After a while, a child told him her tale.
“You remember that poor man yesterday I gave half a crown to? Well,
what’s half a crown to me? It wasn’t giving him anything really. I mean,
I wasn’t missing anything. It wasn’t hurting me. So I thought if this
morning I got up at seven o’clock. . . . It sounds silly, because it
hasn’t done him any good. But he did have his half-crown, and I——
Well, I’m glad I’m up now, but I do hope it was a deserving case,
Jeremy. . . .”
Her husband slid out of bed and picked up her hand.
“I take my hat off,” he said uncertainly.
And, as is so often the way, two days later the pretty pilgrims’
progress came to a violent end.
It was a bleak afternoon, with a sky of concrete and a wind that cut
like a lash.
Eve, who had been to the dressmaker’s, was sitting before the fire,
reflecting comfortably that in ten days’ time she and Jeremy would be in
the South of France.
Her husband entered quickly.
“Sorry I’m late, my darling, but when he’d finished with me he said he
was going south, and I was fool enough to offer to drive him down. You
know what these artists are. Five-and-twenty minutes he kept me
waiting.” He stooped and kissed her. “And—and I’ve a confession to
make.”
“Go on,” said Eve, smiling.
“I’ve done it again, Eve.”
“What?”
Jeremy stepped to the fire.
“Got stopped in the Park.”
“Jeremy!”
“I’m awfully sorry, dear. It’s a kind of disease with me.”
“But you gave me your word——”
“I know. I’m frightfully sorry. I wasn’t thinking about speed. As a
matter of fact, I was talking to Hudibras. And then, just as I was going
to switch out of Clarence Gate, they pulled me up. Perfectly ridiculous,
of course. The road was clear.”
“That’s hardly the point,” said Eve coldly.
“I know, I know.” He paused. Then: “Of course, you’ll think I’m mad,
but—Eve, ten minutes later I did it again.”
His wife sat up.
“Again?”
Jeremy swallowed.
“Again,” he said uncomfortably. “Down Constitution Hill. I tell you,
Eve, I could hardly believe my eyes. Just as I got to the Palace, out
they stepped. Thirty-three miles an hour. They’re perfectly right.”
“And you promised to keep to twenty.”
“I know. I’m frightfully sorry. It just shows——”
Eve laughed.
“It shows you don’t care a damn. I’ve begged and prayed you just for my
sake to go slow. You know why. Because I’m worried to death when you’re
out alone. You know it. Over and over again you’ve given your word.”
Jeremy stared upon the floor.
“I’ll give up driving,” he said.
“I don’t care what you do. The damage is done. I begged, you swore, and
now you’ve broken your word. If the police hadn’t stopped you, I should
never have known. The obvious inference is that you’re breaking it all
the time.”
“I haven’t really, Eve. I’ve crawled about. But to-day I got talking,
and——”
“Why,” said Eve, “should I believe you? What does it matter whether I do
or not? Day in, day out, I try to do what you want. I’m sick and tired
of trying to do your will. Yet I keep on because it amuses you—amuses
you to see me cramp my style. God knows why. It’s a funny form of love.
But that’s by the way. I try. I sweat and grunt and slave—for peace in
our time. . . . And you stand over me and keep my nose to the
stone. . . . I’m not like that. It wouldn’t amuse me to put you through
the hoop. Only one wretched favour I’ve ever asked: and that I asked
because I loved you.”
“I know,” said Broke. “I’m sorry. I’ve no excuse. But don’t lay on so
hard, Eve. You know it doesn’t amuse me to——”
“Then why do you do it?” said Eve. “Don’t say ‘Out of love,’ or I shall
burst.”
“I do what I do,” said Broke, “because I want you to get the most out of
Life.”
“Oh, let us pray.”
Jeremy bit his lip.
“You do it,” continued his wife, “to assert your authority. If the money
was yours and not mine, you’d have the whip-hand. As it isn’t, you play
the priest, trade on my better feelings, take advantage of my love—I
didn’t marry you for that, you know.”
“You will please,” said Jeremy, “take that back at once.”
His wife stared.
“You’re out for trouble,” she said. “Well, here it is—hot and strong. I
said I didn’t marry you for that. Well, I don’t pay you for that,
either.”
