"Why didn't you tell me instead of doing that?"
"I wanted to make certain."
"Why didn't you tell my husband?"
"For your sake. I wanted to save you."
"No, you didn't... You weren't thinking of me. You were thinking of
Arthur."
This was perfectly true, but Mrs. Payne had not gone through hell to
discuss fine points of that kind. She had left her room in very much the
same frame of mind as she would have adopted in approaching the dismissal
of a servant. She had expected to be met with passionate denials, had
prepared herself, indeed, for a stormy "scene"; instead of which
Gabrielle appeared to be curious rather than disturbed about her
discovery, and a great deal more interested in the psychological than in
the practical aspects of the case. If she had offered any violent
opposition to Mrs. Payne, Mrs. Payne could have given her violence in
return. But she didn't. The mood of exaltation into which their
love-making had lifted her made her regard this woman with something
nearer to pity than dislike. Her attitude implied that to consider the
practical aspect of the affair would be in the nature of a condescension.
Mrs. Payne naturally resented this, but in any case Gabrielle had taken
the wind out of her sails. They were drifting--rather unpleasantly--away
from the object of her visit. She pulled herself--and then Gabrielle--up
short.
"You can't pretend not to realise the seriousness of your position," she
said. "You're a married woman. If you persist in this madness you'll
ruin your whole life. I'll be candid with you. What happens to you
doesn't matter to me; but what happens to Arthur does. Can't you see the
end of it?"
"No ... it's only begun...."
"Then I'll tell you the end. Your husband will divorce you."
"Then I shall be free? And why not? We don't love each other. Why
should we go on living together? The thought of him makes me shudder ...
now."
"That is your affair. I'm afraid I can't help you in it. But Arthur is
mine. I'm not going to see him dragged into this ... impossibility. No
... we can't discuss it like this. You may be as innocent as you pretend
to be--though it's difficult to believe it. You imagine you're in love.
You're drifting out of an ordinary sort of friendship into ... what I saw
to-night. Well, that can only lead to the most awful unhappiness for all
of us. You must consider it finished. We won't have any disturbance;
but, all the same, you can't see Arthur again. We'll invent some reason
to explain your going away to-morrow ... something plausible ... to
satisfy him. With your husband it will be more difficult. But I'm
prepared to help you. It can be managed without any scandal if we work
together... I'm sure you'll agree with me and be sensible about it. If
you won't, I can't answer for the consequences."
Mrs. Payne was presuming too much. All the time that she spoke Gabrielle
sat with lowered eyes, motionless but for little protesting movements of
her hands; now she turned upon her, speaking very low and rapidly.
"You think I can give him up? You think it's possible? Love ... the
only thing I want! The thing I've never had! Happiness... Why should
you ruin our happiness? You've had yours. Oh, you're selfish. I shan't
give him up if he wants me. Ask him yourself if he loves me... Ah,
you're afraid. You daren't. You daren't!"
She almost laughed, and Mrs. Payne knew that she had spoken the truth.
It looked, for a moment, as if she were going to be beaten on this point,
for Gabrielle snatched at her weakness, repeating the unanswerable "You
daren't!" Then, suddenly, without any warning, the girl's triumphant
spirit collapsed. From the verge of laughter she toppled over into
tears. She put her hands to her eyes and then, turning her back on Mrs.
Payne, collapsed on her bed, weeping bitterly.
At the sight of this thankfulness flooded Mrs. Payne's heart; but beneath
this dominant emotion, which came almost as the result of her conscious
wish, flowed another that she would gladly have suppressed: pity, nothing
less, for the child who lay sobbing on the bed. A minute before she had
seen in Gabrielle her most dangerous enemy in the world; now, even though
she rejoiced in the girl's sudden collapse, she felt that she wanted to
take her in her arms and kiss her and comfort her. For a moment or two
she fought against it, but in the end, scarcely knowing what she had
done, she found that she was fondling Gabrielle's hand and being shaken
by the communicated passion of her sobs. One thought kept running
through her brain: "I've won ... I've won, and can afford to be
generous," and this, together with the curious physical liking that she
had always felt for Gabrielle, disarmed her. She set herself to
comforting the child. It was the last thing in the world she had
intended to do, but it came natural to her motherly soul. She was glad,
indeed, that Gabrielle did not resent these attentions, as she very well
might have done. Gradually her sobbing ceased and she began to speak,
clinging all the time to Mrs. Payne, herself not guiltless of a
sympathetic tear, while she told her the story of her early years: of the
wild life she had led at Roscarna, of Jocelyn's debauches and Biddy's
rough mothering.
It was the first time that all this flood of reminiscence had been
loosed. Gabrielle had never made a confidante before, and it was an
ecstasy of tears and laughter to dwell upon these memories, and to
rehearse them. "I was so happy as a child," she said, "so awfully happy.
But now there's nothing left."
Mrs. Payne, still sympathetic, found herself suddenly plunged into the
ardours of the Radway affair; the miraculous meeting on the Clonderriff
road; the halcyon days of August, and then the overwhelming tragedy.
"They made me marry him," said Gabrielle, clutching at her hand. "They
made me. I didn't understand. It was cruel. It would have been better
if I had died like my baby."
She relapsed into tears, and Mrs. Payne, quite bowled over by the
piteousness of her case, tried to soothe her with caresses. It was a
curious end, she reflected, to the punitive expedition on which she had
set forth. Holding Gabrielle triumphantly in her arms she did not
realize the mistake that she had made. It wasn't the end at all, it was
merely the beginning.
"You see what a terrible time I've had," Gabrielle pleaded, drying her
tears. "I always felt that you were the only person I could talk to
about these things. I knew you would sympathize ... you're so human.
Now you can understand why I can't live without Arthur. Do you see?"
