The clock on the chimney-piece struck. She gave a cry, rushed to him.
"Basil--my love!" she implored. "If you love me, go--go!"
He pressed his hands to her cheeks tenderly, smiled at her with the
gentle tolerance of superior male for female. "I understand, dear. This
is like you. But my honor will not let me go."
She released his hand, stood gazing at him. In the beginning she had
urged only because she had wished to save him. But she had been
convinced by her own arguments; and it amazed her that he was refusing
to see what was so clear. "You--will--not--go?" she said.
"No, Courtney. I cannot."
She brushed the strays of hair from her brow. She laughed scornfully,
with a contemptuous shrug. "Whether you two men kill each other or are
only wounded, still Winchie and I will be disgraced. You may be only
wounded--may get over it in a week or so--or you two may only have a
vulgar fight--with the servants looking on. In any case _I_ am done
for."
He was like a horse when the spur is bidding it advance and the curb is
bidding it halt. "If I stay," he cried, "you'll despise me. If I go,
you'll despise me."
"If you stay you destroy me. If you go, I can save myself. Will you go
or not? Oh, after last night--this on top of that-- And, after last
night, you can debate whether or not I'll despise you! Go, I tell you!
You couldn't sink any lower than you have--and you may redeem yourself."
They were facing each other, he white before her scorn and fury. "But
not," she went on, "if to what you said and did then you add debating a
point of cheap pose when I and my child are at stake. What a shallow,
vain creature you are!"
"Do you mean these things? Or are you only pretending, to make me fly
and save myself?"
"I mean every word. In spite of last night, of all it taught me, I was
still hoping--or, trying to hope. But now-- Thank God I had Winchie
when I met you, and wasn't free to make an utter fool of myself. A man
who could betray his friend for lust, and then betray his mistress for
vanity!"
His eyes blazed mingled hate and passion at her. "But you'll go with me
now!" he cried, in triumphant fury. "Yes, we'll take that train
together. The jig's up, and, damn you, you witch, you've got to go with
me."
She was shaking with fright. For the moment she could think of no
answer. She was under the spell of the terrible expression of his eyes.
"If he comes looking for some one to kill, he'll kill you if he can't
get us both. So--we go together, or die together, as you please."
"Very well," said she, seating herself. "Oh, how like you this is! You
know that if we fly, my boy is smirched for life--and I too. You know
that if I stay, I may save everything--even your life. If we went,
Richard would never rest till he'd hunted us down and killed us."
"I've lost you," said he sullenly. "I don't care what happens. I feel
like killing you myself." He straightened up. "Why not?" he cried.
"Kill you, then myself--get it all over with."
The silence was broken by a shout from Winchie playing with the
neighbor's children on the lawn. That sound compelled her to another
effort. She went to Basil, laid her hands gently on his shoulders.
"Basil," she pleaded, tears in her eyes, in her voice, "for my boy's
sake--for my sake--go! Now that you think about it you can't but see
it's the decent, the honorable thing to do. Let's not quarrel--we who
have been so much to each other. Go and let us save everything."
He looked into her eyes, and she knew that if he had drunk as much that
day as he did the day before, he would have killed her and himself. But
she saw that he, sober, was hesitating, was moved by her appeal to his
generous, kind nature, overflowing with sentimentality. "Dear," she
said, "you can row out on the lake. And if everything's all right I'll
hang something white on this shutter here. Then you can come back. Even
if he comes home suspicious he'll not think it strange that you're on
the lake late."
"But he may come to kill, and before I could get back----"
"But he will not kill me, I tell you. I'm 'only a woman.' I know him.
You know, too. And if he would, how could you save me? Would I want to
live disgraced?" The clock struck again. She gave a scream, flung her
arms round his neck. "Save me, Basil! Go--quick!--quick!"
After the frightful things she had said to him and he to her, there was
left him only the choice between going and killing her and himself. On
the threshold he, with tears in his eyes, embraced her and kissed her.
"God help me, I don't know what to do," he said. "I'll go. If it turns
out wrong, remember how you perplexed me--and try to forgive me, dear."
He was so genuine, so manly and loving and she felt so grateful to him
that her own eyes filled and she gave him her lips with her heart in
them.
She stood at the window; she walked up and down the balcony. But she
watched the lake in vain. Five minutes ten--fifteen, and no
Basil--Winchie came with his usual rush, flung himself into the hammock.
"What is it, mamma?" he asked presently.
She startled, turned on him with eyes wild. "Oh!" she gasped, her hand
on her heart. "I didn't know you were there."
"Are you watching for Mr. Gallatin?"
"Why, dear?"
"Because, if you are, he came in with me a long time ago and isn't out
there any more."
A silence, she trying to keep her gaze off the lake.
"I like him," the boy went on. "At least, some better than I did. He
knows a lot about fishing. When papa blows himself up and never comes
down any more, as Jimmie says he will some day, I think I'll let Mr.
Gallatin stay on with us."
Courtney scarcely heard. She was grinding her palms together and
muttering incoherently when at last she saw his boat pushing leisurely
in the direction of Wenona. She drew a long breath. But as the boat
glided farther and farther away, her sick heart failed her. She felt
abandoned--and afraid. For, she had not told the truth when she said
she knew Richard would not kill her.
Winchie stayed on, talking incessantly and no more disturbed by her
inattention than babbling brook or trilling bird by lack of audience.
His chatter fretted her like the rapping of a branch on the window of an
invalid. But she would not send him away. If Richard should come,
Winchie's being there would halt him--perhaps, just long enough. After
an hour Winchie grew tired of talking and ran off to play. She did not
detain him--why, she did not know--probably, because to detain him would
have been to encourage a fear that must be defied if the coming battle
for Winchie and reputation and life was not to be lost before it began.
She must not seem to be afraid. That would be fatal. And the sure way
to seem unafraid was to be unafraid.
She paced the floor. She watched the distant boat with its single
occupant. She sat and tried to finish her letter. She roamed through
the house. "I'll meet him in the grounds," decided she--and, compelling
herself to walk slowly, she paced the road between gates and house--up
and down, up and down. Back to the house again, to her room. "Yes,
we'll not wait supper," she said, in answer to Lizzie's inquiry. At
supper, the sound of Helen's and Winchie's voices rasped on her nerves.
"Will he never come?" she muttered. And without explanation, she left
the table, went again to her sitting room.
"Are you ill, dear?" asked Helen, putting her head in at the door.
"No," replied she, curtly.