Bird of Paradise Part 18

"Shall I go?" asked Clifford.

"No. Just to the other end of the room."

He obeyed, and fell into the depths of a fat arm-chair.

"That you, Nigel? How is it all going on? Madeline hasn't heard from him lately--not for ages."

"Quite so," answered Nigel's voice. "I've found out something I want you to know. It isn't really serious--at least I'm pretty sure I can put it right, but I'd like to see you about it; it wouldn't take you a moment."

"But is it a thing that may make any difference?" she asked rather anxiously.

"No. Not if it's taken in time," he answered.

"Oh, can't you 'phone about it, Nigel?"

"Not very well, my dear. It really wouldn't take you a minute to hear about it _viva voce_."

"But you can't keep on calling every day!" cried Bertha, exasperated.

"Quite so. Couldn't you go in for a few minutes to-morrow morning at the Grosvenor Gallery in Bond Street? Say at about eleven or twelve? I won't keep you five minutes, I promise, and you can tell me if you approve of my plan."

"Very well, I'll do that. Quarter-past eleven," added Bertha.

"Only one thing, Bertha, don't tell anyone--not a soul."

"Why not?"

"I'll explain when I see you. But you mustn't mention it. It's nothing--two seconds."

"Oh, all right! But why so many mysteries? You might just as well tell me now on the telephone."

"I'm afraid I can't; I have to show you a letter."

"I suppose Rupert has been seeing Moona Chivvey again? Is that it?"

"Well, yes. But that's not all. Not a word to Madeline! Isn't it curious, Bertha, troubles about women are always the same. Either _they_ want _you_ to marry _them,_ or _they_ won't marry _you_!"

"Oh, really? Good-bye."

"How brilliant you're looking, Bertha! You've got your hair done in that mysterious new way again."

"How on _earth_ can you know through the telephone?"

"Why, easily. By your voice. You talk in a different way--to suit it."

"Do I? How funny! Good-bye."

Ten minutes later Percy came in.

He seemed pleased to see his young brother.

"What's that book you've brought, Cliff?"

"It's 'The New Arabian Nights.'"

Percy laughed.

"Oh yes, I know--the copy I gave Bertha. Have you decided to let her have it back on mature consideration?"

"Oh, I say, Percy! Come off the roof, there's a good chap," said the boy, blushing a little.

"I think I shall have to take a holiday from chambers to-morrow," Percy said. "Shall we take him out to lunch, Bertha?"

"By all means; or, at any rate, you take him, Percy."

"Are you engaged in the morning?" he asked her very quickly.

"I ought to look in at my dressmaker's for a minute," she said, feeling angry with Nigel that he had made her promise to conceal even a few minutes of her day.

No more was said on the subject.

Presently, Percy went upstairs to his room and turned the key. He then took out of a drawer and placed in front of him, in their order, three rather curious-looking letters, written in typewriting on ordinary plain white notepaper. The first two, both of which began "_Dear Mr.

Kellynch_," were four pages long, and gave some information in somewhat mysterious terms. The third one had no beginning, and merely mentioned an hour and a place where, he was told, he would find his wife on the following morning, if he wished to do so, in the company of an individual with the initials N. H. The letter further advised him to go there and find her and take steps to put a stop to the proceedings which had been watched for some time by somebody who signed the letter "your true and reliable friend."

The right thing to do, according to all unwritten laws of the conduct of a gentleman, would be to destroy such communications and at once forget them. To show them to her, Percy felt, would be degrading to himself and to such a woman as his wife, whom he now realised he placed on a pedestal. The idea of seeing the pedestal rock seemed to take the earth from under his feet. But not only that, he now felt that, though he hadn't known it, he loved her, not with a mild, half-patronising affection, but with the maddening jealousy of a lover in the most pa.s.sionate stage of love. A man placed in his position nearly always thinks that it is the idea of being deceived that hurts the most.

Particularly when the object of suspicion is his wife. Now he knew it was not that; he could forgive the deception; but he couldn't bear to think that any other man could think of her from that point of view at all. And if he found that the mere facts stated in the three letters were true, even if the inferences suggested were utterly false, he had made up his mind what to do. He would go and see Nigel on the subject, forbid him the house, saying that too frequent visits had caused talk, and never mention the subject to Bertha. That was his present plan.

Perhaps it would not be possible to carry it out, but that was his idea.

The fact that Bertha had been vague about her morning engagement--for it was really unlike her not to seem pleased at the idea of spending the whole day with him and the little brother--so agonised Percy that he pretended to have a headache and saw practically nothing of Bertha till the next day. He said then that he would go to chambers, meet Clifford at Prince's and come home after lunch and take Bertha out somewhere.

This was to leave her perfectly free, so that she need not alter any arrangements. He wished to see what she would do.

It was a glorious morning, and Percy felt rather mean and miserable and unlike the day as he left the house.

Bertha was already dressed, looking deliciously fresh and pink, and sparkling and fair as the sunshine. A second of acute physical jealousy made him remark rather bitterly before he left that her hat was a little bit striking, wasn't it? Upon which she at once, in her good-tempered, amiable way (only too delighted that he should have noticed anything in her toilette even to object to it), plucked the white feather out of the black hat and put a little coat on over her dress, so as to look less noticeable.

At a quarter past eleven Percy paid his shilling at the gallery, walked in, looking slowly at the drawings on the walls in the narrow pa.s.sage that led to the rooms.

The moment he reached the first door on the left-hand side, which was open, he saw through it, exactly opposite to him, seated on a sofa, Bertha, looking up and chattering to Nigel Hillier, who was looking down in a protecting manner, and listening with great interest to her conversation.

Neither of them saw him.

The pain of finding one part of the letter true was so startling and terrible that he dared not look another moment; a second more, and he might have made a scandal, perhaps for ever after to be regretted, and possibly entirely groundless.

He walked straight out of the gallery again, and drove to Sloane Street in a taxi. During the drive he felt extraordinary sensations. He remembered an occasion when he had been to a dentist as a little boy, and the strange new suffering it had caused him. Then he thought that when he got home, he would feel better. Instead of that the sight of the familiar house was unbearable agony; he could not endure to go into it; he drove back again to the club of which both he and Nigel were members, and where Nigel was generally to be found before lunch. There he tried to wait and master himself a little; it was peculiar torture to have left them there now. He felt he would like to go back to the gallery and at least spoil their morning. But that, his sound sense told him, would be a mistake. He would wait there till Nigel came in.