Part 6

“Why do people go in after drowning men? Because they can’t stand still and see them drown. I did it out of common humanity. When I looked over the wall I saw how matters stood—saw in a flash. It wasn’t particularly bright of me. If you could have seen your face. . . . Well, there was only one thing to be done. The difficulty was how to do it. And then with her very first words she smoothed that away.”

“Common humanity or not, it was a most handsome act. And I’m deeply, deeply grateful. I’ll put things right, of course.”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet, but I will—before any damage is done. I’m afraid it’s spoiled your day, and I’m frightfully sorry. But there you are. And now let’s go to Eaux Chaudes and find some tea.”

“Eaux Chaudes?” cried Miss Voile. “But we’re booked to your aunt! Don’t look so amazed. If I start on a thing I like to see it through. And what on earth’s the use of all I’ve done if we don’t——”

“I refuse,” said Captain Rage. “As you’ve said, you’re deep enough in. If I hadn’t been so rattled——”

“I never said that,” said Miss Voile. “And now please don’t interfere. This is my show. You say you’re grateful. Very well, then. Do as I say. I shan’t get in any deeper by going to tea. I don’t suppose it’s a party.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” said Toby. “I—I don’t like it. What with bein’ heckled by that woman, then all of a sudden lugged out of the muck, an’ then all dazzled an’ blinded by the way you handled her, it never occurred to me that you were paying the score. It sounds ungrateful and selfish, but there you are. Now that I do see, for Heaven’s sake have a heart. Don’t make me feel more of a worm.”

With a sudden movement Cicely put out her hands.

“Toby, I’m sorry,” she said. “And please don’t feel like a worm. It is so—so very inappropriate. I was so glad to help you.” Rage took her hands in his. “I _am_ so glad I’ve helped you. And I’m glad to go on helping you—awfully glad. And then we’ll help each other—out of the wood. . . . I’m afraid it sounded as if I repented what I’d done. I don’t, Toby, I don’t. And I don’t quite know why I said such rotten things. Only, when you called me ‘darling’ on—on the top of it all, it . . . seemed as if you were forgetting . . . that it’s only—only a game.”

Toby Rage looked into the great brown eyes.

“I—I believe I was,” he faltered.

“Well, please don’t, Toby dear,” said Cicely Voile. “I’ll tell you why. _I’ve banked on your not forgetting._ I’ve put—not exactly my honour, but my—my value in your hands. The moment that you forget I become cheap.” The man started. “You won’t have made me cheap. I shall have made myself cheap. Cheap in my own eyes—and yours. And I like you just well enough, Toby, not to want that.”

“You know that I’d never——”

“You wouldn’t at once. But after a little you’d see. Time makes things so painfully clear. Never mind. Now that I’ve told you, I’m sure that you won’t let me down.” She whipped her hands away and put them behind her back. “And now be nice to me, Toby, and give me a cigarette.”

* * * * *

Twenty-four hours had gone by, and the two were sitting again on the rolling moor.

An urchin breeze darted and hung, Puck-like, in the brave sunshine, while earth and sky and sea lifted up radiant heads. Time nodded drowsily over a golden world.

From a little fellowship of chestnuts in a neighbouring dell the pert insistence of a cuckoo cheered to the echo the excellence of present mirth. Out of the sweetness of a hawthorn a fragrant eulogy of idleness stole upon the air. The lazy hum of bees about their business swore by content.

Miss Voile, however, was not smiling, while Rage was regarding the jovial landscape with a perfectly poisonous stare.

“How,” said Cicely, “are you getting on?”

Toby started and picked up a writing-pad.

“Give me a chance,” he said. “I’m not a journalist. Besides, a letter like this takes some composing.”

“It’s got to go off to-night,” said Cicely Voile.

“Well, don’t you rush me,” said Toby. “It’s a very delicate job. Any fool can say ‘The engagement’s off,’ but that won’t do for Aunt Ira. What I’ve got to do is to word it in such a way as to stifle the instinct of cross-examination. Well, bein’ an optimist, I’m not going to say it’s impossible, but, if I can’t do it, she won’t come over for the day—she’ll come for a week. I shouldn’t wait for that. I’ve only one heart. But she’ll metaphorically sack Biarritz.”

“Oh, it’s easy enough,” said Cicely. “Shove it on to me. Say you find I’m a waster. I don’t care.”

“Well, I do,” said Toby violently.

Cicely shrugged her fair shoulders.

Presently—

“Read me as far as you’ve got,” she commanded.

