At last a day came when Madame Claire received a wire from Paris:
"_Arriving London to-night. Feeling very fit. Have engaged rooms
McPherson and self Langham Hotel. Will see you to-morrow afternoon
about four._
"STEPHEN."
She thought it was one of the most perfect moments of her life. She
could taste to the full, in one mouthful, so to speak, the different
yet blending flavors of anticipation and realization. Dawson had never
seen her so happily excited, nor so difficult to please in the matter
of flowers for her room. Judy had wrought this miracle--had so revived
Stephen's flagging spirits that he felt at last able to make the
journey. Had they left him alone there in Cannes, he would have waited
dully and hopelessly for another stroke. He would probably have ended
his days there, without ever returning to England. And now, anything
was possible. She longed to share Noel with him, too, Eric, all of
them. He might find something to like in Gordon. He might continue to
find Connie and Connie's vagaries interesting. They could see each
other every day--or nearly every day. And when spring came, he could
stay with her in Sussex--he would love her little house and her
garden--and they could talk. There was so much to talk about!
She hoped he had made an honest effort to picture her as she now was.
Men were so apt not to face the facts of change and decay in the women
they loved. Was he still picturing her as she looked when he last saw
her, nearly twenty years ago? Or--as is so often the way with age--was
he seeing her as she was when he first knew her, before she married
Robert? But she felt she could trust to his common sense about that. At
any rate, he would see her as he had always seen her, with the eyes of
the heart. And what would he be like? She believed that his
personality--that indefinable emanation that makes each one of us
different from any other one--would be unchanged. To her, nothing else
mattered.
* * * * * *
To-morrow came. She pictured Stephen looking out of his windows at
London, and getting used to the smell of it again. Madame Claire was
always dressed by eleven except on her bad days, and to-day, thank
Heaven! was not one of them. From eleven till four--five hours, five
long hours! Miss McPherson had telephoned that she would have her
patient there by four o'clock. She would leave him at the door, the
tactful creature had said, and go for a walk in the park. Madame Claire
agreed to this, on the condition that when she came for him again at
six, she stay for half an hour. Miss McPherson would be very pleased
indeed to do so.
At four, Madame Claire was dressed in a wine-colored silk that spread
about her stiffly and richly as she sat in her straight-backed chair.
Her white hair was dressed high, and secured with a comb of carved
shell. She had given much thought to her appearance. She kept beside
her an old ebony stick of Robert's, for her rheumatism made it a little
difficult for her to rise. On the other side of the wood fire was
another chair, carefully placed so that the light would fall on the
face of the occupant, but not too strongly for his comfort. The room
was full of flowers; early tulips, richly dyed anemones, and here and
there her beloved freesias. On a small table at her right hand lay an
inlaid box, and the key to it hung on a bracelet she wore on her wrist.
A bell rang, and she sat motionless, hardly moving her eyelids. Stephen
... Stephen was at her door ... fate was kind ... this was her moment
of moments, her day of days.
The door opened, and Dawson said in a strange voice:
"Mr. de Lisle, m'lady," and vanished.
And Stephen came to her....
They brushed each other's cheeks lightly, for the first time in their
long lives. They moved the two chairs nearer together and sat with
clasped hands. Words for a time were beyond them, but at last Stephen
spoke.
"You are wonderful," he said, "wonderful, wonderful!"
"But you----!" cried Madame Claire. "I was prepared for some one much
older, some one bent and feeble ... you are so straight!"
"As long as the Lord lets me walk at all," he told her, "I hope He'll
let me walk upright. And I'm better ... much better."
"How I have longed for this!" Her voice rang out clearly. "My dear,
stubborn, too proud old Stephen!"
"Less stubborn now, but still proud. Claire, you always had delightful
ways. It's your ways that have always held me--and your wits. But how
have you managed to become beautiful?"
"Beautiful? My poor old Stephen--your eyes----!"
"As good as they ever were, except for reading. No, you've got
something new ... what is it? Dignity, that's it. You were always too
gentle, too shy, to be properly dignified."
"I was always shy," she agreed, "until lately."
