by Francis Iles
He found her in a punt on the edge of the lake, drawn up under an overhanging tree. She looked up at him with a face more grave than usual, and did not smile in answer to his joyful greeting.
“Come into the punt, Edmund. No, not this end, dear, please. I want to talk to you very seriously.”
His joyful expression wiped off his face as if with a sponge, Dr. Bickleigh sat down obediently at the other end of the punt, full of foreboding.
Madeleine’s enormous grey eyes regarded him mournfully. “I’ve been thinking since I saw you last, Edmund.”
“Yes?” Something cold seemed to be clamping itself round Dr. Bickleigh’s heart, constricting it.
“It can’t go on.”
“You mean—us?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Bickleigh licked his dry lips. “Why not?”
“It isn’t fair. To Julia.”
“But—she doesn’t care for me, Madeleine. Any more than I do for her.”
“She’s your wife, though. No, it wouldn’t be fair.”
“But it wouldn’t be fair to us, the other way.”
Madeleine shook her head. “No, I’ve thought it all out. We mustn’t go on.”
Dr. Bickleigh looked ahead into the darkness. He looked at Madeleine. On her face too was an expression of suffering. How noble she was: how altruistic always. And for Julia!
“I can’t give you up,” he burst out passionately. “Madeleine— darling, I can’t. I won’t!”
“You must, Edmund,” she returned sorrowfully.
“And when I’ve only just found you. I can’t.”
“Do you love me so much?”
Dr. Bickleigh tried to tell her how much he loved her. The process took him to the other end of the punt, beside her. She shook her head mutely, but he caught her to him, and, as his arms closed round her, she yielded. He held her close against him, protesting his inability to give her up, ever, ever. She closed her eyes, and he kissed them gently. She let him kiss her mouth.
“Oh, Madeleine,” he muttered despairingly, “you can’t really love me, if you can talk about giving me up.”
She opened her eyes and looked up at him as she lay in his arms, and said very solemnly: “Edmund, I love you more than life itself. But we must part.”
To add to his unhappiness, she began to cry. Not with ugly, silly sobs, like Ivy, but with no sign but the tears actually running down from her eyes. Dr. Bickleigh felt as if he could break the world in pieces to end such grief. He crooned and moaned over her, almost weeping himself.
His ministrations, instead of soothing Madeleine, seemed to have the opposite effect. Her tears grew wilder; she clung to him; her emotion slipped further and further out of restraint; she sobbed as desperately as ever Ivy had. Dr. Bickleigh felt as though his heart were being cut up in small pieces under his eyes. But he was still able to marvel at the depths of Madeleine’s love and call himself every vile name for having doubted it.
“We can’t part, my darling,” he went on repeating inanely. “It would kill us both.”
“We must, we must,” sobbed Madeleine.
“I’ll tell Julia everything.”
“No, no! You mustn’t do that. Promise you won’t.”
“But she’s not so bad as all that. She’d divorce me.”
“Oh, Edmund,” wept Madeleine, “I couldn’t marry a divorced man.” It was the first time marriage had been mentioned between them, and it was not an auspicious welcome.
Between tears they debated the matter. Madeleine continued to swear that she loved him more than life itself, but that she must give him up to Julia because she could never bear to think of herself as responsible for parting a husband and wife, even though they did not love one another and could never live happily together.
Dr. Bickleigh, when emotion allowed him, did his best to deal with the situation. Astonished though he was at the violence of her emotion, he yet tried to reason with her. He pointed out to Madeleine, who was now clinging to him more closely with each reiteration of her decision that they must part for ever, that her concern for Julia, though charming and altogether worthy of her, was quite misplaced. Julia had never shown concern for anyone else in her life: why should she now have the benefit of their own?
There was no longer any question of loyalty or disloyalty to Julia; he did not go beyond the bounds of plain truth, but that at any rate Madeleine must now have. He told her everything. The only result was to make Madeleine weep more unrestrainedly than before.
