Now that Stephen had departed for the train the house woke up a little. Margaret could hear the two maids talking in the kitchen, a saucepan fell on the floor with a clatter, and one of them laughed.
Margaret wondered what was the matter with Stephen today, and last night. Why had he gone to town? What was it that he had burnt last night in the study grate? She was sure that he was upset about something. Stephen was frequently upset, either in mind or stomach, but the strange thing was that he had never been known to show it in this fashion. Usually when Stephen was upset he was more irritable and morose, not less.
“No, Stevie dear, this is an adding sum,” said Margaret, “it’s not subtraction like we did yesterday. You remember how to add, don’t you? Take your pencil out of your mouth, Dolly.”
It really was very queer about Stephen. The more she thought about it the more queer it seemed. She wondered whether she should give the children a holiday and run over to see Sarah Walker and tell her about it—Sarah was so wise. She would not say too much to Sarah—just that Stephen did not seem quite like himself. Of course Sarah could not advise her without knowing in what way Stephen was not like himself, but Margaret did not want advice, she wanted to be reassured, she wanted sympathy, she wanted a nice long talk with Sarah. It was strange that she should want sympathy and reassurance because her husband had been more considerate than usual—or less inconsiderate—but it really just meant that her world was shaking under her feet.
So Margaret gave the children a holiday, and told them to rush about and play hide-and-seek and make a lot of noise because Daddy had gone to London, and then she ran upstairs and pulled on a tam-o’-shanter, and caught up her last year’s coat with the worn fur collar (because of course in these hard times she could not afford a new winter coat although she had noticed rather enviously that her maids had each afforded one) and sped along the streets to see Sarah, feeling guilty, and happy, and worried, all at the same time. Guilty because of the holiday, happy because she was going to see Sarah whom she loved, and worried because Stephen had been so queer.
The sky was blue and there was a lightness and brightness in the air due to a touch of frost. It really was a lovely morning. Margaret tripped along and her spirits rose because it was so lovely. Everything was bright and shining, the river was shining like polished silver, the trees were flaunting their autumn colors in the clear sunlight. She passed Tanglewood Cottage and waved her hand to Barbara Buncle who was making a bonfire in her garden.
“Lovely smell!” she shouted to Barbara in a friendly manner, and Barbara waved her rake in reply.
***
The maid said that Mrs. Walker was in. That was one of the good things about Sarah; she always seemed to be there if you wanted her. And another good thing was that however busy she might be—and of course she must be busy sometimes—she never seemed to be busy when you wanted her, but could always sit down and chat in a comfortable leisurely manner whatever time of day it happened to be.
All this flashed across Margaret’s mind as she was shown into the doctor’s study, and Sarah rose from the desk where she had been adding up accounts and held out her hands.
“How lovely!” Sarah said. “I was just longing for some excuse to escape from those horrible things.” They sat down beside the fire—Sarah poked it into a nice blaze—and talked about their children. Margaret complained that hers were too quiet, and Sarah declared that hers were too noisy, and they both laughed a little because they understood each other perfectly and were happy in being together.
“I can’t think why we don’t see each other more often,” Sarah said, and Margaret agreed that she couldn’t either, except, of course, that they were both busy with husbands and children and things.
Sarah was looking at her friend with new eyes borrowed from Disturber of the Peace, and she saw that what the mysterious John Smith said was true. Margaret was worn down by her husband’s bad temper just as a silver sixpence is worn down by constant rubbing against coarser coins. Margaret’s prettiness was almost gone, and her vivacity was almost gone. (Today she was prettier than usual, and more vivacious, because she had come quickly through the brisk air to see her friend.) And Sarah thought—as all happy wives think—I would never have stood it all these years. I would have left the brute long ago. I ought to have thought about her more, and been kinder to her, for I am so blessed. And she thought of John (who had been called out in the middle of breakfast to succor Mrs. Goldsmith’s youngest grandchild in convulsions, and had not yet returned) and smiled very tenderly.
Margaret said, “You know, Sarah, I really came because I was worried about Stephen.”
“Is he ill?” inquired the doctor’s wife.
“No, in fact, he seemed particularly well,” replied Margaret surprisingly. “He sat up half the night, but he wasn’t writing—at least he wasn’t writing his book—and then this morning he got up early and went to London.”
Sarah murmured commiseratingly—she was slightly fogged as to why she should commiserate, but commiseration was evidently required, so, like a good friend, she supplied it.
“I know it sounds silly put like that,” Margaret owned, “but somehow Stephen was not like himself at all.”
Sarah thought that any deviation from Stephen’s usual self must be an improvement, but she did not say so. She said, “I know what you mean.”
“Yes. He spoke to the children at breakfast instead of reading the paper. He was quite talkative, and more—more considerate,” said Margaret. She had not meant to say that, because of course it implied that Stephen was not as a rule considerate; but somehow the words had popped out and there it was: Sarah knew now that Stephen had been considerate, and that it was such a very unusual thing for Stephen to be considerate that Margaret was worried about it.
