CHAPTER XV--MARRIED LIFE

Peter went laughing through the spring-world--it had become all

kindness. In some strange way he had saved Kay's life. Everybody said

so. He did not know how. And now she was strong and well--more his than

ever.

“'Appy, Master Peter? H'always 'appy,” Mr. Grace would say when they met

on the cab-stand.

Yes, Peter was always happy now. His eyes were blue torches of joy which

burnt up other people's sadness. His golden little motherkins forgot her

dread of when he would become a man; she held him tightly in the nest

at Topbury, surrounding him with her gentle love. His father showed his

affection in a man's fashion by making Peter his friend. And Kay, racing

down the garden-path and dancing with the flowers in the sunshine, put

the feeling which they all experienced into words, “The joy's gone into

my feet, Peter; I'm so glad.”

Never again would anyone suspect him of harming her. He could gather

her to him and tell her tales to his heart's content. And what games

of pretending they played together! The old-fashioned garden became a

forest of limitless expanse and the house a castle. Kay was a princess

in danger and Peter was a knight who came to her rescue. Peter taught

his mother and father his pretence-language, so that they might play

their part as king and queen of the castle. Peter's father learnt

that he did not go to business in the morning, but to the wars. In

the evening, when he returned, he would sometimes see two merry

faces watching for him from the top-windows--the top-windows were the

battlements. Then he felt that, grown man though he was, he ought to

prance up the Terrace, as his legs would have done had they been really

those of a royal charger.

Peter had brought back the spirit of fun-making to Top-bury. In the

garden by day, where the wind whispered round the walls, and the trees

let in glimpses of high-flying clouds, and in the nursery at twilight,

where the laburnum leant her arms on the window-sill to listen, nodding

her golden tassels, he created his imaginary world. Here the king

and queen would join them almost shyly, as if they feared that their

presence might disturb. They came hand-in-hand on tiptoe. Peter noticed

how different they were from Aunt Jehane and Uncle Waffles: they were

never tired of being lovers.

“Please, Peter, we want to be your little boy and girl. May we hear your

story?”

The invisible arms of the threatened death had drawn them very near

together. Like the spring about them, their hearts were emotional with

exultant tenderness.

Like all children, Kay and Peter had their place of hiding, where they

lived their most secret world. It was the loft above the unused stable.

One had to climb up boxes and scramble through a hole in the ceiling to

get to it. It was thick in dust and cob-webs, but they cleaned a space

where they could sit and pretend it was their house and that they were

married. There was only one window, smothered in ivy, looking out on the

garden. From here they could observe whether anyone was coming. There

were chinks in the floor which served as spy-holes; through one of them

they could see the stall in which the tandem-tricycle was kept. They

planned to explore all manner of countries when Kay's legs were long

enough to reach the pedals.

“Can't think where you kiddies get to,” their father said; “I believe

it's somewhere in the stable. I've been calling and calling'.”

And Peter laughed, for he knew that grown people were far too sensible

to think of climbing into the loft in search of them. Only one grown

person was so adventurous--but that comes later.

When letters arrived from Sandport they were usually addressed to Nan;

as a rule the first post brought them, and she would read out extracts

as they sat at breakfast.

They were curious letters, written in a jealous spirit, but intended to

create an impression of contentment. They were in the nature of veiled

retorts which said, “So you see, my husband's as good as yours.” Without

knowing it, they betrayed envy. If Nan had given news concerning the

doings of herself, Billy or her children, Jehane would reply with

parallel details concerning her family. Just as in conversation she

spoke of her husband as Mr. Waffles, as though the very name were a

title inspiring awe, so in correspondence she quoted his opinions, as a

loving wife would the sayings of a man she worshiped. Jehane wrote

less and less in the mood of spontaneous friendship; if she had nothing

better to say, one wondered that she took the trouble to write at all.

Probably she did it out of habit and, perhaps, in order to hoodwink

herself.

And she was evasive. Questions as to how Ocky's enterprise was

progressing were left unanswered--in place of answers were loose

optimistic statements. A letter from Sandport usually brought with it an

atmosphere of annoyance. Nan exercised her tact in selecting portions to

be read aloud. It was in keeping with Ocky's character that, even when

Barrington had written himself, Jehane did the replying, saying that her

husband was very busy at present with new developments.

