“Why,” said Peregrine hoarsely, “why can’t the leaf get away?”
Joan threw up her hands.
“I knew you’d say that,” she said. “It does seem strange, doesn’t
it—that the leaf shouldn’t be able to get away? Well, Perry, you’ll
hardly believe me, but it’s a matter of pluck. The door’s open—I’ve
only got to walk out. _But I can’t do it._”
“D’you mean . . . you love him?”
“‘Love him?’” cried Joan. “Does the leaf love the north-east wind? Of
course, it’s different for you because you’re a man. Women can be very
trying, but they can’t reduce men to pulp. So you can’t put yourself in
my place. But if you were a slave and your master had given you hell day
in day out for five long, frightful years—well, d’you think you’d love
him, Perry?”
Peregrine stared upon the ground.
“Have you—a child?” he said.
Joan shook her head.
“Has he control of your fortune?”
“Not a cent. I tell you,” she added wildly, “the door’s open.”
“Steady, dear, steady. . . . Tell me, d’you feel—d’you feel you
oughtn’t to leave him? I mean . . . D’you feel it’s your job to
stay—because you’re his wife?”
“No, indeed,” cried the girl. “I feel it’s my job not—not to go to
anyone else. It sounds rather out-of-date, but I’ve got old-fashioned
views. He’s my husband: and neither time nor distance can alter that.
But I don’t feel bound to stay with him—until he sends me mad. Would
you feel bound . . . Perry?”
“Good God, no!” The man flung out the words. “As you say, you
needn’t. . . . Besides, I should think you’re fed up with men. I—I
should be.” Joan winced. “Give me my freedom. . . . I’d only get into a
hole—some wretched, back-stair lodging in some tiny place where I could
sit and read. I’d have one servant, and I’d potter about the streets. I
wouldn’t want any excitement—I’d ’ve had enough of that.” He laughed
bitterly. “I only want”—he swallowed and corrected his tense—“I’d only
want peace, Joan.”
The girl nodded her head.
“I knew you’d understand, Perry.”
The man sat back in his chair.
“The door’s open, Joan. Why can’t you walk out?”
“Because,” said the girl slowly, “because I haven’t the nerve.” She
paused there, wide-eyed, as though plunged in bitter meditation. After a
moment she continued absently. “There’s nothing on earth to stop me, but
I know that for me to leave him would be _against his will_, and I can’t
stand up against that.”
“But he needn’t know, Joan. You can just fade away and never see him
again.”
“I know,” said Joan wearily. “I’ve got it all worked out. It’s the
easiest thing in the world. We leave for Paris to-morrow”—Peregrine
started—“by the evening train. Separate sleepers, of course: he likes
plenty of room. I’ve only to leave the train at some station during the
night. . . . We’ve taken rooms at Paris—I took them, of course. When he
gets there he finds awaiting him a letter to say I’ve gone. . . . It
adds that _so long as he doesn’t molest me_ a thousand pounds a quarter
will be paid into his account, but that if he tries to find me the
allowance will stop. . . . It’s the easiest thing on earth. I worked it
out months ago, and I’ve had chance after chance, for we’re always
moving about. But I can’t do it, Perry. He’s broken my nerve.”
Peregrine set his teeth.
“I know what you mean, Joan. But——”
“No, you don’t, Perry. No one who’s not been through it could ever
understand. Why should one _need_ any nerve to step out of hell? That’s
all it is. Hell can’t follow—won’t even try to follow. There’s nothing
to fear. I’ve everything to gain and I can’t lose. But I can’t take the
plunge. . . . ‘But there _is_ no plunge,’ you’d say. I know. But then
your soul’s your own. Mine isn’t my own, Perry. . . . And that’s why you
can’t understand.”
“I—do—understand.”
“How can you?”
“Never mind how I can. I do.” The strong, almost stern tone lifted up
Joan’s heart. The flax was smoking. “You’re under a sort of
spell—that’s all it is.”
“All?”
“All. Your words betray you. Your soul, you say, isn’t your own. That’s
pure fantasy—it must be. You’re under no physical restraint, and you’re
mentally free. You can think out your way of escape—discuss it with me.
You couldn’t do that if your soul wasn’t your own. You’re not even
hypnotized. But because for years you’ve been hammered you think that
you can’t hit back. The bare idea staggers you.” He leaned forward and
set a hand on her arm. “_But you haven’t got to hit back_, Joan. Do get
that into your head. Slipping out of the ring while he’s sleeping isn’t
hitting him back.”
Joan began to tremble.
“But after, Perry, _after_ . . . Supposing——”
The grip on her arm tightened.
“There’d be no ‘after,’ dear. The spell ’d be broken. As you stood on
the platform and watched the train’s lights fading, your confidence ’d
come back pelting. You’d want to shout and sing. You’d wonder why on
earth you’d stuck it so long. You’d find yourself laughing to think what
a fool you’d been. You could afford to laugh, because you’d be
free—_free_.”
Joan put a hand to her head.
“It’s the plunge,” she whimpered. “It’s taking the plunge, Perry. I’m
afraid. If I’d someone to hold my hand . . . You know what I said just
now. The sea doesn’t run so high when you’re not alone in the boat.”
Peregrine pushed back his hood and wiped his face. This was streaming
with sweat.
“Could—could you take the plunge with me, Joan?”
Joan started violently.
“With you, Perry? What d’you mean?”
“I mean, if I held your hand. You see, _you’re not alone_, Joan . . .
not—alone—in the boat.”
“_Perry!_”
Trembling with excitement, the man continued jerkily.
“All you’ve said of yourself you might have been saying of me. I’m in
the same boat, Joan. I’ve been there for seven years. And I haven’t the
nerve to plunge—either. I can preach, but I can’t practise. But I think
I might save myself if I tried to save you.”
Joan clapped her hands to her cheeks.
“Oh, Perry, I’m frightened,” she breathed. “Supposing he——”
“He’ll be asleep,” said Peregrine. “Listen. We get to Bordeaux about
one. Bordeaux’s the place. Come out of your sleeper there. I’ll—I’ll be
in the corridor. We must let our big baggage go.” The sweat was running
on his forehead. Impatiently he wiped it off. “Write your letter to
Paris the moment you’re back.”