Theo raised her eyebrows quizzically.
"For an evening at home?"
"Yes, yes, I know. But I like it. Put it on, there's a good girl. It cheers me up to see you looking your best."
Theo came down to dinner in the Caillot. It was a creation in creamy brocade, with a faint pattern of gold running through it and an undernote of pale pink to give warmth to the cream. It was cut daringly low in the back, and nothing could have been betterdesigned to show off the dazzling whiteness of Theo's neck and shoulders. She was truly now a magnolia flower.
Richard's eye rested upon her in warm approval. "Good girl. You know, you look simply stunning in that dress."
They went in to dinner. Throughout the evening Richard was nervous and unlike himself, joking and laughing about nothing at all, as if in a vain attempt to shake off his cares. Several times Theo tried to lead him back to the subject they had been discussing before, but he edged away from it.
Then suddenly, as she rose to go to bed, he came to the point.
"No, don't go yet. I've got something to say. You know, about this miserable business."
She sat down again.
He began talking rapidly. With a bit of luck, the whole thing could be hushed up. He had covered his tracks fairly well. So long as certain papers didn't get into the receiver's hands -
He stopped significantly.
"Papers?" asked Theo perplexedly. "You mean you will destroy them?"
Richard made a grimace.
"I'd destroy them fast enough if I could get hold of them. That's the devil of it all!"
"Who has them, then?"
"A man we both know - Vincent Easton."
A very faint exclamation escaped Theo. She forced it back, but Richard had noticed it.
"I've suspected he knew something of the business all along.
That's why I've asked him here a good bit. You may remember that I asked you to be nice to him?"
"I remember," said Theo.
"Somehow I never seem to have got on really friendly terms with him. Don't know why. But he likes you. I should say he likes you a good deal."
Theo said in a very clear voice: "He does."
"Ah!" said Richard appreciatively. "That's good. Now you see what I'm driving at. I'm convinced that if you went to Vincent Easton and asked him to give you those papers, he wouldn't refuse. Pretty woman, you know - all that sort of thing."
"I can't do that," said Theo quickly.
"Nonsense."
"It's out of the question."
The red came slowly out in blotches on Richard's face. She saw that he was angry.
"My dear girl, I don't think you quite realize the position. If this comes out, I'm liable to go to prison. It's ruin - disgrace."
"Vincent Easton will not use those papers against you. I am sure of that."
"That's not quite the point. He mayn't realize that they incriminate me. It's only taken in conjunction with - with my affairs - with the figures they're bound to find. Oh! I can't go into details. He'll ruin me without knowing what he's doing unless somebody puts the position before him."
"You can do that yourself, surely. Write to him."
"A fat lot of good that would be! No, Theo, we've only got one hope. You're the trump card. You're my wife. You must help me. Go to Easton tonight - "
A cry broke from Theo.
"Not tonight. Tomorrow perhaps."
"My God, Theo, can't you realize things? Tomorrow may be too late. If you could go now - at once - to Easton's rooms." He saw her flinch, and tried to reassure her. "I know, my dear girl, I know. It's a beastly thing to do. But it's life or death. Theo, you won't fail me?
You said you'd do anything to help me - "
Theo heard herself speaking in a hard, dry voice. "Not this thing.
There are reasons."
"It's life or death, Theo. I mean it. See here."
He snapped open a drawer of the desk and took out a revolver. If there was something theatrical about that action, it escaped her notice.
"It's that or shooting myself. I can't face the racket. If you won't do as I ask you, I'll be a dead man before morning. I swear to you solemnly that that's the truth."
Theo gave a low cry. "No, Richard, not that!"
"Then help me."
He flung the revolver down on the table and knelt by her side. "Theo, my darling - if you love me - if you've ever loved me - do this for me. You're my wife, Theo. I've no one else to turn to."
On and on his voice went, murmuring, pleading. And at last Theo heard her own voice saying: "Very well - yes."
Richard took her to the door and put her into a taxi.
IV
"Theo!"
Vincent Easton sprang up in incredulous delight. She stood in the doorway. Her wrap of white ermine was hanging from her shoulders. Never, Easton thought, had she looked so beautiful.
"You've come after all."
She put out a hand to stop him as he came towards her.
"No, Vincent, this isn't what you think."
She spoke in a low, hurried voice.
"I'm here from my husband. He thinks there are some papers which may - do him harm. I have come to ask you to give them to me."
Vincent stood very still, looking at her. Then he gave a short laugh.
"So that's it, is it? I thought Hobson, Jekyll and Lucas sounded familiar the other day, but I couldn't place them at the minute. Didn't know your husband was connected with the firm. Things have been going wrong there for some time. I was commissioned to look into the matter. I suspected some underling. Never thought of the man at the top.
Theo said nothing. Vincent looked at her curiously.
"It makes no difference to you, this?" he asked. "That - Oh! well, to put it plainly, that your husband's a swindler?'
She shook her head.
"It beats me," said Vincent. Then he added quietly: "Will you wait a minute or two? I will get the papers."
Theo sat down in a chair. He went into the other room. Presently he returned and delivered a small package into her hand.
