“I’ll go and order a car,” said her husband quietly, and left the room.
The disorder was a very ordinary one, but it was a bad case.
In the first place, it is due to Peregrine to say that he was not fair
game.
When Mrs. Below observed that her husband ought to have gone to a public
school she hit the nail on the head. That would have altered everything.
But Peregrine was an only and delicate child. When he was twelve he had
spent six years on his back. Not until he was twenty had he been ‘passed
sound.’ His most impressionable years had been spent in a shelter such
as only a widow’s devotion to a son who is not expected to live can ever
erect. He certainly went to Oxford, but use held. His vacations were
happier than the terms he kept, and after two years he returned to his
mother’s side. Then the War came. . . . One morning his Commission
arrived. His mother shared his joy, but died in her sleep that night.
Three years later the sparrow fell on the ground.
Peregrine Carey Below had fallen in love with his wife, and she had
exploited his fall to the top of her bent. I say ‘fallen.’ To be more
accurate, he had ventured to look in the pool, and his future wife had
promptly kicked him in.
Swiftly, though imperceptibly, the garlands which he had twined
rapturously about his limbs had turned to fetters which he could not
unloose. The garlands had been supplied by Mrs. Below.
The man was in thrall to a personality—a vigorous magnetism, which
sucked the marrow from his bones and, waxing fat on it, grew more
exacting and savage every day. Physical bonds there were none. The two
were childless: in her own right Marion Carey Below had not a penny
piece. Yet so well had she wrought that full two-thirds of his income
went into her privy purse, while of that which was left, her husband
accounted to her for every farthing. For seven years she had bluffed
him—with an empty hand: and he paid and paid and paid. . . . The bluff
slid into torment—for the love of the thing: the torment, into the
order of the day. Mrs. Carey Below had reduced nagging to a fine art.
Her vocabulary was rich, her tongue fluent, her brain quick. Perversion,
avoidance, falsehood were so many irons in the fire. It was a bad case.
The lady was thirty-eight, handsome and as hard as nails. Always
ruthless, she had appropriated Peregrine out of hand. The fact that he
was betrothed to another girl did not concern her. I doubt if his
marriage would have stood in her way. The best was good enough for her,
no matter to whom it belonged. The idea of troubling to hold him never
entered her head: the very sublimity of her self-confidence grappled him
to her soul. There was no love in her—nor ever had been. Women disliked
her with cause, but to men she appealed. The appeal was deliberate. To
her, male admiration was the breath of life. ‘A born _vivandière_,’ says
someone. Not at all. She would have loathed the job. The salt would have
lost his savour. Male admiration must be won at another’s expense. To
diminish all other women was her heart’s desire. Money,
convenience—everything was offered upon this altar. Peregrine’s money,
Peregrine’s convenience. Marriage had brought him indeed more kicks than
halfpence.
The man was thirty-six, quiet, tall, good-looking. You would not have
written him down as overborne. His brown eyes were mild, certainly, but
his mouth was firm and his carriage dignified. He was easy-going and
regarded the Line of Least Resistance as the Rock of Ages. Such
confidence had proved fatal. Long ago the Rock had become a straw, but
he clung to it desperately. That the torrent was but breast-high he did
not appear to perceive. Possibly he was fascinated. There was,
certainly, much of the python about his lady. The probability is that he
was afraid—had not the moral courage to throw off the yoke. One might
have thought that the instinct of self-preservation would have hounded
him out of his hell. But the instinct was always stillborn. Her
careless, rampant personality scorched it in embryo. It was a bad case.
Peregrine descended listlessly to the cool hall.
The Carey Belows had only arrived at Biarritz the night before, and had
been due to leave in ten days’ time: but, as we have seen, the date of
the Domino Ball had altered everything. For the second time in three
weeks their passages to New York were to be cancelled, and fresh
arrangements made. Hotels, Banks, Solicitors would have to be told.
Policies of Assurance would have to be reindorsed. . . . Peregrine had
learned to leave nothing to chance. It was not good enough.
