PEREGRINE
“I sometimes think,” said Mrs. Carey Below, “that you are losing your mind.”
Peregrine Carey Below put a hand to his head.
“I’m not so sure I’m not,” he said wearily.
“Is that meant to be rude?”
Peregrine raised his eyes to meet the glint of steel in those of his wife. For a moment he seemed upon the edge of protest: then the cold, level gaze bore down his spirit. Peregrine felt as though he were seated in cold water. He shifted uneasily.
“No, no,” he said. “Of course it isn’t. I—I only——”
“Because if it is,” said Mrs. Below silkily, “if it is, we shall have to have an understanding.” She bridled menacingly. “I was not bred to rudeness. Selfishness I can put up with—fortunately for me: I can suffer a fool—I’ve done it day and night for seven years: but rudeness is an assault, and that I will not endure.”
“I assure you, Marion——”
“D’you mind holding your tongue?” The words bit at the air, and Peregrine winced. “As I say, I was not bred to rudeness. My father was old-fashioned enough to treat my mother with courtesy, if not respect. I’m not such a fool as to expect those emotions from you because my father was a gentleman, but if you could manage to suppress your coarser instincts at least in my presence, I should be grateful. Personally, I see nothing heinous in my wish to attend a dance. Life’s flat enough, Heaven knows. Besides, it’s been done before. That is what dances are for—Peregrine. I confess I did not expect my suggestion to be cordially received. That would have been unreasonably optimistic. It hasn’t taken me seven years to discover that social intercourse doesn’t appeal to you. But it never occurred to me that my mere expression of a very natural desire would be the signal for an outburst of abuse. But there again—I never expect contumely. I’ve had it and stood it for seven years, and I suppose most women would have become case-hardened. But I’m different. I cannot realize that the old order is changed, that you cannot spell the word ‘chivalry,’ that to you women are chattels whose only office is to reflect the glorious will of man. What if our passages are booked? I suppose they can be cancelled.”
“Certainly, dear,” said Peregrine. “I’ll—I’ll do it this morning.”
“No, you won’t,” said his wife. “You’ll do it this afternoon. This morning we’re playing golf. Which reminds me—have you ordered a car?”
“I will if you like,” said Peregrine, rising. “I shouldn’t think it was necess——”
“Why argue?” said Mrs. Below grimly. “Why not be big-minded enough to admit your mistake? If there is one thing I despise more than another, it is a man or woman who deliberately sticks to their point when they know that they’re wrong. And why should I run the risk of having to walk because you won’t take the trouble to order a car? Of course it’s the old thing—lack of consideration. First, every possible obstacle is put in the way of my going to a dance just because you don’t want the bother of writing a note. Then my convenience is to be jeopardized. . . .” She raised her eyes to heaven and let the sentence go. “You ought to have known my father,” she continued piously. “With him my mother came first always. It never occurred to him to argue. She only had to . . .” She stopped there to peer violently at the floor. “What have you got on your feet?”
“My—buckskin shoes, dear,” said Peregrine.
“Rubber-soled?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Below inspired vehemently, cast a reproachful glance skywards, as though to suggest that, while allowing and prepared to suffer the inscrutable authority of God, she expected it to be counted to her for righteousness, and set her teeth.
“Go and change,” she said shortly, using the tone of one who, tried beyond endurance, forgets that he is addressing a fellow-man. “I never thought I should have to dress you, but it seems I was wrong. We’re going to play golf, my darling—not tennis. Golf.”
“I—I know,” faltered Peregrine, “but——”
“That’s right,” said his wife. “Argue the point. Give me the lie. Where are you going?”
“To change,” said her husband thickly.
“What about the car?”
In a silence too charged for words, Peregrine turned.
“You see?” continued his wife. “Your own convenience first, and mine second. The car’s for me, the shoes are for you. Instinctively you put the shoes first. . . .” She shrugged her shoulders, and a bleak look settled on her face. “Of course I blame myself. I’ve spoiled you. You’re naturally selfish, and because I loved you and wanted you to be happy I spoiled you to death. And now I’m paying for it.” For a moment she appeared to contemplate her state. Then she flung up her head. “And you stand by, looking like a plaster saint!” Her eyes raked him vertically. “My word, that injured air! Always the little innocent—the poor little village idiot that’s always being accused of something he’s never done. I suppose you hope one day to get away with it. Melt my heart, or something. Well, the sooner you realize that martyrdom makes me tired, the better for you. If you don’t agree, why not say so and put your point like a man? But you could never do that. The trouble with you is that you weren’t at a Public School. There you’d have learned manners and—well, they’ve got a very short way with plaster saints.”
