The Valley of the Shadow

For the twentieth time Hilda Garling asked herself the same question—Why had her husband asked Jack Denver to stay? Mechanically she helped herself to some dish which the footman was handing to her, hardly knowing what it was she took. Why had he asked Jack to stay?

Such a thing was so completely foreign to her husband’s habits of late. For the last year or so he had grown more and more of a recluse, shutting himself away for hours and even days at a time, and having his meals served in his own room, until the big house standing back from the Portsmouth road had seemed a veritable prison to his wife. Not that it was much better when her husband did come out of his seclusion, but at any rate he was a human being of her own class.

She had tried asking people to stay, but it wasn’t a success. When your host plainly shows you that your presence fails to amuse him, even the most thick-skinned guest begins to look up the trains for London. She had tried going away to stay with friends, but that was only a temporary panacea. And then a year ago even that relief had been denied her. Her husband had complained once or twice of a pain in the chest, and although he scouted the idea that it was anything but indigestion, he at length agreed to do as she wished and send for a doctor. And the doctor had spoken to her after his examination.

“Mrs. Garling,” he said, “I am sorry to have to be the bearer of—I won’t say bad, but of serious news. It is no mere question of indigestion, I fear. It is heart trouble—and it is pronounced. Please understand me. There is no reason, if your husband lives a quiet life and avoids excitement or undue exertion of all sorts, why he shouldn’t live for another twenty or thirty years. But any sudden physical call on his system—and the chances are, I am afraid, it would kill him.”

“Have you told my husband?” she asked him.

“Not quite as clearly as I have told you,” answered the doctor. “But he is fully aware that his condition is more serious than he thought.”

From that time on she had hardly ever slept a night away from the Pines. For Hilda Garling had the instinct of playing the game very fully developed. It was hypocrisy to pretend to herself that she loved him: looking back on the five years of their married life she realized that she never had loved him. Like so many girls fresh from the schoolroom, she had been captivated by a brilliantly clever and handsome man some fourteen years older than herself. She had thought herself in love with him, and her parents, having inquired into Hubert Garling’s social and financial status, and having found both—especially the latter—eminently satisfactory, had put no obstacle in the way of what seemed to them a very desirable match.

But even before the honeymoon was over disillusion had begun to set in. That Hubert had a jealous nature she had found out while they were engaged, and then she had been rather flattered by it. But until they were married she never realized how fiendishly jealous he was. Once at Nice, as they were on their way home, she had danced twice with a young French officer, and the scene that night in their room had been appalling. It had blown over, as such scenes do, but it had left an indelible mark. It had frightened the girl—she was still only a child at the time; but it had hastened her mental development far more than a year of ordinary life. To her amazement she had found herself listening to Hubert’s whispered apologies and love-makings with only half her mind. The other half was disconcertingly cold and logical.

“This is insulting,” it said. “You may be his; in a way, since you’re his wife, you are. But an outlook on life that forbids you to dance with someone else, and gets furious if you do, is mediæval.”

As time went on it got no better. The slightest sign of interest in another man was sufficient to precipitate either a furious scene or sullenness, until Hilda for very peace’ sake confined her male acquaintanceship to the old vicar of seventy-two and the doctor, who was three years younger. And the absurd thing about it all was that there had never been the tiniest particle of justification for her husband’s attitude; never, that is, until—

Again she asked herself the question—Why had he asked Jack Denver to stay? He was talking now to his guest in that charming, well-bred manner of his that had captivated so many people—talking well and interestingly, as a glance at Jack’s face revealed, though she hadn’t heard a word that had been said for the last ten minutes. It was incredible, impossible, that Hubert could know; after all, what was there to know? Six months ago, on one of her rare visits to London, she had stayed the night with an old school friend—Joan Prettyman. Mr. Prettyman, Joan’s father, had tactfully gone up to Manchester on business, and Joan had greeted her with a shout of joy.

“My dear,” she cried, “in you lies salvation! Cecil Turnbury, who dances like an angel, rang me up this morning to dine and wine, do a show, trek on to Ciro’s, and come home with the milk from a night club. I know it will come to the old man’s ears if I go alone with Cecil; you must come, too. I’ll ring up Cecil now, and tell him to rope in a cheery soul for you.”

For a moment or two she had feebly protested; she couldn’t dance—her husband—she must get back.