The porter was previsionally urbane.
“A gar for thee gough? Certainly, sir. Do you wand it at once?”
“No, but I want one ready.”
“Verry good, sir. There are always some taxis here. When you gome
down——”
“Order it now,” said Below. “And let it wait.”
“As you please, sir.”
He touched a bell-push, and a gong stammered outside.
Peregrine stepped to the lift.
As he did so the gates were opened, and two people emerged—a gentle,
white-haired woman and a tall, steady-eyed girl of thirty-four.
Idly Peregrine registered them as an English lady of title with an
American niece.
Herein he was perfectly right.
That, as she passed him, the girl turned very pale he did not remark.
He had no idea who she was.
After all, he had not seen her for more than seven years.
* * * * *
That Joan Purchase Atlee, young, rich, attractive, would never marry
seemed to be past all question. Her aunt, however, refused to abandon
hope. Joan was so obviously cut for wedlock and motherhood. To suckle
the memory of a broken dream was out of all reason. ‘Men were deceivers
ever.’ Besides . . . But Joan was resolute. She had loved Peregrine with
a whole heart, and no other man had ever touched her at all. More.
Peregrine had loved her. He had not left her: he had been stolen away.
She had never seen Mrs. Below, but she was certain of that. Her man was
faithful. If he had been bewitched, so much the worse for them both. Her
man was faithful, and she would be faithful to him.
Joan bore Peregrine no grudge. It was not a case of forgiveness: Joan
had nothing to forgive. Peregrine and she had been undone—by a third
party. The wretched, stumbling note that had broken her heart was in his
handwriting, but it was not his note. Their common enemy had written
it—the future Mrs. Below. Joan hated Mrs. Below with a bitter, undying
hate.
She hoped—prayed that Peregrine was happy: that he never could be so
happy as he would have been with her she had no manner of doubt. He was
her man.
It follows that when after seven years Joan Purchase Atlee encountered
Peregrine _and found his eyes lacklustre_ she was profoundly moved.
Her letter to her twin-sister in distant Philadelphia shall speak for
itself.
. . . . _I’ve seen him, Betty—at last. He’s here, in this
hotel—Peregrine Carey Below, my man. Two hours ago I stepped
out of the elevator almost into his arms. I nearly fainted. The
hall seemed to heel over and I had to walk uphill. Betty_,
he—didn’t—know—me. . . . _That hurt rather, at first. You
know. Nasty jar to one’s pride. The answer is that I’ve changed
even more than I knew. After all, seven years isn’t a
week-end. . . . But that’s by the way. The sting soon died in a
sense of immeasurable relief. Truly Providence is wise.
Supposing he had known me. What a hellish position it would have
been! Melodrama with an edge. . . . Never mind, Peregrine didn’t
know me, and that’s that. But, Betty, he’s miserable—so very
wretched. The moment I saw him I knew. He’s going grey at the
temples, but that’s nothing—he’s rising thirty-seven. But his
eyes, Betty, his eyes. I could have wept to see them. Dull and
strained they were—dull and strained and listless . . . his
blessed, gentle eyes. . . . Don’t think I’m such a fool as to
think it’s because of me. If it were, he’d have known me. No.
It’s his wife, Betty—Mrs. Carey Below. She’s making my man
wretched. Seven years ago she smashed my life, and now she’s
smashing his. . . . I don’t know how long it’s been going on. I
don’t know anything—yet. But I saw them go out this morning,
and I had a good look at her. Man-mad, Betty. Tough as you make
’em, with a mouth like a steel trap. Rather like Nesta Dudoy,
but better-looking. No use for women at all. Very well dressed,
and her clothes well put on. Hair too good to be true and a nice
skin._ And Peregrine fears her, _Betty. There wasn’t a taxi or
something, and he was all hot and bothered and ready to cry. ‘I
ordered it,’ he kept saying, ‘nearly an hour ago.’ She just
purred back at him, with veiled eyes. . . . It was really
painful. Peregrine rattled because she must wait thirty seconds
whilst they sent for a cab! One’s seen it before, of course: but
not in a man like him. He’s so quiet and reserved and strong
naturally that only a proper shock should be able to shake him
up—visibly, at any rate. And here he was—frightened, for all
the world to see. . . I say ‘all the world.’ Perhaps I’m wrong.