He emphasised that there must be some good in Julia, and without doubt when she learned the truth she would let him have his divorce. He repeated this several times, but Madeleine remained strangely unconvinced by it. Whatever happened, she continued to say, he must not tell Julia a single word—not a word. They must suffer; but there was no reason why Julia should too. Not one word!
In the case of anyone else Dr. Bickleigh would by this stage have diagnosed incipient hysteria; but with Madeleine, of course, that was impossible.
In the end they parted with nothing really settled, though Madeleine seemed to be taking for granted that they were parting for ever. She had recovered herself more or less before Dr. Bickleigh had to go, and bade him farewell with intensity.
2
DR. BICKLEIGH returned home in a state of mental fermentation. He had refused to accept Madeleine’s ultimatum. He would not even contemplate accepting it. Life without Madeleine now was unthinkable. If Madeleine took the initiative and fled from him, he would end it.
He even went so far as to sketch out during surgery, between patients, an entirely new vision: Madeleine fleeing to Monte Carlo, selling The Hall, marrying precipitately some soulless brute in her own sphere; the prussic acid in the surgery: the farewell notes, to Julia, to the coroner, to Madeleine; “Madeleine, my own darling, life without you is impossible. Better death. Yet, dying, I send you my . . .”
It was a miracle that he got through surgery without a single wrong diagnosis.
He wished Madeleine had not so expressly forbidden him to say anything to Julia. It was hateful, this underhand business. Once more he felt keyed up to tell Julia everything, like a decent man. She would never understand, of course, but something might come out of the interview. And Julia was still waiting to speak to him about going to The Hall. If she did, he knew he would be unable to stop himself from blurting out the truth, even if only in sheer panic. Julia must be stopped from speaking.
He stopped her in the same way as before.
Julia complained of her head towards the end of dinner. Just after pouring out the coffee in the drawing-room afterwards she rose unsteadily to her feet, took a few blind steps forward, and collapsed on the carpet in a dead faint. Her unconsciousness only lasted a couple of minutes, but Dr. Bickleigh had a severe fright. He had given her an overdose; her powers of resistance were not so great as he had supposed. When she came round she was moaning with pain. And for Julia to moan . . .
Sweating with compunction, he ran for his syringe and injected the morphia this time subcutaneously. It relieved her at once, and he helped her upstairs and into bed. When he came down again alone he was shaking all over. He had no love for Julia, but it seemed unfair that she should suffer thus simply in order not to be told.
He kept her in bed for the next two days, although she protested that she was quite recovered. That got him over two more evenings.
On the Sunday there was tennis at the Bournes’. He went alone, taking Julia’s excuses with him. He knew he would not be wanted without Julia; but he went. Madeleine was there, and they greeted each other with beautiful casualness. Madeleine took no further notice of him at all, and talked more to Denny Bourne than anybody. Dr. Bickleigh spent a miserable afternoon.
On Monday he went up to The Hall.
Curiously enough, Madeleine, in spite of her expressed determination never to see him alone again, happened to be on her little lake: in a punt: in much the same place as before. She evinced the greatest surp
rise on seeing him.
The unrepentant man jumped in, beaming with delight, and plumped himself right down beside her.
“Edmund, you mustn’t! Have you forgotten what I said? No, I won’t let you,” said Madeleine, and fell into his arms.
And that was all the reference she made to their last encounter.
Dr. Bickleigh, though a little bewildered, went on to spend a blissful afternoon. Madeleine had never been more delightful, either as companion or lover.
And they were practical too. The sanitation at The Hall had astonished Dr. Bickleigh. It could never have been improved much since the primitive days when the house was built, Dr. Bickleigh told her that she must really do something about it: it was a scandal; it was unhealthy; it was positively dangerous. Madeleine quite agreed; undoubtedly she must do something about it. Dr. Bickleigh sketched out an alarmed picture of Madeleine expiring of typhoid in his arms. He became extremely distressed and earnest. Madeleine must really do something about it at once. Madeleine continued to agree; undoubtedly she must do something about it at once.
It was delightful to discuss these practical details with her. Even sanitation took on a kind of sanctified aspect when considered in relation to Madeleine.
