Grizel in a grey dress, with a hat wreathed with violets, was a shock to
Katrine's sensibilities. In theory she disapproved of conventional
mourning, and approved of fulfilling the wishes of the dead; in reality
she was still under the thraldom of public opinion, and the prospect of
walking down the High Street with a mourner in colours assumed the
dimensions of a dread. "They" would say,--what would "they" say?
The unchanged demeanour of the mourner was likewise a shock. There was
every reason why Lady Griselda's death should be regarded as a relief,
but an assumption of regret and gravity were customary under the
circumstances, and Grizel was not even subdued. She smiled, and jested,
preserved her lazy, untroubled air, and to an outside eye was in no
respect altered by the happenings of the last weeks. Katrine waited
impatiently for some reference to the dramatic will, and when none came,
was driven to open the subject herself.
"Isn't it glorious," she questioned curiously, "to be mistress of that
enormous fortune? To know that you can practically get anything in the
whole world which you happen to fancy?"
Grizel stroked her nose, her eyes asking the question which would have
been too banal in words. _Anything_? Katrine understood the reference,
and flushed brightly. She hurried to add a clause:
"Of course, if you had been sentimentally disposed, it would have been
different, but you have never--"
"No," responded Grizel amiably, "I never have."
Voice and manner were all that is friendly; there was not a particle of
resentment, nevertheless the subject was closed, and Katrine knew that
she could never refer to it again. That Martin would not do so on his
own accord she felt convinced, for though Grizel herself was unchanged,
there was an unmistakable difference between his present behaviour to
his guest, and that during her recent visit. Now he was merely the
courteous host, concerned with the comfort and amusement of his sister's
guest, but making no personal claim for attention. By day he shut
himself in his study; in the evening he sedulously avoided
_tete-a-tetes_. A still, set look had come back to his face, which
brought with it a haunting memory of the past. Katrine had not realised
how far from the desert of sorrow he had travelled until she recognised
that look, and at the sight her heart contracted with a pang of
protective tenderness, startling in its intensity. At that moment, and
for the first time in her life, Self was wiped out, and her own welfare
ceased to weigh in the balance. "Not again! Not again!" cried the
inner voice. "He has suffered enough!" It was intolerable to think of
living to see Martin pass through a second period of despair!
Katrine set her wits to work to puzzle out the problem before her, and
at each point in her reflections the same question recurred with
ever-increasing force. _Why had Grizel come back_? Realising as any
woman must have done the depth of Martin's love, why, at this moment of
all others, had she deliberately put herself in his way? Grizel was not
heartless, her numerous flirtations had been of an open and innocent
nature, stopping well short of the danger point; it was inconceivable to
believe that she would deliberately increase Martin's pain. Then--could
it be possible that she was _willing_ to sacrifice all; was but waiting
for a word, a sign? It was almost impossible to believe, but at least,
Katrine determined, the opportunity should be given. Now that the
critical moment had arrived all other dreads dwindled before that of
failing to do her share to secure Martin's happiness.
That very day at lunch she made her attempt.
"I have to be out this afternoon, Grizel," she announced. "A committee
meeting, and a tea. Martin must amuse you. The study is cool in the
afternoon, you might sit there, or have tea in the garden."
Martin's start of surprise held no sign of pleasure. He appeared to be
on the point of an objection, when Grizel's calm acquiescence closed his
lips:
"Yes--I'd like to! We'll try the study first."
"We shan't need a fire to-day... I'm afraid it will be dull for you,
but I can give you a good book."
The words fell mechanically from Martin's lips, but it was Katrine who
flushed with resentment; Grizel smiled on, unperturbed. An hour
afterwards she was sleeping like a child on her bedroom sofa, and
Katrine peeping in to say good-bye, asked herself amazedly if such
composure could exist side by side with any deep feeling. "If I--" the
very suggestion made her heart leap, she looked on the sleeping face
with a stirring of indignation. Martin's life, and her own, shaken to
their foundations, while Grizel slept! For a moment she wrestled with
the temptation to shake the still form into consciousness, then turning
slowly, left the room.
Half an hour later Grizel opened her eyes, and sat up on her couch.
There was no intermediary stage of heaviness and confusion, with the
very opening of her lids she was vividly, composedly awake. She rose,
sauntered to the glass, and surveyed herself with critical detachment.