Captain Rage cleared his throat.

_MY DEAR AUNT IRA,_

_When I remember our fortunate encounter yesterday afternoon and your subsequent kind hospitality at the Hôtel de France, I find it more than painful to have to tell you that the marriage which had been arranged between Miss Voile and myself will not take place. The rupture between us is still so recent that I am not in a condition of mind conducive to conducting correspondence, still less to recording in black and white the ruin of my hopes, but I feel that in view of the interest which you were good enough to take in my engagement, it is my duty, cost what it may, to put you in immediate possession of the unhappy truth. This, I fear, may possibly affect your decision to come to Biarritz. I do not propose to weary you with the details of our sudden estrangement further than to confess . . ._

“Oh, that’s maddening,” cried Cicely, clapping her hands. “Go on.”

“But I can’t go on,” cried Toby. “That’s the devil of it. I don’t know what to confess. All that first bit’s eye-wash—quite all right as a lead. But now I’ve got to land a hell of a punch. The next two lines have got to do the trick. They’ve got to satisfy, allay and crush. They’ve got to satisfy her curiosity, allay her suspicion and crush her initiative.”

“That’s easy,” said Miss Voile. “Give me the pad.”

In a silence too big for words the writing-pad passed.

Cicely finished the sentence and threw it back.

_. . . . that it is now quite clear that we do not and never did love one another._

“That’s no good,” said Toby. “That’s simply inviting investigation. How can you reconcile that with, er, with the ‘_Toby darling_’ of yesterday afternoon?”

“Then cut me out,” said Miss Voile. “Say—

_. . . . clear that I do not and never did love her._

How can she go behind that?”

“That,” said Captain Rage, “would bring her over by return.”

“Why?”

“Because the inference is that you still love me. Remembering the violent fancy she’s taken to you, is it likely that she’d sit still and allow me to turn you down? She’d come over here like a bear robbed of her whelks—whelps.”

Cicely stared upon the ground.

“Well, I’ll tell you what,” she said uncertainly. “Stick to my first suggestion and add these words.”

She began to dictate slowly.

_You must not think this conclusion inconsistent or precipitate, because this is not, as you know, the first time that I have been engaged, while——_

“No, no. I can’t say that,” cried Toby. “It’s—it’s out of the question. She—I never told her about Leah.”

“Leah?” cried Cicely. “Oh, you Mormon.”

“I mean Rachel,” said Rage hurriedly. “Leah—Leah was her second name.”

Miss Voile stared at the sea with trembling lips.

So soon as she could trust her voice—

“The trouble is,” she said, “you’ve written in the wrong strain—sounded the wrong note.”

“That,” said Toby, “I can entirely believe. When one’s got to convey some singularly distasteful intelligence to a woman who invariably receives good tidings, first, as a personal affront, and, secondly, as evidence of the messenger’s mental deficiency, it is extremely easy to sound the wrong note.”

In a shaking voice—

“Give me the pad,” said Cicely.

Once more the writing materials changed hands. . . .

Sitting a little behind her, Toby frowned into the distance, thoughtfully pulling his moustache and stealing an occasional glance at the slim brown hand which was steadily driving the pencil across the grey-blue sheet.

Presently his eyes climbed to the exquisite face. . . .

There they rested.

This is not surprising. The man was human. And at that moment Cicely Berwick Voile was a sight for the high gods.

The girl was always beautiful. Her features and colouring alone established that. Hers was the gay, fresh beauty of Nature herself. It argued the Spring in her blood. She was radiant, eager. The expectation of her mouth, the light in her big brown eyes were living, breathing glories that lifted up the heart. But now my lady was grown pensive. She had exchanged her ‘meadows trim, with daisies pied’ for ‘the studious cloister’s pale.’ Mirth sat in Melancholy’s seat, adorning that cold throne as never did its mistress. Her serious mien, the droop of her precious lips, the way she would fling up her head to gaze for an instant seawards while she sought for a phrase—her breathless, glowing charm, plunged for the moment into the dignity of thought, made an arresting picture. Rage had not seen her like this. Few people had. This was as well. Heaven knows, she was dangerous enough. Amaryllis weaving a garland sends your heart to your mouth. But Amaryllis contemplative, pacing the garden of Philosophy, shall send the blood to your head.

Miss Voile turned suddenly to meet her companion’s eyes.

Instantly both looked away—Toby at the parcel of chestnuts, and the girl at the broom by her side.

Presently—

“Here you are,” she said quietly, passing the writing-pad.

Toby stared at the letter as at a death-warrant.

