“It won’t last for long,” said the butler. “I reckon I know when a place is cracking up.”
He finished his pipe in silence, glanced at his watch, and went upstairs again to carry a tray of glasses, syphons, and decanters in to the big white drawing-room. Two tables of bridge were in progress, but Cohen and Cheriton were both dummy, and were talking earnestly aside, before the fire.
The evening passed for Warren in a blur of fatigue. He played efficiently and lost a little money to his guests by courtesy; one had to do that with Pamela Allnut in the game. Presently the rubbers came to an end; the final drinks, and then his guests were ready to depart.
He helped Cheriton into his coat. “It’s been pleasant meeting you again,” he said.
“A most delightful evening,” said the young man formally.
A thin smile curled round Warren’s lips. “You’ve enjoyed yourself?”
“Why—certainly.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
There was a momentary pause. “Well, I don’t quite know what to say to that,” said Cheriton.
“I’m sorry you came here to-night,” said Warren. “It’s been my pleasure. I hope it won’t be your loss.”
The young man stared at him reflectively. “You mean Cohen,” he said at last. “Thanks for the tip.”
“I’m afraid my guests aren’t quite your sort,” said Warren pleasantly. “I wouldn’t come again, if I were you.”
He saw the young man to the door, and turned back into the house. His wife was talking quietly to their last guest, the Arab, in the hall. They broke the talk off as he turned towards them.
“It’s been a great pleasure to have had you here this evening, Prince Ali,” he said formally. “I hope you’ll come again.” He stared reflectively at the aquiline features, the fine olive texture of the skin. “But there—I know you will.”
The olive darkened into brown. “I have never enjoyed myself so much,” said the Prince. “It was so kind of you …” He took his leave.
Warren turned to his wife. “Did you enjoy your party?” he enquired.
She yawned, a little sullenly. “Not a bit. I think that young Cheriton’s a crashing bore. I wouldn’t have had him, but for Violet Cohen. Said the old man wanted to meet him, or something. Why people can’t manage for themselves …”
Warren glanced at the petulant features of his wife. He smiled a little. “If that’s the sort of entertainment they want,” he said, “I suppose that’s what you’ve got to give them.”
They went upstairs together. “Did you meet anyone interesting in Berlin?” she asked idly.
“I was only there four or five hours. I met Heinroth’s cousin with a couple of Finns.”
“Oh. That must have been terribly fun-making for you.”
Warren went to his own room. The firelight flickered on the walls and ceiling; on a chair before the glow his pyjamas were laid out to warm. He sat down to unlace his shoes, desperately tired. As he leaned forward the stiff collar of his evening shirt cut deep into his throat; his vision blurred, and a pressure grew upon his temples. He leaned back in his chair; the pressure eased and he began to feel more normal, but now there came a persistent drumming in his ears that would not stop.
“Christ,” he said half aloud. “A ruddy nigger …” In that he was unjust, and he knew it; among the six or seven strains that went to make Prince Ali there was no negro blood.
He got up and loosed the collar at his throat, and undressed slowly. His business worries and responsibilities surged in his mind to the surging of the blood that thundered in his ears, Heinroth and Plumberg, the Moresley Corporation and the Finnish Equalisation Account. And Ali Said leering at him down the dinner table … in his own house.
He must sleep. He crossed to his dressing-table and took up a small white box, opened it and took out the little vial. It was empty. He threw it in the grate and took a fresh packet from a drawer, shook out three tablets of allonal, and swallowed them.
“Sleep,” he said, half aloud.
He got into his bed. Already he could feel his mind at ease; his worries were no longer the sharp torments they had been, but had become mere incidents of the day. Even Prince Ali was—an incident. He thought drowsily, as he settled in his bed, that cuckold was the word. It seemed to be the right word. He was not quite sure what a cuckold was, but it seemed probable that he was one. Even that had now no power to worry him. It was an incident, merely an incident of the day.
He did not see his wife before he went down to the office in the morning, went in the car with Donaghue, his chauffeur, as was his habit. It was a Saturday but in the years of depression that meant little to him; he had been absent from his office for two days during the week, and might have to go away again. He settled down to clear up his arrears of work with Morgan, his girl secretary, his chief accountant, and three clerks. In the middle of the afternoon he ate a sandwich, drank a whisky and soda, and went on.
Hours later he stopped, suddenly, irrationally, in the middle of a sentence as it were. “That’s enough,” he said to Morgan. “We’ll go home now.”
“As you like, sir,” said his secretary. “There are only the Czech payments to transfer. We can do those on Monday.”
“When do they fall due?”
“Not till the fourteenth.”
“Let me have them on Wednesday morning. I shan’t be here on Monday. I’m going to Hull to-morrow night with Collins—the East Yorkshire thing. Ring me ten-thirty Monday morning at the Paragon, and give me the post.”
“Very good, sir.”
Warren glanced at his watch; the winter dusk had fallen long ago; it was half-past seven. “I had no idea it was so late,” he said. On his way out he passed through the outer office; his three clerks and the girl were putting on their coats. He stopped and spoke to them. “I’m sorry I’ve been so long,” he said with formal courtesy, “and on a Saturday. Thank you for staying.” He passed on, out through the swing doors into the deserted City street.
