NIGEL rushed back. On his way, he decided that he had got a real excuse for a holiday; he had every right to go away for a time from such a wife; and he found himself thinking chiefly about where he would go and how he would amuse himself. If the husband had only known it, Bertha had already, if not exactly forbidden him the house, discouraged his calling, almost as distinctly, though more kindly, than Percy did. Still, if Percy had not given him that piece of information, he would have remained in London, and left it to chance that they might meet again somehow. He was such an optimist, and was really so very much in love with her. Curious that this news of Bertha should annoy and should excite him so much! Why, it seemed to him to be a matter of more importance and far more interest than in his own wife’s case. That he had taken quite as a matter of course, an ordinary everyday occurrence “which would give her something to do.” He was really disappointed when he found that Mary did not absorb herself in her children, and found she was only anxious—foolishly anxious—that he should not think that they could take his place as companions.

Nigel was affectionate by nature, and if Mary had insisted on that note—if she had made him proud of his children, encouraged his affection for them, if she had played the madonna—his affection for her would have been immensely increased. She would have had a niche in his heart—a respect and tenderness, even if she had never been able to make him entirely faithful, which, perhaps, only one woman could have done. But, instead of that, Mary had been jealous and silly and violently exacting. She wished him to be her slave and under her thumb, and yet she wanted him to be her lover. Every word she had ever spoken, everything she had ever done since their marriage had had the exact contrary effect of what she desired. She had sent him further and further away from her. That she knew he had married her for her money embittered her and yet made her tyrannical. She wanted to take advantage of that fact, in a way that no man could endure. Yet she was to be pitied. Anyone so exacting must be terribly unhappy.It was not in Nigel, either, to care long for anyone who cared for him so much. And even if Bertha, who was now his ideal and his dream, had been as devoted to him as Mary, and shown it in anything like the same sort of way, he would in time have become cool and ceased to appreciate her. He thought now that he would always adore her, and yet, when they had been actually engaged, it had been he who had allowed it to lapse. He might think that he cared for her far more now and understood her better, and now no worldly object would induce him to give up the possibility of their passing their lives together. And yet the fact remained. She had loved him as a girl—worshipped him. But he had broken it off. So now that he has lost all hope of his wish, he does not, strictly speaking, deserve any sympathy; yet all emotional suffering appeals to one’s pity rather than to one’s sense of justice. And Nigel was miserable.

The letter Bertha had sent him the other day, though it put an end to their meeting, had a sort of fragrance; a tender kindness about it. He could make himself believe that she also was a little sorry. Perhaps she did it more from motives of duty than from her own wish; something about it left a little glamour, and he had still hope that somehow or other circumstances might alter so much that even so they might be friends again. But now! it was very different. Percy’s quiet satisfaction showed that they were on the most perfect terms, and he could imagine Bertha’s delight—her high spirits—and her charming little ways of showing her pleasure. It forced itself on his mind against his will, that she was very much in love with Percy after all these ten years, difficult as it seemed to him to realise it.

So they were hardly going out any more! So they were going to the country early to have a sort of second honeymoon! It seemed to him that after ten years of gay camaraderie they were now suddenly going to behave like lovers, like a newly married young couple.

How sickening it was, and how absorbed she would be now! People always made much more of an event like that when it happened after some years. Personally he tried to think it made him like her less, at any rate it seemed to make her far more removed from him. But all the real estrangement had been caused undoubtedly by his wife.

On the whole, to be just, that pompous ass, as he called him, Percy Kellynch, had really behaved very well. He had accused Nigel of nothing; he had suggested nothing about his wife, who was still, evidently, on a pedestal; he had really done the right thing and been considerate to her in the highest degree. Any man who cared for his wife would have naturally requested him, Nigel, to keep away. And it was really decent, frightfully decent of him, to let him see the letters, really kind and fair. Of course what put old Percy in a good temper, in spite of all, was this news, and, no doubt, Bertha was being angelic to him.

Nigel made up his mind to try and throw it off. But he couldn’t do it by staying with his wife.

To look at her would be agonising now.

Still he made up his mind he would be calm, he would not be unkind to her; he would be firm, and, as far as possible, have no sort of scene.

When he went in, she was sitting in the boudoir looking out of the window as usual. She saw him before he came in. It was not six o’clock yet and quite light.

“Well, Nigel darling?” She ran up to him.

He moved away.

“Please don’t, Mary. I’ve got something serious to speak to you about.”

She turned pale, guiltily.“What is it? What on earth is it?”

“You shall hear. Shall we talk about it now, or wait till after dinner? I think I’d rather wait. I’ve got a bit of a headache.”

“After dinner, then,” murmured Mary.

This was very unlike her. Had she had nothing on her conscience, nothing she was afraid of, she would never have ceased questioning and worrying him to get it all out of him.

He went up to his room, and asked her to leave him, and this she actually did. She wanted time to think!

