The London season was over, and with most admirable industry, now that
that garden was empty of flowers, the bees of the world flew in all
directions to other gardens, where the autumn flowers bloomed. Cowes
was crammed, Carlsbad--this was a medicinal flower--was crammed also.
Scotland was beginning to echo with the buzzing, and in a hundred
country houses all over the kingdom other bees were resting a moment,
cleaning the pollen from their legs, as it were, before they went forth
again.
One hot August afternoon a small company of bees were pollen-cleaning
at Haworth, talking over, that is to say, the events of the last few
months--London's little adventures and ironies. With the exception of
Bertie, who was in Scotland with his wife, the party was much the same
as that which had sat there just a year ago, before the departure of
him and Sybil Massington to America. In fact, the only other change was
that the latter was Mrs. Massington no longer. But, just as before, she
sat in an extremely comfortable chair on the lawn, with Charlie by her
side, and Ginger, his hat over his face, lying on the grass in front of
them. As before, also, he was employed in editing the history of the
world, and making parenthetical prophecies for the future.
'Oh, we are certainly getting on,' he was saying, 'and the last year,
I am happy to inform you, shows great progress. The Palmerization of
England is perhaps the most significant sign of the times. England, in
fact, consists of men, women and Palmers, chiefly the latter. If you
want to go by trains anywhere, the money you pay for your ticket goes
into the pockets of Palmers. If you want----'
'You shouldn't complain, then,' interrupted Sybil.
'I don't; I like it. At least, I like most of it. But not all. I went
down to Molesworth the other day. There were gangs of navvies busy on
the construction of the line. That I don't mind; it was remote from the
house.'
'But until Mr. Palmer bought it, you were all remote from the house,
too,' said Sybil. 'You none of you ever went near it.'
'Quite true. Reverberating throbs shook the air where they were
blasting the tunnel. That also I don't mind, but on the lawn, in the
glades, in the garden, they were sinking bore-holes to find the extent
and direction of the new coalfield.'
'Have they found coal?' asked Charlie.
'Yes; they found it in the tunnel. They found it also on the Wyfold
estate, between which and the tunnel lie the house and gardens.
Therefore, I suppose, in a year's time the whole place will be a
colliery. I don't like that.'
'I didn't think Amelie would do that,' said Sybil. 'Nor did Bertie.
I remember talking to him about it. He said he thought that his wish
would have influence with her. One can't blame her, any more than
one blames a truffle-hound for finding truffles. It is in the blood,
that scent and search for wealth. Of course, the borings are only
exploratory, but what is the point of exploring if you do not mean to
utilize what you find?'
'I thought she was so fond of Molesworth,' said Sybil.
'She was at first, but she has taken an extraordinary dislike to it.
She----' and he stopped.
There was silence a moment.
'But they haven't quarrelled?' asked Sybil at length.
'Oh dear no. They are staying about together in Scotland now. But
something has happened. What has happened, I suppose she knows. Bertie
doesn't.'
'Since when was this?' asked Charlie.
'About six weeks ago, towards the middle of July--and quite suddenly.
Bertie says she had been lunching with her father one day, to talk over
the railway matters, and when she came back she was quite a different
person. Quite polite, you understand, quite courteous and considerate,
but as far away as the Antipodes.'
Sybil got out of her chair with a sudden quick movement.
'Mrs. Emsworth,' she said.
'But there was nothing to know,' said Ginger. 'There were no
revelations possible, because there was nothing to reveal.'
'Mrs. Emsworth,' said Sybil again emphatically. 'I remember seeing
her about that time, and she told me that Amelie had been to call on
her. She said she had been rather prim, rather priggish, and in that
connection made remarks about the refining influence of married life.
I asked what she meant, and she said that Bertie had cut her, dropped
her. She was rather incisive over it, and tried to laugh about it. But
she didn't like it, all the same. I can recommend her remarks about
Puritans to the attention of--of Puritans.'
