A SLIP OF THE TONGUE
Cyril spent the night in a state of pitiable indecision. Should he or
should he not risk a visit to Anita? If the police were shadowing him,
it would be fatal, but he had somehow lately acquired the conviction
that they were not. On the other hand, if he could only see her, how it
would simplify everything! As she distrusted both Guy and Miss Trevor,
even if his plot succeeded, she would probably refuse to leave England
unless he himself told her that he wished her to do so. Besides, there
were so many details to be discussed, so many arrangements to be talked
over. "Yes," he said to himself as he lay staring into the darkness, "it
is my duty to see her. I shall go to her not because I want to...." A
horrid doubt made him pause. Was he so sure that his decision was not
the outcome of his own desire? How could he trust his judgment in a
matter where his inclinations were so deeply involved? Yet it would be
shocking if he allowed his own feelings to induce him to do something
which might be injurious to Anita. It was a nice question to determine
whether her need of him was sufficient to justify him in risking a
visit? For hours he debated with himself but could arrive at no
conclusion. No sooner did he resolve to stay away from her than the
thought of her unhappiness again made him waver. If he only knew why she
was so unhappy, he told himself that the situation would not be so
unendurable. When he had talked to her over the telephone, she had
seemed cheerful; she had spoken of Guy and Miss Trevor with enthusiasm.
What could have occurred since then to make her distrust them and to
plunge her into such a state of gloom? As he tossed to and fro on his
hot, tumbled bed, his imagination pictured one dire possibility after
another, till at last he made up his mind that he could bear the
uncertainty no longer. He must see her! He would see her!
Having reached this decision, Cyril could hardly refrain from rushing
off to her as soon as it was light. However, he had to curb his
impatience. Three o'clock was the only hour he could be sure of finding
her alone; so he must wait till three o'clock. But how on earth, he
asked himself, was he going to get through the intervening time? He was
in a state of feverish restlessness that was almost agony; he could not
apply himself to anything; he could only wait--wait. Although he knew
that there was no chance of his meeting Anita, he haunted the
neighbourhood of the "George" all the morning. Every few minutes he
consulted his watch and the progress of the hands seemed to him so
incredibly slow that more than once he thought that it must have stopped
altogether. Finally, finally, the hour struck.
Flinging back his shoulders and assuming a carelessness that almost
amounted to a swagger, Cyril entered the hotel. He was so self-conscious
that it was with considerable surprise as well as relief that he noticed
that no one paid the slightest attention to him. Even the porter hardly
glanced at him, being at the moment engaged in speeding a parting guest.
Cyril decided to use the stairs in preference to the lift, as they were
less frequented than the latter, and as it happened, he made his way up
to the second landing without encountering anybody.
There, however, he came face to face with a pretty housemaid, who to his
dismay looked at him attentively. Cyril went cold all over. Had he but
known it, she had been attracted by his tall, soldierly figure and had
merely offered him the tribute of an admiring glance. But this
explanation never occurred to our modest hero and he hurried, quite
absurdly flustered by this trifling incident. He found that No. 62
opened on a small, ill-lighted hall, which was for the moment completely
deserted.
Now that he actually stood on the threshold of Anita's room, Cyril felt
a curious reluctance to proceed farther. It was unwise.... She might not
want to see him.... But even as these objections flashed through his
mind, he knocked almost involuntarily.
"Come in."
Yet he still hesitated. His heart was beating like a sledge-hammer and
his hands were trembling. Never had he experienced such a curious
sensation before and he wondered vaguely what could be the matter with
him.
"I can't stand here forever," he said in his heart. "I wanted to see
her; well then, why don't I open the door? I am behaving like a fool!"
Still reasoning with himself, he finally entered the room.
A bright fire was burning on the hearth and before it were heaped a
number of cushions and from this lowly seat Anita had apparently hastily
arisen. The length of time he had taken to answer her summons had
evidently alarmed her, for she stood like a creature at bay, her eyes
wide open and frightened. On recognising Cyril a deep blush suffused her
face and even coloured the whiteness of her throat.
