Althea had not seen Gerald after the day that they came up from
Merriston together. The breaking of their engagement was duly announced,
and, with his little note to her, thanking her for her frankness and
wishing her every happiness, Gerald and all things connected with him
seemed to pass out of her life. She saw no more of the frivolous
relations who were really serious, nor of the serious ones who were
really frivolous. She did not even see Helen. Helen's engagement to
Franklin had never been formally announced, and few, beyond her circle
of nearest friends, knew of it; the fact that Franklin had now returned
to his first love was not one that could, at the moment, be made
appropriately public. But, of course, Helen had had to be told, not only
that Franklin had gone from her, but that he had come back to Althea,
and Althea wondered deeply how this news had been imparted. She had not
felt strength to impart it herself. When she asked Franklin, very
tentatively, about it, he said: 'That's all right, dear. I've explained.
Helen perfectly understands.'
That it was all right seemed demonstrated by the little note, kind and
sympathetic, that Helen wrote to her, saying that she did understand,
perfectly, and was so glad for her and for Franklin, and that it was
such a good thing when people found out mistakes in time. There was not
a trace of grievance; Helen seemed to relinquish a good which, she
recognised, had only been hers because Althea hadn't wanted it. And this
was natural; how could one show one's grievance in such a case? Helen,
above all, would never show it; and Althea was at once oppressed, and at
the same time oddly sustained by the thought that she had, all
inevitably, done her friend an injury. She lay awake at night, turning
over in her mind Helen's present plight and framing loving plans for the
future. She took refuge in such plans from a sense of having come to an
end of things. To think of Helen, and of what, with their wealth, she
and Franklin could do for Helen, seemed, really, her strongest hold on
life. It was the brightest thing that she had to look forward to, and
she looked forward to it with complete self-effacement. She saw the
beautiful Italian villa where Helen should be the fitting centre, the
English house where Helen, rather than she, should entertain. She felt
that she asked nothing more for herself. She was safe, if one liked to
put it so, and in that safety she felt not only her ambitions, but even
any personal desires, extinguished. Her desire, now, was to unite with
Franklin in making the proper background for Helen. But at the moment
these projects were unrealisable; taste, as well as circumstance,
required a pause, a lull. It was a relief--so many things were a relief,
so few things more than merely that--to know that Helen was in the
country somewhere, and would not be back for ten days or a fortnight.
Meanwhile, Miss Harriet Robinson, very grave but very staunch, sustained
Althea through all the outward difficulties of her _volte-face_. Miss
Robinson, of course, had had to be told of the reason for the
_volte-face_, the fact that Althea had found, after all, that she cared
more for Franklin Winslow Kane. It was in regard to the breaking of her
engagement that Miss Robinson was staunch and grave; in regard to the
new engagement, Althea saw that, though still staunch, she was much
disturbed. Miss Robinson found Franklin hard to place, and found it hard
to understand why Althea had turned from Gerald Digby to him. Franklin's
millions didn't count for much with Miss Robinson, nor could she suspect
them of counting for anything, where marriage was concerned, with her
friend. She had not, indeed, a high opinion of the millionaire type of
her compatriots. Her standards were birth and fashion, and poor Franklin
could not be said to embody either of these claims. His mitigating
qualities could hardly shine for Miss Robinson, who, accustomed to
continually seeing and frequently evading the drab, dry, utilitarian
species of her country-people, could not be expected to find in him the
flavour of oddity and significance that his English acquaintance prized.
Franklin didn't make any effort to place himself more favourably. He was
very gentle and very attentive, and he followed all Althea's directions
as to clothes and behaviour with careful literalness; but even barbered
and tailored by the best that London had to offer, he seemed to sink
inevitably into the discreetly effaced position that the American
husband so often assumes behind his more brilliant mate, and Althea
might have been more aware of this had she not been so sunken in an
encompassing consciousness of her own obliteration. She felt herself
nearer Franklin there, and the sense of relief and safety came most to
her when she could feel herself near Franklin. It didn't disturb her,
standing by him in the background, that Miss Robinson should not
appreciate him. After all, deeper than anything, was the knowledge that
Helen had appreciated him. Recede as far as he would from the gross
foreground places, Helen's choice of him, Helen's love--for after a
fashion, Helen must have loved him--gave him a final and unquestionable
value. It was in this assurance of Helen's choice that she found a
refuge when questionings and wonders came to drag her down to suffering
again. There were many things that menaced the lull of safety, things
she could not bear yet to look at. The sense of her own abandonment to
weak and disingenuous impulses was one; another shadowed her unstable
peace more darkly. Had Helen really minded losing Franklin--apart from
his money? What had his value really been to her? What was she feeling
and doing now? What was Gerald doing and feeling, and what did they both
think or suspect of her? The answer to some of these questionings came
to her from an unsuspected quarter. It was on a morning of chill mists
and pale sunlight that Althea, free of Miss Robinson, walked down
Grosvenor Street towards the park. She liked to go into the park on such
mornings, when Miss Robinson left her free, and sit on a bench and
abandon herself to remote, impersonal dreams. It was just as she entered
Berkeley Square that she met Mrs. Mallison, that aunt of Gerald's who
had struck her, some weeks ago, as so disconcerting, with her skilfully
preserved prettiness and her ethical and metaphysical aspirations. This
lady, furred to her ears, was taking out two small black pomeranians for
an airing. She wore long pearl ear-rings, and her narrow, melancholy
face was delicately rouged and powdered. Althea's colour rose painfully;
she had seen none of Gerald's relatives since the severance. Mrs.