Ginger sat up.
'Amelie's an awfully good sort,' he said--'and so is Bertie. But to
dine with them as I did just before they went North was like dining
with a piece of ice at one end of the table, and a lump of snow at the
other. Now, what has happened? I reconstruct this: that Mrs. Emsworth,
being annoyed with Bertie, told Amelie what friends they had been.
There's a working hypothesis, anyhow.'
'But platonically,' said Charlie.
'Bertie's Platonism was--was Aristotelian in its intensity,' said
Ginger. 'He once wrote a letter to her, I believe, which might have
been open to misconstruction.'
'And she told Amelie about it, do you think?' asked Sybil.
'That occurs to one. There's Judy taking her Sunday walk. It's just
like last year. She is coming here, and she shall give us advice.'
They called to her, but to hurry Judy when she was taking her exercise
was an impossible task. However, she arrived at last, and the case was
laid before her. She heard in silence, and turned to Ginger.
'Do you mind interfering?' she asked.
'No, I like it. What, then?'
'Write to Bertie. Tell him that Amelie called on Mrs. Emsworth that
day.'
'Dear oracle,' observed Sybil.
Judy put down her sunshade, for here under the trees the shade was deep
and the air cool.
'I hate seeing two excellent people making such a mess of their lives,'
she said. 'They are both proud, they are both reticent, and neither
will speak unless the other speaks first. I have a great belief in
having things out. If only Amelie would pull Bertie's hair or scratch
his face, and say "What are you behaving like sour milk for?" or if
only he would do that to her, something must happen. But they go 011
freezing and freezing--every day the ice gets thicker. Soon it will be
frozen into a solid block. That is why I advise Ginger to throw a stone
at it; so to speak, without delay.'
'I don't know that Bertie will thank me,' said Ginger. 'I don't think
he takes the same pleasure in being interfered with as I take in
interfering.'
'Probably not. But no situation can be worse than that which at present
exists. I remember I was there when she told Bertie that she had given
orders to make half a dozen boring-holes for coal in the park. She
announced it in the same tone as she might have announced that she had
given orders for the carriage to be round at half-past two. And Bertie
hardly looked up from his book, and merely said: "The diamond drill is
generally used, I believe, in making bore-holes."'
'That is Bertie at his worst,' said Ginger.
'It seemed to me tolerably bad. I looked at Amelie to see how she took
it. Her face was like frozen marble. But as she turned away her lip
quivered a moment. It made me feel ill. Then soon afterwards I looked
at Bertie. He was not reading, but staring straight in front of him. He
looked as if his face was made of wood. So I say: "Stir them up at any
price."'
Ginger sighed heavily.
'Vanity of vanities,' he said. 'A year ago Bertie thought that nothing
would be intolerable if he had money. We most of us think the same
until we have got it. Then we find that nothing, on the whole, matters
less. That one sees in America. We are supposed to take our pleasures
sadly. But in America they take them seriously as well. All the gold
of the Indies cannot make a man gay. And all the Palmerization that is
going on does not add one jot to anybody's happiness.'
'I hate it,' said Judy suddenly. 'I look on America as some awful
cuttlefish. Its tentacles are reaching over the world. It grips hold of
some place, and no power on earth can detach those suckers. You cannot
see it coming, because it clouds the whole of the atmosphere with the
thick opacity of its juice, wealth. Thus, before you know, it is there,
and you are powerless. It has come to England. It laid hold first on
the newline from Liverpool to Southampton. That is spreading in all
directions. It is in London in every sense of the word. What woman was
the central figure there this year? The Queen? Not at all. Mrs. Palmer
at Seaton House. It laid hold of Worcestershire. The huge new coalfield
on the Wyfold estate is theirs. Molesworth is to be a coalfield. Then
there is your admirer, Sybil. Half the theatres in London belong to Mr.
