'Did you? I fancied I saw a light in your room.'

This was quite true. Edith was writing a very long letter.

'Ah, perhaps.'

'Well, at three o'clock in the morning, fancy my surprise to hear a knock at my door!'

'I wonder I didn't hear a knock at mine,' said Edith.

'Your husband was afraid to disturb the little girl. Most considerate, I thought. Well, he knocked at my door and said that he was unable to sleep, that he felt terribly miserable and melancholy, in fact was wretched, and that he felt on the point of cutting his throat.... Don't be frightened, dear. I don't mean that he really meant it,' said Madame Frabelle, putting her hand on Edith's.

'Poor fellow! But what a shame to disturb you.'

'I didn't mind in the least. I was only too pleased. Well, what do you think I did? I got up and dressed, went down to the library and lighted the fire, and sat up for half-an-hour with your husband trying to cheer him up!'

'Did you really?' Edith smiled. 'It was very sweet of you, Eglantine.'

'Not at all; I was only too glad. I made a cup of tea, Bruce had a whisky and soda, we had a nice talk, and I sent him back quite cheerful. Still, it just shows, doesn't it, how terribly he takes it all?'

'Rather hard on you, Eglantine; quite improper too,' laughed Edith as she rang the bell.

Madame Frabelle ignored this remark.

'If I could only feel at all that I've done a little good during my stay here, I shall be quite satisfied.'

'Oh! but you mustn't dream yet of—' began Edith.

There was a ring at the bell.

'Why, here is Bruce, just in time for tea.'

Edith went to meet him in the hall. Although he came in with his key, he invariably rang the bell, so that the maid could take his coat and stick.

'Hallo, Edith,' he said, in a rather sober tone. 'How are you? And where is Madame Frabelle?'



CHAPTER XXVI

Bruce came in with a rather weary air, and sat down by the fire. Madame Frabelle was presiding at the tea-table.

'How are you feeling, Bruce?' Edith asked.

'Oh, pretty rotten. I had a very bad night. How are you, Madame Frabelle?'

'Oh, very well. Tea?'

'Poor Bruce!' said Edith kindly. 'Oh, and poor Madame Frabelle,' she added, with a smile.

Bruce gave Madame Frabelle a slightly reproachful look as he took a cup of tea from her.

'I've been telling Edith,' said that lady in a quiet, dignified way.

'What about?'

'About last night,' said Madame Frabelle, passing Bruce the buttered toast without looking at him, as if avoiding his glance.

'I'm really very much ashamed of it,' said Bruce. 'You can't think how kind she was to me, Edith.'

'I'm sure she was,' said Edith.

'Oh, you won't have a bad night like that again,' said Madame Frabelle cheerily.

'I'm sure I hope not.' He gave a dark, despairing look, and sighed. 'Upon my word, if it hadn't been for her I don't know what I would have done.' He shook his head and stroked his back hair.

Suddenly Edith felt intensely bored. Madame Frabelle and Bruce were looking at each other with such intense sympathy, and she knew they would repeat in different words what they had said already. They were so certain to go over the same ground again and again!... Edith felt she was not wanted. But that didn't annoy her. She was merely thinking of an excuse to get away from them.

'By the way, how's Aylmer, Edith?' asked Bruce.

'Getting on well. I believe he's been ordered out of town.'

'To the seaside? For God's sake don't let him go to the east coast!'

'The east coast is quite as safe as any other part of England, I think.' said Madame Frabelle.

'Oh, he'll take his chance,' Edith replied.

'I expect he'll miss you, my dear,' said Bruce. 'You've been so jolly good to him lately.'

'Naturally,' said Madame Frabelle, a little quickly, very smoothly, and with what Edith thought unnecessary tact. 'Naturally. Anyone so kind-hearted as Edith would be sure to try and cheer up the convalescence of a wounded friend. Have a foie-gras sandwich, Edith?'

Edith felt an almost irresistible desire to laugh at something in the hospitable, almost patronising tone of her guest.

'Oh, Edith likes going to see him,' said Bruce to Madame Frabelle. 'So do I, if it comes to that. We're all fond of old Aylmer, you know.'

'I know. I quite understand. You're great friends. Personally, I think Mr Ross has behaved splendidly.' Madame Frabelle said this with an air of self-control and scrupulous justice.

'You don't care very much about him, I fancy,' said Bruce with the air of having made a subtle discovery.

She raised one eyebrow slightly. 'I won't say that. I see very excellent points in him. I admit there's a certain coldness, a certain hard reserve about his character that—Well, frankly, it doesn't appeal to me. But I hope I am fair to him. He's a man I respect.... Yes, I respect him.'

'But he doesn't amuse you—what?' said Bruce.

'The fact is, he has no sense of humour,' said Madame Frabelle.

'Fancy your finding that out now!' said Bruce, with a broad smile. 'Funny! Ha ha! Very funny! Do you know, it never occurred to me! But now I come to think of it—yes, perhaps that's what's the matter with him. Mind you, I call him a jolly, cheery sort of chap. Quite an optimist—a distinct optimist. You never find Aylmer depressed.'

'No, not depressed. It isn't that. But he hasn't got—You won't either of you be angry with me for what I say, will you?'

'Oh no, indeed.'

'You won't be cross with me, Edith? Perhaps I ought not to say it.'

'Yes, do tell us,' urged Edith.

'Well, what I consider is the defect in Aylmer Ross is that he has brains, but no temperament.'

'Excellent!' cried Bruce. 'Perfectly true. Temperament! That's what he wants!'

Edith remembered hearing that phrase used in her presence to Madame Frabelle—not about Aylmer, but about someone else. It was very characteristic of Madame Frabelle to catch up an idea or a phrase, misapply it, and then firmly regard it as her own.

Bruce shook his head. 'Brains, but no temperament! Excellent!'

'Mind you, that doesn't prevent him being an excellent soldier,' went on Madame Frabelle.

'Oh dear, no. He's done jolly well,' said Bruce. 'I think I know what she means—don't you, Edith?'

