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Tale of Triona

<h2>CHAPTER XIX</h2> OLIVIA struggled for a fortnight against Circumstance, when Circumstance got the upper hand. But it had been a valiant fight from the moment Myra, on her return to the flat, had delivered Triona’s scribbled note, and had given her account of the brief parting interview. “It’s just as well,” she said. “It’s the only way out.” She made a brave show of dining, while Myra waited stoically. At last, impelled to speech, she said: “Well, what do you think of it?” “How can I think of what I know nothing about?” said Myra. “Would you like to know?” “My liking has nothing to do with it,” said Myra brushing the crumbs off the table. “If you tell me, you tell me because it may help you. But—I know it’s not a Christian thing to say—I’m not likely to forgive the man that has done you an injury.” “He has done me no injury,” said Olivia. “That’s what I want you to know. No injury in the ordinary sense of the word.” She looked up at Myra’s impassive face, and met the dull blue eyes, and found it very difficult to tell her, in spite of lifelong intimacy. Yet it was right that Myra should have no false notions. “I’ve discovered that my husband’s name is not Alexis Triona. It is John Briggs.” “John Briggs,” echoed Myra. “His father was a labourer in Newcastle. He was a chauffeur in Russia. All that he had said about himself and written in his book is untrue. When he left us last summer to go to Finland, he really went to Newcastle to his mother’s death-bed. Everything he has told me has been a lie from beginning to end. He—oh, God, Myra——” She broke down and clutched her face, while her throat was choking with dry sobbing. Myra came swiftly round the table and put her arm about her, and drew the beloved head near to her thin body. “There, there, my dear. You can tell me more another time.” Olivia let herself be soothed for a while. Then she pulled herself together and rose. “No, I’ll tell you everything now. Then we’ll never need talk of it again. I’m not going to make a fool of myself.” She stiffened herself against feminine weakness. At the end of the story, Myra asked her: “What are you going to do?” “I’m going to carry on as if nothing had happened. At any rate for the present.” Myra nodded slowly. “You’re not the only one who has had to carry on as if nothing had happened.” “What do you mean?” Olivia asked quickly. “Nothing but what I said,” replied Myra. “It takes some doing. But you’ve got to believe in God and believe in yourself.” “Where did you get your wisdom from, Myra?” asked Olivia wonderingly. “From life, my dear,” replied Myra with unwonted softness. And picking up the last tray of removed dinner things, she left the room. The next afternoon, she said to Myra, “Major Olifant has telephoned me that Mr. Triona is arriving at Paddington by a six-fifteen train. I should like you to come with me.” “Very well,” said Myra. It was characteristic of their relations that they spoke not a word of Triona during their drive to the station or during their wait on the platform. When the train came in, and they had assured themselves that he had not arrived—for they had taken the precaution to separate and each to scan a half-section—they re-entered their waiting taxi-cab and drove home. “I hope I shall never see him again,” said Olivia, humiliated by this new deception. “He told Major Olifant he was coming straight to town by the train. The truth isn’t in him. You mustn’t suppose,” she turned rather fiercely to Myra, “that I came to meet him with any idea of reconciliation. That’s why I brought you with me. But people don’t part for ever in this hysterical way. There are decencies of life. There are the commonplace arrangements of a separation.” She burned with a new sense of wrong. Once more he had eluded her. Now, what she told Myra was true. She wished never to see him again. Blaise Olifant came up to town, anxious to be of service, and found her in this defiant mood. “It’s impossible for it all to end like this,” he said. “You are wounded to the quick. He’s in a state of crazy remorse. Time will soften things. He’ll come to his senses and return and ask your forgiveness, and you will give it.” She replied, “My dear Blaise, you don’t understand. The man I loved and married doesn’t exist.” “The man of genius exists. Listen,” said he. “After he left me, I’ve done scarcely anything but think of the two of you. He could have put forward a case—a very strong case—but he didn’t.” “And what was his strong case?” she asked bitterly. Olifant put before her his reasoned apologia for the life of Triona. Given the first deception practised under the obsession of the little black book acting on a peculiarly sensitive temperament, the rest followed remorselessly. “He