Without a word, Jeremy left the room.
Ten minutes later he passed out of the house.
* * * * *
For month after halting month Eve carried on. The girl hoped desperately
that Jeremy would return. If he did, he should find her soul swept and
garnished. She dressed soberly, spent so much and no more, rose always
at eight. She kept the same state, but entertained the less fortunate,
was always lending her cars. When she saw some object she fancied, she
asked the price and gave the amount to charity. Herein she was
scrupulous. A chinchilla stole attracted her very much. Still, her
sables were perfect. Besides . . . After careful reflection she decided
that but for Jeremy’s teaching she would have bought the fur and wrote a
cheque for the sick for four hundred pounds.
She made no search for her husband—not because she was proud, but
because she felt that it was vain. If he was coming he would come. If he
was not . . . Had she stumbled across him, she would have begged and
prayed. But look she would not. She had no doubt at all that she was up
against Fate. And Jeremy had always said that Fate didn’t like you to
try to force his hand. ‘So sure as you do, my lady, you lose your
labour.’
She often wondered why she had lost her head that bitter afternoon.
After all, to exceed a limit was not a grave offence. He was careful in
traffic, no doubt: and then, slipping into the Park, he hurried along.
Besides, he was only hastening back to her. . . . And he had been so
humble.
Eve decided that she had been possessed. Some malignant devil had
entered into her soul, distorting truth, ranting of motes and beams,
raising a false resentment of a fictitious injury.
To say that she missed him is to call Leviathan a fish. Only the fetish
that she must do his will saved her alive. The night of his going she
lifted up her head, shook the tears from her eyes, and answered two
letters that she had left too long. . . .
And now four months had gone by. . . .
Sitting before the fire, Eve thought of the past with blank, see-nothing
eyes. For the millionth time she wondered where Jeremy was, how he was
faring, what he was doing to live. Never had riches seemed so empty,
luxury so drear as they had seemed since she had been alone. The thought
that, as like as not, he was going hungry tore at her heart. . . .
She picked up the paper to try to distract her thoughts.
Staring straight at her was the advertisement of _The St. James’s
Review_. This was announcing the contents of the current issue. Third on
the list was:
_BABEL . . . . Jeremy Broke._
A child fell upon the telephone. . . .
A sub-editor or someone was speaking.
“I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to give his address, but if you write
him a letter care of this office, it will be sent on at once.”
“All right,” said Eve. “Thank you.”
A child’s letter went off by messenger within half an hour.
_MY DARLING JEREMY_,
_I would like to come to you if you will tell me where you are.
I have tried very hard to do what you would have liked ever
since you went, and if you had been here I should have been very
happy. Please let me come, because, if you don’t, I don’t think
I shall be able to go on. I would try, of course, but I think I
should break. I’ve tried to write calmly, darling, but I shall
be very glad to hear as soon as you can. Oh, Jeremy, my
precious, I suppose you couldn’t wire._
_Your very loving_
_EVE._
No sooner had the letter been dispatched than a terror that it would
miscarry flung into Eve’s heart. She saw it being mislaid, forgotten,
let to join the faded habitués of some dusty mantelpiece. Of course she
should have marked it ‘_Important_,’ enclosed it in a note to the editor
saying how serious it was, asking for it to be expressed or sent by
hand. Then, at least, he would have taken action. Besides, it _was_
serious—desperately so: and urgent—most urgent. Yet she had done
nothing to accelerate a reply—_nothing_. What a fool she was! She had
certainly asked him to wire, but why not to telephone? If the letter had
gone to him by hand and he were to have telephoned. . . .
The tide of apprehensive impatience rose to an intolerable height. . . .
Eve rose to her feet and stood twisting her fingers.
After a moment, trembling a little, she stepped to the telephone. . . .
“Oh, I rang up a little while ago and asked for Mr. Broke’s address—Mr.