Bilton. And the worst of it is that, from all practical points of view,
America is our benefactor. Theatres are better ventilated and better
lighted. Coal will be cheaper; one will get about the country more
expeditiously. Only very soon it will not be our country. That is the
only drawback, and it is a purely sentimental one.'
Sybil shivered slightly.
'Charlie,' she said, 'I look upon you as my life-preserver. A tentacle
touched--just touched me. The juice of wealth, as Judy says, had
prevented my seeing what was coming. But one night you were ill, do you
remember?' She smiled at him, the complete smile of happiness.
'Life-preserver?' said he. 'And what were you?'
Judy turned to Ginger.
'These slight connubialities are rather embarrassing,' she said. 'Will
you walk with me while I finish my exercise for the day?'
Sybil laughed.
'Don't go just yet, Judy,' she said. 'Charlie and I will send you away
when we want to be alone.'
Judy rose with some dignity.
'My self-respect cannot _quite_ stand that,' she said. 'Come, Ginger.
You shall walk back with me to the house, and I will hold the pen when
you write to Bertie.'
'I shall put that in the postscript,' he said. 'The vials of wrath
shall descend on both of us.'
The two strolled away out of the shadow of the trees into the yellow
flood of sunshine that hung over the lawn. The air was very windless,
and the flower-beds below the house basked in full summer luxuriance of
colour. Far away in a misty hollow the town of Winchester sunned itself
under a blue haze of heat, and languid, dim-sounding church bells
clanged distantly. Sybil turned towards her husband.
'A year ago--just a year ago,' she said, 'we sat here like this.
I always remember that day as a day of pause before I started on
adventures. Oh, Charlie, on what tiny things life and happiness depend!
Just as a bullet may pass within an inch of your head, and not touch
you, when another inch would have killed you, so the smallest incident
may turn the whole course of things. For, do you know, if I had not
been in Mrs. Emsworth's room when Mr. Bilton came in, I believe I
should have married him.'
'Well, then you see that had just got to happen,' said Charlie, smiling
at her.
'I suppose so. Do you know I am very happy to-day.'
'Why particularly?'
'Ah, one never knows the reason for happiness. If one knows the reason,
one is only pleased. Ah! there is the train coming out of the cutting.
What was it we settled it said?'
'You thought "Utility"; I thought "Brutalité." They sound very much
alike.'
There was a pause; the train rumbled itself away into the distance, and
its diminuendo grew overscored again with the sounds of summer.
'I met Mr. Bilton again the other night,' said Sybil. 'He wished me
every happiness. I felt rather inclined to send the wish back, like
Bertie with Mrs. Emsworth's wedding-present. He didn't please me,
somehow. I don't trust him. Charlie, he is extraordinarily like you.'
'Many thanks.'
'You old darling! Do you know, I believe it was that which made me
first--first cast a favourable eye on him.'
'And what made you firmly remove that favourable eye?'
'I have told you. Then I came back to England and found you ill, and
I embarked on a career of most futile diplomacy. I wanted to win you
back to life, you see, without permitting or harbouring any sentiment.
You proposed to die because you were bored. That seemed to me feeble,
futile.'
Charlie laughed.
'It was rather. But under the same circumstances I should do the same
again.'
'Ah, the same circumstances can't occur.'
He turned to her with the love-light shining brightly in his eyes.
'Let us "lean and love it over again,"' he said. 'How did it happen?
What change came to you? Tell me.'
'And to you?'
'There never came a change to me. I have always loved you.'
'It was your illness first of all,' she said, 'and that made me want
to help. I am very practical; the futility of your dying seemed to me
so stupid. And as my handiwork, the attachment of you to life, grew, I
got rather proud of it. It was like taking a plant that was lying all
draggled in the mud and training it upright.'
She paused a moment.