was being blackmailed by one lie.” “My intelligence grasps what you say,” Olivia answered, “but my heart doesn’t. You’re standing away and can see things in the round. I’m in the middle of them, and I can’t.” If she, although his wife, had stood away; if she had been dissociated from his deceptions; if nothing more had occurred than the exposure of the Triona myth, she might have forgiven him. But the deceptions had been interwoven with the sacred threads of her love; she could not forgive that intimate entanglement. To a woman the little things are as children, as the little ones whose offenders Christ cursed with the millstone and the sea. She had lain awake, his forgotten wrist-watch on her arm, picturing him tossed by the waves of the North Sea in the execution of her country’s errand. She had proudly told a hundred people of the Bolshevist gyve-marks around his ankle. She had been moved to her depths by the tragical romance of the fictitious Vronsky. In her heart there had been hot rebellion against a Foreign Office keeping strangle-hold on a heroic servant and restricting his freedom of action. These little sufferings he had caused her she could not forgive. While inflicting them, he knew that she suffered. In vain did Olifant, unversed in the psychology of woman, plead the cause of the erratic creature that was her husband. In vain did he set out his honourable and uncontested record; that of a man whose response to the call of duty was unquestioned; of whose courage and endurance she had received personal testimony; who had cheerfully suffered wounds, the hardships of flight through Revolutionary Russia, the existence on a mine-sweeper on perilous seas ending in the daily dreaded catastrophe; the record of a man who, apart from his fraud, had justified himself as a queer, imaginative genius, writing of life in a new way, in a new, vibrating style that had compelled the attention of the English-speaking world. In vain did he adduce the boyish charm of the man. Olivia sighed. “I don’t know him as you see him,” she said. “Then what can I do?” he asked. She shook a despairing head. “Nothing, my dear Blaise.” She rubbed the palm of one hand on the back of the other, and turned her great dark eyes on him. “You can’t do anything, but you’ve done something. You’ve shown me how loyal a man can be.” He protested vaguely. “My dear Olivia . . .” “It’s true,” she said. “And I’ll always remember it. And now, don’t let us ever talk about this again.” “As you will,” said he. “But what are you going to do?” She replied as she had done to Myra. She would carry on. “Until when?” She shrugged her shoulders. She would carry on indefinitely. To act otherwise would open the door to gossip. She was not going to be done to death by slanderous tongues. She rose and stood before him in slim, rigid dignity. “If I can’t out-brave the world, I’m a poor thing.” “You stay here, then?” he asked. “Why not? Where else should I go?” “I came with a little note from my sister,” said Olifant, drawing a letter from his pocket and handing it to her. Olivia read it through. Then she said, in a softened voice: “You’re a dear, kind friend.” “It’s my sister,” he smiled; but he could not keep an appeal out of his eyes. “Why shouldn’t you?” he asked suddenly. “It will be hateful for you here, for all your courage. And you’ll be fighting what? Just shadows, and you’ll expend all your strength in it. What good will it do you or anybody? You want rest, real rest, of body and soul.” She met his eyes. “Do I look so woebegone?” “The sight of you now is enough to break the heart of any one who cares for you, Olivia,” he said soberly. “It’s merely a question of sleeplessness. That’ll pass off.” “It will pass off quicker in the country,” he urged. “It will be a break. The house will be yours. Mary and I, the discreetest shadows. You don’t know the self-effacing dear that Mary is. Besides, she is one of those women who is a living balm for the wounded. To look at her is to draw love and comforting from her.” He ventured the tips of his fingers on her slender shoulders. “Do come. Your old room shall be yours, just as you left it. Or the room I have always kept sacred.” She stood by the fireplace, her arm on the mantelshelf, looking away from him. “Or, if you like,” he went on, “we’ll clear out—we only want a few days—and give you back your old home all to yourself.” She stretched out a groping hand; he took it. “I know you would,” she said. “It’s—it’s beautiful of you. I’m not surprised, because—” she swayed head and shoulders a bit, seeking for words, her eyes away from him, “—because, after that first day at Medlow, I have never thought of you as doing otherwise than what was beautiful and noble. It sounds silly. But I mean it.” She withdrew her hand and