With the weak good nature that was in Nigel, curiously side by side with a certain cruel hardness, he now felt a little sorry for her. It must be awful to be waiting like this. And she really had been in the wrong. It was an appalling thing to do—mad, hysterical, dangerous. It might have caused far more trouble than it had! Suppose Percy had believed it all!

Nigel thought of scandals, divorces, all sorts of things. Yes, after all, Kellynch had really been kind; and clever. He was not a bad sort. Then Nigel found that last little letter of Bertha’s. How sweet it was! But he saw through it now, that she was deeply happy and didn’t want to be bothered with him. She forgave the scene his wife had made at the party, as not one woman in a hundred would do—but she didn’t want him. The moment she realised that he wanted to flirt with her, that there was even a chance of his loving her, she was simply bored. Yes, that was it—gay, amusing, witty, attractive Nigel bored her! Dull, serious, conventional Percy did not! She was in love with him.

In books and plays it was always the other way: it was the husband that was the bore; but romances and comedies are often far away from life. Curious as it seemed, this was life, and Nigel realised it. He destroyed her letter and went down to dinner.

They were quiet at dinner, talked a little only for the servants. Nigel asked about the little girl.

“How’s Marjorie getting on with her music lessons?”

Mary answered in a low voice that the teacher thought she had talent. …

They were left alone.

“Well, what is it, Nigel?” She spoke in querulous, frightened voice.

They were sitting in the boudoir again. Coffee had been left on the table.

Nigel lighted a cigarette.

He was still a little sorry for her. Then he said:“Look here, Mary, I’m sorry to say I’ve found out you’ve been doing a very terrible thing! I ask you not to deny it, because I know it. The only chance of our ever being in peace together again, or in peace at all, is for you to speak the truth.”

She did not answer.

“I’ve forgiven heaps of things—frightful tempers, mad suspicions, that disgraceful scene you made at our party—but I always thought you were honourable and truthful. What you’ve done is very dishonourable. Don’t make it worse by denying it.” He paused. “You have written five anonymous letters, dictated in typewriting, about me and Mrs. Kellynch to her husband. I don’t know what you thought, but you certainly tried to give the impression that our harmless conversations meant something more. That there was an intrigue going on. Did you really think this, may I ask?”

“Yes, I did,” she said, in a low voice, looking down.

“Well, first allow me to assure you that you are entirely wrong. It was completely false. Can’t you see now how terrible it was to suggest these absolute lies as facts to her husband? Did you write the letters?”

“Yes, I did; I was in despair. I couldn’t think of anything else to stop it.”Nigel gave a sigh of relief.

“Thank God you’ve admitted it, Mary. I’m glad of that. At least if we have the truth between us, we know where we are.”

“Did she—did she—tell you?”

“She knows nothing whatever about it,” said Nigel. “She has never been told, and never will be. You need worry no more about the letters. Her husband gave them to me this afternoon, and I destroyed them before him. And he doesn’t know who wrote them.”

Nigel forgot that he had told Percy or did not choose to say.

“They’re completely wiped out, and will be forgotten by the person to whom you sent them. The whole affair is cleared up and finished and regarded as an unfortunate act of folly.”

“Oh, Nigel!” Mary burst into tears. “You’re very good.”

“Now listen, Mary … I can’t endure to stay with you any more at present.”

“What!” she screamed.

“If I continue this existence with you I shall grow to hate it. I wish to go away for a time.”

“You want to leave me!”

“Unless I go now for a time to try and get over this act of yours, I tell you frankly that I shall leave you altogether.”He spoke sternly.

“If you will have the decency not to oppose my wishes, I will go away for six or seven weeks, and when I come back we’ll try and take up our life again a little differently. You must be less jealous and exacting and learn to control yourself. I will then try to forget and we’ll try to get on better together. But I must go. My nerves won’t stand it any longer.”

She sobbed, leaning her head on the back of an arm-chair.

“If you agree to this without the slightest objection,” said Nigel, “I will come and join you and the children somewhere in the first week in August. Till then I’m going abroad, but I don’t exactly know where. You shall have my address, and, of course, I shall write. I may possibly go to Venice. I have a friend there.”

She still said nothing, but cried bitterly. She was in despair at the idea of his leaving her, but secretly felt she might have been let off less lightly.

One thing Nigel resolved. He would not let her know he had been forbidden the house. She would be too pleased at having succeeded. But he said:

“One thing you may as well know, I shall see nothing more of the Kellynches, because they are going into the country in a few days. They have had no quarrel, they are perfectly devoted to each other, and she has not the faintest idea of it. So you see you haven’t done the harm, or caused the pain you tried to, except to me. I was ashamed when I saw——”

“Oh, Nigel, forgive me! I am sorry! Don’t go away!”

“Unless I go away now, I shall go altogether. Don’t cry. Try to cheer up!”

With these words he left the room.