He could not have failed to realise, from that unexpected visit, that something strange had happened, but he showed no sign of expecting an explanation. He came out into the hall to meet them and his face left no doubt of the genuineness of his welcome. In half an hour Edna had got the spareroom ready and put her to bed, ordering her to go to sleep and make no plans till she called her in the morning. How comforting it had been to resign herself to that efficient, warm-hearted authority. She was so dazed and exhausted that she had actually obeyed Edna’s orders and fallen asleep at once, and she had slept until half-past six next morning.
Her first thought on waking was that she must return home at once. If she were to get up and go at once she would be able to get home without the servants knowing that she had been away. Her mind ran on ahead. She saw herself at the door of her flat, taking her latch-key out of her bag... . But there her plan stopped dead. Her bag! She realised that she had left her bag at home. She would not be able to get in without ringing the bell. What a wretched complication that simple fact introduced. At the thought of talk and conjectures between the two servants she felt deeply humiliated. None the less, she did not regret that Edna had snatched her away on the previous night. She had been almost at the end of her tether, and to have stayed and found herself face to face with Norman at the end would have been beyond endurance. But now, as soon as she had seen Edna, she must go back. She must get back in time for breakfast. After all, even though she would have to ring the bell and be admitted by Martha, it might be possible to avoid rousing suspicions. She could rely on Norman to keep up appearances, at least. Their breakfast hour was eight-thirty: she would start so as to get home then. There was no point in arriving earlier; and so there was nothing to be done for the moment but to lie where she was.
She turned over with a sigh, trying to drive off the thoughts that took advantage of her idleness to torment her. There was one especially that she had, so far, refused to face, which thrust itself upon her now, freezing her heart—the thought of Pauline. She had recognised Pauline at once last night as the materialisation of all those unadmitted doubts and fears that had stirred darkly in her mind during the past months whenever Norman had rung up to say that he was detained on business. She had felt an instinctive fear and hatred of her the moment she came into the room. Yet why should she hate her? That deeply wounding exclamation of hers last night had proved at least that she had, up till then, been innocent of any attempt to take Norman from her. No, it was Norman who was responsible. But why couldn’t he simply have said that he was dining with a friend? It would have been true and he must have known that she would have accepted the statement without asking questions. Why had he lied to her, and told her not merely a single lie, but invented all sorts of convincing details to make her believe it? That he had taken so much trouble to deceive her seemed to her to make it so much crueller. She could hear his voice now. “Is that you, darling? I’m so sorry; I’ve got to stay at the office to-night till about eleven. Andrews and I have to get out an estimate by tomorrow. We shall have to put up with sandwiches and a glass of beer. I’ll get back as soon as ever I can.” It was unforgivable to call her darling and make a fool of her in the same breath. Her mind wrestled with it, trying vainly to make some sort of human sense of it, to reconcile her love of him and his love of her with his outrageous treatment of her. There was a sound outside her door and instantly her mind leapt back to her determination to go home. The door opened noiselessly and Edna appeared, carrying a tray.
“Hallo, Joan. You’re awake. I brought a cup of tea on the chance.” She set the tray on the table beside the pillow and sat down on the bed. “I hope you obeyed orders and slept well.”
“I did, Edna. But since I woke I’ve been making plans.”
“Ah,” said Edna; “I hope they’re the same as my plans.”
Joan smiled. “What are yours, Edna?”
“That you stay on here with us till we all go to Lannery on Saturday.”
Joan shook her head. “You’re awfully kind, Edna, but I must go home at once.”
“Don’t, Joan! Don’t, whatever you do!” Edna broke out earnestly, her eyes flashing behind her spectacles. “You can’t, after last night. Good heavens, if Roger had treated me as Norman treated you ‘last night . . .! Well, at least wait till he rings you up. Leave him to make the first move.”
“He can’t ring up. The telephone’s in the hall : the servants can hear every word you say. Besides, I’ve got to look after things at the flat; and anyhow, Edna, I can’t just stay here and do nothing: it would drive me mad.”