walked away into the room, her back towards him. He strode after her. “That’s foolishness. I’m only an ordinary, decent sort of man. In the circumstances, good Lord! I couldn’t do less.” She faced him in the middle of the room. “And I as an ordinary, decent woman, couldn’t do less than what I’ve said.” “Well?” said he. They stood for a few seconds eye to eye. A faint colour came into her cheeks, and she smiled. “Don’t suppose I’m not tempted. I am. But if I came, you’d spoil me. I’ve got to fight.” This valiant attitude he could not induce her to abandon. At last, with a pathetic air of disappointment, he said: “If I can help you in any other way, and you won’t let me, I shall be hurt.” “Oh, I’ll let you,” she cried impulsively. “You may be sure. Who else is there?” He went away comforted. Yet he did not return to Medlow. These early days, he argued, were critical. Anything might happen, and it would be well for him to remain within call. Of what the future held for her she did not think. Her mind was concentrated on the struggle through the present. She received a woman caller and chattered over tea as though nothing had happened. The effort braced her, and she felt triumphant over self. She went about on her trivial shopping. She remembered a fitting for a coat and skirt which she had resolved to postpone till after the projected motor jaunt. If she was to live in the world, she must have clothes to cover her. One morning, therefore, she journeyed to the dressmaker’s in Hanover Street, and, the fitting over, wandered through the square, down Conduit Street into Bond Street. At the corner, she ran into Lydia, expensively dressed, creamy, serene. “My dear, you’re looking like a ghost. What have you been doing with yourself?” “Jogging on as usual,” said Olivia. Their acquaintance had not been entirely broken. A few calls had been exchanged. Once Lydia had lunched with Olivia alone in the Buckingham Palace Road. But they had not met since the early part of the year. They strolled slowly down Bond Street. Lydia was full of news. Bobby Quinton had married Mrs. Bellingham—a rich woman twice his age. “The way of the transgressor is soft,” said Olivia. Mauregard was transferred to Rome. His idol, the Russian dancer, had run off with Danimède, the fitter at Luquin’s. Hadn’t Olivia heard? “Where have you been living, my dear child? In a tomb? It has been the talk of London for the past six weeks. They’re in Paris now, and they say she lies down on the floor and lets the little beast kick her. She likes it. There’s no accounting for tastes. Perhaps that’s why she left Mauregard.” In her serene, worldly way, she went through the scandalous chronicles of her galley. She came at last to Edwin Mavenna. Olivia remembered Mavenna? She laughed indulgently. Olivia shuddered at the memory and gripped her hands tight. Mavenna—he mattered little. A beast let loose for a few moments from the darkness. He was eclipsed from her vision by the boyish, grey-clad figure in the moonlight. She scarcely heard Lydia’s chatter. “One must live and let live, you know, in this world. He and Sydney are partners now. I hinted something of the sort at the time. You don’t mind now, do you?” “Not a bit. Why should I?” said Olivia. “That’s really why I’ve not asked you down to our place in Sussex. But if you don’t mind meeting him—he’s quite a good sport really.” Olivia’s eyes wandered up and down the crowded roadway. “I wish I could see an empty taxi,” she said. She had a sudden horror of Lydia—a horror queerly mingled with fierce jealousy. Why should Lydia, with her gross materialism, be leading this unruffled existence? “Are you in a hurry?” Lydia asked placidly. “I’ve an appointment with—my dentist.” “We’ll get in here and wait till we see a taxi,” said Lydia. They stood in the recess of a private doorway, by the bow-window of a print shop. “You’re not looking well, my dear,” said Lydia quite affectionately. “Marriage doesn’t seem to agree with you. What’s the matter?” Olivia flashed: “Nothing’s the matter.” “How’s your husband?” “Very well.” This was intolerable. She strained her eyes for the little red flag of freedom. Then, as she had told her visitor of a day or two before: “He’s gone abroad—on important business.” “And not taken you with him?” “His business isn’t ordinary business,” she said instinctively. Then she recognized she was covering him with his own cloak. Her pale cheeks flushed. “So that’s it,” said Lydia smiling. “You’re a poor little grass widow. You want bucking up, my dear. A bit of old times. Come and do a dinner and a theatre with us. Sydney would love to see you again. We’ll steer clear of naughty old Mavenna——” She had to stop; for Olivia had rushed across the pavement and was holding up her little embroidered bag at arm’s length, and