'I'm sure she does,' said Edith, who had her doubts. 'I don't know that I do quite know what people mean when they say other people haven't got temperament. The question is—what is temperament?'

'Oh, my dear, it's a sort of—a something—an atmosphere—a sympathy. What I might call the magnetism of personality!'

'That's right!' said Bruce, passing his cup for another cup of tea. 'Aylmer's hard, hard as nails.'

'Hasn't he got the name of being rather warm-hearted and impulsive, though?' suggested Edith.

'Oh, he's good-natured enough,' said Bruce. 'Very generous. I've known him to do ever so many kind things and never let a soul except the fellow he'd helped know anything about it.'

'You don't understand me,' said Madame Frabelle. 'I don't doubt that for a moment. He's a generous man, because he has a sense of duty and of the claims of others. But he has the effect on me—'

'Go on, Eglantine.'

'Frankly, he chills me,' said Madame Frabelle. 'When I went to see him with Edith, I felt more tired after a quarter of an hour's talk with him than I would—' She glanced at Bruce.

'Than you would after hours with Landi, or Bruce, or Byrne Fraser, or young Coniston,' suggested Edith.

'That's what I mean. He's difficult to talk to.'

'I have no doubt you're right,' said Edith.

'Well, she generally is,' said Bruce. 'The only thing is she's so infernally deep sometimes, she sees things in people that nobody else would suspect. Oh, you do, you know!'

'Oh, do I?' said Madame Frabelle modestly.

'Yes, I think you do,' said Edith, who by this time felt inclined to throw the tea-tray at her guest. The last fortnight Edith's nerves had certainly not been quite calm. Formerly she would have been amused at the stupidity of the conversation. Now she felt irritated, bored and worried, except when she was with Aylmer.

There was a moment's silence. Bruce leant back and half shut his eyes. Madame Frabelle softly put a cushion behind his shoulder, putting a finger on her lip as she looked at Edith.

Edith suddenly got up.

'You won't think it horrid of me, Bruce? I've got to go out for a few minutes.'

'Oh no, no, no!' said Bruce. 'Certainly not. Do go, my dear girl. You'll be back to dinner?'

'Dinner? Of course. It isn't a quarter to six.'

Her eyes were bright. She looked full of elasticity and spirit again.

'I quite forgot,' she said, 'something that I promised to do for Mrs Mitchell. And she'll be disappointed if I don't.'

'I know what it is,' said Madame Frabelle archly. 'It's about that Society for the Belgians,'—she lowered her voice—'I mean the children's lingerie!'

'That's it,' said Edith gratefully. 'Well, I'll fly—and be back as soon as I can.'

Bruce got up and opened the door for her.

'For heaven's sake don't treat me with ceremony, my dear Edith,' said Madame Frabelle.

She made a little sign, as much as to say that she would look after Bruce. But she was not very successful in expressing anything by a look or a gesture. Edith had no idea what she meant. However, she nodded in return, as if she fully comprehended, and then ran up to her room, put on her hat, and, too impatient to wait while the servant called a cab, walked as quickly as possible until she met one near the top of Sloane Street. It was already very dark.

'Twenty-seven Jermyn Street,' said Edith as she jumped in.

* * * * *

Ten minutes later she was sitting next to Aylmer.

'Only for a second; I felt I must see you.'

'Fool! Angel!' said Aylmer, beaming, and kissing her hand.

'Bruce is too irritating for words today. And Madame Frabelle makes me sick. I can't stand her. At least today.'

'Oh, Edith, don't tell me you're jealous of the woman! I won't stand it! I shan't play.'

'Good heavens, no! Not in the least. But her society's so tedious at times. She has such a pompous way of discovering the obvious.'

'I do believe you object to her being in love with Bruce,' said Aylmer reproachfully. 'That's a thing I will not stand.'

'Indeed I don't. Besides, she's not. Who could be?... And don't be jealous of Bruce, Aylmer.... I know she's very motherly to him, and kind. But she's the same to everyone.'

They talked on for a few minutes. Then Edith said:

'Good-bye. I must go.'

'Good-bye,' said Aylmer.

'Oh! Are you going to let me go already?' she asked reproachfully.

She leant over him. Some impulse seemed to draw her near to him.

'You're using that Omar Khayyam scent again,' he said. 'I wish you wouldn't.'

'Why? you said you liked it.'

'I do like it. I like it too much.'

She came nearer. Aylmer gently pushed her away.

'How unkind you are!' she said, colouring a little with hurt feeling.

'I can't do that sort of thing,' said Aylmer in a low voice. 'When once you've given me your promise—but not before.'

'Oh, Aylmer!'

'I won't rush you. You'll see I'm right in time, dear girl.'

'You don't love me!' suddenly exclaimed Edith.

'But that's where you're wrong. I do love you. And I wish you'd go.'

She looked into his eyes, and then said, looking away:

'Are you really going out of town?'

'I'm ordered to. But I doubt if I can stand it.'

'Well, good-bye, Aylmer dear.'

'Fiend! Are you going already? Cruel girl!'

'Why you've just sent me away!'

'I can stand talking to you, Edith. Talking, for hours. But I can't stand your being within a yard of me.'

'Thank you so much,' she said, laughing, and arranging her hat in front of the mirror.

He spoke in a lower voice:

'How often must I tell you? You know perfectly well.'

'What?'

'I'm not that sort of man.'

'What sort?'

After a moment's pause he said:

'I can't kiss people.'

'I'm very glad you can't. I have no wish for you to kiss people.'

'I can't kiss. I don't know how anyone can. I can't do those things.'

She pretended not to hear, looked round the room, took up a book and said:

'Will you lend me this, Aylmer?'

'No, I'll give it you.'

'Good-bye.'

'Good-bye, darling,' said Aylmer, ringing the bell.

The butler called her a cab, and she drove to Mrs Mitchell's.

When she got to the door she left a message with the footman to say she hadn't been able to see about that matter for Mrs Mitchell yet, but would do it tomorrow.

Just as she was speaking Mr Mitchell came up to the door.

'Hallo, hallo, hallo!' he cried in his cheery, booming voice.

'Hallo, Edith! How's Bruce?'