_MY DEAR AUNT IRA,_

_This is just a line to thank you very much for all your kindness yesterday and to say how much I am looking forward to seeing you here on Thursday. I quite expect it will be fine, for the weather seems settled now, and I think you will enjoy the run. It is impossible to mistake the road, which runs through some lovely country as well as that charming and historical old town, Bayonne. I shall expect you about half-past one, and shall be at the entrance to the hotel from one on in case you are before time._

_I have no news except that Miss Voile and I have broken off our engagement, as we do not think we should get on together._

_Always your affectionate nephew,_ _TOBY._

P.S.—There is another road by Bidache, but I should not come by that because it is longer and not so easy to follow.

“You see,” explained Cicely, “the two outstanding characteristics of Mrs. Medallion are, first of all, her contrariness, and, secondly, her conviction that all men are fools. Well, I’ve given her a glorious opportunity of indulging the former, and I’ve supported the latter by a piece of documentary evidence of which she will talk for years. In fact, I should think she’d have it framed. After this, she’d rather die than come to Biarritz. The bare idea of your waiting for hours at the entrance to the hotel, not daring to go away in case she arrives, will give her a better appetite for lunch than any Hula Hula that ever was shaken.”

Captain Rage lifted his eyes to heaven.

“Trust a woman,” he said, “to put it across a woman. Of course, I take off my hat. It’s a work of art. That postscript alone. . . .”

He ripped the sheet from the pad, folded it very carefully, and, after staring upon it, took out a cigarette-case and bestowed the paper inside.

“Well, that’s that,” said Cicely, getting upon her feet.

“Here,” said Toby. “You’re—you’re not thinkin’ of going, are you?”

“Why not?” said Cicely calmly. “We came here to fix up that letter, and now it’s fixed.”

Toby swallowed.

“I know,” he said. “But it seems a pity to rush off. I—I rather like this spot. Look at the sea over there, all—all glassy. Reminds me of some hymn.”

By a superhuman effort Miss Voile maintained her gravity.

“I’ve got to get back,” she said.

“Oh, not yet,” said Toby. “Not yet. Besides, I—I’ve—I wanted to tell you about Rachel.”

Miss Voile appeared to hesitate.

Then she sat down.

“What about Rachel?” she said.

“Well, I—I made up Rachel,” said Toby. “You know. Invented the nymph.” He stared uneasily upon his finger-nails. “God knows why. I think I had some idea of makin’ you think I was an old campaigner, with a trick or two up his sleeve.” He hesitated. “Well, I’d like you to know I’m not. I’ve danced attendance once or twice—most men have—and been properly stung for my pains. But that’s as far as it’s gone. I’ve—I’ve never been engaged—before.”

“I’m glad you told me,” said Cicely. She turned a glowing face. “I knew it, of course.” Toby started. “All along. But I’m glad you told me.”

There was a long silence.

At length—

“You remember,” said Toby, “what you said yesterday about my not letting you down?”

Cicely nodded.

“Well, if I’ve seemed off-hand since then, it’s because of what you said. That’s why I’ve not called you by name or—or told you how sweet you are. You see, it began as a game—‘Without Prejudice,’ but when you said what you did, you opened my eyes. . . . And then, suddenly, I realized that for me the game had slid into reality . . . that I had quite lost sight of the very first rule of the game. . . . And so—I had to stop. I couldn’t call you ‘darling’ or speak of the stars in your eyes, because . . . I find you a darling and I love the stars in your eyes.”

Cicely bowed her head.

The man continued slowly.

“Well, there you are. I’ve bought it. I’ve queered my rotten pitch. I suggested the blasted game. I gave it its footling label and let you come right in—_under that shelter_. Now you’re in balk, and I’ve got to let you go. . . . Don’t think I’m trying to get out. I’m not. I’ll post this letter to-night as I’m a living fool. But I’d give ten years of my life to call back the idle moment when I started that game.”

For a moment the two sat silent. Then, as if by one consent, they rose to their feet.

Cicely put out a hand, and the man took it.

“Thank you, Toby,” she said, “I knew I could bank on you. I put my value in your hands, and you’ve given it back. And I think you’re perfectly right. It’s a stupid game. And—and I’m very glad it’s over.”

Rage put her hand to his lips and turned away.

Her words were equivocal. There was a chance that she meant. . . . But the chance that she meant nothing must turn the scale.

“And—er—Toby.”

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid I made up Alfred.”

“Yes, I thought you did,” said Toby.

“Why?”

