Marston cancelled that appointment at Whitehall. Somebody else's
business would have to wait another day, that was all. He was wont to
settle affairs as they arose, methodically, punctually, in the order of
their importance. At the moment his own affair and Kitty's was of
supreme importance. Until it was settled he could not attend to anybody
else.
He was determined not to let her go. He meant to have her. He did not
yet know precisely how he was to achieve this end, but as a first step
to it he engaged a room indefinitely at the Metropole. There was nothing
like being on the spot. He would consider himself defeated when Lucy had
actually married her. Meanwhile, he was uplifted by his supreme distrust
of the event.
His rival had made a very favourable impression on him, with the
curious effect of heightening Kitty's value in his eyes. Other causes
contributed, her passion for Lucy, and the subtle purification it had
wrought in her (a charm to which Marston was by no means unsusceptible),
the very fact that his own dominion was uncertain and his possession
incomplete.
Up till now he had been unaware of the grip she had on him. He had never
allowed for the possibility of permanence in his relations with her sex.
The idea of marriage was peculiarly unsupportable to him. Even in his
youth he had had no love affairs, avowed and sanctioned. Though Marston
professed the utmost devotion to women like Miss Lucy, the women whom
his mother and his sisters knew, he had noticed a little sadly that he
soon wearied of their society, that he had no power of sustained
communion with the good. The unfallen were for him the unapproachable.
Therefore he had gravitated by taste and temperament to the women of
the underworld. There his incurable fastidiousness drove him to the
pursuit of a possible perfection, distinction within the limits, the
inherent frailties of the type.
In Kitty Tailleur he had found even more than he was looking for. Kitty
had certain graces, reminiscent of the upper world; a heritage from
presumably irreproachable parents, that marked her from the women of her
class. She had, moreover, a way of her own, different from the charm of
the unfallen, different, too, from the coarse lures of the underworld.
Kitty was never rank, never insipid. She had a few light brains in her
body, and knew how to use them, woman-like, for the heightening of her
charm.
There were other good points about Kitty. Marston disliked parting with
his money, and he had found Kitty, so far, inexpensive, as women went.
For these reasons, so many and so plausible that they disguised the true
kind and degree of his subjection, he had before now returned to Kitty
more than once after he thought that he had tired of her.
Only three weeks ago, on her return from Matlock, he judged that he had
come to the end of his passion for her; and here he was again at the
very beginning of it. Instead of perishing it had thrived on absence. He
found himself on the verge of a new and unforeseen adventure, with
impulse sharpened by antagonism and frustration. Yet his only chance, he
knew, was not to be impulsive, but cool rather, calculating and
cautious. The fight he was in for would have to be fought with brains;
his against hers.
He sent a note to her early in the morning asking her to see him at
nine. At nine she saw him.
"I thought," she said, "you were going up to town early."
"I'm not going up to town at all, as it happens, to-day."
"Isn't it rather a pity to neglect your business?"
"My business, dear Kitty, is not any business of yours."
"I'm only trying to make you see that it isn't worth your while stopping
out of town because of me."
He was a little disconcerted at her divination of his motives, her
awareness of her own power.
"Well, you see, though the affairs of Whitehall are not your affairs,
your affairs, unfortunately, are mine; and, since I have to attend to
them, I prefer to do it at once and get it over. I had some talk with
Lucy last night."
She turned on him. "Ah, you _have_ given me away."
"Did you ever know me give any one away?"
She did not answer all at once.
He was shocked at her suspicion; at the things she believed it possible
for a man to do. In the upper world, in a set that discussed its women
freely, he had never used his knowledge of a woman to harm her. He had
carried the same scruple into that other world where Kitty lived, where
he himself was most at home, where an amused, contemptuous tolerance
played the part of chivalry. The women there trusted him; they found him
courteous in his very contempt. He had connived at their small deceits,
the preposterous hypocrisies wherewith they protected themselves. He
accepted urbanely their pitiful imitations of the lost innocence. Kitty,
moving reckless and high in her sad circle, had been scornful of her
sisters' methods. Her soul was as much above them as her body, in its
unique, incongruous beauty, was above their rouge and coloured raiment.
