Part 17

“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.

DERRY

DERRY

The windows were wide open, and Carlton House Terrace was agog with ragtime. The saxophone, Lord of Misrule, swerved and staggered, and the band with it, playing such tricks with rhythm as a juggler will play with a plate. The bladder entering into the soul, an elegant company was dancing hilariously and letting the world slip with an efficiency which Epicurus himself must have applauded.

Two of the dancers, however, were not smiling, and, though they passed through the press with an ease and grace of movement which few other couples could display, neither of their hearts was wearing a wedding-garment.

Suddenly the girl turned and looked into her partner’s eyes.

“Derry,” said Rosemary Chase, “I’ve known you a heap of years.”

“That’s right,” said Derry Peruke. “Ever since you were sweet seven and I was a beastly fifteen.”

The tall, dark girl looked away.

“I don’t remember you being beastly,” she said. “Never mind. Seventeen years ought to beget an understanding.”

“They have,” said Derry Peruke.

The two danced the length of the great chamber without a word, the man knowing what was coming and the woman wondering whether he had an idea.

As they turned—

“My only husband,” said Rosemary, “is in love with your wife.”

“Yes,” said Peruke quietly. “That’s half the truth.”

“D’you mean that, Derry?”

The man nodded.

“My dear,” he said, “so far as Virginia’s concerned, the sun, moon and stars rise and set between Roger’s shoulder-blades.”

“Well, what on earth,” said his partner, “are we to do? Between you and me and the joker I rather like Roger. He has his faults, but——”

“You must call him off,” said Derry. “Virginia’s a very good girl. He’s enticed her away.”

“Rot,” said Rosemary. “She’s been trying to get him for months. Never mind. Don’t let’s scrap about it. The truth is they’ve both played with the hive, and now we’re stung.”

Peruke glanced down the gallery.

“Where are they gone?” he said.

Rosemary shrugged her white shoulders.

“Probably to drive round the Park.”

“And a very good idea—if you want to talk. Let’s do the same.”

Rosemary Chase hesitated.

Then—

“Right-oh, Derry,” she said.

The fact that the Perukes’ limousine was not to be found argued that Rosemary’s assumption was well founded. Her coupé, however, was waiting. . . .

“Shall I drive? Or will you?”

“As you please,” said Derry.

The girl stepped into the car and slid to the driver’s seat.

As her companion followed—

“That’s all to-night, Mason,” she cried to the chauffeur without.

“Very good, madam.”

A moment later the car was stealing out of St. James’s. . . .

Presently it swung westward at an increased speed.

The turmoil of the day was over, and the ways were empty and silent under the high stars. Once in a while another car sang by or a waggon lumbered, but for the most part man and his works had yielded possession to Fantasy, who had done all things well. The stage of London Town was set for a masque. Substance was gone, and Shadow was up in his seat: the streets had become dim, monstrous lanes that led to Mystery, paved with the sheen of silver, hung with a sable arras behind which Echo hid: gardens were swollen to parks, and parks to kingdoms: Harlequin was abroad.

“How can I call him off?” said Rosemary suddenly. “Virginia’s got my whistle.”

Derry regarded the end of his cigarette.

“I’ll speak to Virginia,” he said, “if you’ll tell me what to say.”

“How can I do that?”

“You’re a woman,” said Derry doggedly.

“I’m not Virginia,” said Rosemary. “And only Virginia knows how she wants her gruel.”

“Exactly,” said Derry. “D’you think it’s likely that I should mix it right? I’d ’ve spoken weeks ago but for the fear of doing more harm than good. An’ if I speak now an’ make the slightest mistake, it’ll be all over. Give me the Middle Ages,” he added savagely. “The flat of the sword for her, an’ the point for Roger.”

“Thanks very much,” said Rosemary. “You would come out all right, wouldn’t you? And after the obsequies I suppose I could begin again. Still, I agree with half your sentiment. What they both need is the flat of the sword. The tongue’s too dangerous, the pen repellent and suggestive. I’m not going to correspond with my husband upon a subject like this. But the flat of the sword is genially disconcerting and quite unanswerable.”

“My dear,” said Peruke, “to be eloquent here is too easy. In Virginia’s absence I can send her to bed without a tremor. And I’ll bet a puncheon of rum it’s the same with you. And there we are. Our two little households are heading straight for the Court. If we do nothing, we shall get there in about a month. If we do the right thing, we shall heave to. But if we do anything else, we shall get there in twenty-four hours.”

“I should hate to suggest,” said Rosemary, “that you were being eloquent.”

There was an indignant silence.

At length—

“Why,” said Derry Peruke, “did you approach me?”

Rosemary put up a hand and touched his face.