After a moment—
“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.
Then—
“Six, madam, single width, or three double.”
Her mistress addressed Peregrine.
“D’you hear?” she demanded.
“Yes, but I don’t understand. What is a single width?”
“They’ll know in the shop.”
“All right,” said Peregrine. “What’s the stuff called?”
Humanity was insisting that Pickford should intervene.
“I can easily go, madam. Now that I’ve done your dress——”
“That will do,” said her mistress, bristling.
Pickford withdrew.
As the door closed—
“She’s gone,” said Mrs. Below. “You can take off that martyred air. Of course it’s a wonderful card to have up one’s sleeve—if one wants to get off with servants. They love it.”
Her husband ignored the insult.
“What stuff shall I get?” he said.
“Any damned stuff,” said his wife. “D’you want me to dry-nurse you? I shouldn’t say you want it for a domino, or they’ll think you’re out of your mind. Say you want it for a shroud—they’ll believe that. . . . Just as a matter of interest, can you look cheerful? Or have you lost the knack?”
“I’ve lost the knack,” said Peregrine. “Our marriage has been a failure, and——”
“Whose fault is that?”
Peregrine shrugged his shoulders and rose to his feet.
“Mine, I suppose,” he said, with a ghost of a laugh.
“Oh, you darling,” said his wife.
Peregrine shuddered.
“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, Marion.”
His wife stared.
“You wish I wouldn’t—what do you mean?” Peregrine stood silent. “You’d better pull yourself together, hadn’t you?”
Peregrine sought the door.
“I’ll go and get the stuff,” he said shakily.
“Stop!” Mrs. Below’s voice was vibrating with passion. “I’m not going to try to teach you manners, because it’s waste of time: but you said just now that entertainments weren’t in your line. Well, kindly remember that lectures aren’t in mine—even when delivered by imitation wash-outs. I can stand an undertaker—in his place: I can even bear Little Lord Fauntleroy: but a cross between the two on his hind legs is just a shade too thick even for me.”
For a moment her husband hesitated, pale-faced.
Then he opened the door and passed out.
That Miss Atlee’s maid should sit and talk with Pickford while the latter was doing her work was natural enough, and when she produced some silk to make a frill for the hood of Peregrine’s gown Mrs. Below’s maid was delighted with the attention.
“It’ll give the ole long-cloth a flip,” explained Miss Mason. “Won’ look so much like a shraoud. There’s enough fer a pair o’ cuffs too, while we’re abaout it.”
Two hours later she reported to Joan that Peregrine might be known by his frill and his cuffs.
“You can’t mistake them, miss. It isn’t likely as there’ll be another gentleman there with silk on a long-cloth gaown, but if there was, you’ll be sure to know the silk. It’s a bit that was left over from linin’ your ermine coat.”
“Right,” said Joan. “Thank you. What time do we unmask?”
“Not before midnight, miss.”
“I imagine dancing will start about half-past ten.”
Mason was, as they say, very quick in the uptake.
“Mrs. Below’s maid is ordered for ten o’clock: but that means nothin’, miss. Still, you never know. If you come upstairs at ten, that’ll give me time to dress you, an’ then I can slip off to their floor an’ watch them daown. Then you’ll know where you are, miss.”
“All right, Mason. Thank you.”
So it fell out that evening that the Carey Belows descended the great staircase with Joan Purchase Atlee a dozen steps behind. . . .
They reached the painted ball-room in the same order.
To identify Mrs. Below required but a nodding acquaintance with that lady’s way of life. Her domino eclipsed all others as the moon the stars. It was of cloth of silver, freckled with pips of gold. She was out for blood to-night. To be outstanding in disguise, to beggar all concealment, to blaze—a glowing houri in a shoal of ghosts. . . . Such was her dream. Be sure it was realized. Her progress was one long triumph. As she entered the ball-room her courtiers swarmed about her, pleading the favour of a dance.
Peregrine slid to one side and got his back to the wall. . . .
The spectacle was fantastic, suggesting the practice of mysteries which might be evil. It was the hour of counterfeit. Hooded and cloaked and masked, Secrecy whirled and flitted, finger to lip. Whispers and stifled laughter, red mouths and shining feet, white wrists upon hidden shoulders were mocking Truth. Broad shafts of coloured light, the only luminants, ranged to and fro over the company. Robed as familiars of the Inquisition, a cunning orchestra lent scene and music alike a devilish air.
