She looked at her wrist-watch and scrambled to her feet. She could notgo without letting Joan know she was going, and Joan would already havestarted with the children for the shore. There was a train at midday.She would have plenty of time to intercept Joan, to tell her she wasgoing to leave her for a couple of days, to return to the cottage,change and pack her bag.
And she did not think it necessary to warn Philip of her intentioneither.
XI
"But, darling--oh, don't go on like this! Can't you see that if I go Ican clear up everything in half an hour? It's _much_ the best!"
Joan's manner was stony and impregnable. She stared straight beforeher.
"I don't mind being left quite, quite alone," was her reply.
"But I shall be back again on Wednesday, foolish child, and I'll wireyou everything immediately if it costs me the whole of my quarter'spocket-money. Anything's better than this!"
"Just as you like," came the expressionless response.
Not finding her on the shore, Mollie had climbed the precipitous zigzagpath to the cliff-top again and had sat down to rest, fairly blown. Thenshe had seen her a quarter of a mile away, sitting motionless on arounded sky-line over which a hawthorn hedge straggled. The childrenwere stolidly watching her, and she as stolidly was watching nothing.The boughs under which she sat were a custard of white bloom, and whitewas the sun-flecked sweater in the shadow of them, and white as snow thebattlemented clouds overhead. Her eyes were dry and quite consciouslyenduring, and Mollie was alternately comforting and scolding her.
"I shall catch the midday train, and I shall be back on Wednesday," sherepeated firmly. "If the mountain won't come to Mahomet or whatever itis, very well. And _do_ try to be a little cheerful, darling. I heardyou last night. That does no good."
"I know you haven't had a letter this morning, either," came the dullvoice.
"I haven't from Philip, but I have from Audrey. She sends her love. Ofcourse, she knows about Chummy, and it's quite all right."
"But you won't show me the letter," Joan replied, steadfast in hermisery. "I know you won't. Nobody shows me anything. I saw him fall--Iwas the only one who did--but nobody tells me anything."
"You shall hear every word the moment I get there."
"I saw him fall," Joan repeated obstinately. "You were all indoors, butI was in the garden. But of course I didn't know who it was----"
"Don't, darling--just to please me," Mollie begged, distracted.
"He fell like a stone, crash into the tree. You can't realize that. Youhaven't been up. I have. I know what it's like."
"But you've had a letter from him!" Mollie protested. "Really you talkas if he was killed!"
"I don't know where the letter came from, and I can't write to him,except to the Aiglon Company, which I've done, and there's no reply, andsomebody else had to address the envelope for him. I ought to go, notyou. I saw him fall."
To Mollie's touch on her shoulder she was quite unresponsive. Molliecould have shaken her. It might have been the best thing to do.
"Do run away, you boys!" she said crossly instead. "Go and pick some ofthose blue flowers; Auntie Joan's a little tired. Now, Joan, I'll tellyou what I'll do if you're good, but not unless. He's in a hospital or anursing-home, I expect, and I shall go straight to him; and then if he'sfit to move, as I expect he is by this time, I shall bring him straightdown here. Will that do?"
"I know he's not fit to move. I saw him fall. I saw him falling all lastnight."
"Now you're naughty and just trying to make the worst of it. That'ssimply willful. It's like Alan when he wants smacking; when you're asold as I am you'll look on the bright side and be thankful it's noworse. Now do try. I'm going to bring him down here, and we'll keep himfor a month. A whole month--it will be lovely! Why, you've only seenhim in London and Richmond Park!"
"I've been to Chalfont Woods with him four times."
Mollie seized gratefully on the diversion.
"Joan! How _could_ you! You never told me that!" she scolded. "And younever told me you'd been flying with him either! Philip would be furiousif he knew! And now I'll tell him, and about Chalfont too, and all thoseother times as well, if you don't try to be reasonable. A month in thislovely place with him, and nobody to interfere--why, you'll be glad hehad a little bit of an accident!... Now get up and we'll all go back.You'll have to get dinner ready, and I shall want a few sandwiches.Alan! Jimmy! We're not going to the shore. You can play on the see-sawinstead. Run ahead, boys--and you come along, darling----"
And Joan of the cinemas and cliffs, of the secluded tea-shops and thenoble Santon shore, rose, still as naughty and obstinate as ever, butobediently. Already Mollie, bustling the children on ahead, was shapingin her mind the dressing-down she intended to give Philip that verynight.
XII
There was no help for it, Philip has since told me. He simply had totell her everything. She was, in fact, in possession of the whole storylong before any of the rest of us.
But even she had to wait yet a little longer. When, at half-past ninethat Monday night her taxi drew up at the wrought-iron gate in LennoxStreet, Philip was out and the place was in darkness. She had no key.
"Go on to Oakley Street," she ordered the driver.
Audrey Cunningham was at home. Mollie found her, alone, in herfirst-floor bed-sitting-room, already on the point of going to bed.