"Thank you," said Theo. "Have you a match?"
Taking the matchbox he proffered, she knelt down by the fireplace. When the papers were reduced to a pile of ashes, she stood up.
"Thank you," she said again.
"Not at all," he answered formally. "Let me get you a taxi."
He put her into it, saw her drive away. A strange, formal little interview. After the first, they had not even dared look at each other. Well, that was that, the end. He would go away, abroad, try and forget.
Theo leaned her head out of the window and spoke to the taxi driver. She could not go back at once to the house in Chelsea. She must have a breathing space. Seeing Vincent again had shaken her horribly. If only - if only. But she pulled herself up. Love for her husband she had none - but she owed him loyalty. He was down, she must stick by him. Whatever else he might have done, he loved her; his offence had been committed against society, not against her.
The taxi meandered on through the wide streets of Hampstead.
They came out on the heath, and a breath of cool, invigorating air fanned Theo's cheeks. She had herself in hand again now. The taxi sped back towards Chelsea. Richard came out to meet her in the hall.
"Well," he demanded, "you've been a long time."
"Have I?"
"Yes - a very long time. Is it - all right?"
He followed her, a cunning look in his eyes. His hands were shaking.
"It's - it's all right, eh?" he said again.
"I burnt them myself."
"Oh!"
She went on into the study, sinking into a big armchair. Her face was dead white and her whole body drooped with fatigue. She thought to herself: "If only I could go to sleep now and never, never wake up again!"
Richard was watching her. His glance, shy, furtive, kept coming and going. She noticed nothing. She was beyond noticing.
"It went off quite all right, eh?"
"I've told you so."
"You're sure they were the right papers? Did you look?"
"No."
"But then - "
"I'm sure, I tell you. Don't bother me, Richard. I can't bear any more tonight."
Richard shifted nervously.
"No, no. I'm sure."
He fidgeted about the room. Presently he came over to her, laid a hand on her shoulder. She shook it off.
"Don't touch me." She tried to laugh. "I'm sorry, Richard. My nerves are on edge. I feel I can't bear to be touched."
"I know. I understand."
Again he wandered up and down. "Theo," he burst out suddenly. "I'm damned sorry."
"What?" She looked up, vaguely startled.
"I oughtn't to have let you go there at this time of night. I never dreamed that you'd be subjected to any - unpleasantness.''
"Unpleasantness?" She laughed. The word seemed to amuse her. "You don't know! Oh, Richard, you don't know!"
"I don't know what?"
She said very gravely, looking straight in front of her: "What this night has cost me."
"My God! Theo! I never meant - You - you did that, for me? The swine! Theo - Theo - I couldn't have known. I couldn't have guessed. My God!"
He was kneeling by her now stammering, his arms round her, and she turned and looked at him with faint surprise, as though his words had at last really penetrated to her attention.
"I - I never meant - "
"You never meant what, Richard?"
Her voice startled him.
"Tell me. What was it that you never meant?"
"Theo, don't let us speak of it. I don't want to know. I want never to think of it."
She was staring at him, wide awake now, with every faculty alert. Her words came clear and distinct: "You never meant - What do you think happened?"
"It didn't happen, Theo. Let's say it didn't happen."
And still she stared, till the truth began to come to her. "You think that - "
"I don't want - "
She interrupted him: "You think that Vincent Easton asked a price for those letters? You think that I - paid him?"
Richard said weakly and unconvincingly: "I - I never dreamed he was that kind of man."
V
"Didn't you?" She looked at him searchingly. His eyes fell before hers.
"Why did you ask me to put on this dress this evening? Why did you send me there alone at this time of night? You guessed he cared for me. You wanted to save your skin - save it at any cost even at the cost of my honour."
She got up. "I see now. You meant that from the beginning - or at least you saw it as a possibility, and it didn't deter you."
"Theo - "
"You can't deny it. Richard, I thought I knew all there was to know about you years ago. I've known almost from the first that you weren't straight as regards the world. But I thought you were straight with me."
"Theo - "
"Can you deny what I've just been saying?"
He was silent, in spite of himself.
"Listen, Richard. There is something I must tell you. Three days ago when this blow fell on you, the servants told you I was away gone to the country. That was only partly true. I had gone away with Vincent Easton."
Richard made an inarticulate sound. She held out a hand to stop him.
"Wait. We were at Dover. I saw a paper - I realized what had happened. Then, as you know, I came back."
She paused.
Richard caught her by the wrist. His eyes burnt into hers. "You came back - in time?"
Theo gave a short, bitter laugh. "Yes, I came back, as you say, 'in time,' Richard."
Her husband relinquished his hold on her arm. He stood by the mantelpiece, his head thrown back. He looked handsome and rather noble.
"In that case," he said, "I can forgive."
"I cannot."
The two words came crisply. They had the semblance and the effect of a bomb in the quiet room. Richard started forward, staring, his jaw dropped with an almost ludicrous effect.
"You - er - what did you say, Theo?"