“That’s all right, far as it goes,” said one of the clerks. “But look what time it is! Seven-thirty!”
“More hours, more money,” said another. He was a married man, and Warren paid his office overtime.
The girl pulled on her little hat. “I think he’s looking terribly tired,” she said. “Do you think all this they say about his wife is true?”
Warren went home and dined alone. His wife, he learned, was dining out, the butler did not know with whom.
He left for Hull after lunch next day, Sunday. As the train swept northwards Warren dozed uneasily in his empty compartment, twitching in his sleep from time to time and becoming suddenly awake. He reached Hull in the evening and dined alone in the hotel. Because he wished to form his own impression of the city he had not told his business associates of his arrival. He wished to be alone that night.
It was part of his routine. He liked to be alone for his first night in a new town, especially a town where he was to do business. He walked out in the windswept, empty streets after dinner, savouring the place, the broad streets, thin alleys; the gaunt factories and the mud-filled docks. He was not pleased with what he found. After an hour’s walk he returned to the hotel having followed no conscious train of reasoning but entirely resolved that he must be careful; this was no place in which to take a chance. He felt the dominant psychology to be that of the town at the end of the road, stagnant and insular; the through traffic of the shipping, he felt, had not enlivened the place.
He went to his bed and lay restlessly awake till the small hours. Then he got up and took an allonal.
All the next day he was in conference in Hull, a difficult, unsatisfactory day spent upon a difficult and unsatisfactory business. Towards evening he delivered an ultimatum which he knew would stay the wheels of progress for six months, and left on the night train for London, tired and depressed. His car met him at King’s Cross in the winter dawn, and he went home to bathe and change, and drink a cup of coffee.
Then he went down to the office.
In India, a few hours previously, a small brown man had stood in Congress for two hours and said his piece. That morning the Silver Conservation Pact lay in ruins; by eleven o’clock Warren had Plumberg in his office, a Plumberg who talked eloquently about adjustments of a minor nature to the scheme, and whose thin hands twitched nervously as he was talking. Warren spent the day in a welter of Indian politics broken by distracting snatches of his other work; in the afternoon he went with Plumberg to the India Office and sat in conference for two hours. In the evening he got rid of Plumberg and dined with the Secretary of State for India, quietly at a club. They talked far on into the night.
Wednesday was an easy day. He spent it largely with Heinroth; the Finnish business was going smoothly to a sound conclusion. He felt that he had done a good job of work in that quarter; his visit of the previous week had facilitated matters very much. In the afternoon he rang his house, meaning to speak to Elise, to ask her to dine with him that night and do a theatre. His butler told him she had gone to Paris, with Lady Cohen.
Warren dined alone that night.
Plumberg was with him most of the next day upon his Indo-Mexican agreement, schemed to save something from the silver wreckage that lay strewn about their feet. The Moresley Corporation met, and turned down his proposals. In the evening Heinroth rang him up; his cousin was in Paris with the Finns and would appreciate a further talk. Warren decided to go there next day.
He crossed by the earliest air service, and motored into Paris from Le Bourget before ten o’clock. He sat in conference for an hour with the Finns, then left to lunch with Heinroth’s cousin, and to walk for an hour in the Bois. By four o’clock he was in conference again in the Hotel Splendide; by eight their business was concluded for the day.
“Kom,” said the leading Finn genially. “We will now eat dinner after our great labours.”
They washed and went downstairs to the public rooms. The lounge was thronged with people; in the great dining-room the tables clustered thickly round a small bald patch of dancing-floor. They were in morning clothes, but the head waiter met them obsequiously and bowed them to a table reserved for them in an alcove, a quiet table where they could talk undisturbed. They settled to their meal, commenting now and then upon the dancers or the cabaret.
Presently Warren called the head waiter to him. “The gentleman of colour at the table over on the other side,” he said. “Prince Ali Said.”
“But certainly,” said the man. “He is a friend of monsieur?”
“An acquaintance,” said Warren carelessly. “He stays in the hotel?”
“But yes, monsieur.”
“And the lady?”
The man smiled gently. “Monsieur …”
“I think I have met her in England,” said Warren quietly. “If you could ascertain her name for me?”
“But certainly.”
He moved away among the crowd. In a few minutes he was back again. “Monsieur,” he said. “Her name is Miss Naughton. She is registered as British.”
“Ah, yes,” said Warren carelessly. “She stays in the same suite?”
“But certainly.”
“I am infinitely obliged.”
The man bowed himself away, and Warren turned again to his companions. “One meets so many people,” he said apologetically.
He stayed with them through a long dinner, to the coffee and cigars. At the end he made his apologies. “I must catch the morning aeroplane for London,” he said, “and I must get some sleep. We shall meet again in London, on the 20th. I shall look forward to that with great pleasure.”
He bade them good-bye, and went out to the lounge. “Prince Ali Said,” he said. “He is in his suite?”
The man lifted a telephone; Warren waited, idly studying airline and steamship posters. This was the end, he thought.
“The name, monsieur?”
“Ask if he will receive Mr. Henry Warren.”