“Then stay till this evening. Stay long enough to show him . . .”
“No, my dear; really I can’t. You’ve been a perfect brick; I don’t know how I should have got on without you last night; but I must go now. I must get back in time for breakfast.”
“But what are you going to do about it, Joan? You’re not just going to take it lying down?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do. I shall see when I get there.”
Edna sighed. “I wish you’d let me go and tackle Norman for you. But listen, there’s one thing I insist on: then I’ll let you go. You must have breakfast first. I’ll bring it to you here in a quarter of an hour. You can’t deal with a thing like this on an empty stomach.”
Joan was about to protest, but Edna got off the bed. “Not another word! You can get up now. By the time you’re dressed, your breakfast will be ready.”
After Joan had left them, Edna and Roger discussed her case over breakfast. “I wish I could have persuaded her to stay here,” said Edna, “and leave Norman to make the first move. That would at least have made him realise that he must give a thought to Joan sometimes, even if only for the sake of his own comfort.”
Roger nodded. “I quite agree. Whereas now ...”
“Now she’s simply giving him a final proof of the hold he has on her.” She snorted angrily. “I know Norman. He’ll turn on his sickening charm, apologise neatly, and everything will go on as before. Still, for all my dislike of him, I sometimes think it is Joan’s appalling meekness that’s as much to blame as anything else.”
Roger did not reply, and Edna, glancing across the table at him, saw that he had withdrawn from the discussion. His lips were firmly set: his spectacles had grown sombre and thoughtful. Edna watched him with a slightly critical smile. “What are you thinking about, Roger?”
“I was thinking,” he said, “that you used to be meek and it didn’t wreck our marriage.”
“And you wish I was as meek as I used to be?”
“No,” he said judicially, “not exactly that, but I wish sometimes that you weren’t so determined to be independent.”
“Do you think I do it on purpose?”
“Yes, sometimes.”
“When, for instance?”
“Well, the other night when you refused to come to the Beethoven concert.”
“But I told you why, Roger. We couldn’t afford two concerts in one week, and I was dying to hear Cortot play the Chopin Concerto on Thursday.”
“Yes,” he said doubtfully, “you told me all that.”
“But you didn’t believe it?”
“I couldn’t help feeling that your real reason was that you knew I particularly wanted you to come.”
“And why were you so desperately keen on my going?”
“Why, simply because it was such a gorgeous concert.”
Edna became thoughtful. “I see,” she said; “you thought I was simply being obstinate. But I, you know, thought just the same about you. I was annoyed with you for trying to force me to go with you against my will. I felt you were being selfish. Of course, if I had been meek I would have denied myself Cortot and gone with you. On the other hand, is there any reason why you shouldn’t have been meek and given up Beethoven and come with me?”
“Not to hear Chopin, Edna,” he said with a shudder. “You admit you like Beethoven, but you know I loathe Chopin.”
; “Yes,” she said, “that’s quite true; and so, all things considered, what we actually did was the best solution, it seems to me.”
He laughed sardonically. “Of course it does, because you were the one that got your own way.”
“On the other hand, I didn’t bother you to come to my concert.”
“No,” said Roger, “because you had more sense.”
“Exactly. Whereas you . . .!” They had finished their breakfast and Edna got up from the table. She went round to his chair, leaned over him and kissed him on the ear. “If I didn’t like you so much,” she said cheerfully, “I should hate you.”