I saw it as clear as daylight, but then I know my man. It was so
grievous, Betty. The impulse to go and touch him and talk about
something else was almost irresistible. Anything on
earth_—anything _to drive that hunted look out of his
eyes. . . . But I had to sit impotently by, pretending to read.
I feel I must do something, but what can I do? I wish to God you
were here. I can’t trust myself to write more than I have about
his wife. You’ll find her and her future in the New Testament.
‘Where their worm dieth not. . . .’_
The hotel was crowded, but Joan and her uncle and aunt kept to
themselves. The Carey Belows, however, were soon in the thick of things.
Within three days the lady had established a Court of which the most
favoured members were married men. Peregrine danced with their wives,
waited outside the hairdresser’s, reserved tables and cabs, and was
reviled night and morning for his pains. Joan was spared the spectacle
of the daily drubbings, because those rites were always performed in
secret, but she had pieced together the rubric of Peregrine’s life, and
to fill such gaps as there were was only too simple. The man’s demeanour
alone . . . Peregrine hangdog! Joan’s blood boiled. Besides, she had a
maid, and so had Mrs. Below. As luck would have it, both hailed from
Camden Town. The rest was easy. The rubric was hideously verified,
monstrously annotated. Joan began to see red.
* * * * *
“What have you done about your dress?”
“D’you mean for to-night?” said Peregrine.
Mrs. Carey Below sat back in her chair.
“What d’you think I mean?” she said.
“My dress for the dance, of course. It was very stupid of me.”
“No, not stupid,” said Mrs. Below. “Ill-mannered. Rather than take the
trouble to use your brain, you’ll let me spoon-feed it. Never mind. What
have you done?”
“I haven’t done anything,” said Peregrine, “so far. But——”
“Why not?”
“Well, it’s not till to-night, dear. I suppose Pickford can knock me out
something this afternoon.”
“Does it occur to you that I may need Pickford’s services—this
afternoon?”
Peregrine waved a desperate hand.
“If you want them you’ll have them, of course. I only meant——”
“You’re very kind,” said his wife, with a metallic laugh. “D’you really
mean that I can make use of my own maid?” She tapped the floor with her
foot. “Of course, this is too handsome. Never mind. Supposing I am so
reckless as to accept your offer—what are you going to do about your
dress?”
“I won’t go,” said Peregrine. “I don’t want to go. Masked balls aren’t
much in my line, and——”
“I never knew any entertainment that was,” said Mrs. Below sweetly. “Not
to put too fine a point upon it, you’re about the most effective wet
blanket I’ve ever seen.”
“I realize that,” said Peregrine bitterly. “That’s largely why I don’t
want to go.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Below. “And what if I need you? Supposing I’m taken
ill, or something like that.” She silenced his protest with a shrug.
“You see? Your convenience again, as opposed to mine. Instinctively,
yours comes first. Never mind. For God’s sake don’t let’s discuss it.
For the third and last time—what are you going to do about your dress?”
“I’ll buy one,” said Peregrine wildly.
Instantly the merciless point rose to his throat.
“Where?”
“Oh, I’ll find some place.”
“Rot!” The word left her mouth like the crack of a whip. Mrs. Carey
Below was getting angry. “This isn’t Paris. You can’t buy dominoes like
jujubes. They don’t sell them by the pound.”
“I know,” said Peregrine quietly. “I’m very sorry, dear. If you could
spare me Pickford for half an hour . . .”
“I must. You’ve forced my hand. _My_ dress must go by the board, while
yours is made.” She raised her voice. “Pickford!”
The bedroom door opened, and the maid came in.
“Did you call, madam?”
“Mr. Below has nothing to wear to-night. He will get the material, and
you must make him a dress. How many yards do you want?”
Pickford considered.