Charmion came to my room in her white dressing-gown, with her long hair
hanging plaited down her back. Remembering the icy hands I had held in
mine, I had lit the gas fire, and she cowered gratefully over its
warmth.
"Kind of you, dear! Warmth is comforting. Well, Evelyn, so the time
has come. I have waited, screwing up my courage; but the hour has been
decided for us."
"Not unless you choose," I cried hastily. "I would far rather never
hear--"
She checked me with a wan smile.
"I _do_ choose. When it is over, it will be a relief. I want you to
know. You will understand better, and I shall not pain you so much,
dear, kind Evelyn, by my harsh ways. So all this time you have believed
that I was a happy widow?"
The expression jarred. She saw the shrinking in my eyes, and smiled
again, in the same wan, hopeless fashion.
"Oh, I _mean_ it. Death comes like a sword, but in the end it is
merciful, for it brings peace. The one who is left suffers many pangs,
but in time--in time, learns to be thankful for all that the beloved is
spared. It is the living troubles which sear the heart. I have envied
the widows who could look up and say, `It is well with him. We shall
meet again.' With me it has been all bitterness, all rebellion."
I sat silent, not daring to interrupt, and after a moment's pause she
began again, speaking in a still, level tone, with hardly any variety of
expression.
"I am an orphan like you, Evelyn. Both my parents died before I was
fourteen, and I was sent over to America to live with a grandmother
aunt. I was an heiress, unfortunately--you know my views about
riches!--and by my father's will I came into my money at eighteen. My
aunt was a wise woman, and even to her intimate friends she never gave a
hint of my fortune. She was a wealthy woman herself, and had no
daughter, only one son, so it seemed natural that she should give me a
good time, dress me prettily, and take me about. She had a horror of
fortune-hunters, and wanted me to be loved for myself, and be as happily
married as she had been before me. When I came out she brought me over
to London for a season, and I was presented; but that was my one and
only visit to England in fifteen years. I was glad to go back to New
York, for my real friends were there. We had grown up together, and had
the associations of years. In England I had only acquaintances. Well!
So it went on, the happiest of lives, till I was twenty-four. Several
men wanted to marry me, but I never met anyone whom it was possible to
think of as a husband until--"
"Your husband?"
"Yes. We were away for the summer--a whole party of us--camping in the
most delicious spot. I wish you could join an American camping party
some time, Evelyn. It's just the happiest, freest, most ideal of lives!
He came down as the guest of some other people. The daughter was one
of my own friends. I thought at first that she cared for him herself,
but he never paid her any attention--not the slightest; rather avoided
her indeed, even before--"
"He cared for you. Did it begin--_soon_--Charmion?"
"I cared for him the first moment we met. I was sitting at a long
tea-table set out in the open, and my friend brought him up to a seat
right opposite to mine. She said, `Charmion, this is Phil--Phil, this
is Charmion!' It was one of the rules of the camp that we called each
other by our Christian names. The life was so informal that `Mr' and
`Miss' seemed out of place. I looked up and met his eyes, and--it was
different from anything I had felt before.
"He came for a week, but he stayed on and on until it was nearly a
month. I can't talk about it, Evelyn. Such times can never last. Even
at the best it is impossible that they can last. Perfect happiness is
not for this world. It was all beautiful. The place where we camped
was like another Garden of Eden; the weather was exquisite, such days,
such mornings! Oh, Evelyn, such nights! The sky a dome of deepest
blue, with the stars shining as you never saw them in this damp, misty
atmosphere. And he and I--"
Her voice broke. Her hand went up to her face to hide the quivering of
her lips. It was a petrifying thing to see Charmion break down. I
turned away my eyes, unable to bear it. There was silence in the room
for several moments, then she began again.
"Nothing was said in words. I didn't want him to speak. I was
perfectly happy, perfectly sure, and I dreaded the publicity of an
engagement. Every one talking, questioning, teasing. It would have
seemed profanation. Besides--if Marjorie had really cared as I
suspected, it would have been painful for her. I wouldn't _let_ him
speak until we got back to New York, and then, the very night I arrived,
Aunt Mary was taken dangerously ill. She lingered a few weeks, but
there was never any hope. Then she died and I was left alone, for her
son, my cousin, lived in India.