Mallison, however, showed no embarrassment. She stopped at once and took
Althea's hand and gazed tenderly upon her. Her manner had always
afflicted Althea, with its intimations of some deep, mystical
understanding.
'My dear, I'm so glad--to meet you, you know. How nice, how right you've
been.' Mrs. Mallison murmured her words rather than spoke them and could
pronounce none of her r's. 'I'm so glad to be able to tell you so.
You're walking? Come with me, then; I'm just taking the dogs round the
square. Do you love dogs too? I am sure you must. You have the eyes of
the dog-lover. I don't know how I could live without mine; they
understand when no one else does. I didn't write, because I think
letters are such soulless things, don't you? They are the tombs of the
spirit--little tombs for failed things--too often. I've thought of you,
and felt for you--so much; but I couldn't write. And now I must tell you
that I agree with you with all my heart. Love's the _only_ thing in
life, isn't it?' Mrs. Mallison smiled, pressing Althea's arm
affectionately. Althea remembered to have heard that Mrs. Mallison had
made a most determined _mariage de convenance_ and had sought love in
other directions; but, summoning what good grace she could, she
answered that she, too, considered love the only thing.
'You didn't love him enough, and you found it out in time, and you told
him. How brave; how right. And then--am I too indiscreet? but I know you
feel we are friends--you found you loved some one else; the reality came
and showed you the unreality. That enchanting Mr. Kane--oh, I felt it
the moment I looked at him--there was an affinity between us, our souls
understood each other. And so deliciously rich you'll be, not that money
makes any difference, does it? but it is nice to be able to do things
for the people one loves.'
Althea struggled in a maze of discomfort. Behind Mrs. Mallison's
caressing intonations was something that perplexed her. What did Mrs.
Mallison know, and what did she guess? She was aware, evidently, of her
own engagement to Franklin and, no doubt, of Franklin's engagement to
Helen and its breaking off. What did she know about the cause of that
breaking off? Her troubled cogitations got no further, for Mrs. Mallison
went on:
'And how happily it has all turned out--all round--hasn't it? How horrid
for you and Mr. Kane, if it hadn't; not that you'd have had anything to
reproach yourselves with--really--I know--because love _is_ the only
thing; but if Helen and Gerald had just been left _plantes la_, it would
have been harder, wouldn't it? I've been staying with them at the same
house in the country and it's quite obvious what's happened. You knew
from the first, no doubt; but of course they are saying nothing, just as
you and Mr. Kane are saying nothing. They didn't tell me, but I guessed
at once. And the first thing I thought was: Oh--how happy--how perfect
this makes it for Miss Jakes and Mr. Kane. They've _all_ found out in
time.'
Althea grew cold. She commanded her voice. 'Helen? Gerald?' she said.
'Haven't you mistaken? They've always been the nearest friends.'
'Oh no--no,' smiled Mrs. Mallison, with even greater brightness and
gentleness, 'I never mistake these things; an affair of the heart is the
one thing that I always see. Helen, perhaps, could hide it from me; she
is a woman and can hide things--Helen is cold too--I am never very sure
of Helen's heart--of course I love her dearly, every one must who knows
her; but she is cold, unawakened, the type that holds out the cheek, not
the type that kisses. I confess that I love most the reckless, loving
type; and I believe that you and I are unlike Helen there--we kiss, we
don't hold out the cheek. But, no, I never would have guessed from
Helen. It was Gerald who gave them both away. Poor, dear Gerald, never
have I beheld such a transfigured being--he is radiantly in love, quite
radiantly; it's too pretty to see him.'
The vision of Gerald, radiantly in love, flashed horridly for Althea. It
was dim, yet bright, scintillating darkly; she could only imagine it in
similes; she had never seen anything that could visualise it for her.