One morning Nan passed a letter down the table without comment.

Barrington's brows drew together in a frown; halfway through reading it

he flung it from him.

“Another! Well, I must say they might have waited until they knew

whether they could afford----”

Nan interrupted him quietly. “Billy, not before----”

She glanced at the children.

When they were supposed to have forgotten what their father had said,

Kay and Peter were informed--Aunt Je-hane had another little girl.

That evening the king and queen of the castle talked together after the

knight and the princess had been put to bed.

“They've no right to do a thing like that--bringing another child into

the world. Jehane doesn't love him. It's my belief she never has. The

thing's sordid. What chance will the little beggar have? It puts the

whole business of marriage on a level with the animals. Ugh!”

They were sitting beneath the mulberry in the cool dusk. From far away,

like waves lapping against the walls of a precipice in a cranny of which

they had found shelter, the weary complaint of London reached them.

Within his own house, with his wife and children, Barrington felt lifted

high above all that. He hated this intrusion of strife and ugliness.

Nan's arm stole round his neck; she had never lost the shyness with

which she had given him her first caress. “Billy, old boy, you mustn't

be angry with them--only sorry. Don't you know we're exceptional.”

“Not so exceptional as all----”

“Yes--as all that. How many wives and husbands are lovers after they've

been married ten years?”

“Never tried to count.”

“How many then would choose one another again if they could begin

afresh?”

“Begin afresh, with full knowledge of everything that was to happen?”

“Yes.”

“Not many.”

“Then, who are we to judge? We should just be thankful for ourselves and

sorry for----”

“But it's the children I'm thinking of--children who aren't wanted,

begotten by parents who don't want one another.”

The silence was broken by Nan. “Perhaps, Jehane was a child like

that. I've often thought it. She's always been so hungry--hungry for

affection.”

“Hungry--but jealous. She doesn't go the right way to work to get it.”

“She hasn't learnt; no one ever taught her. She's married; yet she's

still on the raft.--Billy, I want you to do something for her.”

“Me--for her?”

“I want you to ask her, as soon as she's well, to come here to Topbury

with the baby. She's tired. I can feel it in her letters. I'd like to

help her.”

“She'll only misconstrue your help--you know that. She'll bore us to

tears by boasting about Ocky.”

“And won't that be to her credit?”

“To her credit, but beastly annoying. If she'd only believe in him to

his face and cease shamming that she's proud of him behind his back,

matters might mend. She won't let us make her affairs our business. Some

day, when it's too late, she may have to. That's what I'm afraid of.”

But, when Jehane came, she set that fear at rest. It was impossible not

to believe that Ocky's feet were on the upward ladder: she was better

dressed, happier and had money to spend. She wore presents of jewelry

which her husband had given her--so she said. The money, she told them,

was the result of speculations which Ocky had made for her with the

little capital left by Captain Spashett. She spoke with enthusiasm

of his cleverness. And the happiness--that was because Barrington had

invited her personally. Naturally she kept this knowledge to herself.

Nan had planned to encompass her with the atmosphere of affection.

Little gifts from Jehane, received in her girlhood, were set about the

bedroom to awaken memories--to let her know how well she was remembered.

Jehane noticed the carefully thought out campaign--the efforts that were

made to win her. She wondered what it all meant; then she realized and

was touched.

Nan sat wistfully beside her friend, watching the baby being put to

bed. She kissed its little limbs with a kind of reverence and ministered

humbly to its helplessness. When Jehane pressed its eager lips

against her breast, Nan's eyes filled with tears. Jehane looked up

questioningly.

“I shall never have another,” Nan said.

Jehane stretched out her hand and drew Nan to her. She could be

magnanimous when for once she found her lot coveted. When the baby had

been fed and was being laid in its cot, Nan slipped to the window and

leant out, gazing across the roofs of Holloway to Hampstead where the

sun hung red.

There was no warning. She felt lips on her cheeks, lips violently

kissing her ears and neck. She turned with a throaty laugh. “You haven't

done that for ages.”