'Why, you ought to know. He's been with you today,' said Edith.

'He seems a bit off colour at the Foreign Office. Won't you all three come and dine with us tomorrow? No party. I'm going to ring up and get Aylmer. It won't hurt him to dine quietly with us.'

'We shall be delighted,' said Edith.

Mr Mitchell didn't like to see her go, but as he was longing to tell his wife a hundred things that interested them both, he waved his hand to her, saying:

'Good-bye. The war will be over in six months. Mark my words! And then won't we have a good time!'

'Dear Mr Mitchell!' said Edith to herself as she drove back home in the dark.



CHAPTER XXVII

Landi was growing rather anxious about his favourite, for it was quite obvious to him that she was daily becoming more and more under the spell. Curious that the first time she should have found the courage to refuse, and that now, after three years' absence and with nothing to complain of particularly on the subject of her husband, she should now be so carried away by this love.

She had developed, no doubt. She was touched also, deeply moved at the long fidelity Aylmer had shown. He was now no longer an impulsive admirer, but a devotee. Even that, however, would not have induced her to think of making such a break in her life if it hadn't been for the war. Yes, Sir Tito put it all down to the war. It had an exciting, thrilling effect on people. It made them reckless. When a woman knows that the man she loves has risked his life, and is only too anxious to risk it again—well, it's natural that she should feel she is also willing to risk something. Valour has always been rewarded by beauty. And then her great sense of responsibility, her conscientiousness about Bruce—no wonder that had been undermined by his own weak conduct. How could Edith help feeling a slight contempt for a husband who not only wouldn't take any chances while he was still within the age, but positively imagined himself ill. True, Bruce had always been a malade imaginaire; like many others with the same weakness, his valetudinarianism had been terribly increased by the anxiety and worry of the war. But there was not much sympathy about for it just now. While so much real suffering was going on, imaginary ills were ignored, despised or forgotten.

Bruce hated the war; but he didn't hate it for the sake of other people so much as for his own. The interest that the world took in it positively bored him—absurd as it seems to say so, Edith was convinced that he was positively jealous of the general interest in it! He had great fear of losing his money, a great terror of Zeppelins; he gave way to his nerves instead of trying to control them. Edith knew his greatest wish would have been, had it been possible, to get right away from everything and go and live in Spain or America, or somewhere where he could hear no more about the war. Such a point of view might be understood in the case, say, of a great poet, a great artist, a man of genius, without any feeling of patriotism, or even a man beyond the age; but Bruce—he was the most ordinary and average of human beings, the most commonplace Englishman of thirty-seven who had ever been born; that Bruce should feel like that did seem to Edith a little—contemptible; yet she was sorry for him, she knew he really suffered from insomnia and nerves, though he looked a fine man and had always been regarded as a fair sportsman. He had been fair at football and cricket, and could row a bit, and was an enthusiastic golfist; still, Edith knew he would never have made a soldier. Bruce wanted to be wrapped up in cotton wool, petted, humoured, looked up to and generally spoilt.

* * * * *

But what Sir Tito felt most was the thought of his favourite, who had forgiven her husband that escapade three years ago, now appearing in an unfavourable light. She had been absolutely faithful to Bruce in every way, under many temptations, and he knew she was still absolutely faithful. Aylmer and Edith were neither of them the people for secret meetings, for deception. It was not in her to tromper her husband while pretending to be a devoted wife, and it was equally unlike Aylmer to be a false friend.

Landi was too much of a man of the world to have been particularly shocked, even if he had known they had both deceived Bruce. Privately, for Edith's own sake he almost wished they had. He hated scandal to touch her; he thought she would feel it more than she supposed. But, after all, he reflected, had they begun in that way it would have been sure to end in an elopement, with a man of Aylmer's spirit and determination. Aylmer, besides, was far too exclusive in his affections, far too jealous, ever to be able to endure to see Edith under Bruce's thumb, ordered about, trying to please him; and indeed Landi was most anxious that they should not be alone too much, in case, now that Edith cared for him so much, his feelings would carry him away.... Yes, if it once went too far the elopement was a certainty.

Would the world blame her so very much? That Bruce would let her take the children Landi had no doubt. He would never stand the bother of them; he wouldn't desire the responsibility; his pride might be a little hurt, but on the whole Sir Tito shrewdly suspected, as did Edith herself, that there would be a certain feeling of relief. Bruce had become such an egotist that, though he would miss Edith's devotion, he wouldn't grudge her the care of the children. Aylmer had pledged her his faith, his whole future; undoubtedly he would marry her and take the children as his own; still, Edith would bear the brunt before the world.

This Sir Tito did not fancy at all, and instinctively he began to watch Bruce. He felt very doubtful of him. The man who had flirted with the governess, who had eloped with the art student—was it at all likely that he was utterly faithful to Edith now? It was most unlikely. And Edith's old friend hoped that things would be adjusted in fairness to her.

He knew she would be happy with Aylmer. Why should she not at thirty-five begin a new life with the man she really cared for—a splendid fellow, a man with a fine character, with all his faults, who felt the claims of others, who had brains, pluck, and a sense of honour?

But Aylmer was going out again to the front. Until he returned again, nothing should be done. They should be patient.



CHAPTER XXVIII

Dulcie had now been settled down with Lady Conroy for about a week. She found her luxurious life at Carlton House Terrace far more congenial than she had expected. Her own orderly ways were obviously a great comfort to her employer, and though Lady Conroy turned everything to chaos as soon as Dulcie had put it straight, still she certainly had a good effect on things in general. She had a charming sitting-room to herself, and though she sometimes sighed for the little Chippendale room with the chintzes, at Jermyn Street, she was on the whole very contented. Lady Conroy was a delightful companion. She seldom pressed Dulcie to come down to meals when there were guests. Occasionally she did so, but so far the only person Dulcie had met more than once was Valdez, the handsome composer, who was trying so hard, with the help of Lady Conroy and his War Emergency Concerts, to assist such poor musicians as were suffering from the war, and at the same time to assert the value of British music.