"All that time he--my husband--had been coming to see me every day. The
doctor insisted that I should go out to be braced by the fresh air, so
he took me long drives, long walks, and then sat by me indoors,
comforting me, helping, advising. He was everything to me, Evelyn!
Aunt Mary was dying, and she had been like a mother, but when he was
with me I was satisfied; I was content. When she died, he urged an
immediate marriage, and I was quite ready. She had left no money to me,
but I told him I had some of my own. He kissed me, and"--again her hand
went up to hide that quivering lip--"he said that did not concern him.
He could keep his wife. What money I had I must keep for myself, to pay
for `little extravagancies'.
"I was thankful that he did not know, thankful that he did not care. I
looked forward to telling him after we were married, and seeing his face
of surprise. We had planned to live in an apartment until we had time
to choose a house for ourselves. I laughed to think how much bigger and
finer it would be than the little house of his dreams. He was not at
all rich--did I tell you that? He had had a pretty hard struggle all
his life, and had only quite a moderate income. I went to my lawyer and
settled a fourth of my income on him for life. I knew if we lived in a
bigger way there would be calls upon him which he would not otherwise
have had. Calls for subscriptions, for charities, a dozen other claims.
I hated to think that he should have to come to me for money, or that
cheques should be drawn in my name. He asked me what I was going to
give him as a wedding present, and I laughed, and said, `Nothing
interesting. Only a little note!' The settlement was to be my gift."
Silence again. I felt for her hand and held it tight? Tragedy was
coming; I knew it. I waited, tense with suspense.
"We were married very quietly. Only two or three people in the church.
He called for me. It was unconventional, but I was nervous and weak,
and he knew he could give me strength. We went up the aisle together,
hand in hand. The man who was to give me away followed behind. Many
people in America are married in their own homes, but I preferred a
church. I've been sorry since. It has seemed a profanation. To stand
before the altar in God's house and take those solemn vows, while all
the time--all the time--"
She shuddered, and paused to regain self-possession.
"Well, Evelyn--well! I had two weeks' happiness, two weeks in my fool's
paradise, and then--the end came! He had gone over to New York for a
day. Some important business had arisen and he was obliged to go. He
said good-bye." She paused again, struggling for composure. "It _was_
good-bye--good-bye for ever. He did not know that, but he parted from
me as--a husband might from the wife of his heart. It was impossible to
doubt. I was as sure of him, Evelyn--as sure as that the sun is in the
sky!
"After he had gone a letter was handed to me. I did not know the
writing, but inside--I could not understand it--was a letter in his own
writing. Nothing else, just this one sheet, with one long passage
underscored. I did not stop to think; the words leapt at me, my own
name first of all; and after I had begun to read there was no stopping
short. It was the second sheet of a letter, so I could not tell to whom
it had been written; but evidently it was to a man to whom money was
owing, and who had been pressing for a settlement. It was full of
apologies for having failed to pay before; and then--then came the
passage that had been underlined. Perhaps, he said, in a few months'
time things would look up. _There was a girl_. In a roundabout way,
through an English acquaintance, he had heard that she had a pile of
money, though the fact had been kept dark in America. There was no
doubt about it, since his informant was a member of the legal firm who
had wound up her father's estate. By a stroke of good luck the girl was
staying at a summer camp with some of his own friends. He had
engineered an invitation, and was there at the moment of writing.
"Think of it, Evelyn--at that very moment I was, perhaps, sitting
innocently by his side. We used to scribble our letters together,
sitting out in the woods, and break off every few minutes to laugh and
chatter. Probably, after it was finished, we walked together to the
nearest post, and as we went he looked at me--_he looked_. Oh!"--she
winced in irrepressible misery--"is it _possible_--is it _possible_ that
any man could act so well? Can you wonder that I am hard and cold--that
I have so little sympathy for outside troubles? I was once as loving
and impetuous as you are yourself, but that shock turned me to stone.
It killed my faith in human nature!"
She was silent, struggling for composure, and I laid my hand on her
knee, and sat silent, not daring to speak. What was there to say? I
realised now how infinitely more bitter than death was the loss which
Charmion had to bear.