“Because I thought it was silly for two such old friends to go down without discussing their fate.”

Derry turned his head quickly and kissed her fingers. These flew back to the wheel.

“And now,” said Rosemary contentedly, “what are we to do? We haven’t been wasting time, because we’ve decided two things. The first is that action is rather better than speech, and the second that if we’re to act we’d better look sharp about it.”

“Supposing,” said Derry Peruke, “supposing we fell in love.”

Rosemary started violently, and the car swerved.

Then she began to laugh.

“By way of curing them? Or consoling ourselves?”

“Both,” said Derry. “If the sight of us getting off doesn’t open their eyes, then will nothing this side of a lawyer’s clerk. Secondly, I don’t know about you, but I’m ripe—ready to drop for consolation of a tangible sort. And what more natural than that I should turn to my loving little friend—Rosemary Chase? She’s sweet, she’s beautiful: I’ve loved her for fifty years: she’s got the prettiest hands and a face like a fairy-tale: her hair—what have you got on your hair? It’s all—all mellifluous. Oh, and just look at your mouth!”

“That’ll do,” said Rosemary shakily. “Privy scandal’s no good.”

“Rot the scandal,” said Derry. “Besides, I’m naturally virtuous, so if I’m to come off in public I must have a smell at the jumps. Quite apart from that, my darling, it’s making me well. I’ve always found you lovely, and a chance of telling you so is good for my heart. And it ought to be good for yours—unless you hate me.”

“You know I don’t hate you, Derry, but I’m rather bad at games.”

“What good d’you think I am? I’ve never kissed a woman but Jenny since I was wed. The mercy is that, now that we’ve got to play, we’ve drawn each other instead of a couple of souls. It’s not a game that I’d play with everyone.”

Rosemary threw up her head.

“I’m not going to keep Virginia’s saddle dry.”

“Or I Roger’s,” said Derry. “Don’t you believe it, my dear. If I didn’t think I could stand on my own flat feet, I’d get out of this chaise.”

“But it wouldn’t console me at all to throw my arms round your neck. I’m very fond of you, Derry, but Roger’s my man.”

“And Jenny’s my girl,” said Derry. “That’s why I want her back. And I think the way to get her is to show her that she hasn’t got me. Very well, then. I’ve got to find a playmate.”

“That shouldn’t take you long,” said Rosemary Chase. “I could mention——”

“I’ve a weakness,” said Derry Peruke, “for playing the game. I hate making love to a girl with my tongue in my cheek. Yet to explain the position would be to court trouble of the corrosive sort.”

Rosemary laughed.

“It’s perfectly obvious,” she said, “that you’ve known me too long. Familiarity has bred a wholesome contempt.”

“One moment,” said Derry calmly. “All I’ve just said about me can be said about you—except that, even if you explained the position to your prey, he wouldn’t retort with vitriol. In fact, you’re so very charming that he’d probably jump at the chance. But that’s beside the point—which is that we each need a playmate by whom we can play the game. Well, our respective spice have fairly slung us into each other’s arms. . . . If you don’t want to play, say the word. But I think it’s a chance. Perhaps I was foolish to say that I loved you, dear, and that, as the game had to be played, I’d be happy to play it with you, but seventeen years of admiration are bound to leave their mark.” Rosemary bowed her head. “With anyone else I’d hate it. In fact, it couldn’t be done. With you—well, it’s very easy, lady, and that’s the truth.” He slid an arm round her waist. “I know I’m in love with Jenny, but when I say that I love you you know it’s true. For one thing, who could help it? Look at your mouth. . . . But it wouldn’t console me to kiss you, if you didn’t—understand. A state of emergency exists, requiring special measures of an abnormal kind. That I find those measures sweet is pure good fortune: they might have been nauseous. Of course, if you find them——”

“I don’t,” said Rosemary, laying her head against his. “I—I rather like them, Derry. . . . I wonder what Roger would say if he——”

“Will say,” corrected Derry. “Unless I’m much mistaken, it’ll send the blood to his head. An’ the same with my lawful wife. Then perhaps they’ll begin to perceive that marriage is not like bettin’ an’ you can’t have a bit each way. Whereupon they’ll gird up their loins and return to the fold.”

“And we?”

“I suppose we shall have to do the same,” said Derry ruefully. “It’s rather hard, isn’t it? They’ve gone an’ thrown us together an’ presently they’ll tear us apart. Never mind, I shall write to you surreptitiously. And when I smudge the letter you’ll know that I’m thinking of a night when your hair was full of the Rubaiyat and your blessed cheek stung me till I wanted to pick you up and carry you into the hills.”

Rosemary lifted up her voice—