The Golden Ball and Other Stories

  away, abroad, try and forget.

  Theo leaned her head out of the window and spoke to

  the taxi driver. She could not go back at once to the house

  in Chelsea. She must have a breathing space. Seeing Vincent

  again had shaken her horribly. If only--if only. But she

  pulled herself up. Love for her husband she had none--but

  she owed him loyalty. He was down, she must stick by

  him. Whatever else he might have done, he loved her; his

  offence had been committed against society, not against her.

  The taxi meandered on through the wide streets of Hamp-stead.

  They came out on the heath, and a breath of cool,

  invigorating air fanned Theo's cheeks. She had herself in

  hand again now. The taxi sped back towards Chelsea.

  Richard came out to meet her in the hall.

  "Well," he demanded, "you've been a long time."

  "Have I?"

  "Yes--a very long time. Is it--all right?"

  He followed her, a cunning look in his eyes. His hands

  were shaking.

  "It's--it's all right, eh?" he said again.

  "I burnt them myself."

  "Oh!"

  She went on into the study, sinking into a big armchair.

  Her face was dead white and her whole body drooped with

  fatigue. She thought to herself: "If only I could go to sleep

  now and never, never wake up again!" ·

  Richard was watching her. His glance, shy, furtive, kept

  coming and going. She noticed nothing. She was beyond

  noticing.

  "It went off quite all right, ehT'

  "I've told you so."

  "You're sure they were the right papers? Did you look?"

  "No."

  "But then--"

  MAGNOLIA BLOSSOM

  213

  "I'm sure, I tell you. Don't bother me, Richard. I can't

  bear any more tonight."

  Richard shifted nervously.

  "No, no. I s."

  He fidgeted about the room. Presently he came over to

  her, laid a hand on her shoulder. She shook it off.

  "Don't touch me." She tried to laugh. "I'm sorry, Rich-

  ard. My nerves are on edge. I feel I can't bear to be touched."

  "I know. I understand."

  Again he wandered up and down.

  "Theo," he burst out suddenly. "I'm damned sorry."

  "What?" She looked up, vaguely startled.

  "I oughtn't to have let you go there at this time of night.

  I never dreamed that you'd be subjected to any---unpleasantness.''

  "Unpleasantness?" She laughed. The word seemed to

  amuse her. "You don't know! Oh, Richard, you don't know!"

  "I don't know what?"

  She said very gravely, looking straight in front of her:

  "What this night has cost me."

  "My God! Theo! I never meant-- You--you did that,

  for me? The swine! Theo--Theo--I couldn't have known.

  I couldn't have guessed. My God!"

  He was kneeling by her now stammering, his arms round

  her, and she turned and looked at him with faint surprise,

  as though his words had at last really penetrated to her

  attention.

  "I--I never meant-"

  "You never meant what, Richard?"

  Her voice startled him.

  "Tell me. What was it that you never meant?"

  "Theo, don't let us speak of it. I don't want to know. I

  want never to think of it."

  She was staring at him, wide awake now, with every

  faculty alert. Her words came clear and distinct:

  "You never meant-- What do you think happened?"

  "It didn't happen, Theo. Let's say it didn't happen."

  And still she stared, till the truth began to come to her.

  "You think that--"

  "I don't want--"

  214

  Agatha Christie

  She interrupted him: "You think that Vincent Easton

  asked a price for those letters? You think that I--paid him?"

  Richard said weakly and unconvincingly: "I--I never

  dreamed he was that kind of man."

  "Didn't you?" She looked at him searchingly. His eyes

  fell before hers. "Why did you ask me to put on this dress

  this evening? Why did you send me there alone at this time

  of night? You guessed he--cared for me. You wanted to

  save your skin--save it at any cost--even at the cost of

  my honour." She got up.

  "I see now. You meant that from the beginning--or at

  least you saw it as a possibility, and it didn't deter you."

  "Theo----"

  'You can't deny it. Richard, I thought I knew all there

  was to know about you years ago. I've known almost from

  the first that you weren't straight as regards the world. But

  I thought you were straight with me."

  "Theo----"

  "Can you deny what I've just been saying?"

  He was silent, in spite of himself.

  "Listen, Richard. There is something I must tell you.

  Three days ago when this blow fell on you, the servants

  told you I was away--gone to the country. That was only

  partly tree. I had gone away with Vincent Easton--"

  Richard made an inarticulate sound. She held out a hand

  to stop him.

  "Wait. We were at Dover. I saw a paper--I realized

  what had happened. Then, as you know, I came back."

  She paused.

  Richard caught her by the wrist. His eyes burnt into hers.

  "You came back--in time?"

  Theo gave a short, bitter laugh.

  "Yes, I came back, as you say, 'in time,' Richard."

  Her husband relinquished his hold on her arm. He stood

  by the mantelpiece, his head thrown back. He looked handsome

  and rather noble.

  "In that case," he said, "I can forgive."