Dulcie had been immensely struck by the commanding appearance and manner of Valdez, known everywhere as a singer, a writer of operas and a favourite of foreign royalties.

Landi she had often met at Aylmer's, but, privately, she was far more impressed by Valdez; first, he was English, though, like herself, of Spanish descent, and then he had none of the mechancete and teasing wit that made her uncomfortable with Landi. He treated her with particularly marked courtesy, and he admired her voice, for Lady Conroy had good-naturedly insisted on her singing to him. He had even offered, when he had more time, to give her a few lessons. Lady Conroy told her a hundred interesting stories about him and Dulcie found a tinge of romance about him that helped to give piquancy to her present life.

* * * * *

Dulcie was very much afraid of Lord Conroy, though he didn't appear to notice her. In his own way he was as absent-minded as his wife, to whom he was devoted, but whose existence was entirely independent of his.

Lord Conroy had his own library, his own secretary, his own suite of rooms, his own motor, he didn't even tell his wife when he intended to dine out, and if he occasionally spoke to her of the strained political situation which now absorbed him, it certainly wasn't when Dulcie was there. With his grey beard and dark, eyebrows, and absent, distinguished manner, he was exactly what Dulcie would have dreamed of as an ideal Cabinet Minister. He evidently regarded his wife, despite her thirty-eight years and plumpness, almost as a child, giving her complete freedom to pursue her own devices, admiring her appearance, and smiling at her lively and inconsequent conversation; he didn't seem to take her seriously. Dulcie was particularly struck by the fact that they each had their own completely distinct circle of friends, and except when they gave a party or a large dinner these friends hardly met, and certainly didn't clash.

As everyone in the house had breakfasts independently, and as Dulcie didn't even dine downstairs unless Lady Conroy was alone, she saw very little of the man whom she knew to be a political celebrity, and whose name was on almost everybody's lips just now. She heard from his wife that he was worried and anxious, and hoped the war wouldn't last much longer.

There were no less than seven children, from the age of twelve downwards. Two of these lived in the schoolroom with the governess, one boy was at school, and the rest lived in the nursery with the nurse. One might say there were five different sets of people living different lives in different rooms, in this enormous house. Sometimes Dulcie thought it was hardly quite her idea of home life, a thing Lady Conroy talked of continually with great sentiment and enthusiasm, but it was pleasant enough. Since she was here to remember engagements and dates everything seemed to go on wheels.

One day, feeling very contented and in good spirits, she had gone to see her father with an impulse to tell him how well she was getting on. Directly the door was opened by the untidy servant Dulcie felt that something had happened, that some blow had fallen. Everything looked different. She found her father in his den surrounded by papers, his appearance and manner so altered that the first thing she said was:

'Oh, papa! what's the matter?'

Her father looked up. At his expression she flew to him and threw her arms round him. Then, of course, he broke down. Strange that with all women and most men it is only genuine sympathy that makes them give way. With a cool man of the world, or with a hard, cold, heartless daughter who had reproached him, Mr Clay would have been as casual as an undergraduate.

At her sweetness he lost his self-control, and then he told her everything.

* * * * *

It was a short, commonplace, second-rate story, quite trivial and middle-class, and how tragic! He had gambled, played cards, lost, then fallen back on the resource of the ill-judged and independent-minded—gone to the professional lenders. Mr Clay was not the sort of man who would ever become a sponge, a nuisance to friends. He was far too proud, and though he had often helped other people, he had never yet asked for help. In a word, the poor little house was practically in ruins, or rather, as he explained frankly enough (giving all details), unless he could get eighty pounds by the next morning his furniture would be sold and he and his wife would be turned out. Mr Clay had a great horror of a smash. He was imprudent, even reckless, but had the sense of honour that would cause him to suffer acutely, as Dulcie knew. Of course she offered to help; surely since she had three hundred a year of her own she could do something, and he had about the same....The father explained that he had already sold his income in advance. And her own legacy had been left so that she was barred from anticipation. Dulcie, who was practical enough, saw that her own tiny income was absolutely all that the three would have to live on until her father got something else, and that bankruptcy was inevitable unless she could get him eighty pounds in a day.

'It's so little,' he said pathetically, 'and just to think that if Blue Boy hadn't been scratched I should have been bound to—Well, well, I know. I'm not going to bet any more.'

She made him promise to buck up, she would consult her friends.... Lady Conroy would perhaps be angelic and advance her her salary. (Of course she loathed the idea when she had been there only a week of being a nuisance and—But she must try.) It was worth anything to see her father brighten up. He told her to go and see her stepmother.

Mrs. Clay received her with the tenderest expressions and poured out her despairs and her troubles; she also confided in Dulcie that she had some debts that her husband knew nothing of and must never know. If only Dulcie could manage to get her thirty pounds—surely it would be easy enough with all her rich friends!—it would save her life. Dulcie promised to try, but begged her not to bother so much about dress in future.

'Of course I won't, darling! You're a pet and an angel. Darling Dulcie! The truth is I adore your father. And he always told me that he fell in love with me because I looked so smart! I was so terrified of losing his affection by getting dowdy, don't you see? Besides, he doesn't take the slightest notice what I wear, he never knows what I've got on! Always betting or absorbed in the Racing Intelligence; it's really dreadful.'

Dulcie promised anything, at least to do her best, if only Mrs Clay would be kind, sweet to her father.

'Don't scold him, don't reproach him,' she begged. 'I'm sure he'll be terribly ill unless you're very patient and sweet to him. And I promise he shall never know about your debts.'

Mrs Clay looked at her in wonder and gratitude. The real reason Dulcie took on herself the wife's separate troubles and resolved to keep them from her father was that she felt sure that if he reproached his wife she would retort and then there would be a miserable state of feud in the house, where at least there had been peace and affection till now. Dulcie couldn't endure the idea of her father being made unhappy, and she thought that by making her stepmother under an obligation to her, she would have a sort of hold or influence and could make her behave well and kindly to her husband. Dulcie hadn't the slightest idea how she was going to do it, but she would.

She never even thought twice about giving up her income to her father. She was only too delighted to be able to do it. And she believed that his pride and sense of honour might really even make him stop gambling. And then there was some chance of happiness for the couple again.

