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Tale of Triona

<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2> SHE was waiting for him at the little South Coast station, where decorum had to cloak the rapture of their meeting. But they sat close together, hand in hand, in the hackney motor-car that took them home. This gave him an intermediary breathing space for explanation; and the explanation was easier than he had feared. Really, his journey had been almost for nothing and had afforded little interest. The agent whom he was to interview having been summoned back to Russia the day before he arrived, he had merely delivered his dispatches to the British authorities and taken the next boat to England. It was just a history of two dull sea voyages. Nothing more was to be said about it, save that he would go on no more fool’s errands for a haphazard government. “Besides, it’s too dreadful to be away from you.” “It has been awful for me, too,” said Olivia. “I never imagined what real loneliness could feel like. All the time I thought of the poor solitary little dab the Bryce children showed us the other day in the biscuit-tin of water. Oh, I was the most forsaken little dab.” He swore that she should never be lonely again; and, by the time they reached their house by the sea, he had half-exultingly dismissed his fictitious mission from his mind. All the apprehensions of the narrow Northern kitchen melted in the joy of her. All danger had vanished like a naughty black cloud sped to nothing by the sun. The mythical past had to remain; but henceforward his life would be as clear to her as her own exquisite life to him. In their wind-swept home they gave themselves up to deferred raptures, kissing and laughing after the foolish way of lovers. To grace his return she had filled the rooms with flowers—roses and sweet peas—which she bought extravagantly in the neighbouring seaside town. The scent of them mingled delicately with the salt of the sea. To her joy he was quick to praise them. She had wondered whether they would be noticed by one so divinely careless of material things. He even found delight in the meal which Myra served soon after their arrival—he so indifferent to quality of food. “Everything is you,” said he; “scent and taste and sight. You inform the universe and give it meaning.” Her eyes grew moist as she swiftly laid her hand on his. “Am I really all that to you?” She laughed with a little catch in her throat. “How can I live up to it?” He raised her hand to his lips. “If only you went on existing like a flower, your beauty and fragrance would be all in all to me. But you are a flower with a bewildering soul. So you merely have to be as you are.” He was in earnest. Women had played little or no part in his inner life, which, for all his follies, had been lived on a spiritual plane. His young ambitions had been irradiated by dreams of the little Princess Tania, who had represented to him the ever-to-be-striven-for unattainable. On his reaching the age when common sense put its clammy touch on fervid imagination, the little Princess had been given away in marriage to a young Russian nobleman of vast fortune, and he himself had driven her to the wedding with naught but a sentimental pang. But the flower-like, dancing, elusive quality of her had remained in his soul as that which was only desirable and ever to be sought for in woman. And—miracle of miracles!—he had found it in Olivia. And she was warm and real, the glowing incarnation of the cold but perfect ghost of his boyhood’s aspirations. She was verily the Princess of his dream come true. And she had an odd air of the little Princess Tania—the same dark, wavy hair and laughing eyes and the same crisp sweetness in her English speech. Save for all this rapture of meeting, they took up the thread of their lives where it had been broken, as though no parting had taken place, and their idyll continued to run its magic course. Triona began to write again: some articles, a short story. The shadow shape of a new novel arose in his mind, and, in his long talks with Olivia, gradually attained coherence. This process of creation seemed to her uncanny. Where did the people come from who at first existed as formless spirits and then, in some strange way, developed into living things of flesh and blood more real than the actual folk of her acquaintance? Her intimate association with the novelist’s gift brought her nearer to him intellectually, but at the same time set him spiritually on unattainable heights. Meanwhile he called her his Inspiration, which filled her with pride and content. The lease of “Quien Sabe” all but expired before they had settled on their future house. Medlow was ruled out. So was the immediate question of the Medlow furniture, they having given Blaise Olifant another year’s tenancy. While discussing this step, he had said: “It’s for you and you only to decide. Any spot on earth where you are is good enough for me. By instinct I’m a nomad. If I hadn’t found you, I should have gone away somewhere to the desert and lived