"First of all give me a cup of cocoa or something," was Mollie'sgreeting. "I've been half the day in the train with only a fewsandwiches, and I shall drop if I don't have something."
Mrs. Cunningham lighted the little gas-ring and fetched water from anadjoining room. Then, opening a little cupboard, she mixed cocoa-pastein a cup, got out bread and margarine and a plate of macaroons, and setthem on a little chintz-covered stool before Mollie.
"I've an egg if you'd like one," she said.
"No, thanks. I got your letter this morning. Have you got the one Iwrote yesterday?"
"No; but I don't think the last post's been yet."
"Well, it doesn't matter now. I've come to see for myself. Philipdoesn't know I'm here yet, but he will presently. Now first of all,what's all this about you and Monty? What's happening?"
Her tone was that of a woman who intended to stand no further nonsenseof any kind. She was dog-tired, already angry on Joan's account, and theresigned and hopeless air of the slender creature before her completedher resolve to get to the bottom of things.
But nothing appeared to be happening about Audrey and Monty. Mrs.Cunningham was still of the same mind, or no mind, that had prompted herletter.
"Where is he now?" Mollie demanded.
Audrey did not know.
"Is he with Philip?"
She did not know that either.
"And aren't you going to Lennox Street?"
"I don't think I can."
Mollie's eyes went round the room. I myself have never been in Mrs.Cunningham's bed-sitter, but I have been in many others and can pictureits frugality--the gas-ring, the little cupboard with the bread and jarof marmalade in it, the chintz-covered grocer's box on which Mollie'scup of cocoa stood, probably a slightly fresher wallpaper-pattern wherethe Jacobean wardrobe had stood. Lennox Street was positive luxury bycomparison, yet here was Audrey preferring this. Then there was Audreyherself, heavy-eyed, drained of energy, probably thinking of GeorgeCunningham and wondering whether any experience was worth repeating.With Joan for breakfast and Audrey for supper, poor Mollie had had aboutenough of it for one day.
"About this marriage," she said abruptly. "Of course, it's not going tobe put off. _I_ shall see to that. I shall have a talk with Monty toowhen I've finished with Philip. You're simply run down and want atonic."
"Oh, it isn't that," Audrey replied, sinking into an old wicker chair."I've thought it all over. I don't think they tell young girls enoughbefore they get married. They ought to tell them lots more. They oughtto tell them quite plainly, 'You'
ll have to be prepared for this andthat and the other. You'll have to expect to sit up half the night inthe dining-room with dinner on the table wondering where he is. You'llhave to learn that he hasn't really been run over or anything of thatkind and that it's only their way. You must expect telegrams andtelephone calls and excuses, and you mustn't be surprised if he bringssomebody else with him when he does come. They're like that. And whenthey come home in a beastly state----'"
Here Mollie peremptorily interrupted her.
"Leave that brute in his grave," she commanded. "We're talking aboutMonty, not him. And I'll see Monty. Now what's all this rigmarole aboutmilkmen and cellars and all the rest of it? Tell me as I undress you.I'm going to put you to bed."
But little that was fresh was to be learned here either. Audrey thankedher again and again for the offer of the house, but she thought shewould rather be here with her gas-ring and cocoa and chintz-coveredsugar-box. Mrs. Cook thought she could arrange it--it would only be halfa crown more.
"Well, I'll see Mrs. Cook too while I'm about it; may as well do thething thoroughly. Let me unlace your boots--why, your feet are cold, andon a night like this! Never mind your hair; you can do it in bed. Anddrink the rest of this cocoa. Really I do think I live in a helplesssort of world--there isn't enough of me to go round--there ought to behalf a dozen of me. Now into bed with you, and you'd better stay theretill I come round in the morning. I'm not going back till Wednesday."
She packed up the cocoa-cups and turned off the gas-ring, opened thewindow and wound up the little Swiss clock. As she moved about the roomfolding Audrey's clothes and setting things to rights her own letter ofSunday morning was brought up, but she placed it on the mantelpiece bythe side of the clock, forbidding Audrey to read it till the morning.Letters didn't matter now that she was here in her own capable,practical person. Letters took too long. She was going to have thingsdone much more quickly or know the reason why.
XIII
Philip himself opened the door to her. She gave her cheek to be kissedand then walked straight in.
"Is Monty here?" were her first words.
"No. I think he's gone out for a walk."
"A walk, at this time of night!"
Philip shrugged his shoulders. "What brings you here, Mollie?" he said.
She was busy untying her veil. "What do you suppose? Everything, ofcourse."
"Have you had dinner or supper?"
"I had a cup of cocoa at Audrey Cunningham's, and don't want anythingelse. Now why didn't you answer my telegram, and why didn't you writeagain as you promised?" She threw the hat and veil on the table and hergloves after them and stood before Philip.
"How are the children?" he asked.
"Perfectly well."
"And Joan?"
Her only answer to this last was a long look. Then she walked to thelittle Empire sofa and sat down. He might stand if he wished.