She looked up, pleading, into Mrs. Payne's eyes.
Her quiet words staggered that good woman. She had to pull herself
together and begin all over again. It wasn't easy, for the sympathetic
mood into which the girl's story had betrayed her had subtly weakened her
purpose. She felt that her position was false. She must reassert
herself, and so she hurriedly freed herself from Gabrielle's arms and
stood with her back to the door. Gabrielle too rose and faced her. Her
tears had put an end to the dreamy mood in which Mrs. Payne had found her
at first. Now she was determined, dangerous, ready to fight with all the
quickness of her wits and the suppleness of her youth against the elder
woman's dogged devotion. They faced one another, ready to fight to the
end, for the possession of the thing they each loved best, and both of
them realized the bitter nature of the struggle.
"We can't speak of that again," said Mrs. Payne. "I thought that was
understood. Surely you didn't imagine that by playing on my feelings you
could make me change my mind? I'm sorry you misunderstood me. I will
write to your husband to-morrow. For Arthur's sake I hope you won't tell
him the real explanation of your going back, and of Arthur's staying
here. I think you owe that to us ... even if you don't realise that it's
also the best for yourself." She turned towards the door. "I think we
had better say good-night. There is a train at seven-fifty in the
morning. I'm sorry it's so early, but there's no other. As I may not
see you again I'll say good-bye now. There's no reason why we shouldn't
part friends."
She held out her hand, she couldn't think why, but as she did so
Gabrielle clasped it. "No ... don't go!" she pleaded.
"There's nothing more to be said." But Gabrielle still held her hand and
would not let it go.
"Only be merciful to me," she cried. "Let us think about it. There must
be some other way. Supposing ... supposing that we go back to Lapton
just in the ordinary way: supposing that I promise you faithfully that
nothing more shall happen. Listen, we never, never kissed before
to-night. I'll give you my word of honour that it shan't happen again
... if only you'll let him go back to us. Isn't that fair? Surely it's
fair...."
Mrs. Payne shook her head.
"You mean that you don't believe me ... you won't trust me?"
"I can't trust both of you. Do you think I don't know what love is?"
"But think ... think of all these months in which we've been so happy
together without a word of love! I love him ... you know I love him ...
I believe I love him more than you do. No, don't be angry with me for
saying that! Don't you think my love is strong enough to prevent me from
doing anything that could possibly harm him? Can't you believe that?"
"No ... it's too dangerous. You can answer for yourself, but you can't
answer for Arthur."
"Oh, if you loved him as you say you do ... as I believe you do ...
wouldn't you trust him? I'll talk to him. I can tell him anything.
I'll tell him exactly how things stand. I'll tell him what I've promised
you. Only don't take him away from me altogether. I couldn't bear it
... I couldn't." She turned back on herself. "Why won't you believe in
him?"
"You should know why that's impossible. Haven't I told you his history?
You've only known him for a year. I've had him for seventeen and loved
him all the time." She became almost passionate. "He's my son. And all
those years my love has been full of the awful bitterness of his trouble.
The tears! The disappointments! You know nothing of them. You can't
realize how I've struggled and schemed and had my hopes raised and dashed
to the ground ... time after time. To see the person that you love best
in the world, a part of your own body, living without a soul: a thief, a
liar--that's the plain truth--inhuman and cruel ... But you know as well
as I do what he was."
"I do know what he was."
"And now, thanks to your husband--God knows I'm grateful!--he's better.
He's what I knew he ought to have been all these awful years. And then
you come on the scene--you, who've borne nothing of all the years
before--and begin to drag him down again. You must be mad to think I
could risk it!"
"But don't I know all this? Do you think I'm less anxious than you are
that he should stay as he is? Only trust me ... trust me! His future
... think of that...."
Mrs. Payne laughed bitterly, but Gabrielle persisted.
"His future ... My husband says that he can make a success of him. He
can take a high place in a Government examination; he can get into the
diplomatic service. Just believe that I love him too much to stand in
his way. Why, I can even help him. If he does this I know that he'll
want influence. _You_ haven't influence to help him. I don't want to
belittle you, but I know you've nothing but your money, while I _can_
help him. My cousin is Lord Halberton. He's been a Cabinet minister.
There's no knowing what he mightn't do with his help. If you love anyone
as I do him, why shouldn't you give your life to his interests? That's
what I'd do. I'd think of nothing else. I'd give all my thoughts to
him. And I promise ... oh, I promise faithfully, that I won't let him
love me ... if only you'll let me love him."
Mrs. Payne stiffened. "You're trying to bribe me," she said, "and I'm
not the kind of person who can be bribed. I don't care that much about
his future! Until the last month I never so much as dreamed that any
future of that kind was possible. It's quite enough for me that he
should settle down here into the sort of life that his father would have
lived if he'd been spared. I don't want to share his successes with
you...."
"Ah, you're jealous!"
"Of course I'm jealous. I've reason to be. He's mine. But even if I
could trust you ... and I believe I could ... Arthur's future wouldn't
tempt me to risk his present. No ... it's too dangerous."
"Dangerous..." Gabrielle clutched at the word. "Dangerous!" She became
suddenly quiet and intense. "I don't believe you know where the danger
lies," she said.
"I can see the most obvious danger, and that's a love affair with a
married woman."
"You can't see any other? You said just now that Arthur had changed
thanks to my husband. Perhaps my husband took the credit for it and you
believed it. But it isn't true. I've seen the change coming hour by
hour, day by day. Every moment of it I've watched and treasured. He did
not change because he worked with my husband. He changed because I loved
him and he loved me. I know it ... I've known it all the time. What did
your love do for him in all those years? Nothing ... nothing at all.
For heaven's sake don't think I'm boasting! Your love never changed him
a hair's breadth, and you know it!"