Sarah wrinkled her brows and thought about the problem which had been presented to her. It would have puzzled Sherlock Holmes, she felt, for there were no clues at all to work on, and Margaret was not being frank with her. Margaret had only told her about half the story, and even that had come out by accident.
“Dear old Meg,” said Sarah suddenly, laying a friendly hand on Margaret’s arm, “if you are really worried, and really want my help, you’ll have to tell me the whole thing.”
Margaret had seen that five minutes ago, and she was torn in twain. She hated to be disloyal to Stephen, she hated women who told tales about their husbands; but on the other hand she really was worried—supposing Stephen had gone up to town to meet a woman—and Sarah was completely trustworthy. So after a moment’s thought she told Sarah the whole thing—all about his quietness in coming up to bed, and his endeavor not to waken her, and how the morning had found him full of kindness and amiability, and she told Sarah about the very queer way he kept looking at her when he thought she was not looking at him.
Sarah was appalled at the revelation—not of today’s kindness of course, but of previous brutality. Margaret seemed to think it was quite natural that Stephen should be selfish and morose; she seemed to think that husbands had a right to make everybody round them miserable. Sarah would have liked to say, “For goodness’ sake, leave the man before he has utterly destroyed you,” but of course she didn’t say that; as a matter of fact she didn’t say anything, she just gazed at Margaret with her large gray eyes open to their widest extent.
“Do you think it’s a woman, Sarah?” Margaret asked with bated breath.
“Nonsense!” said Sarah.
“It was almost—almost as if he were trying to propitiate me,” Margaret pointed out.
Well, it did look like that, but there was another idea beginning to move in Sarah’s brain. She marshaled the facts at her command: Stephen had sat up very late, but he was not writing about Henry the Fourth (so Margaret said). What was he doing then? He was reading (he must have been reading since he wasn’t writing, that was obvious) and he
must have been reading something that enthralled him, something that he could not lay down. Sarah had been similarly enthralled not long ago. Her agile mind leaped very easily over the gap in her deductions and fastened itself firmly upon the hypothesis that Stephen had been reading Disturber of the Peace, by John Smith.
Supposing Stephen had been reading Disturber of the Peace last night, what effect would it have had upon him?
“Sarah—”
“Wait,” she said quickly, “I’m thinking.”
Margaret waited hopefully.
Sarah thought. Supposing Stephen recognized himself as David Gaymer; it would have given him a bit of a shock, wouldn’t it? David Gaymer was not a lovable character. He was selfish and irritable, and he bullied his wife and domineered over his children. Sarah had thought when she read about David Gaymer, this is a bit overdone. Stephen’s horrid, but he’s not quite so horrid as all that. But today’s little talk with Margaret had shown her that David Gaymer was not a bit overdone; he was Stephen Bulmer down to the very last button on his waistcoat. David Gaymer wrote books; he was writing the Life of Alva. She remembered thinking at the time that Stephen should write a life of Alva in preference to Henry the Fourth. It seemed more suitable.
But let’s follow this out, Sarah entreated herself. How would Stephen feel when he recognized himself? He would be very angry at first, “I’m not like that,” he would say, and then he would think about it and remember things.
And then after a bit he would read on, and find his wife getting alienated from him—Edith Gaymer was drawn very sympathetically in the book—and finally going off with another man, a man who could give her the love and sympathy she had so sadly lacked. And he would be torn between disgust for David Gaymer and sympathy for Stephen Bulmer. “Good Heavens!” he would exclaim, “is Margaret really thinking of leaving me? What should I do without Margaret?” He would begin to think about Margaret and what kind of life she was having with him, and perhaps he would realize—for he was by no means a stupid man, only blinded by his selfishness and bad temper—that Margaret was having a pretty poor life of it with him, and that nobody could blame her very much if she did think of leaving him.
Stephen could not fail to see himself in David Gaymer, for there was no exaggeration about John Smith, nor did he beat about the bush. He simply described the characters and told his tale, and the characters were so real that they made the tale seem real too—even the fantastic part of the tale seemed probable. Of course Sarah was not in the book herself, but she was sure she would have recognized herself at once if she had been so honored because John Smith had the knack of breathing the very essence of the people he described into the pages of his book.
John Smith had held up the mirror to poor Stephen and had said, “Here you are, old chap! I hope you like yourself. Those nasty marks from your nose to the corners of your mouth, and those others between your brows are marks you put there yourself, you know. You can’t blame God for those.” And poor Stephen had replied, “Good Heavens, is that me?” (or he would probably have said, “Is that I?” for he was a pedantic and serious soul) and he would gaze at Margaret—just as she had described “in a queer way”—wondering if it could possibly be true that she was thinking of leaving him, and he would make an effort to be less like David Gaymer. And lastly he would fly up to town to tackle the publisher and find out who this man was—this John Smith who seemed to know more about himself and his wife than he himself knew.
So that although Sarah had very little to go on it all fitted beautifully. And, besides, she was quite sure that she was right in her deductions, which was the main thing, because if Sarah were quite sure she was right about anything she always was—John said so too.