Jeremy Broke. And you said—I think I spoke to you—you said that if I
sent a letter——”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, I’ve just sent you a letter by hand, but I ought to have marked
it ‘_Important_’ and—and . . . Well, I really should have enclosed it
in a note to you because it’s very urgent, and I would like it sent on
by messenger-boy if you could do it. At once—to-night, I mean. You
see——”
“I don’t think he’s in London. Wait a minute.” The voice became almost
inaudible. Frantically Eve strained her ears. . . . “Broke. Jeremy
Broke—fellow that wrote _Babel_ . . . messenger-boy. . . . Rome, isn’t
it? Poste Restante, Rome. . . .” The voice returned to the mouthpiece.
“No. I’m afraid—— Hullo! Are you there? . . . Hullo . . . Hullo . . .”
After a moment or two the speaker replaced his receiver with a sigh.
“Cut off,” he said wearily. “Never mind. She’ll ring up again.”
He was quite wrong.
He had had his last conversation with Mrs. Broke.
The latter was already preparing to leave for Italy. . . .
Two days later the lady had reached Rome and was being rapidly driven to
the Ritz Hotel. Purposely she avoided the Grand, where she and Jeremy
had stayed—centuries ago.
She passed into the hall and up to the polished bureau.
The reception-clerk was busy—speaking into the telephone.
“_Oui, madame. . . . Parfaitement. . . . Jusqu’à samedi prochain les
deux, et après samedi les trois avec un salon en suite. . . . C’est
entendu, madame. . . . Merci._”
He left the instrument, stooped to make an entry and turned with an
apology to Eve.
“Hullo, Jeremy,” said his wife.
* * * * *
At half-past eight that evening Jeremy Broke, Gentleman, entered the
Grand Hotel and sent up his name.
His head was aching, and he felt rather tired.
He wondered dully what this dinner with Eve would bring forth. The great
gulf fixed between them seemed exceeding wide: everything was insisting
upon its width. Not since the day on which he had left her house had he
been used as a gentleman: now he was treated with respect—which her
wealth had induced. A page she would presently tip was dancing
attendance; here was the pomp of a salon which she had purchased; there
was champagne waiting for which she would pay. . . .
As the door closed behind him, another was opened, and Eve in a plain
black frock came into the room.
“Oh, Jeremy.”
He went to her quickly and kissed her hands and lips.
The big brown eyes searched his steadily.
He smiled back. . . .
“What is it, Jeremy? Why are you playing up?”
Jeremy dropped her fingers and turned away.
“The burnt child,” he said slowly, “dreads the fire.”
“Are you sorry I came?”
“Oh, Eve.”
He drew in his breath sharply, hesitated and fell to playing with his
moustache. . . .
Dinner was served.
The meal did much for both of them, as meals can. Jeremy’s headache
passed, and Eve was refreshed. The flesh being fortified, the spirit
lifted up its head.
By the time the servants had withdrawn they were exchanging news with
zest. . . .
“So, really,” concluded Jeremy, settling himself in a chair, “I’ve—I’ve
done very well. It’s a most entertaining job—smoothing down the
indignant, humouring the whimsical, bluffing the undesirable, assisting
the helpless, shepherding the vague. . . . I never had the faintest idea
how many remarkable people are floating around. We had a fellow one day
who stayed for six weeks. He went to bed when he arrived and he never
got up. For six solid weeks he stayed in his bed. Nothing the matter
with him. No suggestion of ill health. It was just his way of life. He
did it wherever he went. Chauffeur and valet kicking their heels all
day. He wouldn’t have the valet in his room except to shave him. Said he
didn’t like his face. Then one day he got up and left for Naples. . . .
I got off once—with an old English lady. She had a courier and two
maids and travelled her own bath. She used to be ringing me up the whole
day long, and she never went out or came in without speaking to me. It
was most embarrassing. She gave me a cheque, when she left, for a
hundred pounds. I tore it up, of course. . . .”
“You would,” said Eve.
“Well, I couldn’t take money like that.”
“Plenty of people do.”
“Yes, but . . .”
Eve leaned forward.
“She wanted you to have it, Jeremy. She was rich, and it gave her
pleasure to spend her money like that. Your conscience was clear.”
Jeremy shifted in his chair.
“It wouldn’t ’ve been,” he said, “if I’d frozen on to it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t deserve it.”
“Wasn’t that a matter for her?”