She opened it, scanning the entries with some amusement. Almost from the beginning of their married life she had realized that the impulsive and emotional Gerald had the uncharacteristic virtues of neatness and method. He was extremely fussy about meals being punctual, and always planned his day ahead with the accuracy of a timetable.
Looking through the diary, she was amused to notice the entry on the date of May 14th: ‘Marry Alix St Peter’s 2.30.’
‘The big silly,’ murmured Alix to herself, turning the pages. Suddenly she stopped.
‘“Wednesday, June 18th” – why, that’s today.’
In the space for that day was written in Gerald’s neat, precise hand: ‘9 p.m.’ Nothing else. What had Gerald planned to do at 9 p.m.? Alix wondered. She smiled to herself as she realized that had this been a story, like those she had so often read, the diary would doubtless have furnished her with some sensational revelation. It would have had in it for certain the name of another woman. She fluttered the back pages idly. There were dates, appointments, cryptic references to business deals, but only one woman’s name – her own.
Yet as she slipped the book into her pocket and went on with her flowers to the house, she was aware of a vague uneasiness. Those words of Dick Windyford’s recurred to her almost as though he had been at her elbow repeating them: ‘The man’s a perfect stranger to you. You know nothing about him.’
It was true. What did she know about him? After all, Gerald was forty. In forty years there must have been women in his life …
Alix shook herself impatiently. She must not give way to these thoughts. She had a far more instant preoccupation to deal with. Should she, or should she not, tell her husband that Dick Windyford had rung her up?
There was the possibility to be considered that Gerald might have already run across him in the village. But in that case he would be sure to mention it to her immediately upon his return, and matters would be taken out of her hands. Otherwise – what? Alix was aware of a distinct desire to say nothing about it.
If she told him, he was sure to suggest asking Dick Windyford to Philomel Cottage. Then she would have to explain that Dick had proposed himself, and that she had made an excuse to prevent his coming. And when he asked her why she had done so, what could she say? Tell him her dream? But he would only laugh – or worse, see that she attached an importance to it which he did not.
In the end, rather shamefacedly, Alix decided to say nothing. It was the first secret she had ever kept from her husband, and the consciousness of it made her feel ill at ease.
When she heard Gerald returning from the village shortly before lunch, she hurried into the kitchen and pretended to be busy with the cooking so as to hide her confusion.
It was evident at once that Gerald had seen nothing of Dick Windyford. Alix felt at once relieved and embarrassed. She was definitely committed now to a policy of concealment.
It was not until after their simple evening meal, when they were sitting in the oak-benched living-room with the windows thrown open to let in the sweet night air scented with the perfume of the mauve and white stocks outside, that Alix remembered the pocket diary.
‘Here’s something you’ve been watering the flowers with,’ she said, and threw it into his lap.
‘Dropped it in the border, did I?’
‘Yes; I know all your secrets now.’
‘Not guilty,’ said Gerald, shaking his head.
‘What about your assignation at nine o’clock tonight?’
‘Oh! that –’ he seemed taken aback for a moment, then he smiled as though something afforded him particular amusement. ‘It’s an assignation with a particularly nice girl, Alix. She’s got brown hair and blue eyes, and she’s very like you.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Alix, with mock severity. ‘You’re evading the point.’
‘No, I’m not. As a matter of fact, that’s a reminder that I’m going to develop some negatives tonight, and I want you to help me.’
Gerald Martin was an enthusiastic photographer. He had a somewhat old-fashioned camera, but with an excellent lens, and he developed his own plates in a small cellar which he had had fitted up as a dark-room.
‘And it must be done at nine o’clock precisely,’ said Alix teasingly.
Gerald looked a little vexed.
‘My dear girl,’ he said, with a shade of testiness in his manner, ‘one should always plan a thing for a definite time. Then one gets through one’s work properly.’
Alix sat for a minute or two in silence, watching her husband as he lay in his chair smoking, his dark head flung back and the clear-cut lines of his clean-shaven face showing up against the sombre background. And suddenly, from some unknown source, a wave of panic surged over her, so that she cried out before she could stop herself, ‘Oh, Gerald, I wish I knew more about you!’
Her husband turned an astonished face upon her.
‘But, my dear Alix, you do know all about me. I’ve told you of my boyhood in Northumberland, of my life in South Africa, and these last ten years in Canada which have brought me success.’
‘Oh! business!’ said Alix scornfully.
Gerald laughed suddenly.
‘I know what you mean – love affairs. You women are all the same. Nothing interests you but the personal element.’
Alix felt her throat go dry, as she muttered indistinctly: ‘Well, but there must have been – love affairs. I mean – if I only knew –’
There was silence again for a minute or two. Gerald Martin was frowning, a look of indecision on his face. When he spoke it was gravely, without a trace of his former bantering manner.
‘Do you think it wise, Alix – this – Bluebeard’s chamber business? There have been women in my life; yes, I don’t deny it. You wouldn’t believe me if I denied it. But I can swear to you truthfully that not one of them meant anything to me.’
There was a ring of sincerity in his voice which comforted the listening wife.
‘Satisfied, Alix?’ he asked, with a smile. Then he looked at her with a shade of curiosity.
‘What has turned your mind on to these unpleasant subjects, tonight of all nights?’
Alix got up, and began to walk about restlessly.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’ve been nervy all day.’
‘That’s odd,’ said Gerald, in a low voice, as though speaking to himself. ‘That’s very odd.’
‘Why it it odd?’
‘Oh, my dear girl, don’t flash out at me so. I only said it was odd, because, as a rule, you’re so sweet and serene.’
Alix forced a smile.
‘Everything’s