“Well, Perry, won’t you ask me to dance?”
The man started violently.
“Who are you?” he breathed, taking cool fingers in his and sliding an arm about a yielding waist.
As they slid into the fox-trot—
“I oughtn’t to tell you really, but as we’re such old friends . . . I’m Joan Atlee—that was.”
Peregrine’s heart gave one tremendous bound.
For a moment he said nothing, dancing mechanically and trying to find his voice.
Then—
“How on earth you knew me I can’t conceive, but it was . . . very handsome of you . . . to come up and speak—Joan.”
“Steady,” said Joan, wondering if he would notice the way her heart was pounding against her ribs. “There’s something you ought to know. We were engaged once, and you—you broke it off.” She felt his frame quiver. “If you’d waited another day, you’d never have written at all.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d written to you, Perry, turning you down. My letter wasn’t posted, so I took it and tore it up. I’m not very proud of myself, but I feel better now.”
The lie sailed straight to its mark.
“I’m—I’m so awfully glad you did, Joan.” Peregrine’s voice was trembling. “At least—you know what I mean?”
“I know, my dear, I know. You needn’t explain to me.” For an instant the hand on his shoulder rested less lightly. “The sea doesn’t run so high when you’re not alone in the boat.”
The pregnant saying sank into Peregrine’s brain like molten lead. Its poignant pertinence, the old, dead fellowship it brought to life, the hint it held of an acquaintance with grief, lightened his darkness with three dazzling beams.
“Oh, Joan, I’m so—so thankful we’ve met,” he stammered lamely enough.
Joan thrilled to her core.
“You’re not half as thankful as I am, Perry,” she said. “We may have tired of each other—or thought we did—but at least we understood.”
“By Jove, yes,” said the man violently.
They danced the length of the chamber in eloquent silence.
Then—
“You know I’m married, Perry?” said Joan in a low voice.
“Only from what you said a moment ago.”
“Well, I am. We won’t mention his name—for reasons which will appear: but I’m going to tell you about him because I must.” Her tone sank to a whisper tense and vibrant. “I’ve bottled it up, Perry”—the man started, and the clasp of the cool fingers became a grip—“till I’m nearly out of my mind. Think what it means to have no confidant—not a single soul to talk to who can ever begin to understand. . . . I drove over here from San Sebastian, praying for death by the way . . . I came to find a confidant—some stranger that I could talk to, under the mask, and then—then I saw you.”
Peregrine felt rather dazed.
“Let’s get outside,” he said uncertainly.
They made their way through the press, across the echoing hall and on to the terrace without.
This was silent and starlit, cool with the faint crush of breakers, full of the airs and graces of the summer night.
As they sat down—
“Tell me about him,” said Peregrine.
The girl leaned back in her chair and cupped her chin in her palm.
“I often wonder,” she said, “what made me marry him. Some evil spirit, I suppose . . . I wasn’t a prisoner then. He is so very obviously not my style. But for some strange reason or other I fell in love with him, Perry, and before I knew where I was the damage was done.” She sighed. “So much for me . . . He married me for my money and because a wife—in her place—can be a convenient thing. He soon had me in my place. . . .”
She threw back her head there, to stare at the stars. Presently she continued dreamily.
“I’ve many failings, Perry, but I’ll tell you one of my worst—I loathe a row. . . . It’s a very perilous failing, because you’re at the mercy of the person who finds it out. . . . Well, that’s how my downfall began. Rather than have unpleasantness, however just my case, I always gave way—with the inevitable result that now I’ve lost the very knack of moral courage, while the unpleasantness I sought to avoid has become the feature of my life.”
She paused there, to steal a glance at the man. Peregrine was staring straight ahead, his hands clenching the arms of his wicker chair.
Joan proceeded steadily.
“I said that he wasn’t my style. That’s putting it rather low. He’s rather like a tiger, while I’m like a poodle-dog. . . . He’s a brilliant, striking personality—swift, heartless and unearthly strong. Women go mad about him: men dislike him—but they always give him the wall. Wherever he goes he dominates. It isn’t force of will, because it’s effortless: he never makes up his mind to get his own way—he just takes it, always, no matter at whose cost. But he—he never pays. . . . Well, if that’s his way with the world, you can imagine, Perry, how far the poodle gets. . . . But that’s not all. I’ve come—it’s very natural—I’ve come to irritate him. . . .”
