She was lunching tête-à-tête with Claudia at the flat, for she and her husband had quartered themselves most considerably upon her directly they had heard of Gilbert’s illness. Lady Currey’s meaning was unmistakable. In some way, she evidently held Claudia responsible.
Claudia played with her toast, but she made no reply. Gilbert was better, and his memory had returned to him, but he was again very irritable and rebellious. After the two excitements had come the reaction, and she sat facing the window, her face quite expressionless, weariness and boredom in her eyes and on her lips. Her excursion into the realm of romance was over. She did not regret her decision, but now life seemed stale and unprofitable, like the drab sea-shore when the turbulent waters have receded. It seemed to her at the moment that she had come to an end of all things. Life stretched in a grey monotone before her. She was in a cage, and what release could she hope for? Gilbert would go to Le Touquet and get better, and things would continue on just the same lines as before, only, unless her nature radically changed, she could never experiment again with the[300] modern solace of the dissatisfied married woman. A Rhoda Carnegie, a Circe might, but apparently for her it was impossible. As Jack had said, she would always see through the whole business.
She came out of her reverie to discover Lady Currey looking at her questioningly with her shallow eyes.
“I beg your pardon,” she said contritely.
“I asked you if you really gave attention to his having good, nourishing food. I’ve always made a point of having the best English meat and fresh vegetables.”
“I don’t think it’s a question of diet,” replied Claudia, with a faint smile, “and we can’t grow our vegetables on the balcony. Dr. Neeburg says it is overwork. Your husband once told me that hard work never yet hurt any man.”
“Fancy his being locked up in a common police-cell! I shall never get over that. My poor dear Gilbert! What his feelings must have been when he recovered himself! It seems to me the police were greatly to blame in exceeding their duty, but my husband tells me we cannot take action against them.... Do you give Gilbert porridge for his breakfast? I strongly believe in porridge myself.”
“You might talk to Dr. Neeburg,” suggested her daughter-in-law. Her only comfort was the great bowl of narcissi in the centre of the table and Billie’s warm, loving little body against her skirt. She was certain he looked up every now and then with sympathy in his soft eyes.
“I don’t approve of a German doctor, even though he has been in England most of his life,” said Lady Currey primly. “I know all about German doctors and their cleverness, but is it the right kind of cleverness? I wish Gilbert would see dear old Doctor Green. He treated him as a baby. All German doctors are faddists. I daresay Dr. Green could have averted this trouble. He’s wonderful when I’ve got a sore throat, and his manner is so[301] restful. He doesn’t approve of German doctors either. He says they experiment on you. That’s exactly what I think.... Don’t you think your laundry puts too much starch in the serviettes? Starch ruins good linen. I see there is a small hole already in the corner of this one. No, no German doctors for me, thank you. I should make ready to die if I fell in the hands of one.”
Claudia knew that she ought to be able to laugh—inwardly—but somehow her sense of humour seemed to have deserted her. One cannot support life entirely on a sense of humour, though it helps one over many a dreary mile. How Pat would have enjoyed the conversation, thought Claudia.
“Does this German say how long Gilbert ought to rest? It’s dreadful to think of his work being at a standstill.”
“Some months, but it depends, of course, on the patient. He seems to have got another touch of influenza—I suppose it was the cold of the cells, and he never really got rid of it; but next Monday he will go to Le Touquet.”
“I suppose Le Touquet is all right,” said Lady Currey, in a dissatisfied tone. “I think French places are often so enervating, and you can never be sure of the water in France. I must tell Gilbert always to drink mineral water. France is so dreadfully behind in the matter of hygiene. Look at a Frenchwoman’s pasty complexion.”
“Le Touquet is above any kind of reproach,” Claudia reassured her, hailing the arrival of coffee as one who, lost in the bush, sees the first sign of a human habitation. “The air is excellent, and Gilbert always enjoys the golf there. He chose it himself out of several places. He hates sea-voyages, you know, or Dr. Neeburg wished him to go on one.”
“Yes, I know. He inherits my constitution in that respect. Are these cups old Worcester? I have some[302] very like them, but I do not care to have them used. You know they are very valuable? Servants are so careless. They broke a really exquisite piece of old Chelsea the other day. I cried, I positively cried, and had a headache all the rest of the day. I don’t know when I have been so upset, except”—hastily—“of course, when I heard the terrible news about poor Gilbert! I think I’ll go up and see how he feels now, and ask him if he won’t see Dr. Green.”