"So it was you!" she exclaimed.
Her relief was obvious, yet her manner was distant, almost repellent.
Cyril had confidently anticipated such a different reception that her
unexpected coldness completed his discomfiture. He felt as if the
foundations of his world were giving away beneath his feet. He managed,
however, to murmur something, he knew not what. The pounding of his
heart prevented him from thinking coherently. When his emotion had
subsided sufficiently for him to realise what he was doing, he found
himself sitting stiffly on one side of the fire with Anita sitting
equally stiffly on the other. She was talking--no, rather she was
engaging him in polite conversation. How long she had been doing so he
did not know, but he gathered that it could not have been long, as she
was still on the subject of the weather.
"It has been atrocious in London. I hope you had better luck in the
country. To-day has been especially disagreeable," she was saying.
Cyril abused the weather with a vigour which was rather surprising, in
view of the fact that till she had mentioned it, he had been sublimely
unconscious whether the sun had been shining or not. But finally even
that prolific topic was exhausted and as no other apparently suggested
itself to either, they relapsed into a constrained silence.
Cyril was suffering acutely. He had so longed to see her, and now an
impalpable barrier had somehow arisen between them which separated them
more completely than mere bricks and mortar, than any distance could
have done. True, he could feast his eyes on her cameo-like profile; on
the soft curve of her cheek; on the long, golden-tipped lashes; on the
slender, white throat, which rose like a column from the laces of her
dress. But he dared not look at her too long. Cyril was not
introspective and was only dimly aware of the cause of the turmoil which
was raging in his heart. He did not know that he averted his eyes for
fear that the primitive male within him would break loose from the
fetters of his will and forcibly seize the small creature so temptingly
within his reach.
"If I only knew what I have done to displease her!" he said to himself.
He longed to question her, but she held herself so rigidly aloof that he
had not the courage to do so. It was in vain that he told himself that
her coldness simplified the situation; that it would have been terrible
to have had to repel her advances; but he could find no consolation in
the thought. In speechless misery he sat gazing into the fire.
Suddenly he thrilled with the consciousness that she was looking at him.
He turned towards her and their eyes met.
The glance they exchanged was of the briefest duration, but it sufficed
to lift the weight which had been crushing him. He leaned eagerly
forward.
"Have I offended you?" he asked.
The corners of her mouth quivered slightly, but she did not answer.
"If I have," he continued, "I assure you it was quite unintentionally.
Why, I would give my life to save you a moment's pain. Can't you feel
that I am speaking the truth?"
She turned her face towards him, and as he looked at her, Cyril realised
that it was not only her manner which had altered; she herself had
mysteriously altered. At first he could not define wherein the
difference lay, but suddenly it flashed upon him. It was the expression
of her eyes which had changed. Heretofore he had been confident that
they reflected her every emotion; but now they were inscrutable. It was
as if she had drawn a veil over her soul.
"I don't know what you mean," she said. There was more than a hint of
hostility in her voice.
The evasion angered him.
"That is impossible! Why not be frank with me? If my visit is
distasteful to you, you have only to say so and I will go."
As she did not immediately answer, he added:
"Perhaps I had better go." His tone, however, somehow implied more of a
threat than a suggestion; for since they had exchanged that fleeting
glance Cyril had felt unreasonably reassured. Despite her coldness, the
memory of her tender entreaties for his speedy return, buoyed up his
conceit. She could not be as indifferent to him as she seemed, he argued
to himself. However, as the moments passed and she offered no objection
to his leaving her, his newly-aroused confidence evaporated.
"She does not want me!" he muttered to himself. "I must go." But he made
no motion to do so; he could not.
"I can't leave her till I know how I have offended her.... There are so
many arrangements to be made.... I must get in touch with her again,--"
were some of the excuses with which he tried to convince himself that he
had a right to linger.
He tried to read her face, but she had averted her head till he could
see nothing but one small, pink ear, peeping from beneath her curls.
Her silence exasperated him.
"Why don't you speak to me? Why do you treat me like this?" he demanded
almost fiercely.