It was this superiority of hers that had brought her to her present
pass; caused her to be mistaken for an honest woman. In her contempt
for the underworld's deceptions she had achieved the supreme deceit.
Her deceit--that was his point.
"Then," she said presently, "what _did_ you say to him?"
"I said nothing, my dear child, in your disparagement. On the contrary,
I congratulated him on his engagement. As I'm supposed to be acting as
your agent, or solicitor, or whatever it is I am acting as, I imagine I
did right. Is that so?"
"Yes; if that's all you said."
"It is not quite all. I sustained my character by giving him a hint, the
merest hint, that in the event of your marriage your worldly position
would be slightly altered. We must prepare him, you know, for the sudden
collapse of your income."
He rose and went to the mantelpiece, and lingered there over the
lighting of a cigarette.
"You hadn't thought of that?" he said as he seated himself again.
"No; I hadn't thought of it."
"Well, he didn't appear to have thought of it either."
"What did he say, when you told him that?"
"He said it didn't matter in the very least."
"I knew he would."
"He said, in fact, that nothing mattered."
"What did you say then?"
"Nothing. What could I say?"
She looked at him, trying to see deep into his design, trusting him no
further than she saw.
"Look here, Kitty, I think you're making a mistake, even from your own
point of view. You ought to tell him."
"I--can't."
"You must. He's such an awfully decent chap, you can't let him in for
marrying you without telling him." That was his point and he meant to
stick to it. "It's what you might call playing it low down on a
guileless and confiding man. Isn't it?"
"Yes, but I can't tell him."
"It's the straight thing, Kitty."
"I know. But it means giving him up."
"Not at all. He'll respect you all the more for it. He won't go back on
you."
"He wouldn't if he'd only himself to think of."
"He isn't bound to tell his people. That's another thing."
"It isn't his people--it's--it's his children."
Marston became suddenly attentive. "His children? He's got children, has
he?"
"Yes, two; two little girls."
That strengthened his point.
"Then, my dear girl, you can't--in common decency--not tell him. Hang it
all, you've got to give the man a chance."
"A chance to escape? You talk as if I'd set a trap for him."
"My dear child, you haven't sense enough to set a trap. But, since there
are spring-guns in his neighbourhood, I repeat that you ought to inform
him of the fact. I dare say he wouldn't funk a spring-gun on his own
account, but he may not want his children to be hurt."
"I know. He'd be afraid I should contaminate them. I wouldn't, Wilfrid,
I wouldn't. I wouldn't hurt them for the world."
"I'm sure you wouldn't. But he might think you would. The fathers of
little girls sometimes have strange prejudices. You see it's all very
well as long as you can keep him in his beautiful innocence. But, if he
finds out that you've deceived him, he--well, he might resent it."
He never turned his eyes from that livid, vulnerable spot, striking at
it with the sword-thrust of his point.
"A man can forgive many things in a woman, but not that."
"I must risk it. He mayn't find out for years and years. If I tell him I
shall lose him now."
"Not necessarily. Not if he cares for you as much as I should say he
does."
"It doesn't matter how much he cares. He'd never marry me."
"No. He might make another and more sensible arrangement."
"And then?" She faced him with it.
"Then you'll be satisfied. You'll have had your fling."
"And--when--I've--had it?" she said slowly.
"Then, I suppose, I shall have to take you back."
"I see. That's where you think you'll come in."
"I wasn't thinking, at the moment, of myself. The suggestion was thrown
out entirely on your behalf, and I may say his. I'm simply telling you
what--knowing you as I do--I consider the wiser course, for both of
you."
"You don't know. And you don't know him. He wouldn't do it. He isn't
that sort."
She paused, brooding over it.
"Besides, I couldn't bear it. I can't go back to that."
"And how many years do you think you'll stand being proper and
respectable, which is what you'll have to be as long as you're Mrs.
Robert Lucy? It's a stiffish job, my child, for you to tackle. Just
think of the practical difficulties. I've accounted for the sudden, very
singular collapse of your income, but there are all sorts of things that
you won't be able to account for. The disappearance, for instance, of
the entire circle of your acquaintance."
She smiled. "It would be _much_ more awkward if it didn't disappear."