'That grew,' she went on, 'till one night you were taken suddenly
ill at Davos. I came up to see you, do you remember? And at that
moment--this is the only way I can explain it--I began to become a
woman. So that, if you or I could owe each other anything, dear, the
debt I owe you is infinitely greater than what you owe me. I gave you
perhaps a few years of life, you gave me life itself and love.'
She bent her head, took up his hand where it lay on the arm of her
chair, and kissed it.
'Ah, not that, Sybil,' said he.
'Yes, just that,' she answered.
The letter which the joint wits of Judy and Ginger concocted that
afternoon went northwards, and reached its destination next morning.
It told Bertie merely the fact that on the day on which Amelie had
lunched with her father she had been to see Mrs. Emsworth afterwards,
and suggested that it would be worth while finding out, if possible,
what took place there. Of late the estrangement between him and Amelie,
though it had in no ways healed, had been, since they were staying in
other houses, where there was less opportunity for intimacy and thus
less sense of its absence, less intolerably and constantly present to
his consciousness. Every now and then, as on the occasion when she told
him that they were going to bore for coal, there had been bitter and
stinging moments, but such were rare, and their intercourse, which was
rare also, was distinguished by cool if not frigid courtesy.
On this particular morning they were leaving the house they had been
staying in near Inverness, and were coming South again to visit other
friends in the North of England. It was perfectly natural, therefore,
that Bertie should travel some part of the way, at any rate, in a
smoking-carriage, but, the train being an express, he never omitted to
visit her carriage when it stopped, and inquired whether she wanted
anything. Once she was thirsty, and he got her some lemonade from the
refreshment-room, bought her papers, and opened for her a window which
was stiff to move. These little attentions were accepted by her with
the same courtesy as that with which they were offered, and he would
stand on the platform chatting to her through the window, or seating
himself for a few minutes in her carriage, till it was time for him
to go back to his own. They lunched together in her carriage, and it
was at her suggestion that at the next stopping-place he went back to
the other to smoke after lunch. It was then that he opened the letters
which had reached him that morning, having in the hurry of departure
forgotten to do so, and found Ginger's communication.
At first his impulse was to do nothing whatever, and treat the letter
as if it had never been received, and, following the dictation of his
_laisser aller_ nature, make no further effort to investigate any
possible source of his domestic estrangement. In a way (the freezing
process had already gone far) he had got used to his aloofness from his
wife; the acuteness of it had got dulled with time, the intolerable had
become bearable. He was tired with conjecturing what had happened, and
the pride which at first had prevented him straightforwardly going to
her and saying 'What have I done?' had become habit. Not having done so
before, he could not now, and until she voluntarily told him the matter
must remain in silence. Disgust, fastidiousness, and a bitter sense of
having been cheated, had at first stood in her way, where pride stood
in his, and she, like him, having lost her first opportunity, waited
for him to be the first to speak. But as he watched through the window
the giddy scudding by of the brown wind-scoured moors, his indifference
began to fade, and curiosity (at first it was no more than that)
took its place. Having successfully blackmailed him, had Dorothy, in
order to emphasize his own weakness, told his wife that which he had
already paid so much to keep secret? To have blackmailed him at all
was so utterly unlike what he knew of her that he told himself he knew
nothing at all, and if this conjecture was right, she became something
monstrous, something portentous. He would really very much like to know
if she was stupendous enough to do that.
A rather bitter smile crossed his face, and he took out of his
despatch-box a small packet containing the two letters for which he
had paid so highly, and a copy of the second blackmailing letter,
which he had made before he delivered his cheque and the original at
Bilton's office in New York. His own letter he read through again,
wondering at himself. Those words of wild adoration--even now he felt
a faint internal thrill at the recollection of the mood they conjured
up again--were written to a woman who had done this. It seemed to him
incredible that no inkling of her real nature had ever crossed his
mind. It seemed impossible that he could have loved one to whom this
was possible. For mere interest in a phenomenon like this he must find
out what had passed between her and Amelie. It was impossible to ask
Amelie, therefore he would ask her.