Chapter X
Wouldn’t it have been less painful both for herself and Norman, Joan asked herself as she turned over once again the harrowing experience of that morning, if she had taken Edna’s advice and not gone home? Then they might have come to their conclusion by letter and never have met again. As it was, their brief encounter that morning had been for her an ordeal as severe as the one of the previous night. When she had arrived at the flat she had managed to smile at Martha’s surprise when she opened the door, and explain that she had been unexpectedly called away late the night before. Norman, hearing them talking, had come out of his dressing-room and played up as she had expected “Ah, you’ve got back all right, my dear!”—and she had felt with relief that, for Martha, nothing suspicious had occurred. But how little it mattered, as it turned out, what Martha knew or didn’t know. Breakfast was ready and they went together into the dining-room. Norman shut the door and turned slowly towards her. His face was pale. For once, his self-confident affability had failed him and he stood before her, shamefaced and hesitant, his hands in his trouser-pockets, his eyes avoiding hers and fixed on the ground. Was he going to speak or was he waiting for her to speak? But she had nothing to say. She felt suddenly tired, empty, convinced of the uselessness of words. If only they could agree to say nothing, to ignore the whole thing and begin afresh! How gladly she would have done that. But that, she knew, was impossible—impossible for him, and so impossible for her. For the first time she realised with anguish the gulf that divided them. His feet shifted uneasily on the carpet and he watched them as if absent-mindedly trying a new dance-step. “I behaved monstrously last night, Joan,” he began, his feet still shifting, his eyes still on the ground. “I can’t defend myself, except to say that we were all pretty tight, as you saw, and not responsible for what we did or said. I’m really terribly sorry.”
He paused and she did not speak. “I don’t ask you to forgive me,” he went on, “because . . .”
“Let us not talk about it at all,” she said. “It’s over and done with. Let it go.”
Her interruption seemed to have perplexed him. He clasped his forehead with his hand as if trying to concentrate his thoughts. “I have something more . . .” he stammered, “there’s something I must ... talk over with you.”
“Sit down,” she said, “and have your breakfast.” He glanced at her, surprised and puzzled. “Breakfast?” He recollected himself with a nervous laugh. “Of course!” he said. “I suppose we ought to.” He sat down and began to serve the bacon and eggs. She handed him his coffee: he took it, put it down beside him and began to stir it meditatively and mechanically, stirring and stirring till she could have cried out with nervous exasperation. She forced herself to eat and at last she heard him stop stirring and clear his throat. “What I want to ... to talk about, Joan,” he began, “is ... don’t you think that we ... well ... made a mistake?”
Ever since last night she had known it was coming, and yet, now that she was faced with it, her heart dropped like a stone. “A mistake?” She echoed the word faintly, though she knew quite well what he meant.
“When we married,” he said.
There was a long silence. What was the good of trying to answer his question? She had nothing to say. To set about discussing it, to begin pouring out words and opinions, seemed to her utterly irrelevant. With a desperate effort she threw off the burden he was imposing on them. “It doesn’t matter what I think, Norman. Don’t ask me questions. Say what you want to say. You want to say something about Pauline.”
His face flushed suddenly scarlet. He put an elbow on the table and propped his head in his hand. “You know?” he said. “You’ve heard?”
“What is it you want?” she asked.
For a long time he sat silent, his eyes covered. “I want to marry her,” he said at last. “I want you to divorce me.” There was another long silence and then he dropped his arm with a sigh and pushed back his chair. “You can’t decide that at once, I know. You must have time.”
She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “You must go,” she said. “You’ll be terribly late.”
He stood up, hesitated for a moment, and then came towards her; but she turned away. “No!” she said. “Don’t!”
The door closed behind him; then she heard it open again. “Joan,” he said, “I’ll go away for a few days. Perhaps ... perhaps I’d better pack my suitcase now; unless ... unless you . . .”
“Yes, I’ll do it,” she said. “You can send for it this afternoon.”
He tried to smile at her, seeking, it seemed, some response in her eyes. Then he slowly closed the door. As soon as he had left the flat she went to pack his bag.
Chapter XI
When Eric got down to breakfast next morning he found only his aunt and Joan in the dining-room. Mrs. Dryden rose as he entered. “Come along,” she said; “we’ll begin. In the matter of breakfast, three is a quorum.”