The insufferable dogs, like tethered bubbles, bounded before them,
constantly impeding their progress. Althea was thankful for the excuse
afforded her by the tangling of her feet in the string to pause and
stoop; she felt that her rigid face must betray her. She stooped for a
long moment and hoped that her flush would cover her rigidity. It was
when she raised herself that she saw suddenly in Mrs. Mallison's face
something that gave her more than a suspicion. She didn't suspect her of
cruelty or vulgar vengeance--Gerald's aunt was quite without rancour on
the score of her jilting of him; but she did suspect, and more than
suspect her--it was like the unendurable probing of a wound to feel
it--of idle yet implacable curiosity, and of a curiosity edged, perhaps,
with idle malice. She summoned all her strength. She smiled and shook
her head a little. 'Faithless Gerald! So soon,' she said. 'He is
consoled quickly. No, I never guessed anything at all.'
Mrs. Mallison had again passed her arm through hers and again pressed
it. 'It _is_ soon, isn't it? A sort of _chasse-croise_. But how strange
and fortunate that it should be soon--I know you feel that too.'
'Oh yes, of course, I feel it; it is an immense relief. But they ought
to have told me,' Althea smiled.
'I wonder at that too,' said Mrs. Mallison. 'It is rather bad of them, I
think, when they must know what it would mean to you of joy. When did it
happen, do you suppose?'
Althea wondered. Wonders were devouring her.
'It happened with you quite suddenly, didn't it?' said Mrs. Mallison,
who breathed the soft fragrance of her solicitude into Althea's face as
she leaned her head near and pressed her arm closely.
'Quite suddenly,' Althea replied, 'that is, with me it was sudden.
Franklin, of course, has loved me for a great many years.'
'So he was faithless too, for his little time?'
Althea's brain whirled. 'Faithless? Franklin?'
'I mean, while he made his mistake--while he thought he was in love with
Helen.'
'It wasn't a question of that. It was to be a match of reason, and
friendship--everybody knew,' Althea stammered.
'_Was_ it?' said Mrs. Mallison with deep interest. 'I see, like yours
and Gerald's.'
'Oh----' Althea was not able in her headlong course to do more than
glance at the implications that whizzed past. 'Gerald and I made the
mistake, I think; we believed ourselves in love.'
'_Did_ you?' Mrs. Mallison repeated her tone of affectionate and
brooding interest. 'What a strange thing the human heart is, isn't it?'
'Very, very strange.'
'How dear and frank of you to see it all as you do. And there are no
more mistakes now,' said Mrs. Mallison. 'No one is reasonable and every
one is radiant.'
'Every one is radiant and reasonable too, I hope,' said Althea. Her head
still whirled as she heard herself analysing for Mrs. Mallison's
correction these sanctities of her life. Odious, intolerable, insolent
woman! She could have burst into tears as she walked beside her, held by
her, while her hateful dogs, shrilly barking, bounded buoyantly around
them.
'It's dear of you too, to tell me all about it,' said Mrs. Mallison.
'Have you seen Helen yet? She is just back.'
'No, I've not seen her.'
'You will meet? I am sure you will still be friends--two such real
people as you are.'
'Of course we shall meet. Helen is one of my dearest friends.'
'I see. It is so beautiful when people can rise above things. You make
me very happy. Don't tell Helen what I've told you,' Mrs. Mallison with
gentle gaiety warned her. 'I knew--in case you hadn't heard--that it
would relieve you so intensely to hear that she and Gerald were happy,
in spite of what you had to do to them. But it would make Helen cross
with me if she knew I'd told you when she hadn't. I'm rather afraid of
Helen, aren't you? I'm sure she'll give Gerald dreadful scoldings
sometimes. Poor, dear Gerald!' Mrs. Mallison laughed reminiscently.
'Never have I beheld such a transfigured being. I didn't think he had it
in him to be in love to such an extent. Oh, it was all in his face--his
eyes--when he looked at her.'
Yes, malicious, malicious to the point of vulgarity; that was Althea's
thought as, like an arrow released from long tension, she sped away, the
turn of the square once made and Mrs. Mallison and her dogs once more
received into the small house in an adjacent street. Tears were in
Althea's eyes, hot tears, of fury, of humiliation, and--oh, it flooded
over her--of bitterest sorrow and yearning. Gerald, radiant Gerald--lost
to her for ever; not even lost; never possessed. And into the sorrow and
humiliation, poisonous suspicions crept. When did it happen? Where was
she? What had been done to her? She must see; she must know. She hailed
a hansom and was driven to old Miss Buchanan's house in Belgravia.