"True. Still, a female friend or two is an indispensable part of a
married woman's outfit. The Lucys mayn't mind, but their friends may
regard the omission as peculiar. Then--you have charming manners, I
know--but your speech is apt, at times, to be a little, what shall I
say? Unfettered. The other day, when you were annoyed with me, you
called me a beast."
"That's nothing. I might have called you something much worse."
"You might. Happily, you did not. I've no objection to the word; it can
be used as a delicate endearment, but in your mouth it loses any tender
grace it might have had."
"I'm sorry, Wilfrid."
"Don't apologise. _I_ didn't mind. But if you call Lucy a beast he won't
like it."
"I couldn't. Besides, I shall be very careful."
"You will have to be extremely careful. The Lucys live in Hampstead, I
believe, and Hampstead enjoys the reputation of being the most
respectable suburb of London. You've no idea of the sort of people
you'll have to meet there. You'll terrify them, and they, my poor
Kitten, will exterminate you. You don't know what respectability is
like."
"I don't care. I can stand anything."
"You think you can. I _know_ that you won't be able to stand it for a
fortnight. You'll find that the air of Hampstead doesn't agree with you.
And wherever you go it'll be the same thing. You had very much better
stick to me."
"To you?"
"You'll be safer and happier. If you'll stay with me----"
"I never have--stayed--with you."
"No, but I'd like you to."
He was not going to make love to her. He was far too clever for that. He
knew that with a woman like Kitty, in Kitty's state of mind, he had
nothing to gain by making love. Neither did he propose to pit his will
against hers. That course had answered well enough in the time of his
possession of her. Passion, which was great in her, greater than her
will, made his will powerless over her. His plan was to match the forces
of her brain with superior, with overwhelming forces.
He continued coldly. "I'm not satisfied with the present arrangement any
more than you are. If you'll stay with me you shall live where you
choose; only don't choose Park Lane, for I can't afford it. I'll give
you any mortal thing I _can_ afford."
"You think you can give me what Robert Lucy's giving me?"
"I can give you a home, Kitty, as long as you'll live in it. I can give
you the advantages of marriage without its drawbacks. You won't be tied
to me a minute longer than you like. Whereas you can't leave Lucy
without a scandal."
"You think that a safe arrangement, do you? I can leave you when I want
to."
"You can leave me any day. So the chances are that you won't want to."
"And when you're tired of me?"
[Illustration: "'You won't be tied to me a minute longer than you
like.'"]
"That's it. I shan't be tired of you. I've a different feeling for you
from any I've ever had for any other woman, for the simple reason that
you're a different woman every time I see you. That's the secret of
your fascination. Didn't you know it?"
She shook her head, but she was not attending to him.
"If you don't know it there's no harm in telling you that I'm very fond
of you."
"What earthly use is it, Wilfrid, being fond of me, as long as I'm not
fond of you?"
Ah, that was a mistake. He was on perilous ground. She was strong there.
She matched his bloodless, unblushing candour with her throbbing,
passionate sincerity.
"That's all the better," he said. "It wouldn't pay you, Kitty, to be
fond of me. If I thought you were fond of me to-day it would leave me
with nothing to look forward to to-morrow. If you were as fond of me as
you are of Lucy, it would bore me horribly. What's more, it would bore
you. It would tire you out, and you'd bolt in a week's time. As, I can
tell you, you'll bolt from him."
"You think I shall do that. He doesn't. That's why I'm fond of him."
"I wouldn't be too fond of him. It never pays. Either you'll tire of him
in a week, or, if you go on being fond of him you'll end by being afraid
of him. You need never be afraid of me."
"I _am_ afraid of you."
"Not you. I understand you, Kitty, and he doesn't."
"You mean you know the worst of me?"
"Precisely. What's more, I should condone what you call the worst of
you, and he wouldn't."
"I know you would. That's why I'm afraid of you. You only know the worst
of me, and he--he knows, he understands, the rest. There's something in
me that you've never seen; you couldn't see it; you wouldn't believe in
it; you'd kill it if I stayed with you. It's no use talking, for I
won't."
"Why not?" he asked as if nothing she had said had been of any moment.
"I've told you why not. But I don't expect you to understand it."
"If there's anything in it I shall understand it in the end. I'm not a
fool."