“Tripe!” remarked Joan, elegantly, and forthwith rang up Cecil. And he had arrived at seven-thirty with Jack Denver. From the outset of the evening it was quite clear what was going to happen. Joan, having taken the possible wind out of father’s sails, devoted herself exclusively to Cecil, leaving Jack Denver and Hilda to carry on their share of the good work. And Hilda, starved, though she hardly realized it, for the companionship of men of her own age, had the night of her life. There are nights which stand out like milestones in every life, and almost always are they impromptu. And there had been singularly few for Hilda Garling. But in those eight hours she realized fully for the first time all that she had missed in marrying Hubert.

Jack Denver was thirty and in the Army. Moreover, he was a man’s man all through. London saw him but rarely, except when he was playing polo at Ranelagh or Hurlingham; he found that London life interfered with his eye. But in addition to being mad on every form of sport he was—without being clever—exceedingly intelligent. He was interested in politics and life generally; he read with discrimination. He could talk amusingly, and, most precious of all gifts, listen sympathetically. And that night, having gone merely to please Cecil and swearing he must be in bed by one, he found himself wishing at half-past three that it could go on for another four hours. From the time they arrived at Ciro’s, it had been merely two duets.

From Ciro’s they had driven to the night club in two taxis—Joan, being quite without shame, had insisted on that. And during the drive Jack Denver tried to take stock of matters. That Hilda was married he knew; that her husband was a bit of a rum ’un he knew also from Joan. But there was another thing also which he knew, and that was that never in the course of his life had he been so powerfully attracted by any woman before.

Small wonder. Hilda—enjoying herself to the hilt—looked utterly lovely. But it wasn’t only a question of looks; she was so startlingly alive. The stagnation of months had boiled over in an immense reaction. And if there was one thing which Jack Denver worshipped, it was vitality.

They left the night club at half-past three, and once more two taxis were requisitioned.

“Have you enjoyed yourself?” he asked quietly as they drove off.

“It’s been heaven!” she answered.

Which, taken as a conversational effort, would not have won a prize. But when the atmosphere is electrical, it doesn’t much matter what is said.

“Mrs. Garling,” he went on, gravely, “when may I see you again?”

By the light of a passing lamp she saw his eyes fixed on her, and her own did not falter.

“I don’t think we’d better meet again,” she said, steadily. “My husband has rather peculiar ideas on the subject.”

“That, of course, is quite unthinkable,” he remarked. “I have never enjoyed such a wonderful evening before.”

“No more have I,” she said, staring out of the window.

She felt his hand close over hers, and for a while she made no effort to remove it. Then with a little shiver she almost snatched her hand away.

“Captain Denver,” she said, “this is folly. I must tell you that my husband is almost crazily jealous of me. If he were to know that you and I were driving home at this hour of the night in a taxi alone, I think he’d probably try to—try to kill me. It sounds incredible, but it’s the truth. He becomes like a madman if I even speak to another man; in fact, there have been times when I really believe he has been out of his senses.”

“But it’s preposterous,” he said, angrily. “He can’t keep you shut up like a prisoner.”

“He would if he could,” she answered.

“A truce to this fooling, Hilda,” said Denver, urgently. “We’re nearly at your house. I must see you again; I must. It may be folly, or it may not. I know I only met you eight hours ago—what’s that matter? Time has no meaning on some occasions. I’m being crude, too; I know that, but the circumstances make it imperative. May I motor over from Aldershot and call on you?”

The taxi was already slowing up.

“It’s madness,” she whispered, “absolute madness.”

“Then I’m going to be mad,” he remarked quietly, as the car stopped.

The other taxi was just behind them, and for a moment or two they all stood talking on the pavement. Then, with a prodigious yawn, Joan voted for bed, and the two girls went indoors.

“A gladsome night,” she said, sleepily. “And it strikes me, Hilda, my dear, that for a little sheltered country rose you’re a pretty high-class performer. He’s a pet, that man Denver; in fact, I’d have changed over half-way through if I hadn’t known there wasn’t a look-in for little Joan. Did he kiss you in the bus coming home?”

“Joan—how can you ask such a thing?” cried Hilda, blushing furiously.

“Cut it out, my angel—cut it out. If he didn’t he’s a mutt—and so are you. Heigh-ho! bed for this child.”

True to his word, Jack Denver drove his car over from Aldershot to the Pines three days later. He stayed to tea and talked more to Hubert than to her. And after tea he suggested a spin to Hindhead and the Devil’s Punchbowl.

“I’m afraid an open car is one of the things I’m forbidden,” said Hubert.