Later in the day Mr. Littleton came in to see Claudia. He found her with Billie on her lap, a volume of Strindberg’s plays in her hands. He took in at a glance her tired, languid aspect, though she greeted him cordially enough. There were but few people she wanted to see that day, but Littleton was one of them.
“Madame,” he said with mock seriousness, “Strindberg is not good reading for you to-day. Horribly clever, but much too morbid. His plays are interesting to those who study human nature, but they are not exhilarating.”
“Morbid! I don’t know. Because he presents men and women as complex, many-sided, vari-coloured egos, you call him morbid. Don’t talk like Jack.”
He smiled and picked up the book, and commenced to read. “‘Our souls, so eager for knowledge, cannot rest satisfied with seeing what happens, but must also learn how it comes to happen. What we want to see are just the wires, the machinery. We want to investigate the box with the false bottom, touch the magic ring in order to find the suture, and look into the cards to discover how they are marked.’ You can carry that spirit too far, you know. I guess you have too much time on your hands. How is your husband?”
“Better. He goes to Le Touquet next week.”
“Le Touquet! Why, I’m going there for a few days; partly because a French author I want to see is there, and won’t leave his golf to write letters, and partly because[303] I want a little holiday. How delightful! We shall meet there, then.”
“Oh! I am not going.”
He was distinctly disappointed. “Is it permitted to ask why not? It’s delicious weather now. Can’t you smell the sea and the pines and the springy, sandy grass?”
She could, and a sudden desire to get away from London caught hold of her. She would have to meet Frank if she kept her engagements, and that would be awkward. She was willing to be friends, to turn over the page, but she divined that he was too angry. It would be awkward.
He saw the sudden light in her eyes, the quickening of interest, and urged her afresh.
“We could make it international golf, you know, England versus America. And between the holes we could talk Strindberg if you liked. Not that you would want to, with a fresh breeze blowing in your face, and your club in your hand.” They both laughed. “No, I can’t see Strindberg on a golf-course. Do come. Was your husband going alone? Surely that is not good for him?”
“Colin Paton is going with him.”
“Oh!” Littleton did some quick thinking. He had wondered once or twice if she were particularly interested in Colin, but as she had not thought of accompanying them, he deduced that the answer was in the negative. “Then we should be a foursome on our own. Have you anything very special to keep you in London?”
“No, except poor Fay, you know. She has got to look forward to my going to her constantly.”
“But,” said Charles Littleton gently, “she is likely to be ill for many, many months, is she not? Forgive me for attempting to persuade you to anything, but you know you are not looking quite your usual self. You are not the woman I met at the Rivingtons. I don’t know if it is fresh air you need, but fresh air always helps every[304] trouble, don’t you think? One can always see everything more clearly in the country. You are much too analytical and introspective. Blow the mental cobwebs away at Le Touquet.”
He felt practically sure she would come when he left, and expectation leapt high at the thought of the days with her. Her husband would be there, but he realized that he had no rival in her husband. He did not dread burnt-out fires, and Colin Paton would naturally pair with Gilbert. He was not an imaginative man, he had never had any time to dream, and he had always stifled any tender shoots of romance; but he longed to have her there with him, among the sweet-scented pines through which they would walk, on the fine stretches of grass and sand, playing the little white ball, by the sea-shore with its curling waves and long, long stretches of level, golden sand. Romance had come to him late in life, but now he did not stifle it. He would stake his all on this throw; he would make a fight for what he did not deserve to win. Perhaps Fate would be kind to him, perhaps she would forgive his early absorption in business, his blunt refusals of her invitations to enjoy life. He had rejected the possibilities of love before, now—now was there still a chance for him? If Claudia could be won—ah! the tall, spare American who walked along with alert, springy footsteps was not thinking of dollars or glory, only of the beauty of a woman’s heart and body which had swept him off his feet. His whole soul was invaded by her presence. She was his entire horizon.
