The Colonel's Lady
by W. Somerset Maugham
| This story drips with irony, symbolic
names, and subtle Freudian allusions. (EV)
ALL this happened two or three
years before the outbreak of the war.
The Peregrines were having breakfast.
Though they were alone and the table was long they sat at opposite ends
of it. From the walls George Peregrine's ancestors, painted by the fashionable
painters of the day, looked down upon them. The butler brought in the morning
post. There were several letters for the colonel, business letters, The
Times and a small parcel for his wife Evie. He looked at his letters
and then, opening The Times, began to read it. They finished breakfast
and rose from the table. He noticed that his wife hadn't opened the parcel.
"What's that?" he asked.
"Only some books."
"Shall I open it for you?"
"If you like."
He hated to cut string and so
with some difficulty untied the knots.
"But they're all the same,"
he said when he had unwrapped the parcel. "What on earth d'you want six
copies of the same book for?" He opened one of them. "Poetry." Then he
looked at the title page. When Pyramids Decay, he read, by E. K.
Hamilton. Eva Katherine Hamilton: that was his wife's maiden name. He looked
at her with smiling surprise. "Have you written a book, Evie? You are a
"I didn't think it would interest
you very much. Would you like a copy?"
"Well, you know poetry isn't much in my line, but--yes,
I'd like a copy; I'll read it. I'll take it along to my study. I've got
a lot to do this morning."
He gathered up The Times,
his letters and the book, and went out. His study was a large and comfortable
room, with a big desk, leather arm-chairs and what he called "trophies
of the chase" on the walls. On the bookshelves were works of reference,
books on fanning, gardening, fishing and shooting, and books on the last
war, in which he had won an M.C. and a D.S.O. For before his marriage he
had been in the Welsh Guards. At the end of the war he retired and settled
down to the life of a country gentleman in the spacious house, some twenty
miles from Sheffield, which one of his forebears had built in the reign
of George III. George Peregrine had an estate of some fifteen hundred acres
which he managed with ability; he was a Justice of the Peace and performed
his duties conscientiously. During the season he rode to hounds two days
a week. He was a good shot, a golfer and though now a little over fifty
could still play a hard game of tennis. He could describe himself with
propriety as an all-round sportsman.
He had been putting on weight
lately, but was still a fine figure of a man; tall, with grey curly hair,
only just beginning to grow thin on the crown, frank blue eyes, good features
and a high colour. He was a public-spirited man, chairman of any number
of local organisations and, as became his class and station, a loyal member
of the Conservative Party. He looked upon it as his duty to see to the
welfare of the people on his estate and it was a satisfaction to him to
know that Evie could be trusted to tend the sick and succour the poor.
He had built a cottage hospital on the outskirts of the village and paid
the wages of a nurse out of his own pocket. All he asked of the recipients
of his bounty was that at elections, county or general, they should vote
for his candidate. He was a friendly man,
affable to his inferiors, considerate with his tenants
and popular with the neighbouring gentry. He would have been pleased and
at the same time slightly embarrassed if someone had told him he was a
jolly good fellow. That was what he wanted to be. He desired no higher
It was hard luck that he had
no children. He would have been an excellent father, kindly but strict,
and would have brought up his sons as gentlemen's sons should be brought
up, sent them to Eton, you know, taught them to fish, shoot and ride. As
it was, his heir was a nephew, son of his brother killed in a motor accident,
not a bad boy, but not a chip off the old block, no, sir, far from it;
and would you believe it, his fool of a mother was sending him to a co-educational
school. Evie had been a sad disappointment to him. Of course she was a
lady, and she had a bit of money of her own; she managed the house uncommonly
well and she was a good hostess. The village people adored her. She had
been a pretty little thing when he married her, with a creamy skin, light
brown hair and a trim figure, healthy too and not a bad tennis player;
he couldn't understand why she'd had no children; of course she was faded
now, she must be getting on for five and forty; her skin was drab, her
hair had lost its sheen and she was as thin as a rail. She was always neat
and suitably dressed, but she didn't seem to bother how she looked, she
wore no make-up and didn't even use lipstick; sometimes at night when she
dolled herself up for a party you could tell that once she'd been quite
attractive, but ordinarily she was--well, the sort of woman you simply
didn't notice. A nice woman, of course, a good wife, and it wasn't her
fault if she was barren, but it was tough on a fellow who wanted an heir
of his own loins; she hadn't any vitality, that's what was the matter with
her. He supposed he'd been in love with her when he asked her to marry
him, as least sufficiently in love for a man who wanted to marry and settle
down, but with time he discovered that they had nothing much in common.