  MAGNOLIA BLOSSOM

  215

  "I cannot."

  The two words came crisply. They had the semblance

  and the effect of a bomb in the quiet room. Richard started forward, staring, his jaw dropped with an almost ludicrous

  effect.

  "You--er--what did you say, Theo?"

  "I said I cannot forgive! In leaving you for another man, I sinned--not technically, perhaps, but in intention, which

  is the same thing. But if I sinned, I sinned through love.

  You, too, have not been faithful to me since our marriage.

  Oh, yes, I know. That I forgave, because I really believed

  in your love for me. But the thing you have done tonight

  is different. It is an ugly thing, Richard--a thing no woman

  should forgive. You sold me, your own wife, to purchase

  safety I"

  She picked up her wrap and turned towards the door.

  "Theo," he stammered out, "where are you going?"

  She looked back over her shoulder at him.

  "We all have to pay in this life, Richard. For my sin I

  must pay in loneliness. For yours--well, you gambled with

  the thing you love, and you have lost it!"

  "You are going?"

  She drew a long breath.

  "To freedom. There is nothing to bind me here."

  He heard the door shut. Ages passed, or was it a few

  minutes? Something fluttered down outside the window--the

  last of the magnolia petals, soft, fragrant.

  Next to a Dog

  The ladylike woman behind the Registry Office table cleared her throat and peered across at the girl who sat opposite.

  "Then you ref
use to consider the post? It only came in this morning. A very nice part of Italy, I believe, a widower

  with a little boy of three and an elderly lady, his mother or

  aunt."

  Joyce Lambert shook her head.

  "I can't go out of England," she said in a tired voice; "there are reasons. If only you could find me a daily post?"

  Her voice shook slightly--ever so slightly, for she had it well under control. Her dark blue eyes looked appealingly

  at the woman opposite her.

  "It's very difficult, Mrs. Lambert. The only kind of daily governess required is one who has full qualifications. You

  have none. I have hundreds on my books--literally

  hundreds." She paused. "You have someone at home you

  can't leave?"

  Joyce nodded.

  "A child?"

  "No, not a child." And a faint smile flickered across her face.

  "Well,it is very unfortunate. I will do my best, of course, but--"

  The interview was clearly at an end. Joyce rose. She was biting her lip to keep the tears from springing to her eyes

  as she emerged from the frowsy office into the street.

  "You mustn't," she admonished herself sternly. "Don't be a snivelling little idiot. You're panicking--that's what

  you're doing--panicking. No good ever came of giving

  way to panic. It's quite early in the day still and lots of

  216

  =cr 'to A tOC 217

  I

  things may happen. Aunt Mary ought to be good for a

  fortnight anyway. Come on, girl, step out, and don't keep

  your well-to-do relations waiting."

  She walked down Edgware Road, across the park, and

  then down to Victoria Street, where she turned into the Army.

  :

  and Navy Stores. She went to the lounge and sat down

  glancing at her watch. It was just half-past one. Five minutes

  sped by and then an eldefly lady with her arms full of parcels

  !

  bore down upon her.

  "Ah! There you are, Joyce. I'm a few minutes late, I'm

  afraid. The service is not as good as it used to be in the

  luncheon room. You've had lunch, of course?"

  Joyce hesitated a minute or two, then she said quietly:

  "Yes, thank you."

  "I always have mine at half-past twelve," said Aunt Mary,

  settling herself comfortably with her parcels. "Less rush and

  a clearer atmosphere. The curried eggs here are excellent."

  "Are they.*" said Joyce faintly. She felt that she could

  hardly bear to think of curried eggs--the hot steam rising

  from them--the delicious smell! She wrenched her thoughts

  resolutely aside.

  "You look peaky, child," said Aunt Mary, who was

  herself of a comfortable figure. "Don't go in for this modern

  fad of eating no meat. All fal-de-lal. A good slice off the

  joint never did anyone any harm."

  Joyce stopped herself from saying "It wouldn't do me

  any harm now." If only Aunt Mary would stop talking about

  food. To raise your hopes by asking you to meet her at half

  past

  one and then to talk of curried eggs and slices of roast

  meat--oh! cruel--cruel.

  -- "Well,

  my dear," said Aunt Mary. "I got your letter--

  and it was very nice of you to take me at my word. I said

  I'd be pleased to see you anytime and so I should have

  been--but as it happens, I've just had an extremely good

  offer to let the house. Quite too good to be missed, and

  bringing their own plate and linen. Five months. They come

  in on Thursday and I go to Harrogate. My rheumatism's

  been troubling me lately."

  "I see," said Joyce. "I'm so sorry."

  "So it'll have to be for another time. Always pleased to

  see you, my dear."

  ,

  218

  Agatha Christie

  "Thank you, Aunt Mary."

  "You know, you do look peaky," said Aunt Mary, considering her attentively. "You're thin, too; no flesh on your bones, and what's happened to your pretty colour? You

  always had a nice healthy colour. Mind you take plenty of

  exercise."