Her cheeks were flushed with sleep, her hair ruffled into a disorder
undeniably becoming. Her lips parted in a smile of transparent
pleasure, then deliberately she took the brush and smoothed back the
curling ends, which being done she seated herself by the open window,
took up a book, and read composedly until the pink had faded from her
cheeks. It was a pale, orderly, infinitely less attractive Grizel who
tapped at Martin's door, and seated herself by his desk.
"I've come, you see! You didn't want me, but I wanted to come, and I
always do what I want--"
"Grizel! that's not true," protested Martin hastily. He was still
sitting in his swivel writing-chair, turned sideways from the desk so
that he could see her face. A few scattered sheets of MS lay before
him, but the ink was dry on the last words. When Grizel had entered the
room, it had been to find him gazing blankly into space. It was not
obvious against which part of Grizel's declaration his protest was
directed, nor did she trouble to enquire. Folding her hands she looked
in his eyes with childlike directness and said simply:
"Martin--I want to talk! You have said nothing about my position, but I
am waiting to hear what you think! I came down on purpose to talk."
"But, Grizel, what is there to say?" Martin spoke in quick practical
accents, his eyes sedulously avoiding hers. "I have not congratulated
you, because it hardly seemed that congratulations were deserved. On
the other hand, I cannot condole. Lady Griselda's mind had been failing
for years. I cannot believe that she was fully responsible when she
concocted--"
"You are wrong there. She was perfectly clear. I have always expected
some arrangement of the sort. She loved me; she was anxious for my
happiness. If it could be happily arranged she wished me to inherit the
money, but she had been an heiress herself, and had suffered by it, and
she was sharp enough to estimate the sincerity of the men who hung
around me. It's quite simple, Martin, if you remember the clue. If I
choose to remain single, I enjoy everything that her money can give; if
I marry, I marry a man who wants _me_, not my wealth; Grizel Dundas,--
herself--not what she can bring."
"He would be a bold man who could ask a girl to give up thirty thousand
a year, for the sake of his love!"
"Yes! He would need to be brave!"
The substitution of the word was so quiet as to appear unconscious.
Martin shot a piercing look, but the eyes which met his were as
expressionless as the voice. He leaped to his feet, and restlessly
paced the floor.
"But you, Grizel?" he cried. "No one could expect it of you! You are
born to the position; have been trained to it all your life. You will
be one of the great hostesses of the day. You are young, brilliant,
beautiful. The ordinary woman looks to love to provide the interest of
life, but you have so much. The world is at your feet--"
"Yes," sighed Grizel softly. "Yes." She sat staring before her with
rapt, smiling eyes. "And I love it, Martin. Pomp and show, and jewels,
and beautiful clothes, and--power! All women do at the bottom of their
hearts. If they pretend they don't, it is a humbug and a sham. I can
see myself living alone in that great house, very rich, very gorgeous;
not a bit lonely! Friends would flock around, more friends than I need.
Lovers too! for the unattainable is always tempting. I could amuse
myself very well."
"For heaven's sake, Grizel!" Martin came to a standstill in front of
her chair, his face flushed with protest. "For heaven's sake speak the
truth, and drop pretence! You are going to keep the money,--very well!
but it is not for such reasons as those... There are precious few
illusions left in life,--don't kill one of the few that remain! You
will keep the money, not out of self-indulgence, but because it was Lady
Griselda's wish, and because there is no stronger claim upon you,
until--until the time arrives, as it _will_ arrive, when you meet a
man--"
"Whom I love," concluded Grizel calmly. She was silent for a moment,
then in the deepest, most bell-like notes of her beautiful voice, she
added a few soft words. "More than the world! More than riches--more
than my life. And then--"
"Then?" queried Martin breathlessly. To the end of his life he would
hear the echo of Grizel's voice intoning those thrilling words:
"It will depend upon him, and how brave he can be," she returned
quietly. She rose in her turn, and bending over the desk, drew together
the scattered sheets. "How is the novel going, Martin? What is
happening to them all? I was going to help, but fate intervened, and
turned me into a heroine myself. Is she happy, your little girl with
the hill-tarn eyes?"
