silent, and Joyce yawned with increasing carelessness, and asked occasional questions without listening to the answer. The crisis happened when she sprang up and stretched her arms above her head.
“Haven’t you people got any home? I hate being inhospitable, Susan, but you and your new-found husband had better go. Bertram and I sometimes sleep o’ nights.”
There was a moment’s silence before Bertram answered:
“O’Brien is staying. He’s going to use the sofa to-night.”
There was another silence.
“Sorry,” said Joyce, “but I can’t allow that.”
“Why not?”
Bertram knew the “row” was coming.
“It’s not in my contract with the maids,” said Joyce very calmly. Then she spoke another sentence which seemed to reveal a knowledge, or at least a guess of the inner meaning of this visit from Susan and Dennis.
“Besides, my house is not going to be made a hiding place for Irish rebels. I’m English, and play the game accordingly.”
Yes, undoubtedly, there was going to be a row!
Bertram decided upon a frank explanation. Joyce had the right to know.
“Look here, Joyce, O’Brien is Susan’s husband, and the police are after him. You know how I stand about Sinn Fein. … Anyhow—I’ve given my word. O’Brien stays here to-night.”
“He does not stay,” said Joyce. “This is my house. If that man is not out of it in two minutes, I’ll telephone to the police.”
She walked quickly to Bertram’s desk and caught hold of the receiver.
Bertram followed her, still explaining, rather desperately. He had given his word. He quite understood Joyce’s point of view. He sympathised to some extent. This Sinn Fein business was criminal folly. But O’Brien had been a friend of his in the War. And he was Susan’s husband. Did she understand? His own brother-in-law! He was in real danger, and it was not in the code of their crowd—was it?—to hand over a hunted man.—A criminal? Well, he didn’t know. O’Brien had told him nothing. He asked no questions. Besides—that was all beside the argument.
“I’ve given my word, Joyce—my honour’s pledged.”
“What about my honour?” asked Joyce. Her voice was very cold and hard. “My father’s name? Our honour to England?”
She turned to Dennis O’Brien, still holding the telephone.
“Are you going? Time’s up.”
Dennis O’Brien smiled at her, and his Irish eyes paid homage to this girl’s beauty as she stood facing him, so hostile. He had been smiling all through Bertram’s monologue. It seemed to amuse him, this altercation between the English girl and his wife’s brother.
“I’m going,” he said. “Don’t worry at all. It’s what one expects of English women! They would turn a starving dog out of doors.”
“Mad dogs,” said Joyce. “With a whip.”
It was Susan now who intervened, ragingly.
“Joyce! You’re a damned cat! No wonder Bertram has a hellish time with you. I’d like to see the Bolsheviks playing with your bobbed hair, and your lovely white neck.”
Joyce picked up the telephone receiver, and said, “Police station, please.”
“No!” said Bertram.
He took hold of Joyce’s wrist and wrenched it from the instrument, conscious of his own violence.
“Joyce, I forbid you. I gave my word. Surely you respect that? By God, you must respect it. If you touch that telephone again, I’ll—I’ll carry you upstairs.”
Joyce looked at him squarely, and their eyes met and searched each other. She saw more anger in his eyes than ever before. She saw that he meant to use his strength.
“I surrender to force. Three to one, and all enemies.”
She laughed on a high note, picked up her fur coat, and went out of the room. They listened to her light steps up the polished stairs, and to the sharp slam of her bedroom door.
“Poor old Bertram!” said Susan, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief.
He turned on her fiercely.
“How dare you speak of Joyce like that? She was perfectly right, apart from my pledged word. If O’Brien plays the rebel, let him take the risk of rebels, without crawling into English houses for a hiding place!”
Susan paled.
“Et tu, Brute!” she said in a low voice.
She spoke a whispered word to Dennis O’Brien. He nodded, and buttoned up his trench coat.
“Yes, let’s be going.—Good-night, Pollard.”
Bertram did not answer.
He made no move, as he stood planted on the hearth-rug by the fire, staring moodily at a cigarette holder which Joyce had dropped, while his sister and her Irish husband went out of the room, and a moment later left the house, as he heard by the quiet click of the front door lock. He stood there for half an hour after they had left, and then summed up his thoughts in his usual sentence:
“It’s all very difficult!”
After that he went up to Joyce’s room, which was locked. There was no answer to his tap on the door, and he crept miserably to his own bed.
XII
Joyce was perplexing to Bertram after that midnight scene with Susan and Dennis. He had expected a painful quarrel on the subject, a denunciation by Joyce of his behaviour, a defence on his part, an argument beginning with generalities and ending with personalities, always dangerous between a young husband and wife, both inclined to passionate temper. But Joyce declined to discuss the matter. She had stayed late in bed next day, and had come down to luncheon with her wrist bound up. He did not understand the cause of that bandage until he enquired and received the answer:
“You nearly broke my wrist over the telephone last night. Perhaps you’re not aware of the violence you used.”
No, he was unaware of it, and made abject apology, horribly ashamed that he should have used physical force to his wife. It was a coster’s way of argument.
“Joyce! I’m immensely sorry and ashamed. But you see my difficulty last night. I had given my word—”
“I refuse to discuss the affair,” said Joyce. “You know my views. If you say another word about it I’ll leave the house.”
That was that. She was not even curious to know whether O’Brien had spent the night in Bertram’s study. Perhaps she had enquired from the maids and had satisfied herself on that point. Yet Bertram was certain that the incident was not regarded as trivial in her mind, and that it had caused something like estrangement between them. She went her own way, deliberately shutting him out of her plans, or, at least, not consulting him, nor giving him a chance of joining her. She was rarely at home to luncheon during the few weeks that followed Susan’s visit, and generally returned only in time to dress for dinner. Even then he had no chance of private conversation, for she invited friends to dine night after night—was it with the deliberate intention of avoiding intimate contact with him?—and afterwards filled her drawing-room with a miscellaneous crowd, or went out with a party to the theatre or the dancing clubs.
Bertram was lonely whether she stayed at home or not. He was beginning to feel lonely in body and soul. Joyce answered him when