"It is a little difficult to know how you wish to be treated!" Her
manner was icy, but his relief was so intense that he scarcely noticed
it.
"She is piqued!" he cried exultingly in his heart. "She is piqued, that
is the whole trouble." He felt a man once more, master of the situation.
"She probably expected me to--" He shrank from pursuing the thought any
further as the hot blood surged to his face. He was again conscious of
his helplessness. What could he say to her?
"Oh, if you could only understand!" he exclaimed aloud. "I suppose you
think me cold and unfeeling? I only wish I were!... Oh, this is
torture!"
She seemed startled by his vehemence, for she looked up at him timidly.
"Can't you trust me?" he continued. "Won't you tell me what has come
between us?"
Two big tears gathered in her eyes.
The sight was too much for Cyril. Right and wrong ceased to exist for
him. He forgot everything; stooping forward he gathered her into his
arms and crushed her small body against his heart.
She thrust him from her with unexpected force and stood before him with
blazing eyes.
"You cannot treat me like a child, who can be neglected one day and
fondled the next! I won't have it! At the nursing home I was too weak
and confused to realise how strangely you were behaving, but now I know.
You dare to complain of my coldness--my coldness indeed! Is my coldness
a match to yours? Why do you suddenly pretend to love me?"
He interrupted her with a vigorous protest.
"If you do, then your conduct is all the more inexplicable. If you do,
then I ask you, what is it, who is it, that stands between us?"
"If I could tell you, don't you suppose I would?" declared Cyril.
"Then there is some one, some person who is keeping us apart!"
"No--oh, not exactly."
"Ah, you see, you can't deny it! There is another woman in your life. I
know it! I felt it!"
"No--no! I love you!" cried Cyril.
He hardly knew what he was saying; the words seemed to have leaped to
his lips.
She regarded him for a second in silence evidently only partially
convinced.
Cyril felt horribly guilty. He had momentarily forgotten his wife, and
although he tried to convince himself that he had spoken the truth and
that it was not she who was keeping them apart, yet he had to
acknowledge that if he had been free, he would certainly have behaved
very differently towards Anita. So in a sense he had lied to her and as
he realised this, his eyes sank before hers. She did not fail to note
his embarrassment and pressed her point inexorably.
"Swear that there is no other woman who has a claim on you and I will
believe you."
He could not lie to her in cold blood. Yet to tell her the truth was
also out of the question, he said to himself.
While he still hesitated, she continued more vehemently.
"I don't ask you to tell me anything of your past or my past, if you had
rather not do so. One thing, however, I must and will know--who is this
woman and what are her pretensions?"
"I--I cannot tell you," he said at last. "I only wish I could. Some day,
I promise you, you shall know everything, but now it is impossible. But
this much I will say--I love you as I have never loved any one in my
whole life."
She trembled from head to foot and half closed her eyes.
For a moment neither spoke. Cyril felt that this very silence
established a communion between them, more complete, more intense than
any words could have done. But as he gazed at the small, drooping
figure, he felt that his self-control was deserting him completely. He
almost reeled with the violence of his emotion.
"I can't stand it another moment," he said to himself. "I must go
before--" He did not finish the sentence but clenched his hands till the
knuckles showed white through the skin.
He rose to his feet.
"I can't stay!" he exclaimed aloud. "Forgive me, Anita. I can't tell you
what I feel. Good-bye!" He murmured incoherently and seizing her hands,
he pressed them for an instant against his lips, then dropping them
abruptly, he fled from the room.
Cyril in his excitement had not noticed that he had called Anita by her
name nor did he perceive the start she gave when she heard it. After the
door had clicked behind him, she sat as if turned to stone, white to her
very lips.
Slowly, as if with an effort, her lips moved.
"Anita?" she whispered to herself. "Anita?" she repeated over and over
again as if she were trying to learn a difficult lesson.
Suddenly a great light broke over her face.
"I am Anita Wilmersley!" she cried aloud.
But the tension had been too great; with a little gasp she sank fainting
to the floor.