She took her place at the head of the table and began to pour out coffee. Joan sat on her left and Eric went to the side-table to get her some scrambled eggs. As he bent over her to put the plate before her, he realised with a pang that it had all happened before. Each morning, that summer before her marriage, they three had been the first down to breakfast, and it had delighted him to wait on Joan and then secure the place next her. And now it seemed as if time had rolled back to that vanished summer, that Joan, sitting there, was still free, that Daphne, upstairs, had receded to a mere nothing in his life. Yesterday he had avoided Joan, had carefully refrained from even looking at her, for fear the sight of her should spoil his exciting preoccupation with Daphne. But now there was no avoiding her: he had to speak to her and meet her eyes, and as he did so he felt, under the physical exaltation with which he had woken an hour before, the stirrings of a deep remorse. What a waste, what a lamentable mischance, that the deep and passionate tenderness that he had felt for her should have been driven to expend itself on Daphne. At that desolating perception of what he had lost, he could have wept aloud. He dared not take the place next her now, but took the chair on the right of his aunt. And then Frank Todd came in and, a moment later, Edna and Cynthia: the sense of Joan’s nearness receded and, remembering Daphne and last night, he emerged from his moment of despair. He would not allow those buried emotions to disturb him again: he would close his mind against them and obey the exultation of his body. The door opened again and Daphne came in, and his heart leapt and his senses began to dance and all was well again. Her brief and careless good morning, as he rose to help her to some food, gave a delicious sting to their secret. Yes, all was well again.
After breakfast the whole party, tempted by the sunshine, went out into the garden. Mrs. Dryden, Edna and Joan were standing together when Roger joined them. “I say, Edna,” he exclaimed, “what about this walk?”
Edna knit her brows. “I don’t want a walk, Roger. You go and have a walk with some of the others.”
“But I want you to come,” he said. “We both need exercise and the country will be marvellous this morning.”
But Edna turned away. “No, thanks,” she said. “I don’t feel like it.”
Roger’s face was grim: it seemed that much more hung on his insistence than a mere walk. He shrugged his shoulders and turned away sadly. “If I’d particularly wanted you not to come,” he said, “you would have come.”
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br /> “Probably!” said Edna shortly as Roger walked slowly away.
Mrs. Dryden and Joan were surprised and pained by Edna’s unkindness. “I’m sure,” said Mrs. Dryden, “that one or two of the others will be very glad to go with him.”
“Cynthia and Frank asked me to join them on a walk,” said Joan. “I’ll ask him to come with us.”
She hurried after Roger. Edna turned with a nervous smile to Mrs. Dryden. “You must be thinking I treated him very badly,” she said; “but he’s such a tyrant. I’d already told him I didn’t want to go when he raised the subject before breakfast, and now he thinks he can force me to by tackling me in front of you and Joan. As a matter of fact,” she said, “I wouldn’t have minded a bit going for a walk, but I’m tired of being dictated to.”
Mrs. Dryden looked benevolently reproachful. “Always beware of acting on prínciple, Edna, especially when the principles are against your inclinations. But I want to talk to you about Joan. You, of course, know all about her troubles. She has asked my advice and I have advised her to divorce Norman. I’ve invited her to come and live here until the proceedings are over, and, I’m glad to say, she has accepted.” She paused and then added reflectively: “It’s strange that anyone as charming as Norman should behave with such callousness.”
“Charming?” exclaimed Edna. “I think he’s detestable. I’ve always thought so.”
Mrs. Dryden smiled with amusement. “You mean to tell me, Edna, that the charm doesn’t work on you?”
“Not in the least. Charm turned on, like the electric light, for the mere purpose of charming, disgusts me.”
Mrs. Dryden laughed appreciatively. “My dear, you’re too human: you haven’t my cynical detachment. I agree with you that Norman as a human being—a decent human being—is detestable, but I must say I enjoy him as a work of art.”
Edna snorted impatiently. “Well, I admit he’s a work of art in the sense that he deserves to be hung.”
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