So it happened that on Monday they all travelled together. Colin had approved heartily of her going, and as soon as she set foot on the Boulogne boat Claudia felt a little uplift that brightened her face and made it possible for her once again to take an interest in her fellow-creatures. Colin and Littleton were both good companions, and though Gilbert was rather morose—his humiliating[305] experience had left a scar that would not heal—Claudia was happier than she had been for a long time.
She knew that she was happier, and she wondered why. Nothing was changed. Then she resolutely put questioning on one side. “I won’t think about myself or my stupid emotions,” she said vehemently to herself. “I’ll just be a brainless animal for awhile, at least”—truthfully—“I’ll try.”
She was saying this to herself when she noticed that Colin was regarding her.
“Were your lips moving in silent prayer?” he said jokingly, “or was it some great poem in glory of the sea?”
“Neither. I was taking myself to task. I was telling myself not to be an idiot, or rather”—laughingly—“to be one.”
“It’s rather involved. Is there any key?”
“Yes, I’m the key. If you know me well——” She stopped and coloured, for she remembered when he had said he knew her better than she knew herself. She turned her head away as she added hastily, “But anyway, it’s not worth solving. Who was it that said you should never try to understand women, you should be content with loving them?”
“Someone who wanted to appear smart,” answered Colin promptly.
“Do you think you understand women?”
“Heaven forfend! Is thy servant a grey-headed wizard that he should lay claim to such knowledge? Wouldst thou have me bear a burden beyond my years? Besides, if I pretended that I did, you’d only slay me with great despatch and neatness. Do look at that elderly woman occupying four seats!”
“Well, look at the man who has just put his seat in the middle of the gangway and looks daggers at everyone who falls over his chair!... By the by, you know Patricia has announced her determination of coming over to Le Touquet for a few days next week.” She spoke carelessly,[306] but she watched the effect of her words upon him. She could see no change, however. He only nodded cheerily.
“We shall be quite a merry party, shan’t we? She has announced her intention of turning ten complete somersaults on the first green!”
“She’s a dear, isn’t she?”
“Of the first water.” But there was no undue enthusiasm in his tone. “And she’s very devoted to you.”
“Is she? I don’t deserve it.”
“Not in the least. I have been trying to talk her out of it. Quite unsuccessfully, I may add.”
It was really very provoking. He would not be drawn. Did he deliberately refuse her his confidence? Were he and Pat keeping a secret?
She tried again.
“I suppose she’ll be getting married one of these days.”
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “it is a fate that frequently overtakes charming women. The lady with the four seats has been obliged to relinquish one of her seats to another elderly female with a bird-cage. It takes an elderly lady to outwit another elderly lady.”
“Pat don’t believe in marriage.”
“We none of us believe in marriage. It’s a question of faith and hope, like religion. It isn’t an Athanasian Creed, with vehement damnatory clauses, which have no application to yourself.”
“You can’t talk, you haven’t tried it,” retorted Claudia. “Then you think—someone—will convert Pat to the usual fate? You already see her in white satin and orange-blossom, and a noisy voice from Eden breathing hard over her?” The wind was causing her hair to wave wildly, and whipping her cheeks to a brilliant pink. Some of the sparkle had come back in her eyes at the contest, and the man at her side was more than aware of her good looks. “Two of us have already made disastrous marriages.[307] Heigh ho! for a third! I’m sure there’s no luck of the children of Circe!”
She had never said plainly before to him that her marriage was a failure. Always they had played about the borderland of truth, each knowing that the other knew. To-day for some reason, she had spoken plainly.
He was silent, leaning against the gunwale, looking down at the hurrying, foaming waters below.
“Are you shocked at me for my lack of reticence?” she said rather bitterly. “Yes, you can’t joke about that. I wanted to make you serious. Oh, yes! you can make a joke now. Look, your old lady is not feeling well, and is hurriedly relinquishing the three seats. Why don’t you look? It’s quite funny, and you always take life with a smile.”
But he never lifted his eyes from the foaming, greenish water. Only his hand, which gripped the gunwale tightly, showed any sign of emotion.
“Don’t.... Perhaps when Gilbert is better——”
“Oh, no! it’s quite hopeless. You can’t make a new fire with white ashes. Did you ever think we were suited to one another?” She was gazing out at sea. Every now and then a lurch of the boat sent her arm against his, and once a strand of her hair swept his cheek.
