Chapter 1

"THE HAPPY PAIR."

Sandbeach is a rising watering-place on the south coast. It has been rising for the last ten years, yet, in the opinion of its inhabitants, it has not yet reached that pitch of elevation to which its merits entitle it. The guide-book emphatically declares that it is healthy, pleasantly situated, within easy distance of London, and inexpensive. But for all this eulogy, Sandbeach remains unpopular. A sand and shingle beach curved between headlands of crumbling chalk, a stone-faced esplanade with wooden shelters like dolls' houses, three or four dozen Queen Anne residences fronting some public gardens--a courtesy term, surely--such is Sandbeach. In the rear huddle a score or more of untidy cottages. These represent the original village of thirty years back. There is the usual monster hotel, invariably "under entirely new management," for each season it succeeds in bankrupting its unhappy proprietor. There is also an aggressively ornate band-stand, where play local musicians who seemingly vie with their predecessors in the staleness and worthlessness of their music. Golf-links, tennis-courts, bicycle-track, all are there, but all are more or less deserted. Sandbeach possesses every attraction of the modern seaside "resort," yet people, for some inscrutable reason, decline to fill its hotel or to occupy its apartments. Even in what is facetiously termed its "season" it is but sparsely populated. 'Tis a marine Doctor Fell, and no man knoweth the reason of its unpopularity.

Olive it was who had selected this dismal spot in which to pass her honeymoon. Her one desire was to have solitude--no solitude � deux, but solitude absolute and complete. Her husband in no way interfered with her desire. He sauntered about smoking endless cigarettes, and scanning such samples of modern French fiction as came to hand. Every few days he ran up to town. What he did there Olive knew not, nor did she trouble herself to inquire. But she did notice that he invariably appeared highly delighted with himself on returning from these jaunts.

Left to her own devices, Olive amused herself as best she could. But she thought more of Mallow that was consistent with her own peace of mind.

"Olive," said Angus, one day at luncheon, "I have paid your first year's income in to your account."

"Thank you, that is very kind of you," replied Olive, cheerfully; "but was it necessary to pay in the whole amount at once?"

"No; I need only pay it quarterly; but as I wished to be perfectly free to handle the money, I thought it best to get it done."

"Is it about the money that you have been so often up to London?"

"Well, yes; I have been seeing after it."

"And how is Mr. Dimbal?"

"I have not seen him. Mr. Dimbal has nothing to do with the business now, save in so far as your income is concerned. My affairs are in the hands of another firm of lawyers."

Olive was vaguely troubled.

"Of course, I have every confidence in you," she said; "but I am sorry you did not leave the business with Mr. Dimbal. He is so very trustworthy."

"There are other honest men in London," replied Carson, with his usual smile. "By-the-way, how long do you intend to stay here? We have now been exiled for three weeks."

"I was thinking of going home in another fortnight or so, if that will suit you."

"Oh, as to that, don't consider me. I am going to London myself."

"You surely do not mean to let me return alone? You really must not. Think how everybody will talk."

Carson shrugged his shoulders.

"I do not care what they say," he replied, without the least show of temper. "To tell you the truth, I am rather tired of this farce. You refuse to treat me in any way as a husband; you surely cannot complain if I betake myself elsewhere."

"I thought our relative positions were quite clear," said Mrs. Carson, coldly. "I married you simply and solely in obedience to my father's dying wish; you married me--well, you married me, I suppose, for the fifty thousand pounds that went with me."

"In other words, our marriage is a bargain."

"If you please; it matters little what we call it."

"A pleasant position for me," said Carson, good-humouredly.

His wife sat silently looking at her plate, while he continued to eat his luncheon with the utmost indifference.

"Perhaps the position is a trying one for you," she said, at length; "but I dictated the terms of our union very clearly in the first instance; you were perfectly free to accept or reject them. You accepted them; your reasons were your own. No doubt they were good ones."

"Quite right; ours is purely a business marriage, or bargain. We can call it that between ourselves."

"If you were a different kind of man, if you cared for me, things might perhaps be different. But you do not care for me; you do not know what love is."

"Excuse me if I say that you are hardly in a position to judge," replied Angus, quietly. "And are you not a trifle inconsistent? If I loved you, in what position should I stand, seeing that your affections are very definitely engaged?"