“Not kissed you? Of course I have.”

Nan shook her head. “Not like that, as though you wanted to. You haven't

done it since we were girls.”

Jehane, half-ashamed of her impulsiveness, looked away. “We've been too

busy to make a fuss. But the feeling's been there.”

“I don't call that making a fuss--and it isn't because we've been busy.

We've been drifting apart--playing a game of hide and seek with one

another.” Then, before Jehane could become casual, “I do so want to be

friends.”

“And aren't we friends?”

“Not in the old sense. We're hard and suspicious, and doubt one

another.”

“Then let's be friends in the old sense, you dear little Nan.”

Like Peter, when Nan had made up her mind to be tender, no one could

resist her. She treated Jehane with sweet envy, because of the baby on

her breast. She made believe that Jehane was fragile, and kept her in

bed for breakfast. After Barrington had been seen off to business, she

went up to help her dress. It was in this hour that Jehane was most

confessional. She recalled the dreamy Oxford days, with their desperate

dreams of love, when life was unexperienced. She even spoke of the great

disillusion that had followed; she spoke in general terms to include all

wives and husbands. She spoke of Waffles as he had been, only that she

might praise him as he had become. Her fierce loyalty to him, her

wilful consistency in shutting her eyes to his faults, was a form of

self-respect which never faltered. Nan found a difficulty in pretending

that he was all that was claimed for him; they both knew that he was

not. Still, she was convinced that he was mending.

Barrington, noticing the change in Jehane, said, “There are only two

things that could do it: money or love. It isn't love, so we have to

believe that it's----”

But it was love--love for Barrington and the effect of being near him.

Even she herself wondered at how the old infatuation had lasted. Her

very bitterness had been a form of love. Now that he went out of his

way to be kind to her all the passion in her responded--but she had to

disguise its response.

At night, with another man's child in her arms, she lay awake. In

the darkness and silence she told herself stories, juggling with

circumstances.

Once she heard a tapping on her door. She crouched against the wall,

shuddering.

The handle turned. Nan stood on the threshold. “I thought I heard you

moving.”

Guilty and angry, Jehane said nothing. Nan groped her way toward the bed

and found it empty.

“Jehane, Janey,” she called.

Then she saw her, stooped to her and caught her in her arms, begging for

an explanation. Just as once, when she had asserted, “Jehane I _did_,

I _did_ play fair,” so now she got no answer--only, “I'm stupid, dear;

I'll be better in the morning.”

Cold with alarm, Nan crept downstairs and hid herself in Billy's

arms. He was too sleepy to give the matter much attention. “She's odd,

darling. Never understood her. Poor old Ocky!”

The intoxication and the madness were gone. Fear had come. Any moment

they might guess. With fear came contrition: she would idolize her

husband more, till he became for her the man he was not. Next morning

she surprised Nan by announcing that she was homesick for Ocky, that her

things were packed and she would return to Sand-port at once. There

was no dissuading her. In her heart she had determined to wipe out her

faithlessness by educating her husband into largeness by love.

When the train had moved out of the station Billy stared at Nan puzzled.

“Really does look as if she'd grown fond of him! Eh what?”

Nan squeezed his arm. “Perhaps she always was fond of him and we were

sceptics.”

“She may be now. She wasn't.”

“Is it because he's got money?”

“Does make a difference, doesn't it?”

Nan pressed against him and looked up laughing. “Between you and me it

wouldn't.”

“Think not?”

“Never.”

Hidden in a cab, he caught her to him. “You darling!” She held him from

her, blushing. “But why now? What's this for?”

“Jehane makes me thankful for what I've got.”

That evening a man moved along the Terrace, halted as though he were

minded to turn back, moved on and at last knocked at Barrington's door.

While he waited he mopped his forehead; his manner was furtive.

Once inside the hall he became important, handing his card with a

flourish. Left alone while the maid announced his presence, he fiddled

with his necktie and twisted his soaped mustaches.

Barrington burst in on him. “Anything the matter, old man?”

“Matter? 'Course not.”

“Didn't you know that Jehane went home this morning?”

