“You’ve taken from me,” the husky voice whispered to the carpet, “the only gracious thing I ever did in my life. Yes, let’s go.”
They were going in silence. Iris had one foot in the garden when across the silence darted the neat figure of Sir Maurice. He touched her shoulder. “Iris,” he said. She looked round at him with huge, sleepwalking eyes.
“Iris,” Sir Maurice said. He was holding out his hand.
“I can’t,” she whispered. “I’ve hated you so bitterly, so long. I can’t. Maurice, please don’t ask me.”
“I do ask you, Iris. I beg it from you. You are good.”
Iris’s eyes were as though transfixed over the taut old gentleman’s shoulder. Iris’s eyes were on Venice. Napier had touched Venice’s hand, and somehow as he had made to kiss her cheek she had started back frantically … and had instantly smiled … brightly. Iris’s eyes seemed to dilate. Then she took Sir Maurice’s hand. “Thank you, Maurice. But it is Venice who is good. Venice is good. Goodbye.”
They went silently. For a second the green hat flamed in the mist of the light that fell on the lawn, and then the green hat was gone. I stared out into the garden.
I remember a “hm” just at the very moment when behind me there was a thud of someone falling, and Guy’s murmur: “Hand me that brandy, Maurice.”
Venice sat very erect in a great leather armchair. Her eyes were closed.
Sir Maurice darted about. He waved at me that black ebony paper-knife. He smiled that ancient smile. “Boy, we shouldn’t make hard-and-fast rules for anyone but ourselves. And not even for ourselves. Leads to no good. …”
“She’s all right,” Guy murmured to Hilary. De Travest was one of those men who always know how to deal with any physical emergency. He knew tricks. …
“Poor child, poor child!” sighed Sir Maurice.
“She’s all right now,” said Hilary. He was very white and young-looking, Hilary. Oh, the hm’s that dropped from Hilary that night!
It was Guy’s face that Venice saw when she opened her eyes. Suddenly, she was crimson.
“Your first words should be,” Guy smiled, “ ‘Where am I?’ I may or may not tell you.”
“Guy, where am I?” She was crimson, like a child found out.
“With your friends, Venice, who love you. And Napier has gone.”
“But he hasn’t!” she screamed, and caught her scream to her mouth with the palm of her hand. We followed her terrified eyes to see Napier where we had first seen him that night. He stared at Venice. And just at that moment the silence was shattered by the roar of the Hispano. That shattering roar held us all still, bewildered. From beneath the trees of Sutton Marle it swept on us like the roar of a thousand rifles.
“That car’s gone mad!” rose to my lips.
I saw Venice bite the back of her hand, staring at Napier. The roar of the car had held him at the open window. As he came in Guy spoke savagely. “Napier, what the hell does this mean? Can’t you see what you’re doing to Venice?”
Napier said wearily, and he tried to smile, his eyes on Venice: “All right, Guy. I thought Venice was my friend. I was wrong—”
“Naps,” rapped out Sir Maurice, “what does this mean!”
As Napier approached near to Venice she jumped up from her chair and started away from him.
“Napier, I don’t understand!” she tried not to sob. “Why have you come back? Napier!”
He said wearily: “Why didn’t you tell me, Venice? I can’t understand. God knows I’ve no opinion of myself left, but I’m not such a pitiful blackguard as—”
“But what is it, Naps!” And she bit the back of her hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! Why are you looking at me like that?” “You told Iris, but not me, in case it might interfere with my happiness! My God, Venice, what do you think I am, not to have told me! Do you think I can leave you when you are with a child of mine! Iris said she had promised you not to tell me, but she broke down at the last moment—”
“But it’s a lie!” Venice screamed. “It’s a bloody lie! I never told her anything! It’s not true! Oh, God, it’s not true!”
What was said then, what was done, how they looked, I can’t remember. I remember only that as Venice sobbed the roar of the car seemed to lessen. The stork had passed from under the trees of Sutton Marle. I think Napier was holding Venice, she was sobbing as though with a breaking heart. “She’s sent you back,” she sobbed. “The beast, the beast! She’s sent you back to show she loved you more than I do. …”
Sir Maurice darted across at me, rapped me on the shoulder with the paper-knife.
“Boy, what was that you said about that car going mad?”
I stared at him. I hadn’t the faintest idea what I had meant. The distant roar still filled the room like a menace. “I don’t know,” I said. “Sounds mad. …”
“Come along,” the old gentleman rapped out, and darted through the window. I have a confused picture of Guy towering over Napier and Venice with a brimming glass in his hand, of Hilary staring whitely after us. Like a young lover, I see Hilary at that moment. I caught the General up as he was starting-off Guy’s car.
“After her, boy. After her. Feel sick, her going like that. Feel sick.”
“Can’t catch her in this car, sir.”
“We’ll see. Try, anyway. Must catch her. Must beg her forgiveness.” He looked at me as the car started off. He was smiling. Those clever darting eyes were wet. Then Hilary, hatless like ourselves, jumped on to the footboard and into the back.
“What’s this, Maurice?”
“After her, man. Iris suddenly thrown her hand in. Listen to that hell’s own racket!”
Sir Maurice rushed that ancient Rolls