"Excuse me if, in my turn, I say that you are not in a position to speak as to that."

"You may think so, but I am not blind. Oh no; it's too late in the day to talk of love."

"I wish to do my duty," retorted Olive, rather weakly, it must be confessed.

"You have done your duty," said Carson, amiably; "you have obeyed your father, and you have brought me fifty thousand pounds. You do not love me, neither do I care two straws about you."

"Then why did you marry me?"

"For the money solely," he replied, shamelessly. "I served your turn, you served mine. Were I in love with you, do you think I would rest content with the purely nominal position of your husband? By no means. For the money's sake I made you my wife. I agreed to your terms because it suited me to do so. Have I ever gone contrary to you in any way?"

"No; you fulfil your part of the bargain admirably," she said scornfully.

"Then you can ask no more of me. I shall not return to the Manor House with you to hold an ignominious position. Our mutual ends are accomplished: let us part."

"Do you intend to leave me, then?" she asked, feeling herself at a disadvantage.

"I do. I shall go to London--perhaps even abroad. At all events, I intend to lead my own life."

"But think of the position I shall be placed in."

"Think of the position I am placed in," he replied emphatically.

"People will talk if you leave me so soon after our marriage."

"I must leave you to make the best excuses you can; the position is of your own making. You can say that my health is bad, or that the doctor has ordered me abroad. I'll pay you a visit every now and then to keep up appearances. More you cannot ask of me--more I am not disposed to grant."

Olive rose and struck the table with her open hand.

"I protest against your attitude," she cried indignantly.

"As I do against yours."

"You are not treating me fairly," she said, keeping back her tears with an effort.

"As fairly as you treat me, surely?"

"If I agree to be your wife, if I----"

"No," he interrupted. "I prefer matters to remain as they are. It is useless to feign what we neither of us feel."

Having so far humiliated herself, Olive was not prepared to go further. She realized that his position was every whit as strong as her own. She could resent his behaviour in no way, seeing that the original compact was of her own making. Dismayed at the predicament in which she found herself, she retired to her room to consider what she should do. Finally, she determined that, should he leave her, she would go to London for a few months. Mrs. Purcell was on her way to England, and had expressed her intention of taking a house in London. The old lady would gladly have her to stay with her; perhaps she might even invite Tui to join them. She would blind the Casterwell people, at all events; they would not know that Angus had left her so soon. It was the only possible solution she could think of.

That evening she dined in her room. She had no fancy for a renewal of the discussion. It could avail her nothing. If her husband had made up his mind to go, go he would; all she could say or do would not serve to deter him. Silence was the only dignified course open to her. So she brought to bear upon herself as much of her little stock of philosophy as she could muster. But she had to confess it was poor consolation. She felt lonely and very miserable.

Later in the evening her maid came to her with a request that she might take a walk. The girl was looking far from well, and Olive did not hesitate to let her go. She had become attached to Clara. She found her a woman of refinement and capacity, and withal respectful. Never had she shown the slightest inclination to take advantage of any favour Olive might have shown her. Yet there was something strange about the girl which puzzled her mistress not a little. More than once she had surprised her weeping bitterly, and there were times when Olive had thought she was unnecessarily jubilant. Olive had questioned her about these emotional outbursts, but with no satisfactory result, so in time she ceased to notice them. The girl was always perfect in the performance of her duties.

She saw Clara go out for her walk; but no sooner had she gone than Olive felt more restless and ill at ease than ever. The atmosphere of the house stifled her. She wished she had asked the maid for her hat and things before she went. She felt she must give way to hysterics unless she did something. She could neither read nor write, nor could she sit still. She felt she must get into the fresh air. She put on her hat and cloak and went out. The night was windy and rather cold, but this suited her overstrung nerves. Rapidly up and down the esplanade she walked, drinking in the keen air, and watching the dark clouds drive across the sickly moon. Up and down, up and down, until her limbs grew weary; and with her fatigue her excitement abated. At last, slowly climbing the steps to the top of the cliffs, she returned to the hotel. Her way lay through a small shrubbery, parted from the road by a slight iron railing, beside which a gas-lamp flared in the wind. She could see a man and woman talking earnestly together. They did not hear her. As she drew near, the man stooped and kissed the woman. The next moment she swept past them wrathful and resentful. She had recognized her husband.