She's in love with my husband.”
He let go her hand. “Do you mind if I smoke? Perhaps you'll join me?
No?”
He took his time while he lit his cigarette. Then, speaking slowly, “I
can't believe all the evil that I've heard about this woman. And yet I
ought. Every fresh person has told me something increasingly vile.
To make a case against her, I have only to take all the trouble she's
caused me. I meet her on a liner and part with her on landing; from that
moment I have no peace. I'm pestered by strangers accusing and defending
her. My room is entered by spies. I find an anonymous note pinned to
my pillow. I'm lured out of London into the heart of the country on
the pretext that she's in danger and I can help her. You know the rest.
Until the happenings of tonight, the most probable explanation seemed to
be that she had taken a secret fancy to me and had turned to me in her
distress, when she found herself suspected of a crime. That theory won't
hold water any longer.”
“It might.”
“It couldn't. You tell me she's in love with your husband.”
“Santa can be in love with as many men as serve her purpose. The only
loyalty to which she's constant is the memory of her dead child.”
He shook himself irritably. “Nothing that you' or any one has told me
explains her. She left on me an impression of nobility which absolutely
contradicts all this later information. Until I met you, it almost
seemed there was a conspiracy on foot to poison my mind. What she is
said to have done may all be true, but I can't help searching behind
her actions for a higher motive. You'd clear matters up if you'd tell me
frankly how it is that you come into the picture.”
“The picture!” She shrank back from him like a timid child.
Controlling himself, he spoke patiently. “Do I need to be explicit? You
ought to hate her. She's in love with your husband. When, a few hours
ago, it was a case of warning her of the trap she was walking into, you
were reluctant to give the signal. 'She wouldn't spare us,' you said;
'so why should you and I----?' And yet you're her accomplice.
It was you whom I followed. It was you who, when you'd got me into this
room, tried to hold me at the revolver's point.”
She buried her face in the hollow of her arm. Her voice came muffled.
“It was I.”
He waited for her to say more. She made no sound--not even of sobbing.
“It was a dangerous game to play,” he reminded her. “You didn't know
your man or how he would take it. You must have had some strong motive.
You might have killed me without even intending. What a risk you
ran, doing a thing like that singlehanded! For a moment, when I first
entered, everything was touch and go.”
And still she made no reply.
The fire had burned low. He emptied coals on it. To bridge the
embarrassment of her silence, he went over to the window, pulling aside
the curtains, and stood gazing out at the glory of the night. The moon
rode high. Trees were clumped and motionless. The crooning of waves made
a continual lullaby.
She was married, and she was wasted. She was not wanted, and she was not
released. She had a husband who refused to live and could not contrive
to die. As a substitute for passion she had tried sainthood; it had not
satisfied.
He let the curtains fall. Turning, he gazed back at the black-garbed
figure bowed in the half-circle of firelight. Her golden hair had broken
loose. It poured across her shoulders and gathered at her feet in a
pool. At the moment she looked more a Magdalene than a saint. And this
was the woman who had made men brave by her purity--to whom a nation had
turned in its agony!
A flood of pity swept over him. Poor, narrow shoulders to have borne
such a burden! Poor, virgin feet to have come so long a journey! Poor,
mortal hands to have given such a blessing! She had been robbed and cast
aside.
The cruelty of idealists! She was their victim. What did they attain?
Idealists slew happiness on the altar of dreams that a future happiness
might result from it. Though their dreams were mistaken, they lost
nothing; they snatched their sensation of godlike righteousness. But who
could restore the happiness of others which their frenzy had destroyed?
If this time Varensky had had the decency to die, she was free. He
himself could take her. But would she want him? He had no attractions.
All that he could offer would be to serve her. He couldn't place her
back on her pinnacle of fame. Instead of crowds, he would be her only
worshiper. Would that satisfy a woman who had been a saint for a day?
He could promise her rest and protection. He could take her feet in
his hands and guide them over rough places. And if she wanted to be a
woman----
Crossing the room on tiptoe, he stood over her. Sinking to his knee, he
placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Won't you look up? I'm not here to hurt you. I wouldn't even judge you.
Life's been hard.”
When she gave no sign, he spoke again.
“I'm a man and a stranger. You're a wife. But you've told me so much.
You're wounded. You can't go on by yourself.”
She moved. He knew now that she was listening.
“There's that door in the wall we were going to find. Perhaps we've
found it. Let me be your friend. It would be foolish and wrong for me to
tell you that I----”
She raised her head. Her hair fell back, and her eyes gazed out at him
with hungry intensity. “Don't say it,” she implored. “Varensky----”
“But if he's dead? If I can bring you sure proof?”
For answer she pressed his hand against her bosom.