That evening he told Julia.
Thinking it out on the way home from The Hall, he had made up his mind. He wanted to tell Julia badly, both because he detested the concealment and was still as anxious as ever to keep everything connected with this marvellous love on as high a level of purity and honesty as the love itself, and also (as he did not realise quite so plainly) because, having come during the last ten years to rely entirely upon Julia in every difficulty, he needed her help more than ever in this supreme one.
Julia took it incredibly well.
“Now, Edmund,” she had said, directly the coffee-tray had been removed, “at last I am able to speak to you. I understand that, in direct contradiction of my wishes, you have been—”
“Wait a minute, Julia,” Dr. Bickleigh interrupted. He got up and stood on the hearthrug, his back to the fireplace. He felt quite calm, and not even nervous. The exaltation he always experienced when he had been with Madeleine was still with him. “I want to speak to you, too. About Miss Cranmere. I want to tell you this. I love Miss Cranmere, and she loves me.”
Julia’s pale-blue eyes, prominent behind their thick lenses, regarded him searchingly. She was silent for several moments, perhaps in astonishment at the first dignified speech she had ever heard from her husband. At last she said: “I was afraid of this.” Her tone was as normal as if she had told him to pass the butter.
Dr. Bickleigh felt a little jump inside his chest on the left, and realised that he had not been quite so calm as he imagined. “I’m—sorry, Julia,” he said lamely, completely spoiling the effect.
“Well, Edmund, it’s no good apologising,” returned Julia, with brisk sanity, “Perhaps instead you’ll tell me what you propose to do about it?”
But that was just what Edmund did not know. He intimated as much, confusedly.
Julia was still examining him minutely, as if she had hardly ever seen him before, “And how am I to know,” she said slowly, “that this is not just another of the ordinary, sordid intrigues in which you have indulged continuously since we married? No, don’t bother to deny it. I’ve known how you were behaving—Irene Sampford, Sybil Whitechurch, the Ryder gairl, Dean Prior’s daughter in Merchester, Ivy Ridgeway, even Mabel Christow. I’ve said nothing, because that sort of vulgarity simply doesn’t interest me. But the time has come for plain speaking. How am I to know that this affair with Miss Cranmere is not another of those?”
Dr. Bickleigh coloured. To hear Madeleine’s name put on a par with Irene’s, Ivy’s, Mabel’s . . . He began to speak hotly.
Julia stopped him. “Very well. I see that you do think yourself really in love with this gairl. And presumably you have had opportunities of discovering that she thinks herself in love with you. Whether you both are or not remains to be seen. Though the acquaintance is rather short, is it not?”
Dr. Bickleigh’s mumbled reply seemed to be to the effect that when two people are utterly in tune with each other it does not take years to recognise the fact; it is plain at first sight.
“Love at first sight. I see. Most romantic, at your age,” nodded Julia, but her tone was less unkind than her words. “Well, Edmund, I ask you again, what do you wish me to do about this love at first sight of yours? It’s unfortunate that you have a wife, but there it is. However, if it’s any consolation to you, I will put into plain words what you know perfectly well: that I am not in love with you in the least, and never have been. I married you to escape from an intolerable situation at home, and you are therefore perfectly right in assuming (as of course you do) that I have no moral claim on you at all. So you can speak quite plainly.”
“This is awfully decent of you, Julia,” exclaimed Dr. Bickleigh, flushing with gratitude and relief. Really, old Julia was . . .
“I may have a few decent feelings, though you have seldom credited me with any,” returned Julia without emotion. “Well?”
“Well—I thought you might divorce me.” In spite of her invitation to plain speaking, Dr. Bickleigh felt considerable embarrassment. After all . . .
“Yes, of course. I’m afraid my decency doesn’t carry me to the point of letting you divorce me. But you realise that such a thing would ruin your practice here immediately?”
“Yes. I’d thought of starting again somewhere else.”
“Humph! And I’m afraid you would have to make me an allowance. As you know, I have no money of my own at all. How do you propose to do that, and work up a new practice at the same time?”