  "I'm taking plenty of exercise today," said Joyce grimly. She rose. "Well, Aunt Mary, I must be getting along."

  Back again--through St. James's Park this time, and so on through Berkeley Square and across Oxford Street and

  up Edgware Road, past Praed Street to the point where the

  Edgware Road begins to think of becoming something else.

  Then aside, through a series of dirty little streets till one

  particular dingy house was reached.

  Joyce inserted her latchkey and entered a small frowsy hall. She ran up the stairs till she reached the top landing.

  A door faced her and from the bottom of this door a snuffling

  noise proceeded succeeded in a second by a series of joyful

  whines and yelps.

  "Yes, Terry darling--it's Missus come home."

  As the door opened, a white body precipitated itself upon the girl--an aged wire~haired terrier very shaggy as to coat

  and suspiciously bleary as to eyes. Joyce gathered him up

  in her arms and sat down on the floor.

  "Terry darling! Darling, darling Terry. Love your Missus, Terry; love your Missus a lot!"

  And Terry obeyed, his eager tongue worked busily, he licked her face, her ears, her neck and all the time his stump

  of a tail wagged furiously.

  "Terry darling, what are we going to do? What's going to become of us? Oh! Terry darling, I'm so tired."

  "Now then, miss," said a tart voice behind her. "If you'll give over hugging and kissing that dog, here's a cup of nice

  hot tea for you."

  "Oh! Mrs. Barnes, how good of you."

  Joyce scrambled to her feet. Mrs. Barnes was a big, formidable-looking woman. Beneath the exterior of a dragon

  she concealed an unexpectedly warm heart.

  "A cup of hot tea never did anyone any harm," enunciated Mrs. Barnes, voicing the universal sentiment of her class.

  Joyce sipped gratefully. Her landlady eyed her covertly.

  NEXT TO A DOG 219

  "Any luck, miss--ma'am, I should say?"

  Joyce shook her head, her face clouded over.

  "Ah!" said Mrs. Barnes with a sigh. "Well, it doesn't

  seem to be what you might call a lucky day."

  Joyce looked up sharply.

  "Oh, Mrs. Barnes--you don't mean--"

  Mrs. Barnes was nodding gloomily.

  "Yes--it's Barnes. Out of work again. What we're going to do, I'm sure I don't know."

  "Oh, Mrs. Barnes--I must--I mean you'll want---" "Now don't you fret, my dear. I'm not denying but that

  I'd be glad if you'd found something--but if you haven't--

  you haven't. Have you finished that tea? I'll take the cup." "Not quite."

  "Ah!" said Mrs. Barnes accusingly. "You're going to give what's left to that dratted dog--I know you."

  "Oh, please, Mrs. Barnes. Just a little drop. You don't mind really, do you?"

  "It wouldn't be any use if I did. You're crazy about that cantankerous brute. Yes, that's what i say--and that's what

  he is. As near as nothing bit me this morning, he did."

  "Oh, no, Mrs. Barnes! Terry wouldn't do such a thing." "Growled at me--showed his teeth. I was just trying to

  see if there was anything could be done to those shoes of

  yours."

  "He doesn't like anyone touching my things. He thinks he ought to guard them."

  "Well, what does he want to think for? It isn't a dog's business to think
. He'd be well enough in his proper place,

  tied up in the yard to keep off burglars. All this cuddling!

  He ought to be put away, miss--that's what I say."

  "No, no, no. Never. Never!"

  "Please yourself," said Mrs. Barnes. She took the cup from the table, retrieved the saucer from the floor where

  Terry had just finished his share, and stalked from the room.

  "Terry," said Joyce. "Come here and talk to me. What are we going to do, my sweet?"

  She settled herself in the rickety armchair, with Terry on her knees. She threw off her hat and leaned back. She

  put one of Terry's paws on each side of her neck and kissed

  him lovingly on his nose and between his eyes. Then she

  220 Agatka

  began talkin to him in a soft low voice, twisting his ears gently between her fingers.

  "What are we going to do about Mrs. Barnes, Terry?

  We owe her four weeks--and she's such a lamb, Terry--such

  a lamb. She'd never turn us out. But we can't take

  advantage of her being a lamb, Terry. We can't do that.

  Why does Barnes want to be out of work? I hate Barnes.

  He's always getting drunk. And if you're always getting

  drunk, you are usually out of work. But I don't get drunk,

  Terry, and yet I'm out of work.

  "I can't leave you, darling. I can't leave you. There's

  not even anyone I could leave you with--nobody who'd

  be good to you. You're getting old, Terry--twelve years

  old--and nobody wants an old dog who's rather blind and

  a little deaf and a little--yes, just a little--bad-tempered.

  You're sweet to me, darling, but you're not sweet to everyone,

  are you? You growl. It's because you know the world's

  turning against you. We've just got each other, haven't we,