"Yes--no. I couldn't get on. The novel is shelved _pro tem_. My head
was too full of other things. Your position, and the problem of the
whole situation were so constantly in my mind, that it was a relief to
work it out on paper... Those sheets are the draft of a short story,
dealing with such a position--but not for publication."
"I'm glad of that! I should not like it to be published," said Grizel
quickly. Her cheeks were flushed, she glanced at the sheets with an air
at once timid and eager. "It would be interesting to hear what you make
of it! May I read?"
"There's so little done. Just the situation roughed in. A girl
beautiful, alluring, left with a choice like yours, a man, loving her--"
"What kind of a man?"
"Ordinary--quite ordinary. A dull dog, but with a capacity, a hideous
capacity for suffering--"
Grizel subsided on to the swivel chair, and lifted a quill pen from the
rack. The seriousness, the quiet, almost timid manner of the last few
minutes had disappeared as by a flash. Now she was composed again,
mischievous, audacious; the dimples dipping in her soft, round cheek.
She rested her elbows on the desk and nibbled at the pen with a
delicious assumption of the professional manner.
"Make him a _little_ bit interesting, Martin! He must be interesting.
Is he tall? Is he handsome? I insist that he is thin and clean shaven.
And charming, too--he must certainly be charming, or she wouldn't have
qualms, and at the least she must feel qualms! ... No girl could even
imagine giving up a fortune for a dull man with a beard. Suppose you
made him an author like yourself, so that he had _something_ to offer on
his own accord, such as a reputation which she would be proud to share!
Then on _his_ side would be love, fame, home, and on hers, ambition,
wealth--"
"Opportunity--?"
"Humph!" Grizel stroked her chin. "In a sense! It's a fact though,
Martin,--humiliating as it is to acknowledge,--that man is the medium
through which a woman discovers every possibility worth having. The
opportunities which come apart from him are only makeshifts. I think
we'll rule out opportunity... Won't he, at least, give her the
_choice_?"
"I think not. He is not such an ass as to consider himself worth the
sacrifice. The only decent thing he can do is to efface himself, and
stand by ready to help her whenever he can be of use."
"Humph!" commented Grizel again. "Admirable--but dull. _How_ mad
she'll be! ... It's just as I said, Martin--you don't understand your
own sex. You need me to write the man-ey bits. What he should really
do, is to take her in his arms, and say, `Thirty-thousand-a-year!
Thirty thousand _pounds_'--her light voice suddenly swelled into
earnestness. `Ah! but I've more than that,--a better offer to make
you!' And he should hold her tight, tight, and laugh,--a strong man's
laugh, and look in her eyes, and cry: `_You are mine_! All the fortunes
in the world could not buy you. All the fortunes in the world could not
keep you. You belong to _me_! ... Leave your empty palace, and come
_Home_, and as you are a true woman, and worth loving, I'll give you
more, far, far more than you ever dreamt,--ever imagined--'"
The soft voice broke: she wheeled suddenly round, hiding her face, but
Martin leaped after her, seized her by the arms:
"Grizel--_Grizel_!"
Her face quivered into tears.
"Oh! Oh! you _made_ me do it; and I vowed I wouldn't!--If I'm worth
having, I'm worth asking, and oh, Martin--I've _waited_!"
"Grizel, Grizel!" cried Martin again. She was in his arms, she clung to
him, sobbing with the abandonment of a child. Grizel, in whose gay eyes
he had never yet seen a tear! His grasp, the trembling of his strong
frame, the dazed rapture of his face, told their own tale, but as yet he
had no words; it was Grizel who poured out her tale of love.
"It was always you--never any one else. And I was happy because I knew
that some day--! And I tried, I _tried_ to make you! ... Oh, Martin,
your arms at last! To rest here! And you talk of money! Oh, now I am
rich; but for years I have starved,--Martin! Martin!"
He strained her close, still dazed, incredulous with joy.
"Grizel. Beloved! You are my life, but _can_ I take you? Dare I? Is
it right?"
"You have no choice--I'm here! Martin, I've loved you since that day I
saw you first, standing with little Juliet among the roses... She'll be
glad, Martin--there can be no jealousy in a spiritual world. She'll
just rejoice that you are happy, and that love has come to you again.
I'm so sure of that!"