Margaret had waited patiently all this time, and now she was to be rewarded for her patience.
“Now listen,” Sarah said (quite needlessly, for of course Margaret was all ears. Hadn’t she been sitting there waiting for about five minutes merely to hear the pearls of wisdom fall from Sarah’s lips?). “Now listen, Margaret. I’ve thought it all out and I’m quite sure I’m right. Stephen’s not after a woman, and there is absolutely nothing for you to worry about.”
“D’you think he’s lost a lot of money?” inquired Margaret. This reasonable but somewhat alarming idea had occurred to her while she was waiting for Sarah to speak.
“No I don’t,” said Sarah firmly. “If he had lost a lot of money he would have behaved quite differently about it. Stephen was sitting up last night reading a novel.”
“But he never reads novels,” interpolated Margaret.
“He was reading a novel last night,” Sarah told her. “It’s a novel called Disturber of the Peace, and it has just come out. It really is a most extraordinary book. I will give it to you to read.”
“I can get it from Stephen; he will give it to me to read,” suggested Margaret.
“He will do nothing of the sort,” replied Sarah. “Stephen will keep it away from you. He will hide it; he will burn it rather than let you have one peep at it.”
Margaret’s eyes bulged.
“No, there’s nothing like that in it,” Sarah said. “At least, I could see nothing wrong at all. Angela Pretty had hysterics over it, of course, and John had to tear round and administer sal volatile—but really it’s quite harmless and very amusing.”
“It sounds like it,” said Margaret ironically.
“It is really,” Sarah assured her.
“Well, why hysterics?” inquired Margaret, not unreasonably.
“I don’t quite know,” said Sarah, wrinkling her brows. “I couldn’t understand what John was driving at. He was furious about the book—said the man ought to be hanged and all that sort of thing—but he hasn’t read it yet of course. He was just going by what they said. I’m going to make him read it himself.”
“Why on earth did Angela have hysterics?”
“Well, it was partly because she didn’t want to go to Samarkand,” replied Sarah.
Margaret gazed at her in amazement.
“They go off to Samarkand in the book,” Sarah explained patiently (Meg was really rather dense about the whole thing).
“You mean Miss King and Angela Pretty go to Samarkand in a book?”
“Yes—at least they start off at the end.”
“Start off at the end,” echoed Margaret stupidly.
“Start off to Samarkand at the end of the book,” explained Sarah.
“And what do they do when they get there?”
“It doesn’t say. It just says they are going, and they order riding breeches and things.”
“But what has all that got to do with Stephen?” inquired Margaret after a short silence in which she had tried to make some sense of these extraordinary disclosures, and lamentably failed in the attempt.
“Nothing at all,” replied Sarah promptly. “It was you who asked me all about Angela’s hysterics and Samarkand and put me off the track. The thing that has to do with Stephen is that you are in the book too.”
“Me!” cried Margaret in astonishment. “And do I go to Samarkand too?”
“No, of course not. What would you do at Samarkand?”
“What does anybody do there?”
“Well, you don’t go there, anyhow,” said Sarah, wishing that Margaret would be quiet and allow her to tell the story in her own way—and indeed they would have got on much quicker if she had.
“What do I do then?” said Margaret. She had never been in a book before, and she was rather thrilled about it all.
“You climb out of your bedroom window and elope with Harry Carter,” Sarah told her.
Margaret was so dumbfounded that Sarah got her wish, she was able to continue without further interruption. “So now you see the whole thing. Stephen read the book last night and he’s been thinking about it ever since an
d wondering if there is any truth in it, and now he’s dashed off to London to find out who the author is, so that he can wring his neck or something.”
“But whatever shall I say to Stephen?” exclaimed Margaret.
“If I were you I should pretend I hadn’t read the book at all,” said Sarah. “I know you haven’t read it yet, but you had better stay to lunch and read it this afternoon. You had better just go on as usual and pretend you haven’t heard anything about it. It will do Stephen no harm to keep on looking at you and wondering,” said Sarah with fiendish satisfaction. “And you can sort of keep him guessing,” she added.
“Keep him guessing?” asked Margaret.
“Yes, keep him guessing,” said Sarah, and she went on to point out to her bewildered friend various ingenious ways in which she could keep her husband on tenterhooks.
But it was not until Sarah had put the book into Margaret’s hands, and settled her comfortably in the doctor’s chair, and gone out with a basket full of flowers and oranges and calves’-foot jelly for the Hobday child—who was ill again, poor lamb—that Margaret began to understand what all the fuss was about.
She began to read Disturber of the Peace because Sarah said she was to read it, but as she went on and recognized all the people she knew, drawn just as they were, without one jot omitted or one tittle added, she became engrossed. And then Stephen appeared upon the scene, and it was just Stephen exactly—so much so that she blushed for his nakedness. For herself she almost wept. John Smith showed her herself as she had not realized she was—a woman hungry for tenderness, snatching at happiness and love, her last chance before she grew too old.
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