in tents.” Olivia, who had seen so little of the great world, felt a thrill of pulses and put her hands on his shoulders—she was standing behind his chair— “Why shouldn’t we?” He shook his head and glanced up at her. The way of the gipsy was too hard for his English flower. She must dwell in her accustomed garden. In practical terms, they must settle down for her sake. She protested. Of herself she had no thought. He and his work were of paramount importance. Had they not planned the ideal study, the central feature of the house? He had laughed and mangled Omar. A pen and a block of paper . . . and Thou beside me, etcetera, etcetera. “I don’t believe you want to settle down a bit,” she cried. He swung his chair and caught her round her slim body. “Do you?” “Eventually, of course——” “But, before ‘eventually,’ don’t you want your wander-year?” “France, Italy——” She became breathless. “Honolulu, the Pacific, the wide world. Why should we tie ourselves to a house until we have seen it all?” “Yes, why? We have all our lives before us.” She sank on his knee. “How beautiful! Let us make plans.” So for the next few days they lived in a world of visions, catching enthusiasm one from the other. Again he saw Salvation Yeo’s pointing finger; and she, in the subconscious relation of her mind with his, saw it too. House and furniture were Olifant’s as long as he wanted them. “We’ll go round the world,” Olivia declared. With a twirl of his finger—“Right round,” said he. “Which way does one go?” He was somewhat vague. An atlas formed no part of their personal equipment or of the hireling penates of “Quien Sabe.” “I’ll write to Cook’s.” “Cook’s? My beloved, where is your sense of adventure?” “We must go by trains and steamers, and Cook’s will tell us all about them.” She had her way. Cook’s replied. At the quotation for the minimum aggregate of fares Alexis gasped. “There’s not so much money in the world.” “There is,” she flashed triumphantly. “On deposit at my bank. Much more.” Who was right now, she asked herself, she or the prosaic Mr. Trivett and Mr. Fenmarch? She only had to dip her hands into her fortune and withdraw them filled with bank-notes enough to take them half a dozen times round the world! Inspired by this new simplicity of things, they rushed up to London by an incredibly early train to take tickets, then and there for the main routes which circumnavigate the globe. The man at Cook’s dashed their ardour. They would have to pencil their passages now and wait for months until their turn on the waiting lists arrived. It must be remembered that then were the early days of Peace. “But we want to start next week!” cried Olivia in dismay. The young man at Cook’s professed polite but wearied sorrow at her disappointment. Forty times a day he had to disillusion eager souls who wanted to start next week for the other side of the globe. “It is most inconvenient and annoying for us to change our plans,” Olivia declared resentfully. “But,” she added, with a smile, “it’s not your fault that the world is a perfect beast. We’ll talk it over and come to you again.” So after lunch in town they returned to The Point, richer in their knowledge of the conditions of contemporary world travel. “We’ll put things in hand at once and start about Christmas,” said Alexis. “Until then——” “We’ll take a furnished flat in London,” Olivia decided. <hr class='tbk'/> October found them temporarily settled in a flat in the Buckingham Palace Road, and then began the life which Olivia had schemed for her husband before these disturbing dreams of vagabondage. Towards the end of their stay in “Quien Sabe” various letters of enquiry and invitations had been forwarded to Triona from people, back now in London, with whom the success of his book had brought him into contact. These, careless youth, he had been for ignoring, but the wiser Olivia had stepped in and dictated tactful and informative replies. The result was their welcome in many houses remote from the Lydian galley, the Blenkiron home of Bolshevism and even the easy conservative dullness of the circle of Janet Philimore. The world that danced and ate and dressed and thought and felt to the unvarying rhythm of jazz music had passed away like a burnt-up planet. The world which she entered with her husband was astonishingly new with curious ramifications. At the houses of those whose cultivated pleasure in life it is to bring together people worthy of note she met artists, novelists, journalists, actors, publishers, politicians, travellers, and their respective wives or husbands. Jealously, at first, she watched the attitude of all these folk towards her husband: in pride and joy she saw him take his easy place among them as an equal. A minority of silly women flattered him—to his obvious distaste—but the majority accepted him on frank and honourable terms. She loved to watch him, out of the corner of her eye, across the drawing-room, his boyish face flushed and eager, talking in his swift, compelling way. His manners, so simple, so direct, so different from the elaboration of Sidney Rooke, even