Was there another woman in the world who would have spoken of Juliet at
that moment? Martin flinched, for at the back of his mind still
lingered a consciousness of disloyalty, but he loved Grizel the more for
her sweet comfort.
"I--I hope she is," he said unsteadily. "Grizel you brought me back to
life, but I dared not hope for this.--I'll work like ten men; I will
pour out my life for you like water, but I can never repay--never be
worthy. Oh, my beautiful, that you should give up so much for _met_ The
wonder of it stuns me. Ought I to let you?"
"You can't help it. I'm here," cried Grizel once more. She tilted her
face to look up at him, laughing, with the tears still wet on her
lashes. "And, oh, Martin, _won't_ it sell your books! Think of the
advertisement! Shall we keep it quiet until the new novel is out? Not
_too_ long, because, you know, I don't mean to touch that money. It
wouldn't be straight, when I'm going to break the condition. There must
be no question of staying on in the house, and making a book. I am not
going back..."
"And when--when?" queried Martin hotly. "Grizel, will you come to me at
once? Why should we wait? Everything is ready, if you are really
willing to come to this tiny house. If it comes to that, I can't wait,
and I _won't_! You shall never leave me again."
"Oh, won't I though," Grizel laughed softly, pushing him from her with
determined hands. "Now--let's be sensible!--Sit over there, and I'll
tell you just what I will do, and what I won't--I won't marry you until
the old Buddy has been dead for some months, and I won't ever live in
this house. We'll find another, that looks to the sun, and I'll furnish
it in my own way, with my own fads. Buddy gave me lots of treasures for
my own rooms. They are mine whatever I do, and I must have room for
them. I have five hundred a year, you know, Martin. Shall you be able
to afford a better house with an extra five hundred?"
"I can afford it now. You are quite right, it would be better to move,
but I'm not going to touch a halfpenny of your money, sweetheart. You
must keep that for yourself. It will seem little enough."
"It takes a great _deal_ to dress me!" sighed Grizel plaintively.
"Can't think why, when I'm so thin. And my lame dogs! I must squeeze
out something for them. Well! there are some good pictures, and curios,
and jewels. They are mine, too. With an occasional visit to the
pawnshop, we'll last out, somehow, till I'm fifty. Won't be so long
either! But, Martin! in heaven's name, _Who_ will order the dinners?"
"Perhaps--er--Katrine!" Martin's voice sounded nervous and miserable.
Grizel had thought of Juliet, but she had not mentioned Katrine, the
obvious, living difficulty. He hated to remind her of it; hated to feel
that his home was not his own.
"Yes. Perhaps--er--Katrine," returned Grizel sweetly. She smiled into
space, her face swept clear of expression, while Martin searched vainly
for the hidden thought.
"I'm--sorry, darling! I hate the thought of a third person. It would
be so perfect alone, but--Katrine has given me her youth, and there is
nowhere else she could go. I should be a cur if I turned her out."
"An ungrateful cur. We'll never do it. _I_ wouldn't, if you could!"
"And do you think,--could you manage to be happy with her here, always
with us?"
"I think," pronounced Grizel judicially, "I might stand it for a week.
With grace! Then I'd poison her with lingering torture." She turned to
him as she spoke, eyes shining, lips apart, deliberately inviting
caress, but when he leaped to take her in his arms she waved him away.
"No! This is business. Let us finish this first."
"Oh, Bewildering Woman! Have you the least idea what you mean! Shall I
ever understand you, to the end of my life? It's a choice then between
being a cur, and having you hung as a murderess. How do you reconcile
that with your statement that _you_ couldn't, if I would."
"I wouldn't, and I shan't. You won't either. She will!" replied Grizel
lucidly. "Oh, Man, don't worry! Katrine is sensible if you are not!
You must be good to her, and generous, and loving. Not affectionate,
remember! _laving_, and things will arrange themselves well for us all.
You'll see!"
"I hope I may. At present I'm in a maze. I am to say to her--what am I
to say?"
"That so long as you have a house there will be a Katrine's room, and a
welcome for her, if she chooses to stay. And you are to take no
notice--not the slightest--of anything she says in reply, but to leave
things to time, and her own good sense... Now we've wasted quite enough
time on silly details. Let's be sensible!--_I love you_, Martin!" ...