The man spoke.
“He says, if you will go up, monsieur.”
He mounted swiftly in the lift; in the sitting-room of the suite the Prince received him, swarthy and immaculate in black and white. “This is indeed a pleasure, my dear Warren,” he said courteously. “You are staying in this hotel?”
“No longer than I can help,” said Warren. He glanced around the room, the deep carpets and the garish furniture. “I came to have a few words with my wife.”
The Arab frowned in bewilderment. “Surely you are making some mistake,” he said. “You will not find your wife here.”
“That may be,” said Warren evenly. “Because if I find her here, she will no longer be my wife.”
He stared at the other reflectively. “I suppose if I were half a man I’d be knocking the stuffing out of you,” he said, “or trying to. If you had been the first … But as it is, I think I’m through. I’m not going to make a lot of trouble over this. I’m going to get out, and leave you to it.”
He smiled. “Perhaps, if my wife is not here, you would present me to Miss Naughton,” he said.
“I am afraid you are completely misinformed, Mr. Warren,” said the Arab. “As you can see for yourself, I am staying here alone. It is true that Miss Naughton dined with me this evening, but she has now returned to her hotel.”
“In that case,” said Warren, “we can take a look at the next room without disturbing her.” He moved methodically from room to room, opening cupboards and examining curtains.
The Arab watched him with a grave smile. “A pleasant suite, is it not?” he said. “I find this a very good hotel.”
“And a complaisant one,” said Warren.
He moved towards the door. “I see that my wife is not here now,” he said, a little wearily. “I suppose I ought to offer you apologies. But I’m not going to.”
He left the Arab standing in the middle of his suite, and went down to the writing-room upon the mezzanine. He wrote a note, and took it to the porter’s desk.
“For Miss Naughton,” he said, and gave it to the man, with twenty francs. “See that she gets it to-night.”
He went up slowly to his room, threw open the window of his balcony, and stood for a time in the cold air looking out over the roofs of Paris. Beneath him in the street the traffic ran, shadowy and remote; a flake or two of snow slipped past him in the night. His marriage had not been real to him for many years, but now that it was drawing to a close he knew that a great gap was opening in his life, how great he could not say. He only knew that he was coming to great changes, and that itself was difficult for him.
He grew cold at last, and turned back into the room. He unpacked his bag, slowly undressed, and went to bed.
He took three tablets of his allonal to make him sleep.
He rose at eight next morning, had a bath and dressed, and ordered coffee in his room. He was seated at his breakfast when he heard a light knock on the outer door. He went to open it; his wife was there.
“Come in,” he said. “Have some coffee?”
She shook her head, and fumbled with a cigarette. He lit it for her.
“You don’t mind if I finish mine?”
She sat down in a chair, and watched him while he ate.
“Well, Henry,” she said at last. “Where do we go from here?”
He set down his cup and turned to her. “That’s up to you, my dear.”
He considered for a moment. “I don’t know what you’re doing here at all, and I’m not sure that I want to know. I didn’t come here trailing you, or anything like that. I came on business yesterday, and saw you in the dining-room with Ali Said.”
She said, “I might have known you came on business. You wouldn’t take a day from that for me, would you?”
He said, “You’re probably right. In all these sort of things, there are faults on both sides. I know I’ve worked long hours for the last two years. But things aren’t easy with this slump …” He always felt helpless in his dealings with Elise. In most marriages, he th
ought, the economic tie must make things easier; the wife had her job for which she drew her pay; she could not lightly give it up. Both husband and wife then had to work, he in the office and she in the home. With Elise it was different. She had her own money—plenty of it; a dissolution of their marriage would mean no material loss to her, no unavoidable discomfort. She was not dependent on her job for her security; therefore she took it lightly. To hold her he would have to live a great deal of her life, an idle life to be spent with idle people, following the fashion. It would be possible for him to do so; he had money in plenty to give up his work and retire. But he was only forty-three years old; his work was dear to him. Surely there was some compromise for them?
He said, “I want you to pack your things and come back home with me to-day. When we get home, I’m going to make some changes.”
She blew a long cloud of cigarette smoke. “What are they?”
“I’m going to sell the house. We’re going to live in the country.”
“Are we, indeed? What part of the country?”
“Somewhere not far from London—Beaconsfield—Dorking—that sort of distance. On my part, I shall spend less time in London, and more at home. We might get some hunting in the winter.”
“Anything else?”
He met her eyes, mocking him. “Yes,” he said savagely. “A total exclusion of Prince Ali from your list of friends, and Cathcart, and the Cohens. I’ll have no more of them.”
She laughed a little. “I suppose I’ve brought that on myself.”
“I suppose you have,” he said.
“It’s a pretty joyous sort of life that you’ve sketched out for me,” she observed. “You evidently don’t trust me in London, so I’m to live in the suburbs. If I’m good you’ll take me out with the suburban drag on Saturday mornings. I’m to give up all my friends, and sit in the country alone and grow pansies.”
“That’s it exactly,” said Warren. “Those are my terms if we’re going on together. I won’t go on as we are. And on my part, I’ll do everything I can to make you happy—on those lines.”