"No, you're not a fool. I'll say that for you."
"Unless it's folly to be as fond of you as I am."
"Oh, no, that's not folly. You'll be fond of me just as long as I'm nice
to look at; as long as it doesn't bore you to talk to me; as long as I
don't give you any trouble."
"Good God! Why, look at the trouble you're giving me now."
"Yes, the trouble I'm giving you now, when I'm young and pretty and you
can't have me. But when you _have_ had me; when I'm tired out and ill
and--and thin; will you be fool enough to be fond of me then?"
"You have been ill, you were ill last night, and--I've got over it."
"You never came near me when I was ill at Matlock. You call that giving
me what Robert Lucy gives me? Robert has seen me when I've been as ugly
as sin, when my eyes have been bunged up with crying. And it made no
difference. He'll love me when I'm thin and ill and old. When I'm dead
he'll love me."
He faced her passion as it flamed up before him, faced it with his cold,
meditative smile.
"That's just what makes it such a beastly shame."
"My not giving him up? How _can_ I give him up?"
"I see your point. You think you're exchanging a temporary affection for
a permanent one. You admit that I shall love you as long as you're nice
to look at. Very well. You'll be nice to look at for some considerable
time. I shall therefore love you for some considerable time. Robert Lucy
will love you just as long as he believes in you. How long will that
be?"
She did not answer.
"You don't know. Have you calculated the probable effect of gradual
enlightenment on our friend's mind?"
"I've calculated nothing."
"No. You are not a calculating woman. I just ask you to consider this
point. I am not, as you know, in the least surprised at any of your
charming little aberrations. But our friend Lucy has not had many
surprises in his life. He'll come to you with an infinite capacity for
astonishment. It's quite uncertain how he'll take--er--anything in the
nature of a surprise. And, if you ask me, I should say he'd take it
hard. Are you going to risk that?"
He was returning to his point even when he feigned to have lost sight of
it. Tortured and panting she evaded it with pitiful subterfuges. He
urged her back, pressing her tender breast against the prick of it.
"I'm going to risk everything," she said.
"Risk it, risk it, then. Tie yourself for life to a man you don't know;
who doesn't really know you, though you think he does; who on your own
showing wouldn't marry you if he did know. You see what a whopping big
risk it is, for he's bound to know in the end."
She sickened and wearied. "He is not bound to know. Why is he?"
"Because, my dear girl, you're bound to give yourself away some day.
I know you. I know the perverse little devil that is in you. When
you realise what you've let yourself in for you'll break loose,
suddenly--like that." He threw out his arms as if he burst bonds
asunder. "You can't help yourself. You simply can't live the life.
You may yearn for it, but you can't live it."
"I don't want to be respectable. It isn't that."
"What is it then?"
"Can't you see?"
He looked at her closely, as if he saw it for the first time.
"Are you so awfully gone on him?"
"Yes," she said. "You _won't_ tell him? It'll kill me if he knows."
"You think it will, but it won't."
"I shall kill myself, then."
"Oh no, you won't. You only think you will. It's Lucy I'm sorry for."
"And it's me you're hard on. You were always hard. You say you condone
things, but you condone nothing, and you're not good yourself."
"No, I'm not good myself. But there is conduct and conduct. I can
condone everything but the fraud you're practising on this innocent
man." He rose. "It's--well--you see, it's such a beastly shame."
It was to be a battle of brains, and she had foiled him with the
indomitable stupidity of her passion. But his point--the one point that
he stuck to--was a sword point for her passion.
"You won't tell him? You won't? It would be a blackguardly thing to do."
"If Lucy was a friend of mine I'm afraid the blackguardly thing would
be to hold my tongue."
"You'd tell him then?" she said. "You wouldn't think of me?"
She came to him. She laid her arms upon his shoulders. Her hands touched
him with dispassionate, deliberate, ineffectual caresses, a pitiful
return to a discarded manner, an outrageous imitation of the old
professional cajoleries. It was so poor a thing that it had no power to
move him. What moved him was the look in her eyes, the look which his
brain told him was the desperate, incredulous appeal of her unhappy
soul.
"I don't know, Kitty," he said. "Thank heaven, he's not a friend of
mine."