She didn't care about hunting, and fishing bored her. Naturally they'd
drifted apart. He had to do her the justice to admit that she'd never bothered
him. There'd been no scenes. They had no quarrels. She seemed to take it
for granted that he should go his own way. When he went up to London now
and then she never wanted to come with him. He had a girl there, well,
she wasn't exactly a girl, she was thirty-five if she was a day, but she
was blonde and luscious and he only had to wire ahead of time and they'd
dine, do a show and spend the night together. Well, a man, a healthy normal
man had to have some fun in his life. The thought crossed his mind that
if Evie hadn't been such a good woman she'd have been a better wife; but
it was not the sort of thought that he welcomed and he put it away from
George Peregrine finished his
Times and being a considerate fellow rang the bell and told the
butler to take it to Evie. Then he looked at his watch. It was half-past
ten and at eleven he had an appointment with one of his tenants. He had
half an hour to spare.
"I'd better have a look at Evie's
book," he said to himself.
He took it up with a smile.
Evie had a lot of highbrow books in her sitting-room, not the sort of books
that interested him, but if they amused her he had no objection to her
reading them. He noticed that the volume he now held in his hand contained
no more than ninety pages. That was all to the good. He shared Edgar Allan
Poe's opinion that poems should be short. But as he turned the pages he
noticed that several of Evie's had long lines of irregular length and didn't
rhyme. He didn't like that. At his first school, when he was a little boy,
he remembered learning a poem that began: The boy stood on the burning
deck, and later, at Eton, one that started: Ruin seize thee, ruthless
king; and then there was Henry V; they'd had to take that, one half.
He stared at Evie's pages with consternation.
"That's not what I call poetry,"
Fortunately it wasn't all like
that. Interspersed with the pieces that looked so odd, lines of three or
four words and then a line of ten or fifteen, there were little poems,
quite short, that rhymed, thank God, with the lines all the same length.
Several of the pages were just headed with the word Sonnet, and
out of curiosity he counted the lines; there were fourteen of them. He
read them. They seemed all right, but he didn't quite know what they were
all about. He repeated to himself: Ruin seize thee, ruthless king.
"Poor Evie," he sighed.
At that moment the farmer he
was expecting was ushered into the study, and putting the book down he
made him welcome. They embarked on their business.
"I read your book, Evie," he
said as they sat down to lunch. "Jolly good. Did it cost you a packet to
have it printed?"
"No, I was lucky. I sent it
to a publisher and he took it."
"Not much money in poetry, my
dear," he said in his good-natured, hearty way.
"No, I don't suppose there is.
What did Bannock want to see you about this morning?"
Bannock was the tenant who had
interrupted his reading of Evie's poems.
"He's asked me to advance the
money for a pedigree bull he wants to buy. He's a good man and I've half
a mind to do it."
George Peregrine saw that Evie
didn't want to talk about her book and he was not sorry to change the subject.
He was glad she had used her maiden name on the title page; he didn't suppose
anyone would ever hear about the book, but he was proud of his own unusual
name and he wouldn't have liked it if some damned penny-a-liner had made
fun of Evie's effort in one of the papers.
During the few weeks that followed
he thought it tactful not to ask Evie any questions about her venture into
verse, and she never referred to it. It might have been a discreditable
incident that they had silently agreed not to mention. But then a strange
thing happened. He had to go to London on business and he took Daphne out
to dinner. That was the name of the girl with whom he was in the habit
of passing a few agreeable hours whenever he went to town.