"I adored your shyness. A gentle, soft-voiced thing you were. Clever
... devilish clever! How you managed Robert! And me. And all the
chattering, brilliant, stupid, charming people of our day. You managed
'em all. And nobody knew it, but me. I used to tell Robert he'd have
been a government clerk somewhere, but for you."
"That," she said, "was untrue, for Robert had wit and a good brain. His
fault was that he didn't understand people. He wasn't human enough. I
could help him there."
"And you did help him. You made him; say what you will. You would have
made any man."
They talked--how they talked! Never taking their eyes off each other's
faces. Remembering things that they had half forgotten, things that it
took the two of them together to remember completely. Stopping in their
talk every now and then to smile at each other, to realize that this
longed-for thing had come to pass. To savor these moments, these
perfect, winged moments, that would never be less than perfect; moments
that Time had brought to a fine flowering--"Without the end of
fruit"--without the end of disillusion, too, and what scent that
flowering had! No, there could be no falling off, no dimming of that
brightness. They could trust to Death for that. Their curtain would be
rung down on a fine gesture, on a perfect note.
And then back to Robert again, and his qualities that Stephen so much
admired. They could even talk of him, frankly and simply. Twenty years
ago he had been too near, his claim to be regarded as an absent friend,
merely, had been too great. But now----
"I think he appreciated you, Claire."
"Yes," she said.
"If he had not--but he did. I have always remembered that. And he made
you happy."
She lifted her head and looked squarely at him, holding his eyes with
hers, steadily.
"I made myself happy," she said.
"What do you mean?"
There was not much time left to them. Let it be a completely happy
time, free of all pretense, of all misunderstanding. She wanted no
secrets from Stephen now. Even if she did Robert the least injustice,
his spirit must have reached heights of magnanimity very far beyond
the reach of such truths as were mere earthly truths. She owed
something to the living, and to her own spirit. She had kept her secret
well. She meant to permit herself the inestimable luxury of sharing it
now with Stephen.
"I mean--I made myself as happy as a woman can be who is not married to
the man she loves."
He had felt, when she looked at him so strangely, that he was on the
brink of some new knowledge. He almost dreaded what that knowledge
might be--dreaded the pain it might bring. He had hardly grasped her
meaning yet.
"Claire! Then why--why----? Good God----!"
She released the hand that he had clung to, and unfastened the little
gold key that hung from her wrist. She took the inlaid box on her knees
and opened it, Stephen watching her every movement. The box was lined
with red velvet and contained a single letter, yellow with age. She
took it out, delicately, and turned it over in her fingers so that he
saw both sides of it. It was unopened. The heavy seal on the flap of
the envelope was unbroken. She gave him the letter without a word.
He studied it for a moment.
"My writing!" he exclaimed. "Claire, what is this? What letter is
this?"
"That letter," she said gently, putting a hand on his arm, "is a
proposal from the man I loved."
He looked at her, uncomprehending.
"I will tell you about it," she said.
"Fifty-six years ago, Stephen, when that letter was written, I had two
admirers. Oh, more, perhaps but only two that counted. They were you
and Robert. Robert was serious and clever, and very much in love with
himself, and you were--everything that the heart of a girl like me
could desire. You were friends, you two; you were rivals, but friends
for all that. You were the better lover, Robert the more ingenious
wooer. Robert out-maneuvered you. It was he who got most of my dances
at balls, but it was always you I longed to give them to. It was Robert
who won the approval of my mother and father; it was you who won mine.
He was said to be a coming young man. They told me that you lacked
ambition and force--even in those days people talked about force--but
it was you I loved. You told my father that you wanted to marry me, and
he said you were too young for me. You were only twenty-two, and I was
twenty-three. He persuaded you to make the Grand Tour before settling
anything. You told him you would not go without speaking to me. And you
tried to speak to me--how often you tried!--but we were never left
alone in those days. My mother was fearful, for Robert, and Robert was
fearful for himself. So there were always interruptions. You were
almost maddened by them, and I--I was eating my heart out. If you could
only have passed me on the stairs and whispered, 'Marry me!' I would
have said 'Yes.' But the chance never came. And I--little fool--was too
shy to make it. And then, on the very eve of your Grand Tour, you wrote
me this letter.