from the cut-and-dried convention of Mauregard, had a charm entirely individual. There was no one like him in the world. In their turn, many of the people of note they met at the houses of the primary entertainers invited them to their homes. Thus, in a brief time, Olivia found herself swept into as interesting a social circle as the heart of ambitious young woman could crave. How far her own grace and wit contributed to their success it never entered her head to enquire. Triona, light-hearted, gave himself up to the pleasure of this new existence. He found in it stimulus to work, being in touch with the thought and the art of the moment. The newness of his Odyssey having worn off, he was no longer compelled to dilate on his extraordinary adventures; people, growing unconsciously impatient of the realistic details of the late cataclysm, conspired to regard him more as a writer than as a heroic personage; wherein he experienced mighty relief. He could talk of other things than the habits of the dwellers round Lake Baikal and the amenities of Bolshevik prisons. When conversation drifted into such channels, he employed a craftiness of escape which he had amused himself to develop. Freed from the obsession of the little black book, he regarded his Russian life as a phase remote, as a tale that was told. His facile temperament put the whole matter behind him. He lived for the future, when he should be the acknowledged English Master of Romance, and when Olivia’s burning faith in his genius should be justified. He threw off memories of Ellen and the kitchen chair and went his way, a man radiant with happiness. Each day intensified the wonder of his wife. From the lips and from the writings of fools and philosophers he had heard of the perils of the first year of marriage; of the personal equations that seemed impossible of simultaneous solution; of the misunderstandings, cross-purposes, quarrels inevitable to the attempt; of the hidden snags of feminine unreason that shipwrecked logical procedure; of the love-rasping persistence of tricks of manner or speech which either had to be violently broken or to be endured in suffering sullenness. At both fools and philosophers he mocked. A fiction, this dogma of inescapable sex warfare. Never for a second had a cloud arisen on their horizon. The flawlessness of Olivia he accepted as an axiom. Equally axiomatic was his own faultiness. In their daily lives he was aware of his thousand lapses from her standard of grace, when John Briggs happened to catch Alexis Triona at unguarded moments and threw him from his seat. But, in a flash, the instinctive, the super-instinctive, the nothing less than Divine hand, was stretched out to restore him to his throne. As a guide to conduct she became his conscience. Work and love and growing friendship filled his care-free days. His novel was running serially in a weekly and attracting attention. It would be published in book-form early in the New Year, and the publishers had no doubt of its success. All was well with the world. Meanwhile they concerned themselves busily, like happy children, with their projects of travel. It was a great step to book berths for Bombay by a January boat. They would then cross India, visit Burmah, the Straits Settlements, Australia, Japan, America. All kinds of Companies provided steamers; Providence would procure the accommodation. They planned a detailed six months’ itinerary which would take a conscientious globe-trotter a couple of years to execute. Before launching on this eastern voyage they would wander at their ease through France, see Paris and Monte Carlo, and pick up the boat at Marseilles. As the year drew to its close their excitement waxed more unrestrained. They babbled to their envious friends of the wonder-journey before them. Blaise Olifant, who, on his periodical visits to London, was a welcome visitor at their flat, was entertained with these anticipations of travel. He listened with the air of elderly indulgence that had been his habit since their marriage. “Don’t you wish you were coming with us?” asked Olivia. He shook his head. “Don’t you remember the first time I saw you I said I was done with adventures?” “And I said I was going in search of them.” “So you’re each getting your heart’s desire,” said Triona. “Yes, I suppose so,” replied Olifant, with a smile. There was a touch of sadness in it which did not escape Olivia’s shrewd glance. He had grown thinner during the year; his nose seemed half-comically to have grown sharper and longer. In his eyes dwelt a shadow of wistful regret. “The life of a hermit cabbage isn’t good for you,” she said. “Give it up and come with us.” Again he shook his head. No. They did not want such a drag on the wheels of their joyous chariot. Besides, he was tied to Medlow as long as she graciously allowed him to live there. His sister had definitely left her dissolute husband and was living under his protection. “You should be living under the protection of a wife,” Olivia declared. “I’ve told you so often, haven’t I?” “And I’ve always answered