"Oh, George," she said, "is
that your wife who's written a book they're all talking about?"
"What on earth d'you mean?"
"Well, there's a fellow I know
who's a critic. He took me out to dinner the other night and he had a book
with him. 'Got anything for me to read?' I said. What's that?' 'Oh, I don't
think that's your cup of tea,' he said. 'It's poetry. I've just been reviewing
it.' 'No poetry for me,' I said. 'It's about the hottest stuff I ever read,'
he said. 'Selling like hot cakes. And it's damned good.' "
"Who's the book by?" asked George.
"A woman called Hamilton. My
friend told me that wasn't her real name. He said her real name was Peregrine.
'Funny,' I said, 'I know a fellow called Peregrine.' 'Colonel in the army,'
he said. 'Lives near Sheffield.' "
"I'd just as soon you didn't
talk about me to your friends," said George with a frown of vexation.
"Keep your shirt on, dearie.
Who d'you take me for? I just said: 'It's not the same one.'" Daphne giggled.
"My friend said: 'They say he's a regular Colonel Blimp.' "
George had a keen sense of humour.
"You could tell them better
than that," he laughed. "If my wife had written a book I'd be the first
to know about it, wouldn't I?"
"I suppose you would."
Anyhow the matter didn't interest
her and when the colonel began to talk of other things she forgot about
it. He put it out of his mind too. There was nothing to it, he decided,
and that silly fool of a critic had just been pulling Daphne's leg. He
was amused at the thought of her tackling that book because she had been
told it was hot stuff and then finding it just a lot of bosh cut up into
He was a member of several clubs
and next day he thought he'd lunch at one in St. James's Street. He was
catching a train back to Sheffield early in the afternoon. He was sitting
in a comfortable arm-chair having a glass of sherry before going into the
dining-room when an old friend came up to him.
"Well, old boy, how's life?"
he said. "How d'you like being the husband of a celebrity?"
George Peregrine looked at his
friend. He thought he saw an amused twinkle in his eyes.
"I don't know what you're talking
about," he answered.
"Come off it, George. Everyone
knows E. K. Hamilton is your wife. Not often a book of verse has a success
like that. Look here, Henry Dashwood is lunching with me. He'd like to
"Who the devil is Henry Dashwood
and why should he want to meet me?"
"Oh, my dear fellow, what do
you do with yourself all the time in the country? Henry's about the best
critic we've got. He wrote a wonderful review of Evie's book. D'you mean
to say she didn't show it you?"
Before George could answer his
friend had called a man over. A tall, thin man, with a high forehead, a
beard, a long nose and a stoop, just the sort of man whom George was prepared
to dislike at first sight. Introductions were effected. Henry Dashwood
"Is Mrs. Peregrine in London
by any chance? I should very much like to meet her," he said.
"No, my wife doesn't like London.
She prefers the country," said George stiffly.
"She wrote me a very nice letter
about my review. I was pleased. You know, we critics get more kicks than
halfpence. I was simply bowled over by her book. It's so fresh and original,
very modern without being obscure. She seems to be as much at her ease
in free verse as in the classical metres." Then because he was a critic
he thought he should criticise. "Sometimes her ear is a trifle at fault,
but you can say the same of Emily Dickinson. There are several of those
short lyrics of hers that might have been written by Landor."
All this was gibberish to George
Peregrine. The man was nothing but a disgusting highbrow. But the colonel
had good manners and he answered with proper civility: Henry Dashwood went
on as though he hadn't spoken.
"But what makes the book so
outstanding is the passion that throbs in every line. So many of these
young poets are so anaemic, cold, bloodless, dully intellectual, but here
you have real naked, earthy passion; of course deep, sincere emotion like
that is tragic--ah, my dear Colonel, how right Heine was when he said that
the poet makes little songs out of his great sorrows. You know, now and
then, as I read and re-read those heart-rending pages I thought of Sappho."
This was too much for George
Peregrine and he got up.
"Well, it's jolly nice of you
to say such nice things about my wife's little book. I'm sure she'll be
delighted. But I must bolt, I've got to catch a train and I want to get
a bite of lunch."