"I had almost despaired of your ever speaking. I was hurt and
miserable. Robert redoubled his efforts. And then one day he came to
the house--it was the day he meant to propose, and I knew that my
mother meant to receive him with me and then excuse herself, leaving
us together. It was the day before you were to go away, and I longed
for any word or sign from you.
"You sent this letter, by hand. It reached the house at the same moment
that Robert did. He saw that it was from you, and he guessed, and was
jealous and afraid. He told the maid that he would give it to me
upstairs, and that as I was expecting him she needn't announce him.
Stephen--he put the letter in his pocket."
Stephen made a sudden movement and leaned nearer to her.
"Go on," he said in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper.
"He kept it in his pocket. Yes, Robert did that. I, hearing nothing,
thought you indifferent, and my heart seemed to break. He proposed to
me that afternoon, and the next evening, knowing that you had indeed
gone without a word, I gave him the answer he wanted."
She paused a moment, looking into the fire.
"I wrote to you to tell you of my engagement. You must have considered
that the letter I wrote to you then was in answer to the one you had
sent me. You thought that Robert had won fairly, and blamed yourself.
When you came back, Robert and I were already married, and you resumed
your friendship with him and with me. And I pretended--how well I
pretended you know--that you were no more to me than my husband's
friend. And you were the soul of honor, Stephen, for although I knew
you still loved me--I knew it the moment I saw you again--never by one
word or look did you try to show me that you did.
"As I look back now, it seems to me that I saw almost as much of you as
I did of Robert. We were always together, we three. I used to try to
marry you to my friends, but although you were always charming to them,
you were never more than that.
"And then, years later, Robert was made ambassador to Italy. It was a
tremendous step up, and you rejoiced with us, as you always did at our
good fortune. The first year we were in Rome, Robert was very ill with
fever. He thought he was going to die. He was always apt to exaggerate
his illnesses. He told me he had something on his mind, and he gave me
your letter, and told me what he had done. I forgave him, I had to
forgive him, and we never spoke of it again. But I never dared to read
it, Stephen. I put it away in this box. I didn't dare to open that
wound."
There was silence again. Stephen felt he could say nothing. Robert had
been his closest friend--they had been like brothers--and he had done
this! What was there for him to say?
"I am telling you this now," Madame Claire went on, "because I want the
time that remains to us to be as perfect as possible. I want you to
know that while I was a good and faithful wife to Robert, and made him,
I believe, very happy, I loved you. I bear him no ill will. He acted
according to his lights, believing, then, that all was fair in love.
That doesn't make his act less detestable, but I must weigh in the
scales against that, the fact that he was the best of husbands and
fathers. And I forgave him absolutely. But, oh, Stephen----! All those
years ... all those years were one long struggle against my love for
you!"
There are moments too great or too poignant for speech. He did not
know, then, whether the pain or the happiness of this new knowledge was
the stronger. For a moment the pain had the upper hand.
"It is a tragedy!" he said at last. "A tragedy!"
Presently he turned to her again.
"But when he died?" he asked. "When I came to you again? Why did you
say no?"
Madame Claire hesitated before she spoke.
"My reasons," she said, "may have seemed to you to be poor ones. I
pleaded my age, I remember, and the fact--or what I believed was a
fact--that it would have been an elderly folly for us to have married
then. But there was another reason, and a better one. Stephen ... I
dreaded an anti-climax. And it would have been that. After loving you
all my life, all my youth, to have married you at sixty ... it seemed
to me a desecration. I hoped for a dear friendship with you. It was
that I longed for. But you were angry and hurt. You left me. I thought
you would be gone six months, or possibly a year. You were away nearly
twenty years!... Oh, Stephen!..."
His eyes begged her forgiveness.
"I always tried to think that you were right, Claire," he said softly.
"Right or wrong, it all belongs to the past now. So does my loneliness.
I have been lonely, but I can bear that too, now that I know I have
been loved. That sheds a glory on my life ... a glory."
His voice sank. She watched him turning the letter over in his hands,
remembering ... remembering. Then, with a gesture full of courtliness
and charm, he held it out to her.
"Read it, my dear, now," he said. "Veux tu, toi?"