He wrote to her that night asking whether he might come and see her as
soon as he got to town. Their northern visits were nearly at an end,
and he would be passing through in about a week's time. The matter, he
added, was one which might be of great importance to him and his future
happiness, and no one in the world could help him but her.
The answer he got was thoroughly characteristic--characteristic, that
is, of the Dorothy Emsworth whom he knew, thoroughly uncharacteristic
of the Dorothy who had blackmailed and then mocked at him by telling
his wife what he had paid so heavily for her not to know.
'Charmed to see you' (it ran), 'though you have behaved so
very badly. Yes, perhaps I can help you. I don't know. I
am rather afraid I made mischief with your wife; but she
annoyed me, and I have, as you well know, the temper of
Beelzebub. Really, I am very fond of Amelie, but she is not
very fond of me. Deeply pathetic, but I shall get over it.
'Yours ever,
'D. E.'
'P.S.--Thank you so much for the charming dressing-bag
you sent me. I use it constantly. It has your crest and
initials on it, so that I am constantly reminded of you.
By the way, I shall give it you hot when we meet, so it is
only fair you should be warned.'
Bertie read this and re-read it, and for the first time a doubt stood
by him, dim and shadowy, but apparent, visible to the senses. This last
letter was so like her; it threw into brighter light the unlikeness to
her of the affair of the blackmail. Yet there was no other explanation
the least plausible.
A week later they were both in London. The Palmers were there also,
on the eve of their departure to America--Mrs. Palmer having spent
August very pleasantly in about thirty different houses, her husband
having spent it very profitably in one. In other words, he had remained
the whole month in London, and devoted himself to the consolidation
and extension of his English interests. He had been able to go ahead
more completely on his own lines, and with his own rapidity, owing to
the absence of other directors on their holidays, and, octopus-like,
had spread his tentacles far and wide. But now affairs in America
demanded his presence, and he was leaving his English business in
the hands of Bilton, who appeared to him, the better he knew him, to
be extraordinarily efficient. He was almost as rapid, and quite as
indefatigable, as Mr. Palmer himself, and had the faculty of being able
to absorb himself in one branch of his work from ten to eleven, and to
pass without pause into a similar state of absorption over another.
Since, then, Seaton House was open, and to open their own house just
for a couple of days was unnecessary, Bertie and Amelie took up their
quarters there.
Mrs. Emsworth, under Bilton's direction, was to make another American
tour this autumn, and was, in fact, in London only for a day or two
before she left by the same boat by which the Palmers were also going.
She had made an appointment with Bertie for the afternoon of the day
after his arrival in London, and since she had warned him that he
might expect a hot time, he took with him, in order to equalize the
temperature on both sides, the contents of the packet that lived under
lock and key in his despatch-box. He had himself no wish to indulge
in recrimination; as he had told her, he wanted and entreated her
help, but if she was proposing to hurl, so to speak, the returned
dressing-bag at his head, the letter seemed to him of the nature of a
gun that wanted a great deal of silencing.
She was at home when he arrived, and he was at once shown up into the
room he knew so well. The outside blinds were down to keep out the
stress of the August heat, and the air was thick with the scent of
flowers. Then there came the rustle of a dress on the landing outside,
and she entered.
'Are you there, Bertie?' she asked. 'It is so dark one can see nothing.'
She drew up one of the blinds.
'That is better,' she said. 'Now, what do you want?' She gave him no
other greeting of hand-shake, but sat down on the sofa opposite the
chair where he had been sitting. At the sight of her all his pent-up
anger and indignation rushed to the surface; he had not known before
how vile what she had done seemed to him.
'What have I done to you that you should treat me like this?' he broke
out. 'Once I gave you my heart, myself, all I was, and you laughed at
me. Then--oh my God! it is too much.'
She looked at him in blank surprise.