"Damned fool," he said irritably
to himself as he walked upstairs to the dining-room.
He got home in time for dinner
and after Evie had gone to bed he went into his study and looked for her
book. He thought he'd just glance through it again to see for himself what
they were making such a fuss about, but he couldn't find it. Evie must
have taken it away.
"Silly," he muttered.
He'd told her he thought it
jolly good. What more could a fellow be expected to say? Well, it didn't
matter. He lit his pipe and read the Field till he felt sleepy.
But a week or so later it happened that he had to go into Sheffield for
the day. He lunched there at his club. He had nearly finished when the
Duke of Haverel came in. This was the great local magnate and of course
the colonel knew him, but only to say how d'you do to; and he was surprised
when the Duke stopped at his table.
"We're so sorry your wife couldn't
come to us for the week-end," he said, with a sort of shy cordiality. "We're
expecting rather a nice lot of people."
George was taken aback. He guessed
that the Haverels had asked him and Evie over for the week-end and Evie,
without saying a word to him about it, had refused. He had the presence
of mind to say he was sorry too.
"Better luck next time," said
the Duke pleasantly and moved on.
Colonel Peregrine was very angry
and when he got home he said to his wife:
"Look here, what's this about
our being asked over to Haverel? Why on earth did you say we couldn't go?
We've never been asked before and it's the best shooting in the county."
"I didn't think of that. I thought
it would only bore you."
"Damn it all, you might at least
have asked me if I wanted to go."
He looked at her closely. There
was something in her expression that he didn't quite understand. He frowned.
"I suppose I was asked?" he
Evie flushed a little.
"Well, in point of fact you
"I call it damned rude of them
to ask you without asking me."
"I suppose they thought it wasn't
your sort of party. The Duchess is rather fond of writers and people like
that, you know. She's having Henry Dashwood, the critic, and for some reason
he wants to meet me."
"It was damned nice of you to
"It's the least I could do,"
she smiled. She hesitated a moment. "George, my publishers want to give
a little dinner party for me one day towards the end of the month and of
course they want you to come too."
"Oh, I don't think that's quite
my mark. I'll come up to London with you if you like. I'll find someone
to dine with."
"I expect it'll be very dull,
but they're making rather a point of it. And the day after, the American
publisher who's taken my book is giving a cocktail party at Claridge's.
I'd like you to come to that if you wouldn't mind."
"Sounds like a crashing bore,
but if you really want me to come I'll come."
"It would be sweet of you."
George Peregrine was dazed by
the cocktail party. There were a lot of people. Some of them didn't look
so bad, a few of the women were decently turned out, but the men seemed
to him pretty awful. He was introduced to everyone as Colonel Peregrine,
E. K. Hamilton's husband, you know. The men didn't seem to have anything
to say to him, but the women gushed.
"You must be proud of your wife.
Isn't it wonderful? You know, I read it right through at a sitting, I simply
couldn't put it down, and when I'd finished I started again at the beginning
and read it right through a second time. I was simply thrilled."
The English publisher said to
"We've not had a success like
this with a book of verse for twenty years. I've never seen such reviews."
The American publisher said
"It's swell. It'll be a smash
hit in America. You wait and see."
The American publisher had sent
Evie a great spray of orchids. Damned ridiculous, thought George. As they
came in, people were taken up to Evie, and it was evident that they said
flattering things to her, which she took with a pleasant smile and a word
or two of thanks. She was a trifle flushed with the excitement, but seemed
quite at her ease. Though he thought the whole thing a lot of stuff and
nonsense George noted with approval that his wife was carrying it off in
just the right way.
"Well, there's one thing," he
said to himself, "you can see she's a lady and that's a damned sight more
than you can say of anyone else here."
He drank a good many cocktails.
But there was one thing that bothered him. He had a notion that some of
the people he was introduced to looked at him in rather a funny sort of
way, he couldn't quite make out what it meant, and once when he strolled
by two women who were sitting together on a sofa he had the impression
that they were talking about him and after he passed he was almost certain
they tittered. He was very glad when the party came to an end.