“Got your telegram just as I was leaving. Had business in London.

Couldn't put it off.”

“Must have been important. She'll be disappointed.”

“It was.”

“Suppose it's too late for you to start to-night?” Barrington pulled

out his watch. “Humph! Stop with us, won't you?--Had dinner?--All right.

Let's go out. Nan's in the garden.”

What was it that had brought him? Barrington kept asking himself that

question. As usual, Ocky was voluble and plausible, but---- His high

spirits were forced; he avoided the eye when watched. He rattled on

about the possibilities of Sandport. He talked of the friends he had

made--men whom Barrington guessed to be of no importance. He repeated

his friends' hilarious stories, “Here's a good one John told me----” It

was Ocky who discovered the humor in the story and laughed.

Trees grew more dense against the dark. Lights in houses were

extinguished. The roar of London, like a voice wearied of quarreling,

which mumbled vexatiously in a last retort, sank away into silence. But

this tireless voice at his side went on, babbling of nothing, talking

and talking.

Nan rose. “I'm sleepy. You'll excuse me, won't you? Billy, darling,

don't be long.”

Ocky refilled his foul pipe--with a pipe between his teeth he felt

fortified.

Barrington waited for him to reach his point--there _was_ a point he

felt sure. Ocky's visits always had an ulterior motive.

“Everything all right at Madeira Lodge?”

“Topping.”

“And the land investment?”

“Fine.”

“Then what brought you?”

Ocky was as shocked as if a gun had been fired in his face. The

question was unkind. He'd tried to be sociable and to stave off

unpleasantness--and this was the thanks he got. He squirmed uneasily;

the wicker-chair creaked, betraying his agitation.

“That's a rotten thing to say to a fellow, Billy. What brought me,

indeed!”

It was Barrington's turn to shift in his chair. He hated to be called

Billy by Waffles. The offence was repeated.

“You're confoundedly direct, Billy. Whenever I visit you, you always

think I've come to get something.”

“And haven't you?” Barrington's voice was hard. “Well, I have, now you

mention it.”

A pause.

Barrington lost patience. “Why can't you get it out like a man? You've

done something while Jehane's been away--something that made you afraid

to meet her. Haven't you?”

“Jehane!---- In a sense it's her doing. Don't see why she should make me

afraid.”

“Her doing! In what way?”

Ocky struck a match; finding his pipe empty, he held the match till it

burnt his fingers. “I'm not blaming Jehane, but it _is_ her doing up to

a point. She wants money to dress her girls up to the nines. She wants

money to make the house look stylish. If it hadn't been for Jehane, I

should never have left old Wagstaff's office. Mind, I'm not blaming her.

But where was the money to come from?”

“You let her believe you were making it.”

“Eh? So I was. So I shall if I can only get time.”

“Where'd you get the money she's already had?”

“It's her money that I invested for her.”

“You've been living on the principal--is that it? On the money that

should have gone to Glory.”

The tension proved too great for Ocky. A joke might relieve the

situation. “Seems to me that's where it's gone.” When no laugh followed

he hastened to add, “Financial pressure. Of course I'm sorry.” Then, “I

want you to lend me enough to tide me over.”

“I've been tiding you over all your life. You'll have to tell her. When

you've told her, I'll see what I can do once more.”

For the first time that evening the foolish tone of banter went out of

the weak man's voice.

“For God's sake! Don't make me do that. You don't know what a punishment

you're inventing. D'you know what that'd do to her?--kill what little

love she has for me. She'd hate me. She'd despise me even more than she

does already. I've got to live with her. Oh, my God!”

Barrington drew back into the shadow. He was deeply moved, and ashamed

of it.

The other man, goaded deeper into sincerity by his silence, continued,

pleading brokenly.

“You can't understand. Between you and Nan it's always been different.

You're strong and she's so tender. But I--I'm weak. I try to do right,

but I'm everlastingly in the wrong. I've had to crawl for every scrap of

love my wife ever gave me. She's thrown it at me like a bone to a

dog. I'm a poor flimsy devil. I know it. We never ought to have

married--she's too splendid. But she's all I've got. I thought--I

thought if I could take her money and double it, she'd respect me at

last--believe me clever. I did make money for her at first. I saw what a

difference it made. Then I lost. I was afraid to tell her, so went on.