the Heaven-sent taxi was drawing up to the kerb. Lydia followed her and stood while she entered the cab. “You’ll come, won’t you, dear?” “I’ll telephone,” said Olivia. She put out a hand. “Good-bye. It has been so pleasant seeing you again.” Lydia shook hands and smiled in her prosperous, contented way. Then she said: “Where shall he drive to?” Olivia had not given the matter a thought. She reflected swiftly. If she said “Home,” Lydia would suspect her eagerness to escape. After all, she didn’t want to hurt Lydia’s feelings. She cried at random: “Marlborough Road, St. John’s Wood.” “What a funny place for a dentist to live,” said Lydia. Anyhow, it was over. She was alone in the taxi, which was proceeding northwards up Bond Street. Of all people in the world Lydia was the one she least had desired to meet. Dinner and Revue. Possibly supper and a dance afterwards! Back again to where she had started little over a year ago. She suddenly became aware of herself shrieking with laughter. In horror, she stopped short, and felt a clattering shock all through her frame, like a car going at high speed when, at the instant of danger, all the brakes are suddenly applied. She lay back on the cushions, panting. Her brow was moist. She put up her hand and found a wisp of hair sticking to her temples. The cab went on. Where was she? Where was she going? She looked out of the window and recognized Regent’s Park. Then she remembered her wildly-given destination. She put her head through the window. “I’ve changed my mind,” she said to the driver. “Go to Buckingham Palace Mansions.” <hr class='tbk'/> The next morning came a letter from Lydia on expensive primrose note-paper. Would Friday be convenient? Sydney and herself would call for her at seven. There was a postscript: “I hope the St. John’s Wood dentist didn’t hurt you too much.” It gave her an idea. She replied: “So sorry. The St. John’s Wood dentist has made it impossible for me to appear in public for at least a month.” She checked an impulse of laughter. She must keep hold on herself. Olifant came in the afternoon. She told him of a communication she had received from her bank to the effect that Alexis had placed a large sum of money to her account. But she did not tell him of her meeting with Lydia. “What’s to be done with the money? I don’t want it. It had better be retransferred.” “I’ll see what I can do,” said Olifant. He came back next morning. He had seen the manager of Triona’s bank. Nothing could be done. Alexis had drawn out his balance in cash and closed his account. “Let things be—at any rate for the present,” Olifant counselled. When he took his leave, he said, looking down on her from his lean height: “I do wish you would come to Medlow.” She knew that she was ill. She knew that she was looking ill. But her little frame shook with an impatient movement. “I’m going to stick it, Blaise. I’m going to stick it if I die for it.” “It’s magnificent, but it isn’t war—or anything else,” said he. <hr class='tbk'/> Then came Rowington. The last straw. The last straw, in the guise of an anxious, kindly, gold-spectacled, clean-shaven, florid-faced philanthropist. First he had asked over the telephone for Triona’s address. An urgent matter. Olivia replied that his address was secret. Would she kindly forward a letter? She replied that none of her husband’s letters were to be forwarded. Would Mrs. Triona see him, then? He would wait on her at any time convenient to her. She fixed the hour. He came on the stroke. Olivia, her heart cold, her brain numbed by a hundred apprehensions, was waiting for him in the drawing-room. Myra announced him. Olivia rose. “My dear Mrs. Triona,” said he, emphasizing the conventional handshake by laying his hand over hers and holding it, “where is that wonderful husband of yours?” “He’s gone abroad,” said Olivia. “He must come back,” said Rowington. “He has gone away for a long time on important business,” said Olivia, parrot-wise. She motioned him to a chair. They sat down. “I gathered something of the sort from his letter. Has he told you of certain dispositions?” She fenced. “I don’t quite follow you.” “This letter——?” He handed her the letter of instructions with regard to payment of royalties which he had received from Triona. She glanced through it. “That’s all right,” she said. He drew a breath of relief. “I’m glad you know. I had a sort of idea—anyhow, no matter how important his business is, it’s essential that he should come back at once.” “Why?” she asked. But she had a sickening prescience of the answer. The kindly gentleman passed his hand over his forehead. “It’s just a business complication, my dear Mrs. Triona,” he said. She rose. He too, courteously. “Is it to do with anything that happened on the night of your dinner-party?” “I’m afraid so.” “Colonel Onslow and Captain Wedderburn?” He met her eyes. “Yes,” said he. “They’ve come to you with all sorts of lies about Alexis.” “I would give ten years of my life not to wound you, Mrs. Triona,” he said, in great distress. “I didn’t sleep a wink last night. My honour as a publisher is involved. But let that pass. I’m thinking more of you. You only can help me—and your husband. These two gentlemen have come to me with a challenge. Your husband’s good faith. They ask ‘Is Through Blood and Snow a bona-fide personal record?’ ” “It is,” said Olivia, with her back to the wall. “He’ll have to prove it.” “He will,” said Olivia proudly. “What do they propose to do?” “Have the whole thing cleared up in public—in the Press. My dear Mrs. Triona,” he said after a few moments’ hesitation, “don’t you see the false position I’m in? This letter I’ve shown you—it looks like running away—forgive me if I wound you. But on the face of it, it does. I daren’t tell them. But of course, if Mr. Triona comes back, he’ll be able to give all the explanation in the world. I haven’t the remotest doubt of it—not the remotest doubt. So, whatever his business is, you must recall him. You see the importance?” “Yes, I see,” said Olivia tonelessly. “So will you write and tell him this?” The truth had to come out. She said: “As a matter of fact, I don’t know where he is. I can’t communicate with him.” She hated the look of incredulous surmise on Rowington’s face. “As soon as I can, I’ll let him know.” “Yes, yes,” said Rowington. “You must. You see, don’t you, that both Onslow and Wedderbum feel it to be their public duty.” “But they’re both men of decent feeling,” said Olivia. “They wouldn’t attack a man when they knew he wasn’t here to defend himself.” “I hope not, my dear Mrs. Triona,” said Rowington. “I sincerely hope not. I’ll see them again. Indeed, I tried to put them off the whole thing. I did my best.” “What’s the exact charge they make against my husband?” To her utmost power she would defend him. Let her know facts. He explained. There was a mysterious period of ten months. Captain Wedderburn asserted that for four of those months her husband was with the Armoured Column, and for the remaining six he lay wounded in a Russian hospital. Colonel Onslow maintained that those ten months—he had his dates exact—are covered in the book by Alexis Triona’s adventures in Farthest Russia—and that these adventures are identical with those of another man who related them to him in person. “That’s definite, at any rate,” said Olivia. “But it’s a monstrous absurdity all the same. My husband denied the Russian hospital in my presence. You can tell these gentlemen that what they propose to do is infamous—especially when they learn he is not here. Will you give them my message? To hit a man behind his back is not English.” Rowington saw burning eyes in a dead white face, and a slim, dark figure drawn up tragically tense. He went home miserably with this picture in his mind. For all her bravery she had not restored his drooping faith in Triona. And Olivia sat, when he had left her, staring at public disgrace. Against that she could not fight. The man she had loved was a shadow, a non-existent thing; but she bore his name. She had sworn to keep bright the honour of the name before the world. And now the world would sweep it into the dustbin of ignominy. A maddening sense of helplessness, growing into a great terror, got possession of her. The next morning, when Myra brought in her letters, she felt ill and feverish after a restless night. One of the envelopes bore Triona’s familiar handwriting. She seized it eagerly. It would give some address, so that she could summon him back to make a fight for his honour. But there was no address. She read it through, and then broke into shrill harsh laughter. “He says he’s going out this morning to fight for the sacred cause of Poland.” Myra, who was pottering about the room, turned on her sharply. As soon as Olivia was quieter, she sent for the doctor. Later in the day, there came a nurse, and Myra was banished most of the day from the beloved bedside. Thus it came about that the next morning no correspondence or morning papers were brought into Olivia’s room. And that is why Myra, who preferred the chatty paragraphs to leaders and political news, said nothing to her mistress of a paragraph stuck away in the corner of the paper. It was only a few lines—issued by the police—though Myra did not know that—to the effect that a well-dressed man with papers on him giving the name of John Briggs had been knocked over by a motor-lorry the previous morning and had been taken unconscious to University College Hospital. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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