In the taxi on their way back
to their hotel Evie said to him:
"You were wonderful, dear. You
made quite a hit. The girls simply raved about you: they thought you so
"Girls," he said bitterly. "Old
"Were you bored, dear?"
She pressed his hand in a gesture
"I hope you won't mind if we
wait and go down by the afternoon train. I've got some things to do in
"No, that's all right. Shopping?"
"I do want to buy one or two
things, but I've got to go and be photographed. I hate the idea, but they
think I ought to be. For America, you know."
He said nothing. But he thought.
He thought it would be a shock to the American public when they saw the
portrait of the homely, desiccated little woman who was his wife. He'd
always been under the impression that they liked glamour in America.
He went on thinking, and next
morning when Evie had gone out he went to his club and up to the library.
There he looked up recent numbers of The Times Literary Supplement,
The New Statesman and The Spectator. Presently he found reviews
of Evie's book. He didn't read them very carefully, but enough to see that
they were extremely favourable. Then he went to the bookseller's in Piccadilly
where he occasionally bought books. He'd made up his mind that he had to
read this damned thing of Evie's properly, but he didn't want to ask her
what she'd done with the copy she'd given him. He'd buy one for himself.
Before going in he looked in the window and the first thing he saw was
a display of When Pyramids Decay. Damned silly title! He went in.
A young man came forward and asked if he could help him.
"No, I'm just having a look
round." It embarrassed him to ask for Evie's book and he thought he'd find
it for himself and then take it to the salesman. But he couldn't see it
anywhere and at last, finding the young man near him, he said in a carefully
casual tone: "By the way, have you got a book called When Pyramids Decay?"
"The new edition came in this
morning. I'll get a copy."
In a moment the young man returned
with it. He was a short, rather stout young man, with a shock of untidy
carroty hair and spectacles. George Peregrine, tall, upstanding, very military,
towered over him.
"Is this a new edition then?"
"Yes, sir. The fifth. It might
be a novel the way it's selling."
George Peregrine hesitated a
"Why d'you suppose it's such
a success? I've always been told no one reads poetry."
"Well, it's good, you know.
I've read it meself." The young man, though obviously cultured, had a slight
Cockney accent, and George quite instinctively adopted a patronising attitude.
"It's the story they like. Sexy, you know, but tragic."
George frowned a little. He
was coming to the conclusion that the young man was rather impertinent.
No one had told him anything about there being a story in the damned book
and he had not gathered that from reading the reviews. The young man went
"Of course it's only a flash
in the pan, if you know what I mean. The way I look at it, she was sort
of inspired like by a personal experience, like Housman was with The
Shropshire Lad. She'll never write anything else."
"How much is the book?" said
George coldly to stop his chatter. "You needn't wrap it up, I'll just slip
it into my pocket."
The November morning was raw
and he was wearing a greatcoat.
At the station he bought the
evening papers and magazines and he and Evie settled themselves comfortably
in opposite corners of a first-class carriage and read. At five o'clock
they went along to the restaurant car to have tea and chatted a little.
They arrived. They drove home in the car which was waiting for them. They
bathed, dressed for dinner, and after dinner Evie. saying she was tired
out. went to bed. She kissed him, as was her habit, on the forehead. Then
he went into the hall, took Evie's book out of his greatcoat pocket and
going into the study began to read it. He didn't read verse very easily
and though he read with attention, every word of it, the impression he
received was far from clear. Then he began at the beginning again and read
it a second time. He read with increasing malaise, but he was not a stupid
man and when he had finished he had a distinct understanding of what it
was all about. Part of the book was in free verse, part in conventional
metres, but the story it related was coherent and plain to the meanest
intelligence. It was the story of a passionate love affair between an older
woman, married, and a young man. George Peregrine made out the steps of
it as easily as if he had been doing a sum in simple addition.