'You got over it,' she said. 'You married somebody else. I think
I behaved rather well. If I had chosen I might have made things
unpleasant for you. But I am not that sort of woman.'
Bertie heard himself laugh, though he was unconscious of any amusement.
'I paid you a high price, and you cheated me,' he said.
'I paid you again. That was not enough, but you must needs tell her.
That is the sort of woman you are.'
Dorothy sat up.
'Either you are mad or I,' she said. 'I think it is you. As I told you,
your wife annoyed me. She was prim, priggish, Puritan. I thought it
would do her good to know that once you were foolish enough to write me
a letter. I wished I had kept it, I remember. I should have liked to
have seen her face when I showed it her. I can't bear prigs. But you
paying me, and I cheating you? If you will excuse the expression, I
wish the devil you would tell me what you mean.'
Bertie leant forward.
'You are inimitable,' he said. 'I never much respected your power as
an actress till to-day. But I see I was wrong. You told me you were
getting rich. So rich, perhaps, that ten thousand pounds for a forgery,
and then five thousand more, escape your memory.'
He got up; the mere statement of what she had done, now that he was
face to face with her, infuriated him to a sort of madness of rage.
'If you will excuse the expression, you' devil,' he said.
He came a step nearer, and saw her shrink from him, and look round as
if to see where the bell was.
'No, no; I am not going to touch you,' he said. 'You needn't be
frightened.'
He took from his pocket the letters, and unfolded them.
'Do you remember this, and this?' he said. 'And this, a copy of the
instructions you gave? All that I think I could have forgiven you. But
on the top of it, you tell Amelie. By your own confession you tell her
that, and anything more, I suppose, that occurred to you. No doubt you
told her that you had gratified my passion for you. That is the only
thing that can account for the change that came over her from the time
she saw you.'
Dorothy's frightened look had passed completely off.
'Give me those, Bertie,' she said quietly. 'Before God, I swear to give
you them back. You can trust me. I don't use that name unless I mean
it.'
His anger had so transported him that his errand to her had been
forgotten. He had come to ask for her help, to learn anyhow, if she
would tell him, exactly what she had said to Amelie. But the sight of
her had somehow driven him to frenzy, to a pitch of passionate anger
which he had not known he was capable of. But her words, the quietness
of them, the sobriety with which she spoke, sobered him. There was
something, too, in her tone that convinced him. So in silence he handed
them all to her.
She read through them all without once raising her eyes. Then she gave
them back to him, and sat still with eyes downcast. When she raised
them, he saw that they were full of tears.
'I know nothing whatever of the whole affair,' she said.
'The torn letter, I think, is yours. I remember tearing it up myself on
the day on which you came to see me in New York. The other two I know
nothing of. And you thought--you, Bertie, who knew me--thought I had
done that.'
'I thought you had done that!' he repeated mockingly.
Then his doubt stood beside him again, a little clearer, a little more
precise in outline, and his tone changed.
'You didn't do it?' he said.
She looked at him, half in scorn, half in pity.
'I!' she said in a tone indescribable, and no more. She was far too
deeply hurt to reproach him; no words could meet the situation. But,
looking at him, she saw the anger die out of his face, and knew that he
believed her.
'I am sorry, I am sorry,' he stammered.
She made a gesture of impatience.
'Tell me all about it from the beginning,' she said; and she heard him
in silence.
'And you thought I had done that,' she said. 'Certainly it looked like
it, but you ought to have known it was impossible. You did not. Now
listen.'
She paused a moment.
'Bertie, for many months you saw me almost daily, and guessed nothing.
Of all the men I have known--I have known several--I loved one. You.
That was why I always refused you. It was my one decent impulse. It was
not easy for me. Nor was it easy for me to see you marry Amelie. But
I loved you, and liked her. And in a very dim and vague sort of way I
realized that there was such a thing as keeping good, as being clean.