“Because the man isn’t foaled who after an hour of your sweetness could refuse you anything. Besides, unless he was mentally deranged, once having got so far, no man on earth would ever have let you go.”

“Perhaps—perhaps that’s why he did,” said Cicely.

Toby stared.

“But I thought you said——”

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of Alfred. There was—another man. He—he was such a dear. It never occurred to me that he was mad. His—his aunt wasn’t. I mean—— Oh, Toby!”

The man’s arms were about her, and his cheek against hers.

“Cicely darling, d’you love me?”

“It sounds very weak, Toby dear, but I’m dreadfully afraid I do.”

“My blessed lady,” said Toby, and kissed her mouth. . . .

“Oh, do be careful,” said Cicely. “Love’s a disease, you know. Supposing you caught it.”

“You wicked child,” said Toby. “I gave it to you.”

“O-o-oh!”

“Yes, I did. I’ve had it for months and months. But I never knew what it was till . . .”

“When did you know, Toby?”

“At sixteen minutes past five,” said Toby, “yesterday morning.”

OLIVER

OLIVER

“D’you realize, Oliver, that this is our wedding-day?”

Letter in hand, Oliver Pauncefote looked up.

“By Jove, so it is,” he said. “May the eighth. So it is. Many happy returns, m’dear.”

Jean Ludlow Pauncefote did not reply. For a moment she stood staring at her reflection in the tall pier-glass. Then she slid slowly out of her striking cloak, threw this across a chair, lighted a cigarette, and flung herself upon the bed.

“What did you think,” she demanded, “that marriage was going to be like?”

Her husband lowered his letter in some surprise.

“My dear,” he said, “it is now a quarter of three, and two bottles of ’98 Mumm require sleeping off. If we must search each other’s hearts——”

“_In vino veritas_,” said Jean. “Go on.”

Oliver put down his letter and took off two coats. Then he bestrode a chair, pulled up his shirt-sleeves, and proceeded to fill a pipe.

“Say it again,” he said.

“What did you think,” said Jean, “that marriage was going to be like?”

Her husband reflected, frowning.

At length—

“I really don’t know,” he said. “I got a bit rattled once or twice. You know. After bein’ congratulated by some strong, earnest mortal with a pre-war hand. Enough to make anyone suspicious. And I asked one or two coves who’d done it. All they said was that it all depended on the girl. . . . But I’m very happy, Jean. I’ve no complaints. If you ask me, I think we’ve got on damned well. We’ve been married a solid year and we’ve never had a first-class row.”

“That,” said Jean, expelling a cloud of smoke, “is because we don’t care.”

“Oh, rot,” said Oliver stoutly. He felt for a match. “Rot. At least, I can’t speak for you, but I certainly care.”

“Up to a point—yes. So do I. But we don’t mean anything to each other.”

“You mean something to me,” protested Pauncefote.

“So does your bath before dinner. You’re accustomed to me—that’s all. If you went out to-night, I should wear black for a year. It’s the fashion. But I should be fed to the teeth to think that my green lace dress was going spare. . . . And if I popped off to-morrow, you’d curse the fact that you couldn’t go to Ascot. And you’d soon be putting out feelers to find out whether it’d be decent to show up at Goodwood and saying to yourself, ‘She would have liked me to go.’”

“I—I don’t think I should,” faltered Pauncefote.

“Why not?” said Jean. “You wouldn’t feel any grief. We don’t mean anything.”

Oliver frowned. Then he took his pipe from his mouth and regarded its bowl.

“Assuming you’re right,” he said, “—mark you, I don’t admit it—but, assuming you’re right, why is it?”

Jean shrugged her shining shoulders.

“_C’est la mode_,” she said. “It’s the age, the time—what you will. Married love’s out of fashion—that’s all.”

“I loved you before,” said Pauncefote.

“In a way you did,” said Jean, staring upon the cornice. “And I loved you. Then we got married, and it was all over. You ought to count more with me—now.” She sat up there, with a laugh, and waved a small hand. “My dear, you count less. ‘Less’? You don’t count at all—now. We’ve—we’ve pulled our fire-cracker. We pulled it a year ago.” She threw herself back on the pillows, inhaled deeply and let the smoke steal out of her beautiful mouth. “Don’t think I’m getting at you. I’m not at all. I’m just making faces at Fate.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m disappointed. When one was married I thought one got down to things. I thought one found the emotions that poets write about—love, hope, joy, grief, hate. They’re the foundation of life. I brushed against them all when I was engaged. I imagine you did too—in a sort of way.”