"Well?" she said at last. This was after a full minute, during whichtime he had stood by the table idly fingering her veil. Then suddenlyhis fingers pushed the veil aside, and he crossed to the sofa and satdown by her.
"What is it you want to know, darling?" he asked.
"Everything--every little thing from beginning to end," she replied.
"You've seen that I don't want to tell you?"
"Yes, I've seen that."
"And that I probably have my reasons?"
"Oh--reasons!"
"Reasons that are stronger than ever at this moment?"
"Will they go on getting much stronger? If so I can only warn you that abreaking-point will come."
"Yes. I'm very near it."
"And so am I, Philip."
There was no mistaking her tone. It did not mean that if he continued toshut her out like this she would do anything violent--live apart fromhim, become merely his housekeeper, or anything of that kind. It meantenormously more than that. Where confidence and trust are, there are fewdivergences that do not presently right themselves, few differences thatcannot be resolved; but where these are absent nothing is right. Everyword is possible peril, every silence a hanging sword. In all myacquaintance I know of no happier marriage than the Esdailes'. You nevergo into their house and feel that the air is still charged with somescene that your arrival has interrupted, you never leave wondering whatweapons will be picked up again the moment your back is turned. Philipis not without his tempers nor Mollie without her own purposes, but itstops at that. The rest is brave decencies, with I know not whattenderer stuff behind. This it was that seemed for the moment to be inperil.
But suddenly she put her hand on his. She did not speak; the hand spokefor her. The next moment his other hand had fallen on hers again, sothat both enclosed it. Then their eyes too met.
"It would be an awful thing to risk, Phil," she said quietly.
His eyes begged her. "Won't you let me carry it a little longer alone?"
"I don't believe you can. And if you can," she added, "I don't see whatwe got married for."
"But it will be rotten for you too."
"When have I shrunk from that?" she asked.
"Never," he replied in a low voice.
And so Mollie Esdaile too took her portion of the burden.
"Well, where shall we begin?" he asked, with a sigh that it must be so.
"You know best. But tell me first why you didn't write."
"I hadn't seen young Smith. I haven't yet as a matter of fact. But----,"he drew her head to his breast, and there were some moments during whichhe whispered into her ear.
For all his care and guarding it was not possible that she should not atleast tremble. But she did not start within his arms. The tremor passed,and her dry lips repeated--
"Shot him!"
"For some reason or other. I don't think either of us can quite tellJoan that, can we?"
"Shot him! Chummy!"
"There's no doubt about it. It was Monty who picked up the pistol.Neither you nor I can very well tell Audrey that, can we?"
"Monty found the pistol!"
"And I picked up the cartridge-shell myself. The police were round hereat six o'clock on Friday morning looking for them."
"The police! Here!"
In spite of all, Philip could not restrain a little laugh. "Oh, theydidn't find anything. They don't when they've given you warning thenight before. By that time both pistol and case had been at the bottomof silver-flowing Tamesis for six hours. I dropped 'em in myself fromthe middle of Albert Bridge. Do you begin to see what you're in for, mypoor darling?"
It was doubtful whether she yet did. She could still only repeat,"Chummy shot him! Does that mean----?" Her horrified stare finished thequestion.
"Oh, I don't think so," he answered quickly, "at any rate not yet.Naturally both Hubbard and I have got to stand by Chummy for thepresent."
"Then somebody saw Monty pick up the pistol?"
"For the police to know anything about it, you mean? Well, as a matterof fact that's the purest bad luck. There happens to be a fellow calledWestbury, confound him, and that beastly bullet seems to have fetched upsomewhere in his house; he lives just across the way there. That's allthe police have to go on now that the other things are safely in theriver mud."
Slowly it was sinking into her mind. Her eyes closed for a moment as shefelt the first faint strain of the weight of it. This came with thethought of Joan.
"But--but----" she said faintly, "--that poor child----?"
"Joan? I suppose she is wondering what's happened?"
"Wondering what's happened.... You may as well know, Philip--it's amere trifle at this stage--that they're most awfully thick--far morethan you've been told. You know what boys and girls are nowadays. Andnow comes this horrible silence, except for that one little note fromhim----"
"Has she had a note from him?" Philip asked quickly. "From thehospital?"
"There was no address on it. I suppose it was from the hospital?" she inher turn asked in quick alarm.
"Yes, it wasn't from a prison. When did she get this note?"
"Yesterday morning."
"Did she show it to you?"
"Yes. It simply said he'd had this spill, but was all right, and shewasn't to be alarmed."
"He didn't mention incidentally that he'd shot a man?"
"Of course not. I don't believe he had."
Philip passed this last point.
"Well, as he's written once I suppose he'll go on writing. He's heapsbetter as a matter of fact. So it won't be too hard on her. Anyway,she'll have to grin and bear it."
"I did hold out hopes that I might be able to take him back with me,"Mollie ventured.