Even I realized that. So I kept you by me as long as I could, because
your passion for me made you lead a proper life. You did not know that
other women even existed while you could see me. Then you wrote that
letter, and I knew that I could resist no longer if I continued to see
you. So I sent you away. I have done a good many horrible things in my
life, but I have done just that one decent one. One thing more. You
have never known me do a mean thing. I wonder you dared think it was I
who blackmailed you. Now, that is absolutely all. I have no other word
to say about myself.'
'I have one,' he said. 'Can you forgive me?'
'I have no idea,' she answered.
She got up and walked once or twice up and down the room, he sitting
where he was, not looking at her, but hearing only the _frou-frou_ of
her dress. Then he heard the sprit of a lighted match, and a moment
afterwards she blew a great cloud of smoke into his face.
'You disgusting, horrible pig!' she said. 'My fingers simply tingle
to box your ears. Now, what is to be done? It is perfectly clear who
blackmailed you, and if you like you can have him in the hollow of your
hand.'
'Bilton,' said Bertie.
'Of course. He really is rather a charming character. He had a grudge
against me, because I told Sybil Brancepeth of--of past events. He has
made a good attempt to pay it off. Now, what will you do? Personally,
I should like you to prosecute him, and I will come to the trial. You
could get him years and years for that. But you must not do it except
with your wife's permission. England is the home of linen-washing in
public; it is the one industry that remains to us. But you must ask her
first. Tell me, what terms are you on?'
'Polite speaking terms.'
Dorothy laughed.
'What fools husbands and wives are!' she remarked. 'Why don't you
have it out with her? Why don't you explode, boil over, beat her, or
something? It is partly my fault, too. I saw she thought there was more
to be told, and I did not trouble to convince her, for she did behave
so primly. Nose in the air, as if I was a bad smell.'
She paused a moment.
'Go to her now at once,' she said, 'before you have time to think it
over. Show her the letter; tell her the whole story. Off with you. Ah!
wait a minute.'
She left the room quickly, and came back again with the dressing-bag in
her hand.
'Will you take it now?' she said, with her enchanting smile.
He could not speak; there was a pathos about her gaiety that gripped
his throat.
'All happiness to you and her, dear Bertie,' she said. 'Now go away.'
It was between eleven and twelve that night when Bertie left the
smoking-room and went upstairs. His wife had gone some quarter of an
hour before, but Mr. Palmer had detained him talking. He tapped at her
bedroom door; her maid opened it, and after a moment he was admitted.
She was sitting before her glass in a blue silk and lace dressing-gown,
and her hair, a rippling sheet of molten gold, was streaming down her
back.
'You want to speak to me?' she asked.
'If I may.'
'You can go,' she said to the maid. 'I will send for you if I want you.'
Amelie got up, smoothing her hair back behind her ears. If she had been
the most finished coquette, she would have done exactly that; art would
have imitated the complete naturalness of the movement. Her face was
very pale, and looked infinitely weary, but its beauty, the beauty of
that falling river of gold, the beauty of her bare arm, and the gentle
swell of her bosom, half seen through the low opening of the neck of
her dressing-gown, had never been more dazzling. But her eyes were
lustreless; they looked on him as on a stranger.
'What is it?' she asked.
He tried to school his tongue to begin, but for the moment it would not.
'Would to-morrow do as well?' asked Amelie. 'I am rather tired.'
'No; I want to tell you to-night,' said he. 'It is about Mrs. Emsworth.'
She flushed, and turned her head a little away.
'I do not care to hear,' she said.
'I must tell you, all the same,' he said.
She shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly.
'I cannot prevent you,' she said.
She sat down by her toilet-table, turning only a shoulder to him, and
with her cool white hands idly arranged the things that stood there,
and he began his tale. He told her everything from the beginning: of
his wild infatuation for Mrs. Emsworth, of the absolute innocence of
that attachment, and of the letter he had written. She interrupted him
here.
'I do not see why you tell me this,' she said. 'I knew all you have
told me.'