* * * * *

Dulcie had really undertaken more of a sacrifice for her stepmother, whom she rather disliked, than for her father, whom she adored, but it was for his sake. She left them cheered, grateful, and relying on her.

* * * * *

When she got home to her charming room at Carlton House Terrace she sat down, put her head in her hands and began to think. She had undertaken to get a hundred and ten pounds in two days.

How was she to do it? Of course she knew that Aylmer Ross would be able and willing, indeed enchanted, to come to the rescue. He was always telling her that she had saved his life.

She would like to get his sympathy and interest, to remind him of her existence.

But she was far too much in love with him still to endure the thought of a request for money—that cold douche on friendship! She would rather go to anyone in the world than Aylmer.

What about Edith Ottley? Edith had been kindness itself to her; it was entirely through Edith that she had this position as secretary and companion at a salary of a hundred a year which now would mean so much to her.

She admired Edith more than any woman she knew; she thought her lovely, elegant, clever, fascinating and kindness itself. Yet she would dislike to ask Edith even more than Aylmer. The reason was obvious. Edith was her rival. Of course it was not her fault. She had not taken Aylmer away from her, she was his old friend, but the fact remained that her idol was in love with Edith. And Dulcie was so constituted that she could ask neither of them a favour to save her life.

Lady Conroy then.... But how awkward, how disagreeable, how painful to her pride when she had been there only a week and Lady Conroy treated her almost like a sister!... There was a knock at the door.

'Come in!' said Dulcie, surprised. No-one ever came to her little sitting-room at this hour, about half-past five. Who could it be? To her utter astonishment and confusion the servant announced Mr Valdez.

* * * * *

Dulcie was sitting on the sofa, still in her hat and coat, her eyes red with crying, for she had utterly given way when she got home. She was amazed and confused at seeing the composer, who came calmly in, holding a piece of music in his hand.

'Good morning, Miss Clay. Please forgive me. I hope I'm not troubling you? They told me Lady Conroy was out but that you were at home and up here; and I hoped—' He glanced at the highly decorated little piano. This room had been known as the music-room before it was given to Dulcie.

'Oh, not at all,' she said in confusion, looking up and regretting her crimson and swollen eyes and generally unprepared appearance.

He immediately came close to her, sat down on a chair opposite her sofa, leant forward and said abruptly, in a tone of warm sympathy:

'You are distressed. What is it, my child? I came up to ask you to play over this song. But I shall certainly not go now till you've told me what's the matter.'

'Oh, I can't,' said Dulcie, breaking down.

He insisted:

'You can. You shall. I'm sure I can help you. Go on.'

Whether it was his personality which always had a magnetism for her, or the reaction of the shock she had had, Dulcie actually told him every word, wondering at herself. He listened, and then said cooly:

'My dear child, you're making a mountain out of a molehill. People mustn't worry about trifles. Just before the war I won a lot of money at Monte Carlo. I simply don't know what to do with it. Stop!' he said, as she began to speak. 'You want a hundred and ten pounds. You shall have it in half-an-hour. I shall go straight back to Claridge's in a taxi, write a cheque, get it changed—for you won't know what to do with a cheque, or at any rate it would give you more trouble—and send you the money straight back by my servant or my secretary in a taxi.' He stood up. 'Not another word, my dear Miss Clay. Don't attach so much importance to money. It would be a bore for you to have to bother Lady Conroy. I understand. Don't imagine you're under any obligation; you can pay it me back just whenever you like and I shall give it to the War Emergency Concerts.... Now, please, don't be grateful. Aren't we friends?'

'You're too kind,' she answered.

He hurried to the door.

'When my secretary comes back she will ask to see you. If anyone knows you have a visitor say I sent you the music or tickets for the concert. Good-bye. Cheer up now!'

In an hour from the time Valdez had come in to see her, father and stepmother had each received the money. The situation was saved.

* * * * *

Dulcie marvelled at the action and the manner in which it was done. But none who knew Valdez well would have been in the least surprised. He was the most generous of men, and particularly he could not bear to see a pretty girl in sincere distress through no fault of her own. It was Dulcie's simple sincerity that pleased him. He came across very little of it in his own world. That world was brilliant, distinguished, sometimes artistic, sometimes merely mondain. But it was seldom sincere. He liked that quality best of all. He certainly was gifted with it himself.

* * * * *

From this time, though Valdez still encouraged Dulcie to sing and occasionally accompanied her, the slight tinge of flirtation vanished from his manner. She felt he was only a friend. Did she ever regret it? Perhaps, a little.



CHAPTER XXIX

'Bruce, said Edith, 'I've just had a letter from Aylmer, from Eastcliff.'

'Oh yes,' said Bruce. 'Got him off to the seaside at last, did they?'

It was a Sunday afternoon. Bruce was sitting in a melancholy attitude on a sofa in Edith's boudoir; he held The Weekly Dispatch in his hand, and was shaking his head over a pessimistic article when his wife came in.

Bruce was always depressed now, and if he felt a little more cheerful for a moment he seemed to try and conceal it. No doubt his melancholy was real enough, but it was also partly a pose and a profession. Having undertaken to be depressed, he seemed to think it wrong to show a gleam of brightness. Besides, on Sundays Madame Frabelle usually listened to him; and this afternoon she had gone, unaccompanied, to hear the Rev. Byrne Fraser preach. Bruce felt injured.

He had grown to feel quite lost without her.

'He's very dull there,' said Edith.

'I dare say he is,' he answered. 'I'm sure I should feel half inclined to cut my throat if I were alone, with a game leg, at a place like that. Besides, they've had the Zepps there already once. Just the place for them to come again.'

'He's very bored. But he's much better, and he's going back to the front in a fortnight.'

'In a fortnight! Good heavens! Pretty sharp work.'

'It is, indeed. He's counting the hours till he can get off.'

Bruce, sighing, lighted his cigarette.

'I wondered if you'd mind, Bruce, if I went down for the day to see him?'