Written in the first person,
it began with the tremulous surprise of the woman, past her youth, when
it dawned upon her that the young man was in love with her. She hesitated
to believe it. She thought she must be deceiving herself. And she was terrified
when on a sudden she discovered that she was passionately in love with
him. She told herself it was absurd; with the disparity of age between
them nothing but unhappiness could come to her if she yielded to her emotion.
She tried to prevent him from speaking but the day came when he told her
that he loved her and forced her to tell him that she loved him too. He
begged her to run away with him. She couldn't leave her husband, her home;
and what life could they look forward to, she an ageing woman, he so young?
How could she expect his love to last? She begged him to have mercy on
her. But his love was impetuous. He wanted her, he wanted her with all
his heart, and at last trembling, afraid, desirous, she yielded to him.
Then there was a period of ecstatic happiness. The world, the dull, humdrum
world of every day, blazed with glory. Love songs flowed from her pen.
The woman worshipped the young, virile body of her lover. George flushed
darkly when she praised his broad chest and slim flanks, the beauty of
his legs and the flatness of his belly.
Hot stuff, Daphne's friend had
said. It was that all right. Disgusting.
There were sad little pieces
in which she lamented the emptiness of her life when as must happen he
left her, but they ended with a cry that all she had to suffer would be
worth it for the bliss that for a while had been hers. She wrote of the
long, tremulous nights they passed together and the languor that lulled
them to sleep in one another's arms. She wrote of the rapture of brief
stolen moments when, braving all danger, their passion overwhelmed them
and they surrendered to its call.
She thought it would be an affair
of a few weeks, but miraculously it lasted. One of the poems referred to
three years having gone by without lessening the love that filled their
hearts. It looked as though he continued to press her to go away with him,
far away, to a hill town in Italy, a Greek island, a walled city in Tunisia,
so that they could be together always, for in another of the poems she
besought him to let things be as they were. Their happiness was precarious.
Perhaps it was owing to the difficulties they had to encounter and the
rarity of their meetings that their love had retained for so long its first
enchanting ardour. Then on a sudden the young man died. How, when or where
George could not discover. There followed a long, heartbroken cry of bitter
grief, grief she could not indulge in, grief that had to be hidden. She
had to be cheerful, give dinner-parties and go out to dinner, behave as
she had always behaved, though the light had gone out of her life and she
was bowed down with anguish. The last poem of all was a set of four short
stanzas in which the writer, sadly resigned to her loss, thanked the dark
powers that rule man's destiny that she had been privileged at least for
a while to enjoy the greatest happiness that we poor human beings can ever
hope to know.
It was three o'clock in the
morning when George Peregrine finally put the book down. It had seemed
to him that he heard Evie's voice in every line, over and over again he
came upon turns of phrase he had heard her use, there were details that
were as familiar to him as to her: there was no doubt about it; it was
her own story she had told, and it was as plain as anything could be that
she had had a lover and her lover had died. It was not anger so much that
he felt, nor horror or dismay, though he was dismayed and he was horrified,
but amazement. It was as inconceivable that Evie should have had a love
affair, and a wildly passionate one at that, as that the trout in a glass
case over the chimney piece in his study, the finest he had ever caught,
should suddenly wag its tail. He understood now the meaning of the amused
look he had seen in the eyes of that man he had spoken to at the club,
he understood why Daphne when she was talking about the book had seemed
to be enjoying a private joke, and why those two women at the cocktail
party had tittered when he strolled past them.
He broke out into a sweat. Then
on a sudden he was seized with fury and he jumped up to go and awake Evie
and ask her sternly for an explanation. But he stopped at the door. After
all, what proof had he? A book. He remembered that he'd told Evie he thought
it jolly good. True, he hadn't read it, but he'd pretended he had. He would
look a perfect fool if he had to admit that.
"I must watch my step," he muttered.
He made up his mind to wait
for two or three days and think it all over. Then he'd decide what to do.
He went to bed, but he couldn't sleep for a long time.
"Evie," he kept on saying to
himself. "Evie, of all people."