'You did not know it from me,' he said. 'That makes a difference.'
For the first time her face softened a little.
'Yes,' she said, 'I see that.'
'Do you believe what I tell you?'
She turned now and faced him.
'No, Bertie, I am afraid not,' she said. 'It is not reasonable. We all
know what sort of a woman Mrs. Emsworth is. You say you were madly in
love with her. We know also what a man's code of morality usually is.
Is it reasonable?'
'There is a reason,' he said.
'Tell it me, then.'
'It is hard to tell you,' he said. 'But it is this: She loved me. For
that reason she wished me not--not to act unworthily. So she laughed at
me. She sent me away.'
Amelie got up and stood in front of him, with head downcast.
Instinctively and completely she knew this to be the truth, and was
humbled. She touched his arm gently with her finger-tips.
'Yes, that is a very good reason,' she said. 'Bertie, I am sorry. All
these awful weeks I have believed the other. It has made everything
black and bitter to me.'
'Have you minded so much?' he asked.
'I have minded more than I can possibly tell you,' she said. 'But I
believe you now. And I am sorry.'
Bertie took her hand and kissed it. There was more to tell yet.
'I want to tell you first about the letter,' he said, 'and then there
is just one word more. Mrs. Emsworth destroyed it, or believed she did,
but it fell into the hands of a man, whom I will name if you wish. At
least, she regards it as certain it was he. He blackmailed me twice
over it, sending me once a copy of the letter, the second time the
letter itself. I paid him both times.'
'Who was it?' asked she.
'Harold Bilton. Now, what do you wish me to do?'
'It will mean publicity if you prosecute him?' she asked. 'All those
horrors of a court?'
'Yes.'
'I don't think I could bear it about you,' she said. 'Threaten him if
you like. Get back your money if you can. But not that, Bertie.'
'It shall be as you wish.'
'Do you want to very much?'
'I see red when I think of him,' said he.
'Ah, don't, don't!' she said.
She was silent a moment.
'One thing more, then,' he said. 'I want to show you the letter. I want
you to know all. I have brought it here. Will you read it?'
'Yes, if you wish,' she said.
She took it from him, and went over to the brighter light of the
dressing-table to read it by. It was long, and it took her some
minutes, and in those minutes she learned for the first time what a
man's love could be, and she envied with a sense of passionate longing
the woman to whom it was written. That was the fire he had spoken of.
When she had finished she gave it back to him.
'I have read it all,' she said. 'Poor Bertie! You suffered.'
She paused, and suddenly her jealousy and her desire flamed high.
'You never spoke to me like that,' she said.
His white face looked down on her.
'No, dear. Since then, until weeks after we were married, I thought
all power of feeling like that was dead in me. I had forgotten what it
meant. I could not imagine ever wanting to care like that again. Then
by degrees you and your sweetness and your love and your beauty awoke
the desire again. That desire grew, and my power to feel it grew with
it, till it trembled on the verge of passion. It was growing every day
when things began to come between us, till in these last weeks we have
been worse than strangers.'
Something woke in her eyes that he had not seen there for months.
'And will it grow again now?' she asked. 'Or have I spoiled it all?'
He drew her to him.
'Amelie, forgive me,' he said. 'Whether you can or not, I don't know,
but if you still care for me at all, try, try to help me.'
The light in her eyes grew more wonderful.
'If I care for you?' she asked. 'If I care for you?'
He kissed her on her beautiful eyes and on her mouth.
'So it is all told, dear,' said he, 'and you will help me. You look
very tired. I have been keeping you up.'
'I am not tired now,' she said. 'And, Bertie, Bertie, there is one
thing yet. Before very many months I shall be the mother of your child.'
And the long pent-up tempest of her love for him broke, overwhelming
and flooding her. Her arms were pressed round his neck, and from his
shoulder she raised her face to his.
'Your child,' she whispered again.