'Mind! Oh dear, no! Of course, go. I think it's your duty, poor old chap. I wondered you didn't run down for the weekend.'

'I didn't like to do that,' she said.

'Why on earth not?' said Bruce. 'Hard luck for a poor chap with no-one to speak to. Going back again; so soon too.'

'Well, if you don't mind I might go down tomorrow for a couple of days, and take Dilly.'

'Do,' said Bruce eagerly; 'do the kid good.'

Edith looked at him closely.

'Wouldn't you miss her, now that Archie's at school too? Wouldn't the house seem very quiet?'

'Not a bit!' exclaimed Bruce with emphatic sincerity. 'Not the least bit in the world! At least, of course, the house would seem quiet, but that's just what I like. I long for quiet—yearn for it. You don't half understand my condition of health, Edith. The quieter I am, the less worried, the better. Of course, take Dilly. Rather! I'd like you to go!'

'All right. I'll go tomorrow morning till Tuesday or Wednesday. But wouldn't it seem the least bit rude to Madame Frabelle? She talks of going away soon, you know.'

'Oh, she won't mind,' said Bruce decidedly. 'I shouldn't bother about her. We never treat her with ceremony.'

* * * * *

When, a little bit later, Madame Frabelle came in (with a slight perfume of incense about her, and very full of a splendidly depressing sermon she had heard), she heartily agreed with Bruce. They both persuaded Edith to run down on the Monday and stay till Wednesday evening at least.

'Perhaps we shall never meet again,' said Bruce pleasantly, as Edith, Dilly and the nurse were starting; 'either the Zeppelins may come while you're away, or they may set your hotel at Eastcliff on fire. Just the place for them.'

'Well, if you want me you've only to telephone, and I can be back in a little more than an hour.'

Madame Frabelle accompanied Edith to the station. She said to her on the way:

'Do you know, Edith, I'm half expecting a telegram which may take me away. I have a relative who is anxious for me to go and stay with her, an aunt. But even if I did go, perhaps you'd let me come back to you after?'

Edith assented. Somehow she did not much believe either in the telegram nor the relative. She thought that her friend talked like that so as to give the impression that she was not a fixture; that she was much sought after and had many friends, one or two of whom might insist on her leaving the Ottleys soon.

Aylmer was at the little Eastcliff station to meet them. Except that he walked with the help of a stick, he seemed well, and having put Dilly, the nurse and the luggage in a cab, he proposed to Edith to walk to the hotel.

'This was angelic of you, Edith. How jolly the child looks!—like a live doll.'

'You didn't mind my bringing her?'

'Why, I'm devoted to her. But, you know, I hope it wasn't done for any conventional reasons. Headley and I are in the Annexe, nearly half-a-mile from you.'

'I know,' said Edith.

'And when you see the people here, my dear, nobody on earth that counts or matters!—people whom you've never seen before and never will again. But I've been counting the minutes till you came. It really isn't a bad little hole.'

He took her down to a winding path covered in under trees, which led to the sea by steps cut in the rock. They sat down on a bench. The sea air was fresh and soothing.

'This is where I sit and read—and think about you. Well, Edith, are you going to put me out of my suspense? How much longer am I to suffer? Let me look at you.'

She looked up at him. He smiled at what he saw.

'It'll be rather jolly to have two days or so here all to ourselves,' he said, 'but it will be far from jolly unless you give me that promise.'

'But doesn't the promise refer to after you come back again?' she said in a low voice.

'I don't ask you to come away until I'm back again. But I want you to promise before that you will.'

Nothing more was said on the subject at the time, but after dinner, when Dilly had been put to bed, it was so warm that they could come out again, and then she said:

'Aylmer, don't worry yourself any more. I mean to do it.'

'You do!'

He looked at her ecstatically.

'Oh, Edith! I'm too happy! Do you quite realise, dear, what it is?... I've been waiting for you for four years. Ever since that night I met you at the Mitchells'. Do you know that before the war, when I came into that money, I was wild with rage. It seemed so wasted on me. I had no use for it then. And when I first met you I used to long for it. I hated being hard up.... The first time I had a gleam of hope was when they told me I'd got over the operation all right. I couldn't believe my life would be spared, for nothing. And now—you won't change your mind again?'

Edith convinced him that she would not. They sat hand in hand, perhaps as near perfect happiness as two human beings can be....

'We shall never be happier than we are now,' said Edith in a low voice.

'Oh, shan't we?' he said. 'Rubbish! Rot! What about our life when I come back again?—every dream realised!'

'And yet your going to risk it,' said Edith.

'Naturally; that's nothing. I shall come back like a bad penny, don't you worry. Edith, say you mean it, again.'

'Say I mean what?'

'Say you love me, you'll marry me. You and the children will belong to me. You won't have any regrets? Swear you won't have any regrets and remorse!'

'I never will. You know, Aylmer, I am like that. Most women know what they want till they've got it, and then they want something else! But when I get what I want I don't regret it.'

'I know, my darling sensible angel!... Edith, to think this might have happened three years ago!'

'But then I would have had regrets.'

'You only thought so,' he answered. 'I should have made you forget them very soon! Don't you feel, my dear, that we're made for each other? I know it.'

'Aylmer, how shall I be able to bear your going out again? It will be like a horrible nightmare. And perhaps all we've both gone through may be for nothing!'

'No, now I've got your promise everything will be all right.... I feel I shall come back all right.... Look here, darling, you need not be unhappy with Bruce. We're not going to deceive him. And when I come back, we'll tell him. Not till then. There is really no need.'

They walked together to the Annexe, which was entered by a small flight of stone steps from the garden. Here Aylmer had a little suite of rooms. Edith went into the sitting-room with him and looked round.

'It's ten o'clock and you're here for your health! Call Headley and go to bed, there's a good boy.'

He held both her hands.

'I mustn't ask you to stay.'

'Aylmer! With Dilly here! And Bruce let me come down to look after you! He was quite nice about it.'

'All right, dear, all right.... I know. No. I'm looking forward to when I come back.... Go, dear, go.'

Edith walked very slowly down the steps again. He followed her back into the garden.