She sighed heavily, and a dreary, hopeless note slid into her voice.
“You’ve seen a leaf on the road before the wind. Well, I’m like a leaf on a road—the open road of life. A dry, shrivelled leaf before the north-east wind. The wind’s pitiless—devils the wretched leaf from pillar to post, never gives it a second’s rest. And the road’s open, and the leaf . . . can’t get away. . . .”
There was a long silence.
At length—
“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.”
With a bursting heart—
“You’ll—you’ll leave me on the platform, won’t you? I mean . . .” The girl was panting. “Not that I don’t care, dear, but I wouldn’t like . . .”
“I—I swear,” said the man uncertainly.
Joan’s brain staggered.
“We must—must play the game,” she faltered, half to herself. Suddenly she caught at his arm. “Oh, Perry, you will be there? You won’t let me down? If I came out of my sleeper, and you weren’t there . . .”
“I will be there.”
Joan gave a little sob.
Then she looked up.
“I’m an awful funk,” she quavered.
Peregrine rose and put her hand to his lips. He was quite calm now.
“Buck up, my lady,” he said. “The sea’s falling.”
Joan’s world rocked.
The trick had been done. The game was as good as played. The fallen sparrow was up—spreading its wings. Very soon now it would be out of sight. Only the decoy would be left—fallen on the ground. Only the decoy. . . .
Her own words flamed at her.
‘The door’s open—I’ve only got to walk out.’
It was, indeed, ‘the easiest thing in the world.’ One didn’t need any nerve to step into heaven. Besides, he was her man—had always been. Already they’d lost seven years. . . .
Two figures loomed out of the shadows.
“The only objection to masks,” purred a familiar voice, “is that if a wife should want her husband she can’t find him.”
With his back to the speaker, Peregrine stood like a rock.
“For my part,” came the reply, “I should call it a virtue.”
A provoking laugh answered him.
As the figures passed on, the mist lifted and Joan saw her path clear cut. ‘He that hath clean hands . . .’ She was out to rescue, but not to rob.
“Let’s go and dance once more,” she said quietly. “Then I’ll slip away.”
Peregrine muffled his face, and they passed back into the ball-room, the slam and stutter of ragtime and the slash of the coloured lights. . . .
As the dance ended—
“God bless you, Perry,” breathed Joan. “It’s—it’s been like heaven. You—you will be there, dear?”
Peregrine smiled back.
“Buck up, my lady.”
An instant later the girl was lost in the press.
Some thirty-six hours had gone by.
Joan Purchase Atlee was nearing Biarritz, Peregrine was in a car heading for Havre, and Mrs. Carey Below was sitting in a Paris hotel, staring upon a letter, with her eyes aflame and her underlip caught in her teeth.
A second letter lay on the floor by her side, its single sheet crumpled as though in wrath.
By your leave, I will straighten it out.
Dear Marion,
I have decided that we are better apart. If you will write to Forsyth, saying you accept this decision, he will send you a cheque for five hundred pounds, and, so long as you do not seek to avoid this decision, on application to Forsyth, one thousand pounds will be paid to you every quarter.
Peregrine.
The second letter, though not the envelope, was in the same handwriting. Mrs. Below had dictated it—some seven years ago.
My dear Joan,
This is rather a difficult letter to write, but I have come to the conclusion that it would be a fatal mistake for us to be married. We’re friends, I know, but there must be something more than friendship if marriage is to be a success. Where there is no true understanding there can never be real happiness. I am sure that after a little you will see the force of my words and realize with me that I am taking the wisest, although by no means the easiest, course in asking you to release me from my engagement. If I don’t hear from you I shall know that you agree.
Yours very sincerely,
Peregrine Carey Below.
P.S.—I think it best for both of us that we should not meet again, so I am leaving for London to-night.
Mrs. Carey Below stared and stared.
Presently she glanced round, folded the letter swiftly and thrust it into her bag.
Out of sight, out of mind. . . . Out of sight. . . .
With an effort she wrenched at her thoughts, speaking mechanically to give her brain a lead.
“So nothing,” she rasped, breathing heavily through her nose, “nothing is sacred to him. This—after seven years. . . .” She raised her voice. “Pickford!”
But Pickford was in a taxi, heading for the Gare du Nord.