He was a little time before he replied. “Claudia, you once said something like that before. You said I might have warned you. Was that fair? It hurt me. Suppose I had said to you, ‘I don’t think Gilbert can make you happy.’ What would you have thought of me? Think how happy and confident you were. And—can anyone interfere in such matters? Are they not questions we must decide for ourselves? I—or anyone—would always be utterly helpless, whatever you chose to do.”
She gave a sigh. “I know. I shouldn’t have believed you.”
The next words seemed to slip out almost against his[308] will. “And you might have thought I was jealous of my friend.”
“Oh, no!” she exclaimed impulsively. “I should never have thought that.”
“I see,” he replied, with a bitterness she had never before heard in his voice. “I was never a real man to you. I was and am only a literary abstraction, an amiable stuffed animal, suitable for friendship, a——”
She lifted startled, amazed eyes to his, but at that instant Littleton’s voice sounded the other side of her.
“I need not ask you if you enjoy the sea, Mrs. Currey? Isn’t it bully? I like it rough, don’t you?”
Just then the spray caught them all, and for the next few minutes they were busy laughingly mopping their faces and coats.
“I call that a playful smack in the eye for my patronizing tone,” said Littleton. “I believe Nature hates us most when we patronize her. She did us all in then. Say, Mrs. Currey, will your husband be able to do much golfing?”
She looked inquiringly at Colin, for Neeburg had given him the final instructions.
“In moderation, Mr. Littleton. He mustn’t get over-tired—Neeburg was very insistent on that—but a certain amount of golf and exercise will keep him from brooding, and make him healthily tired.”
Littleton nodded. “I once had a bad attack of nerves. My! but I shall never forget it. I got so that I stuttered in my speech, and I used to fancy people were watching me. I couldn’t sleep and had all sorts of weird fancies. I could hear the telephone-bell ringing all night, and when I did get to sleep, I used to jump up with a shout to answer it. They sent me for a long sea-voyage to Australia. I came back cured. But it was an awful time. One ought to be sympathetic with a man in that condition. Only one who has been through really understands.”
[309]
After a few minutes Claudia left the two men and walked over to where Gilbert was seated in a chair, reading the Times. He did not suffer from mal de mer, but he always experienced a curious feeling in his head, as though someone had put a band round his forehead.
“Gilbert, why don’t you enjoy the air and the sea?” she said gently. “Why do you worry your brain with the paper?” She noticed he was reading the law news.
He did not look up at her, but finished reading a case before he replied. “I knew the view Morely would take of the affair. I told Roche so at the beginning. He’s the most bigoted old fool on the bench. What did you say? Well, the sea bores me. It’s just—sea!”
“Talk to me. The trip is very short.”
With evident reluctance he put down the paper.
“Gilbert,” she said earnestly, “do give yourself every chance. Can’t you pretend to yourself that this a well-earned holiday, and that you are going to enjoy it thoroughly? Put London and the Law Courts out of your mind.”
He gave a half-sigh, half-grunt. “That’s like a woman. Women think you can detach yourself from your real interest in life, like you can take off an old overcoat. I must think of something. Claudia, how many papers did my—my accident get into?”
“Only one or two unimportant ones. You needn’t worry about that, Gilbert.”
He frowned at the blue sky overhead. “I suppose everybody was laughing about it.... It was that hot whisky that did it.”
“Yes. Don’t think about it.”
“A few weeks will set me up. I suppose I really did need a holiday. But I never thought I should have to give up like this. You’ve got the laugh on me, Claudia.”
“I don’t want to laugh, Gilbert. I realize what this means to you and—I’m sorry.”
[310]
He looked at her with his sombre, heavy-lidded eyes, that had once darkened with overmastering passion, that night of the dance. All the youthfulness had gone out of the face. He might have been a man of forty-five instead of thirty-five. Youth had fought unsuccessfully with a heaviness of the spirit that had always been there, but had greatly increased the last two years. She wondered of what he was thinking as he looked at her. One could never guess with Gilbert. He had the typical barrister’s face, non-committal, secretive of his thoughts.
Then he said abruptly, “Enjoy yourself at Le Touquet. I shan’t. It’s medicine, and I must take it. Just leave me alone and have a good time yourself. Is that Boulogne? Thank goodness!”