'And suppose—you didn't come back,' she said in a very low voice.

Aylmer glanced round: there was no-one in the garden.

'I'm on my honour here,' he said. 'Go, dear, go. Go in to Dilly.' He gave her a little push.

'One kiss,' said Edith.

He smiled.

'Darling girl, I've told you before that's a thing I can't do. I really oughtn't to be alone with you at all until we're quite free....'

'But I feel we're engaged,' said Edith simply. 'Is it wrong to kiss your fiancee?'

'Engaged? Of course we're engaged. Wrong? Of course it's not wrong! Only... I can't! Haven't got the self-command.... I do believe you're made of ice, Edith—I've often thought so.'

'Yes,' said Edith, 'I dare say you're right.'

Aylmer laughed.

'Nonsense! Good night, my darling—don't catch cold. And, Edith.'

'Yes, Aylmer?'

'I'll meet you here at nine o'clock tomorrow morning.'

'Yes, Aylmer.'

'Then you'd better go back in the afternoon. It won't do for you to stay another night here. Oh, Edith, how happy we shall be!'

He watched her as she walked across the garden and went into the hotel at the front door. Then he went indoors.

* * * * *

The next day Edith, Dilly and the nurse went back to London early in the afternoon.



CHAPTER XXX

Edith, during the short journey home, sat with a smile on her lips, thinking of a little scene she had seen before leaving Eastcliff from the hall, known as the lounge, of the hotel. She had watched Dilly, beaming with joy, playing with a particularly large air-ball, bright rose colour, that Aylmer had bought her from a well-known character of the place, a very old woman, who made her living by the sale of these old-fashioned balloons. Dilly was enchanted with it. She had said to Aylmer when the old woman passed with a quantity of them. 'They look like flowers; they ought to have a pretty scent,' which amused him immensely. As she held it in her hand, pressing it with her tiny finger, a tragedy happened. The air-ball burst. Edith could hardly help laughing at seeing Dilly's expression. It was despair—gradual horror—shock, her first disillusion! Then as tears were welling up in the large blue eyes—she was saying: 'Oh, it's dead!'—Edith saw Aylmer snatch the collapsed wreck from the child's hand and run as fast as he could (which was not very fast, and only when leaning on a stick) after the old woman.... He caught her as she turned the corner, brought back a pink and a blue air-ball and gave them to Dilly, one for each hand. The child beamed again, happier than at first, threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. How touched and delighted Edith was! Would Bruce ever have done such a thing? Aylmer had so thoroughly appreciated the little drama of joy, disillusion and consolation shown in the expression in Dilly's lovely little face. Had anything been wanting to Edith's resolution this small incident would have decided it.

* * * * *

When they arrived home, a day sooner than they were expected, the servant told Edith at the door that Madame Frabelle had gone away.

'Gone without seeing me?'

'Yes, madam. A telegram came for her and she left last night. Here is a letter for you, madam.'

Edith ran into the dining-room and tore it open.

'MY DEAREST EDITH (it said),

'To my great regret a wire I half expected came, and I was compelled to leave before your return, to join my relative, who is ill. I can't tell you how sorry I am not to say good-bye and thank you for your dear kind hospitality. But I'll write again, a long letter. I hope also to see you later. I will give you my address next time.

'May I say one word? I can't say half enough of my gratitude for your kindness and friendship, but, apart from that, may I mention that I fear your husband is very unwell indeed, his nerves are in a terrible state, and I think his condition is more serious than you suppose. He should be humoured in everything, not worried, and allowed to do whatever he likes. Don't oppose any of his wishes, dear. I say this for your and his own good. Don't be angry with him or anybody. Never think me wanting in gratitude and friendship.

'Truly, I am still your affectionate friend,

'EGLANTINE.'

What a strange letter. How like her to lay down the law about Bruce! It irritated Edith a little, also it made the future seem harder.

About four o'clock Landi called unexpectedly. He always came just when Edith wanted him most, and now she confided in him and told him of her promise to Aylmer.

He approved of their resolution to wait till Aylmer returned from the front and to have nothing on their conscience before. He was indeed much relieved at the postponement.

'And how is the Spanish girl?' he asked. 'How does she get on with Lady Conroy?'

'Oh, all right. She's not Spanish at all. She had rather a blow last week, poor girl. Her father nearly went bankrupt; she was quite in despair. It seems your friend Valdez came to the rescue in the most generous way, and she's immensely grateful.'

'He helped her, did he?' said Landi, smiling.

'He seems to have behaved most generously and charmingly. Do you think he is in love with her, Landi?'

'Very likely he will be now.'

'And she—she adores Aylmer. Will she fall in love with Valdez out of gratitude?'

'C'est probable. C'est a esperer.... Enfin-mais toi, mon enfant?'

'And where is Madame Frabelle?' asked Landi.

Edith looked at the postmark.

'Apparently she's at Liverpool, of all places; but she may be going somewhere else. I haven't got her address. She says she'll write.'

'C'est ca.... When does Aylmer return to the front?'

'He goes before the Board tomorrow and will know then.'

That evening, when Bruce came in, Edith was struck by his paleness and depression; and she began to think Madame Frabelle was right; he must be really ill. Then, if he was, could she, later, be so cruel as to leave him? She was in doubt again....

'Very bad news in the evening papers,' he said.

'Is it so bad?'

'Edith,' said Bruce, rather solemnly, without listening, 'I want to speak to you after dinner. I have something serious to say to you'.

'Really?'

'Yes, really.'

Edith wondered. Could Bruce suspect anything? But apparently he didn't, since he spoke in a very friendly way of Aylmer, saying that he hoped he wouldn't stop away long....

The dinner passed in trivial conversation. She described Eastcliff, the hotel, the people. Bruce appeared absent-minded. After dinner she went to join him in the library, where he was smoking, and said:

'Well, Bruce, what is it you have to say to me?'

'Good heavens,' said Bruce, looking at his writing-desk, 'if I've spoken of this once I've spoken of it forty times! The inkstand is too full!'