They met at breakfast next morning
as usual. Evie was as she always was, quiet, demure and self-possessed,
a middle-aged woman who made no effort to look younger than she was, a
woman who had nothing of what he still called It. He looked at her as he
hadn't looked at her for years. She had her usual placid serenity. Her
pale blue eyes were untroubled. There was no sign of guilt on her candid
brow. She made the same little casual remarks she always made.
"It's nice to get back to the
country again after those two hectic days in London. What are you going
to do this morning?"
It was incomprehensible.
Three days later he went to
see his solicitor. Henry Blane was an old friend of George's as well as
his lawyer. He had a place not far from Peregrine's and for years they
had shot over one another's preserves. For two days a week he was a country
gentleman and for the other five a busy lawyer in Sheffield. He was a tall,
robust fellow, with a boisterous manner and a jovial laugh, which suggested
that he liked to be looked upon essentially as a sportsman and a good fellow
and only incidentally as a lawyer. But he was shrewd and worldly-wise.
"Well, George, what's brought
you here today?" he boomed as the colonel was shown into his office. "Have
a good time in London? I'm taking my missus up for a few days next week.
"It's about Evie I've come to
see you," said Peregrine, giving him a suspicious look. "Have you read
His sensitivity had been sharpened
during those last days of troubled thought and he was conscious of a faint
change in the lawyer's expression. It was as though he were suddenly on
"Yes, I've read it. Great success,
isn't it? Fancy Evie breaking out into poetry. Wonders will never cease."
George Peregrine was inclined
to lose his temper.
"It's made me look a perfect
"Oh, what nonsense, George!
There's no harm in Evie's writing a book. You ought to be jolly proud of
"Don't talk such rot. It's her
own story. You know it and everyone else knows it. I suppose I'm the only
one who doesn't know who her lover was."
"There is such a thing as imagination,
old boy. There's no reason to suppose the whole thing isn't made up."
"Look here, Henry, we've known
one another all our lives. We've had all sorts of good times together.
Be honest with me. Can you look me in the face and tell me you believe
it's a made-up story?"
Harry Blane moved uneasily in
his chair. He was disturbed by the distress in old George's voice.
"You've got no right to ask
me a question like that. Ask Evie."
"I daren't," George answered
after an anguished pause. "I'm afraid she'd tell me the truth."
There was an uncomfortable silence.
"Who was the chap?"
Harry Blane looked at him straight
in the eye.
"I don't know, and if I did
I wouldn't tell you."
"You swine. Don't you see what
a position I'm in? Do you think it's very pleasant to be made absolutely
The lawyer lit a cigarette and
for some moments silently puffed it.
"I don't see what I can do for
you," he said at last.
"You've got private detectives
you employ, I suppose. I want you to put them on the job and let them find
"It's not very pretty to put
detectives on one's wife, old boy; and besides, taking for granted for
a moment that Evie had an affair, it was a good many years ago and I don't
suppose it would be possible to find out a thing. They seem to have covered
their tracks pretty carefully."
"I don't care. You put the detectives
on. I want to know the truth."
"I won't, George. If you're
determined to do that you'd better consult someone else. And look here,
even if you got evidence that Evie had been unfaithful to you what would
you do with it? You'd look rather silly divorcing your wife because she'd
committed adultery ten years ago."
"At all events I could have
it out with her."
"You can do that now, but you
know just as well as I do that if you do she'll leave you. D'you want her
to do that?"
George gave him an unhappy
"I don't know. I always thought
she'd been a damned good wife to me. She runs the house perfectly, we never
have any servant trouble; she's done wonders with the garden and she's
splendid with all the village people. But damn it, I have my self-respect
to think of. How can I go on living with her when I know that she was grossly
unfaithful to me?"
"Have you always been faithful
"More or less, you know. After
all, we've been married for nearly twenty-four years and Evie was never
much for bed."
The solicitor slightly raised
his eyebrows, but George was too intent on what he was saying to notice.
"I don't deny that I've had
a bit of fun now and then. A man wants it. Women are different."
"We only have men's word for
that," said Harry Blane, with a faint smile.
"Evie's absolutely the last
woman I'd have suspected of kicking over the traces. I mean, she's a very
fastidious, reticent woman. What on earth made her write the damned book?"