Pauncefote shifted upon his chair.

“We’re much better out of it,” he said. “Give me a quiet life. Emotion’s all very well, but it’s sticky stuff.”

“It isn’t fashionable,” said Jean.

“For a very good reason,” said her husband. “It isn’t convenient. We’re just beginning to appreciate the wisdom of eliminating mental inconvenience. Look at Dickens, Thackeray, and the rest. Yarn after yarn founded on human emotion. Sighs and yells and tears because someone’s got stuck. That’s what you get for playing with fire. Now it’s dawning on people that use their brains that if you let sleeping dogs lie you won’t be chewed. An’ so we go quietly along—_without looking for trouble_. Hang it all, Jean, I think we’ve done very well. We don’t get in each other’s way. We——”

“We should,” said Jean. “We ought to. That’s my point. Marriage means getting in each other’s way. If you don’t, you might as well not be married. One’s style ought to be cramped. Not necessarily unpleasantly cramped, but cramped. If you were just going to drive and a priceless girl came up and asked you the time—well, she’d ’ve got in your way, but that wouldn’t worry you. In fact, if you could square your partner, you’d sling your driver away and take her into the pine-woods to look for clocks.”

“I shouldn’t at all,” said Pauncefote uneasily. “I should direct her to——”

“No doubt—if you were playing with me,” said Jean dryly. “Appearances have to be kept up. Never mind. The point is that one’s style can be agreeably cramped. Marriage can cramp it pleasantly or unpleasantly, but it ought to cramp it. Look at us. We aren’t affected at all. We don’t care. If we did, we shouldn’t dare show it. It—it isn’t done. . . . Life’s like ale—good, strong ale. History will show you that. But we don’t get further than the froth. That’s all right when you’re a child, but if you’re not going to get down to the liquor when you’re married, when are you?”

“My dear,” said her husband, “why worry? I’ve drunk some damned bad beer.”

“Haven’t you drunk any good?”

Oliver sighed.

“Of course,” he said, “if you’re not happy, Jean——”

“I’m not. Neither are you. We don’t know what it means.”

“I’m comfortable,” said Pauncefote. “And that’s something.”

“Listen. When you die, the tankard of Life is taken away from you. Well, supposing then you found out that the ale you’d always given a miss was the most glorious liquor you’d ever dreamed of . . . Wouldn’t you want to kick yourself?”

“Weather permitting,” said Pauncefote, “_ça va sans dire_.”

“And, good or bad, don’t you fancy you’d feel a bit cheap beside people who’d drunk their whack?”

Oliver pulled his moustache.

“Sort of ‘What did you do in the Great War Daddy?’ idea?”

“Exactly,” said Jean. “Well, don’t you think wedlock’s the time? It seems the obvious moment for our little crowd. ‘Marry and settle down.’ That’s a time-honoured phrase. ‘Settle down.’ What to?”

“Drinkin’ the ale, I suppose.”

“I imagine so,” said Jean. “Look at the words of the Service—‘love and cherish.’ I take it they mean something.”

“They did when they were written,” said Oliver. “But times have changed, Jean. I’m ready to love an’ cherish, but—but the occasion doesn’t arise.”

“What you mean is, it isn’t done. . . . I kiss you, of course, but then I kiss other men. And you kiss other girls. It’s the fashion. We don’t love each other at all; we love ourselves. We don’t cherish each other; we each take blinking good care to look after ourselves. It’s the fashion. . . . It’s the fashion to live together, and so we do. Bar that, we mightn’t be married.” She set her cigarette in a tray, laced her pointed fingers and put them behind her head. “Why am I wearing this frock? Because Pat Lafone said that he loved me in black.”

Oliver raised his eyebrows.

“Did he really?” he said.

“Why shouldn’t he?” said his wife. “There’s nothing wrong in that. What _is_ wrong is that I put it on to please him. You needn’t worry. That’s as far as it’s gone. Besides, he wasn’t there, so I’ve been stung. The point is we mightn’t be married. In theory, I should care for you and nobody else. And you for me—exclusively. In practice, if you discount habit—I’m accustomed to you, you know—you come third on the list. I care first for myself, then other attractive men, finally my husband.”

Oliver rose to his feet and laid down his pipe.

“That’s pretty straight, any way,” he said.

“You know it’s the same with you. The tragedy is we don’t care. . . . If you cleared out and left me, that might bring me up short. I think it probably would. I should come down to Things then—with the hell of a jar. The ale’d be bitter then.”