'Oh! I'm so dreadfully sorry,' said Edith, feeling the strangeness of Bruce's want of sense of proportion. He had, as it seemed, to speak to her about some important matter. Yet the inkstand being too full attracted his attention, roused his anger! She remembered he had said these very words the day he came back from his elopement with the art student.

Edith looked round the room, while Bruce smoked. And so she had really made up her mind! She meant to leave him! Not that she intended to see Aylmer again now, except once, perhaps, to say good-bye.

But still, she really intended to change her whole life when he returned again. She felt rather conscience-stricken, but was glad when she looked at Bruce that there had never been anything as yet but Platonic affection between her and Aylmer, which she could have no cause to blush for before Bruce. And how grateful she felt to Aylmer for his wonderful self-control. Thanks to that, she could look Bruce in the face.... Bruce was speaking.

'Edith,' he said with some agitation, 'I wish to tell you something.'

She saw he looked pale and nervous.

'What is it, Bruce?' she asked kindly.

'It's this,' he said in a somewhat pompous tone, 'I am in a very strange condition of health. I find I can no longer endure to live in London; I must get away from the war. The doctor says so. If I'm to keep sane, if I'm not to commit suicide, I must give up this domestic life.' She stared at him. 'Yes, I'm sorry, I've tried to endure it,' he went on. 'I can't stand the responsibility, the anxiety of the children and everything. I'm—I'm going away.'

She said nothing, looking at him in silence.

'Yes. I'm going to America. I've taken my passage. I'm going on Friday.... I thought of leaving without telling you, but I decided it was better to be open.'

'But, Bruce, do you mean for a trip?'

He stood up and looked at her full in the face.

'No, I don't mean for a trip. I want to live in America.'

'And you don't want me to come too?'

'No, Edith; I can't endure married life any longer. It doesn't suit me. Three years ago I offered you your freedom and you refused to take it; I offer it you again now. You are older, you are perfectly fit to manage your life and the children's without me. I must be free—free to look after my health and to get away from everything!'

'You mean to leave us altogether then?' said Edith, feeling unspeakably thankful.

'Exactly. That's just what I do mean.'

'But will you be happy—comfortable—alone in America?'

He walked across the room and came back.

'Edith, I'm sorry to pain you, but I shall not be alone.'

Edith started, thinking of Madame Frabelle's letter ... from Liverpool! Evidently they were going away together.

'Of course I give up the Foreign Office and my salary there, but you have some money of your own, Edith; it will be enough for you and the children to live quietly. And perhaps I shall be able to afford to send you part of my income that my father left me when I get something to do over there,' he added rather lamely.

'You mean to get something to do?'

'Yes; when I'm strong enough. I'm very ill—very.'

There was a long pause, then Edith said kindly:

'Have you any fault to find with me, Bruce?'

'Edith, you are a perfect mother,' he said in a peculiar tone which sounded to Edith like an echo of Madame Frabelle. 'I've no fault to find with you either as a wife. But I'm not happy here. I'm miserable. I implore you not to make a scene. Don't oppose me; forgive me—on account of my health. This will save my life.'

If he only knew how little she wished to oppose him! She stood up.

'Bruce, you shall do exactly as you like!'

He looked enchanted, relieved.

'I hope you will be happy and well, and I shall try to be. May I just ask—is Madame Frabelle going to America?'

'Edith, I will not deny it. We mean to throw in our lot together! Look out! You'll have the inkstand over!' She had moved near the writing-table.

Edith stopped herself from a hysterical laugh.

'You won't mind if I go down to the club for an hour?'

'Certainly not.'

'And, Edith—say what you can to my mother, and comfort her. Tell her it's to save my going off my head, or committing suicide. Will you say that?'

'I will,' she replied.

Five minutes later the door banged. Bruce had gone to the club. He hadn't told her he had taken a room there, and the same evening he sent up for his luggage. He did not wish to see Edith again.

Just before he went out, as if casually for an hour at the club, Edith had said:

'Would you like to come and see Dilly asleep?'

It had occurred to her that at least he had been frank and honest, and for that he deserved to see Dilly again.

'Edith, my nerves won't stand scenes. I'd better not. I won't see her.'

'Oh, very well!' she cried indignantly. 'I offered it for your sake. I would rather you didn't see her.'

'Try not to be angry, Edith. Perhaps—some day—'

'No. Never.'

'You would never let me come back again to see you all?'

'Never. Never.'

'Edith.'

'Yes.'

'Oh! nothing. You needn't be so cross. Remember my health.'

'I do,' said Edith.

'And—Edith.'

'Yes, Bruce?'

'Don't forget about that inkstand, will you? It's always filled just a little too full. It's—it's very awkward.... Remember about it, won't you?'

'Yes. Good night.'

'Good night.'

And Bruce went to the club.

* * * * *

The next day Edith felt she could neither write nor telephone to Aylmer. Just once—only once, for a long time—she must see him.

She confided in Landi, who invited them both to tea at his studio for once only and was urgent in impressing patience on them.

* * * * *

When Edith arrived with this thrilling piece of news to announce she found Aylmer alone in the pretty white studio. Landi was expected back every moment from a lesson at a pupil's house.

* * * * *

Aylmer was beaming with Joy. 'Oh, my dear!' he cried, 'I'm not going away at all! They won't have me! They've given me an appointment at the War Office.'

'Oh, Aylmer! How wonderful! I know now—I couldn't have borne your going out again—now.'

He put his arm round her. Ah! this, she felt, was real love—it wrapped her round, it lifted her off her feet.

'But now, Aylmer, we mustn't meet, for a long time.'

'But, why not? What is it? Something has happened!'

'Aylmer, I needn't keep my promise now.'

'What do you mean?'

'Aylmer, Bruce wants to leave me. He's going to leave me—to desert me. And the children, too.'

'What! Do you mean—Do you mean—like before?'

'Yes. But this time he won't come back. And he wants me to divorce him. And—this time—I shall!'

'Edith! And do you mean—will he want to marry again?'

'Yes, of course! And she'll take care of him—he'll be all right.'

'Oh, Edith!' exclaimed Aylmer. 'Thank heaven for Madame Frabelle!'

THE END