"I said I cannot forgive! In leaving you for another man, I sinned not technically, perhaps, but in intention, which is the same thing. But if I sinned, I sinned through love. You, too, have not been faithful to me since our marriage. Oh, yes, I know. That I forgave, because I really believed in your love for me. But the thing you have done tonight is different. It is an ugly thing, Richard - a thing no woman should forgive. You sold me, your own wife, to purchase safety!"
She picked up her wrap and turned towards the door.
"Theo," he stammered out, "where are you going?"
She looked back over her shoulder at him.
"We all have to pay in this life, Richard. For my sin I must pay in loneliness. For yours - well, you gambled with the thing you love, and you have lost it!"
"You are going?"
She drew a long breath. "To freedom. There is nothing to bind me here."
He heard the door shut. Ages passed, or was it a few minutes? Something fluttered down outside the window - the last of the magnolia petals, soft, fragrant.
While the Light Lasts *1997*
THE HOUSE OF DREAMS
This is the story of John Segrave - of his life, which was unsatisfactory; of his love, which was unsatisfied; of his dreams, and of his death; and if in the two latter he found what was denied in the two former, then his life may, after all, be taken as a success. Who knows?
John Segrave came of a family which had been slowly going down the hill for the last century. They had been landowners since the days of Elizabeth, but their last piece of property was sold. It was thought well that one of the sons at least should acquire the useful art of moneymaking. It was an unconscious irony of Fate that John should be the one chosen.
With his strangely sensitive mouth, and the long dark blue slits of eyes that suggested an elf or a faun, something wild and of the woods, it was incongruous that he should be offered up, a sacrifice on the altar of Finance. The smell of the earth, the taste of the sea salt on one's lips, and the free sky above one's head - these were the things beloved by John Segrave, to which he was to bid farewell.
At the age of eighteen he became a junior clerk in a big business house. Seven years later he was still a clerk, not quite so junior, but with status otherwise unchanged. The faculty for "getting on in the world" had been omitted from his makeup. He was punctual, industrious, plodding - a clerk and nothing but a clerk. And yet he might have been - what? He could hardly answer that question himself, but he could not rid himself of the conviction that somewhere there was a life in which he could have - counted. There was power in him, swiftness of vision, a something of which his fellow toilers had never had a glimpse. They liked him. He was popular because of his air of careless friendship, and they never appreciated the fact that he barred them out by that same manner from any real intimacy.
The dream came to him suddenly. It was no childish fantasy growing and developing through the years. It came on a midsummer night, or rather early morning, and he woke from it tingling all over, striving to hold it to him as it fled, slipping from his clutch in the elusive way dreams have.
Desperately he clung to it. It must not go - it must not - He must remember the house. It was the House, of course! The House he knew so well. Was it a real house, or did he merely know it in dreams? He didn't remember - but he certainly knew it - knew it very well.
The faint grey light of the early morning was stealing into the room.
The stillness was extraordinary. At 4:50 a.m. London, weary London, found her brief instant of peace.
John Segrave lay quiet, wrapped in the joy, the exquisite wonder and beauty of his dream. How clever it had been of him to remember it! A dream flitted so quickly as a rule, ran past you just as with waking consciousness your clumsy fingers sought to stop and hold it. But he had been too quick for this dream! He had seized it as it was slipping swiftly by him.
It was
really a most remarkable dream! There was the house and - His thoughts were brought up with a jerk, for when he came to think of it, he couldn't remember anything but the house. And suddenly, with a tinge of disappointment, he recognized that, after all, the house was quite strange to him. He hadn't even dreamed of it before.
It was a white house, standing on high ground. There were trees near it, blue hills in the distance, but its peculiar charm was independent of surroundings for (and this was the point, the climax of the dream) it was a beautiful, a strangely beautiful house. His pulses quickened as he remembered anew the strange beauty of the house.
The outside of it, of course, for he hadn't been inside. There had been no question of that - no question of it whatsoever.
Then, as the dingy outlines of his bed-sitting-room began to take shape in the growing light, he experienced the disillusion of the dreamer.
Perhaps, after all, his dream hadn't been so very wonderful - or had the wonderful, the explanatory part, slipped past him, and laughed at his ineffectual clutching hands? A white house, standing on high ground there wasn't much there to get excited about, surely. It was rather a big house, he remembered, with a lot of windows in it, and the blinds were all down, not because the people were away (he was sure of that), but because it was so early that no one was up yet.
Then he laughed at the absurdity of his imaginings, and remembered that he was to dine with Mr. Wetterman that night.
Maisie Wetterman was Rudolf Wetterman's only daughter, and she had been accustomed all her life to having exactly what she wanted.
Paying a visit to her father's office one day, she had noticed John Segrave. He had brought in some letters that her father had asked for.
When he had departed again, she asked her father about him.
Wetterman was communicative.
"One of Sir Edward Segrave's sons. Fine old family, but on its last legs.
This boy will never set the Thames on fire. I like him all right, but there's nothing to him. No punch of any kind."
Maisie was, perhaps, indifferent to punch. It was a quality valued more by her parent than herself. Anyway, a fortnight later she persuaded her father to ask John Segrave to dinner. It was an intimate dinner, herself and her father, John Segrave, and a girlfriend who was staying with her.
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