that bachelors are born, not made—and I’m one born.” “Predestination! Rubbish!” cried Triona, rising with a laugh. “Your Calvinistic atavism is running away with you. It’s time for your national antidote. I’ll bring it in.” He went out of the room, in his boyish way, in search of whisky. Olivia leaned forward in her chair. “You may not know it, but from that first day a year ago you made yourself a dear friend—so you’ll forgive me if I——” She paused for a second, and went on abruptly: “You’ve changed. Now and then you look so unhappy. I wish I could help you.” He laughed. “It’s very dear of you to think of me, Lady Olivia—but the change is not in me. I’ve remained the same. It’s your eyes that have grown so accustomed to the radiant gladness of a happy man that they expect the same in any old fossil on the beach.” “Now you make me feel utterly selfish,” she cried. “How?” “We oughtn’t to look so absurdly happy. It’s indecent.” “But it does one good,” said he. Triona entered with the tray, and administered whisky and soda to his guest. “There! When you’ve drunk it you’ll be ready to come to the Magical Isles with us, where the Lady of Ladies awaits you in an enchanted valley, with hybiscus in her hair.” The talk grew light, drifted inevitably into the details of their projected wanderings. The evening ended pleasantly. Olivia bade Olifant farewell, promising, as he would not go in search of her himself, to bring him back the perfect lady of the hybiscus crown. Triona accompanied him to the landing; and, while they stood awaiting the lift, Olifant said casually: “I suppose you’ve got your passports?” “Passports?” The young man knitted his brow in some surprise. “Why, of course. That’s to say, I’ve not bothered about them yet, but they’ll be all right. Why do you ask?” “You’re Russian subjects. There may be difficulties. If there are, I know a man in the Foreign Office who may be of help.” The lift rose and the gates clashed open, and the attendant came out. “Thanks very much,” said Triona. “It’s awfully good of you.” They shook hands, wished each other God-speed, and the cage went down, leaving Triona alone on the landing, gaping across the well of the lift. He was aroused from a semi-stupor by Olivia’s voice at the flat door. “What on earth are you doing, darling?” He realized that he must have been there some appreciable time. He turned with a laugh. “I was interested in the mechanism of the lift; it has so many possibilities in fiction.” She laughed. “Think of them to-morrow. It’s time for good little novelists to go to bed.” But that night, while Olivia, blissfully unconscious of trouble, slept the happy sleep of innocence Alexis Triona did not close an eye. Passports! He had not given them a thought. Any decent person was entitled to a passport. In the plenitude of his English content he had forgotten his fictitious Russian citizenship. To attest or even to support this claim there was no creature on God’s earth. The details of his story of the torpedoed Swedish timber boat in which he had taken refuge would not bear official examination. Application for passport under the name of Alexis Triona, soi-disant Russian subject, would involve an investigation leading to inevitable exposure. His civic status was that of John Briggs, late naval rating. He had all his papers jealously locked up, together with the little black notebook, in his despatch case. As John Briggs, British subject, he was freeman of the civilized world. But John Briggs was dead and done for. It was impossible to wander over the globe as Alexis Triona with a passport bearing the name of John Briggs. He would be held up and turned back at any frontier. And it was beyond his power of deception to induce Olivia to travel with him round the world under the incognito of Mrs. John Briggs. Rigid, so that he should not wake the beloved woman, he stared for hours and hours into the darkness, vainly seeking a solution. And there was none. He might blind Olivia into the postponement of their adventure, and in the meanwhile change his name by deed poll. But that would involve the statutory publicity in the Press. The declaration in The Times that he, John Briggs, would henceforth take the name of Alexis Triona would stultify him in the social and literary world—and damn him in the eyes of Olivia. In those early days after the War, the Foreign Office granted passports grudgingly. British subjects had to show very adequate reasons for desiring to go abroad, and foreign visas were not over-readily given. In the process of obtaining a passport, a man’s identity had to be established beyond question. He remembered now having heard vague talk of spies; but he had paid no attention to it. Now he realized that which he had heard was cruelly definite. There was no solution. John Briggs was dead, and Alexis Triona had no official existence. He could not get as far as Boulogne, let alone Japan. And there was Olivia by his side dreaming of the Fortunate Isles. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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