"Well,"--she roused herself to go on with her story--"you can imagine
the rest. `The heiress was,' he wrote, `_quite a possible girl_,' and
seemed `_agreeably disposed_'. There was evidently no previous
entanglement, and the circumstances were propitious. It was his
intention to go in and win. If it came off he would be in a position to
pay up old scores and to start life afresh. It would be worth giving up
his liberty, to end the everlasting worry of the last ten years. The
letter ended with more promises and his signature. No loophole of doubt
was left, you see. There could be no mistaking that signature. I had
been married exactly two weeks, and had believed myself the happiest
woman in the world. I now discovered that I had been tracked down by an
adventurer, who had married me only because, unfortunately, it was
impossible to get hold of my fortune without putting up with me at the
same time."
"What did he say, how did he look, when you told him about your money
and the settlement? Of course, you _had_ told him by that time."
"Not much. Very little indeed. I thought at the time that he was
overwhelmed, and a little sorry that the wealth was on my side. Looking
back, I do him the justice to believe that he was ashamed! Even such a
deliberate schemer might well feel a pang under the circumstances. I
remember that he put his elbows on the table, and hid his face in his
hands. He never alluded to the subject again, neither did I. There
seemed plenty of time. I loved him all the more because he was not
wildly elated. All my life I had been trained to dread fortune-hunters,
to value sincerity above every other virtue."
"But during those two weeks _after_ you were married, he still seemed
to--_care_? You believed in him still?"
"Absolutely! Utterly! I must be easily duped, Evelyn, for with all my
heart I believed that that man loved me as deeply as I loved him. Every
word--every look! Oh, he was a finished actor! It all seemed so real--
so real--"
"Charmion, after you had read that letter and understood all that it
meant, what did you do?"
"I went to my room, packed a bag with a few changes of clothing,
collected all the money I had with me, quite a large sum in notes, and
caught the afternoon train for New York. I had no idea where I was
going. My one longing was to escape before he came back, but things
were decided for me. The shock made me faint, and in the heat of the
train I felt worse every hour. When we stopped at a half-way station I
stepped out on to the platform in the same dull, dazed way, hardly
realising what I was doing, and carried my bag out into the street.
Half a mile away I saw a notice of rooms to let in the window of a small
house, and I knocked and went in.
"I stayed in that house for over six months, Evelyn. The woman was a
saint--the kindliest, gentlest creature I have ever met. I told her
that I was ill and in trouble, and wanted to rest, and she put me to bed
and nursed me like a child. I was a long time in getting well. The
very strings of my being seemed to have snapped. I lay torpid week
after week, and the good soul took care of me and asked no questions.
She was one of those rare spirits who pray to God to guide them day by
day, and mean literally what they ask. God had sent me to her in my
need--that was her firm belief--and what she did for me she did for Him.
I had left no message behind--only that terrible letter sealed up, to
be given to my husband on his return. I heard afterwards that he had
searched for me far and wide, had even crossed over to England, thinking
I must be here. When I was well enough I sent for my aunt's lawyer and
took him into my confidence. He let me know when my husband returned to
America, and as soon as possible after that I came to England myself,
under another name. I was no longer his wife in heart. Why should I
keep a name which was given to me under false pretences? Five years
have passed since then. It seems like a century, and--here I am!"
"And all this time you have heard nothing? Nothing has happened?"
"Yes. I have heard. He seems to have--felt it a good deal! It is
always painful to be discovered, and for a man's wife to leave him
before the honeymoon is over is hurtful to his pride. He makes periodic
efforts to find me, but my lawyers are loyal, and will give no clue."
"And the settlement? The money you made over to him? Does he draw that
still?"
She flushed and frowned.
"No. It appears not. He tells the lawyers that he will never touch it.
I suppose if he changed his manner of living it would be remarked, and
people might guess something of the truth. His object is, of course, to
throw all the blame on me."
The bitterness of her voice hurt me so that I ventured a timid protest.
"Charmion, I am not taking his part. I think he was contemptible beyond
words; but--_isn't_ it possible that he has regretted, that he has not
taken the money because he was _ashamed_?"
"Possible, of course; but I should say extremely improbable. However, I
am no longer concerned in his motives. He gave up his liberty for a
certain price, and the price is his. The money accumulates at the bank.
Some day, no doubt, he will find it convenient to draw it."