"1 suppose it was a very poignant
experience and perhaps it was a relief to her to get it off her chest like
"Well, if she had to write it
why the devil didn't she write it under an assumed name?"
"She used her maiden name. I
suppose she thought that was enough, and it would have been if the book
hadn't had this amazIng boom."
George Peregrine and the lawyer
were sitting opposite one another with a desk between them. George, his
elbow on the desk, his cheek on his hand, frowned at his thought.
"It's so rotten not to know
what sort of a chap he was. One can't even tell if he was by way of being
a gentleman. I mean, for all I know he may have been a farm-hand or a clerk
in a lawyer's office."
Harry Blane did not permit himself
to smile and when he answered there was in his eyes a kindly, tolerant
"Knowing Evie so well I think
the probabilities are that he was all right. Anyhow I'm sure he wasn't
a clerk in my office."
"It's been a shock to me," the
colonel sighed. "I thought she was fond of me. She couldn't have written
that book unless she hated me."
"Oh, I don't believe that. I
don't think she's capable of hatred."
"You're not going to pretend
that she loves me."
"Well, what does she feel for
Harry Blane leaned back in his
swivel chair and looked at George reflectively.
"Indifference, I should say."
The colonel gave a little shudder
"After all, you're not in love
with her, are you?"
George Peregrine did not answer
"It's been a great blow to me
not to have any children, but I've never let her see that I think she's
let me down. I've always been kind to her. Within reasonable limits I've
tried to do my duty by her."
The lawyer passed a large hand
over his mouth to conceal the smile that trembled on his lips.
"It's been such an awful shock
to me," Peregrine went on. "Damn it all, even ten years ago Evie was no
chicken and God knows, she wasn't much to look at. It's so ugly." He sighed
deeply. "What would you do in my place?"
George Peregrine drew himself
bolt upright in his chair and he looked at Harry with the stern set face
that he must have worn when he inspected his regiment.
"I can't overlook a thing like
this. I've been made a laughing-stock. I can never hold up my head again."
"Nonsense," said the lawyer
sharply, and then in a pleasant, kindly manner, "Listen, old boy: the man's
dead; it all happened a long while back. Forget it. Talk to people about
Evie's book, rave about it, tell 'em how proud you are of her. Behave as
though you had so much confidence in her, you knew she could never have
been unfaithful to you. The world moves so quickly and people's memories
are so short. They'll forget."
"I shan't forget."
"You're both middle-aged people.
She probably does a great deal more for you than you think and you'd be
awfully lonely without her. I don't think it matters if you don't forget.
It'll be all to the good if you can get it into that thick head of yours
that there's a lot more in Evie than you ever had the gumption to see."
"Damn it all, you talk as if
I was to blame."
"No, I don't think you were
to blame, but I'm not so sure that Evie was either. I don't suppose she
wanted to fall in love with this boy. D'you remember those verses right
at the end? The impression they gave me was that though she was shattered
by his death, in a strange sort of way she welcomed it. All through she'd
been aware of the fragility of the tie that bound them. He died in the
full flush of his first love and had never known that love so seldom endures;
he'd only known its bliss and beauty. In her own bitter grief she found
solace in the thought that he'd been spared all sorrow."
"All that's a bit above my head,
old boy. I see more or less what you mean."
George Peregrine stared unhappily
at the inkstand on the desk. He was silent and the lawyer looked at him
with curious, yet sympathetic, eyes.
"Do you realise what courage
she must have had never by a sign to show how dreadfully unhappy she was?"
he said gently.
Colonel Peregrine sighed.
"I'm broken. I suppose you're
right; it's no good crying over spilt milk and it would only make things
worse if I made a fuss."
George Peregrine gave a pitiful
"I'll take your advice. I'll
do nothing. Let them think me a damned fool and to hell with them. The
truth is, I don't know what I'd do without Evie. But I'll tell you what,
there's one thing I shall never understand till my dying day: What in the
name of heaven did the fellow ever see in her?"