“Oh, I don’t think there’d be any difficulty about that Julia.”
“I see. You propose to pension off your first wife out of your second wife’s money?”
“I—I haven’t thought out any details at all yet,” stammered Dr. Bickleigh.
Julia smoothed out the black silk on her lap, took off her glasses, polished them on her handkerchief, replaced them, and looked at her husband. “Now listen, Edmund. You can imagine that in the ordinary course I wouldn’t listen to this idea of yours for an instant. The reason I do so is because it is Miss Cranmere who is involved. As even you have had the wit to recognise, she is a most exceptional gairl. I won’t say anything about her taste in selecting you out of all the men who should be glad to marry her, but I will say that you may consider yourself undeservedly fortunate. I cannot say that I know her at all well. Beyond the calls we have exchanged and our tennis-party here, we have hardly met. But she made a most favourable impression on me. Most favourable.
“In these circumstances, and in view of those of our own marriage, I am prepared to give you your chance. But I must be certain that she is not mistaken in her feelings for you (yours for her I will take for granted). I therefore stipulate that all three of us go on as we are for another year, during which you may see as much of each other as you like: and if at the end of it she still wishes to marry you, then you shall have your divorce.”
Dr. Bickleigh, yammering incoherencies, bounded forward and kissed his wife smackingly on the cheek. “Good Lord, Julia, you are . . . I say, I never dreamt you’d be so . . . Well, I’ve always said you were the most sensible woman I knew, but . . .”
Mrs. Bickleigh held up a finger. “But understand this, Edmund. If during that year you attempt to make Miss Cranmere your mistress, even in anticipation of marriage . . .”
Dr. Bickleigh’s schoolboy exuberance dropped from him. He drew back in disgust.
Then reason reasserted itself. He looked at Julia only pityingly. After all, she could not help her sort of mind.
3
THAT WAS on the Monday. All Tuesday Dr. Bickleigh had to hug his secret to himself. On the Wednesday, just a week after Madeleine had sent him wandering so miserably into Merchester, he set off for The Hall in the highest of possible high spirits. What news to bring
her! And what an afternoon ahead of him. He would even stay to dinner, if she asked him.
He turned in at the drive with assurance, and drove up to the house as if he were already its prince consort.
Talk about your Mr. Torrs now. It was with quite a shock that Dr. Bickleigh realised that he really was going to be part owner of this delightful place. Madeleine’s wealth, after he had overcome his first feeling of insignificance which the presence of riches always induced in him, had faded quite into the background. Madeleine was Madeleine, and nothing else. But he did not feel it sordid to reflect now that it was exceedingly pleasant that Madeleine should be rich Madeleine too. After all, Madeleine’s money was only incidental; though delightfully so. When one cannot afford even a new tennis-net . . .
“Miss Cranmere?” He smiled so happily at the parlourmaid at the door that, in spite of her training, she smiled back.
“I’m sorry, sir. Miss Cranmere is out.”
“Out!” He tried to pull himself together. “Didn’t she leave a message for me? I—I had—she made an appointment.”
The parlourmaid looked most concerned, but no, Miss Cranmere had left no message.
“She must have forgotten all about it,” muttered the doctor. “Nuisance. Thank you.”
He went home, took off his best suit, put on his oldest, and gardened furiously till tea-time.
Julia looked faintly surprised to see him, but said nothing.
“She had to go out,” Dr. Bickleigh felt himself called upon to mumble. “Couldn’t get out of it. Left me a note.”
Julia continued to say nothing.
On Thursday evening, however, she did say something. She said: “I met Lady Bourne this afternoon. She tells me that Miss Cranmere and Denny are entering for the mixed doubles in the Merchester tournament.” It was another of the unexpected things about Madeleine that she played a game of tennis, exceptionally good even in these days of feminine proficiency. “They fixed it up yesterday.”
“Yesterday!”
“Yes, Miss Cranmere was playing there yesterday afternoon. Didn’t you know, Edmund?”