I thought I'd win if I tried again. And she--after the first time, she

expected the extra money from me. Little by little it all went. But

don't make me tell her.”

“Then it wasn't lost in land speculation?”

“Part, but most in stocks bought on margins. My life's been hell for the

past six months. Don't make me tell her.”

Barrington rose. “It's late. I'll let you know to-morrow. You must give

me a complete list of your indebtedness. Whatever I decide, I think you

ought not to deceive Je---- And, by the way, say the thing you mean when

we talk of this to-morrow. Say _give_, instead of _lend_. I prefer

frankness.”

That “whatever I decide” told Ocky his battle was won. One night's sleep

placed all his dread behind him. His lack of self-respect permitted him

to recuperate rapidly. Early in the morning he was up and in the garden,

whistling cheerfully as though he had suffered no humiliation. Peter

heard him and ran to greet him. For an hour before breakfast they

exchanged secrets and Peter, in a burst of confidence, initiated his

uncle into the mystery of the loft.

“A fine place to hide, Peter?”

“Rather.”

“And you never told anyone before?”

“No one.”

“And you told me! Well, what d'you know about that? You must be somehow

fond of this poor old uncle.”

Peter's father heard them laughing and was annoyed. His night had been

restless. He was still more irritated when, on entering the stable, he

found Ocky with his arm round Peter's shoulder. In the sunlight he saw

at a glance how his cousin had deteriorated. His gait was more slouchy,

his expression more furtive, his teeth more broken with constant biting

on the pipe. His attempts at smartness--the soaped mustaches and the

dusty spats--were wretchedly offensive; they were so ineffectually

pretentious.

The weak man's hand commenced to fumble in his pocket as Barrington's

eyes searched him.

“Where's my baccy? Must have dropped it. Seen my pouch anywhere, Peter?”

“It's in your hand, uncle.” Peter went off into a peal of laughter.

“Surely you can do without smoking till after breakfast.”

Peter's laugh stopped, cut short by the sternness in his father's voice.

In his study, an hour later, Barrington asked, “You're sure there's

nothing else? There's no good in my giving you anything unless you make

a clean breast to me. And mind, this is absolutely the last time I save

you. From this moment you've got to go on your own.”

“On my honor, Billy, there's nothing.”

Ocky had a constitutional weakness for lies; so he told one now when it

hindered his purpose.

Barrington eyed him doubtfully. “If you've not told me the truth, Jehane

shall know all.”

“Can't pledge you more than my honor, Billy.”

The check was signed. He had gained a new lease on life. His contrition

left him, expelled by his fatal optimism. He was again a facetious dog,

whose paltry mistakes lay in the distant past. At parting he tipped

Peter a pound, with characteristic careless generosity. As he walked

down the Terrace, he tilted his hat to a more jaunty angle. On his

way to the station he bought some flashy jewelry for Jehane and the

children. Long before he reached Sand-port, he had so far risen in his

own estimation that he thought of himself as a bold financier, who had

done a most excellent stroke of business in an incredibly short space

of time. As for Barrington--oh, he'd always been narrowminded. The money

was a loan that he'd soon pay back.

As he approached Madeira Lodge, Jehane was watering flowers in the

garden. He hailed her from a distance, “Hulloa, Duchess!”

She, being penitent for a treachery of which he had no knowledge,

restrained her disgust at the detested nickname. She was going to be a

good and faithful wife--she had quite made up her mind. The street-door

had scarcely shut behind them, when she flung her arms about him. He was

taken by surprise.

“I was lonely without you, Ocky--that's why I came back.”

“Lonely! Lonely for me?”

“Yes. Why--why not?”

“Dun' know. Sounds odd from you, old lady.”

“From me? From your wife? Didn't you feel the house--feel it empty with

me away?”

His hands clutched at her shoulders. “And when you were not away

sometimes. Old gel, I've always been lonely for you.”

She brought her face down to his. “Hold me close, Ocky--close, as you're

doing now--always.”