Who?

by Elizabeth Kent

  CHAPTER XIX

  AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR

  What he did during the next few hours, Cyril never quite knew. Heretained a vague impression of wandering through endless streets and ofbeing now and then arrested in his heedless course by the angryimprecations of some wayfarer he had inadvertently jostled or of someJehu whose progress he was blocking.

  How could he have behaved like such a fool, he kept asking himself. Hehad not said a thing to Anita that he had meant to say--not one. Worsestill, he had told her that he loved her! He had even held her in hisarms! Cyril tried not to exult at the thought. He told himself again andagain that he had acted like a cad; nevertheless the memory of thatmoment filled him with triumphant rapture. Had he lost all sense ofshame, he wondered. He tried to consider Anita's situation, his ownsituation; but he could not. Anita herself absorbed him. He could thinkneither of the past nor of the future; he could think of nothingconnectedly.

  The daylight waned and still he tramped steadily onward. Finally,however, his body began to assert itself. His footsteps grew graduallyslower, till at last he realised that he was miles from home and that hewas completely exhausted. Hailing a passing conveyance, he drove to hislodgings.

  He was still so engrossed in his dreams that he felt no surprise atfinding Peter sitting in the front hall, nor did he notice the dejecteddroop of the latter's shoulders.

  On catching sight of his master, Peter sprang forward.

  "Hsh! My lord," he whispered with his finger on his lip; and turningslightly, he cast an apprehensive glance over his shoulder towards thetop of the stairs.

  With an effort Cyril shook off his preoccupation. Following thedirection of his servant's eyes, he saw nothing more alarming than a fewdusty plants which were supposed to adorn the small landing where thestairs turned. Before he had time to form a conjecture as to the causeof Peter's agitation, the latter continued breathlessly: "Her Ladyship'ave arrived, my lord!"

  Having made this announcement, he stepped back as if to watch whateffect this information would have on his master. There was no doubtthat Peter's alarm was very genuine, yet one felt that in spite of it hewas enjoying the dramatic possibilities of the situation.

  Cyril, however, only blinked at him uncomprehendingly.

  "Her Ladyship? What Ladyship?" he asked.

  "Lady Wilmersley, my lord, and she brought her baggage. I haven't knownwhat to do, that I haven't. I knew she ought not to stay here, but Icouldn't turn 'er out, could I?"

  Cyril's mind was so full of Anita that he never doubted that it was sheto whom Peter was referring, so without waiting to ask furtherquestions, he rushed upstairs two steps at a time, and threw open thedoor of his sitting-room.

  On a low chair in front of the fire his wife sat reading quietly.

  Cyril staggered back as if he had been struck. She, however, only turnedher head languidly and closing her book, surveyed him with a mockingsmile.

  For a moment Cyril saw red. His disappointment added fuel to hisindignation.

  "Amy! How dare you come here?" he cried, striding towards her.

  She seemed in nowise affected by his anger; only her expression became,if possible, a trifle more contemptuous.

  "Your manners have sadly deteriorated since we parted," she remarked,raising her eyebrows superciliously.

  "Manners!" he exclaimed and his voice actually shook with rage. "May Iask how you expected to be received? Is it possible that you imaginethat I am going to take you back?"

  Her eyes narrowed, but she still appeared quite unconcerned.

  "Do you know, I rather think you will," she drawled.

  "Take you back, now that you have tired of your lover or he has becomedisgusted with you, which is probably nearer the truth. Do you think Iam mad, or are you?"

  He fancied that he saw her wince, but she replied calmly:

  "Do not let us indulge in mutual recriminations. They are so futile."

  "Mutual recriminations, indeed! I like that! What have you to reproachme with? Didn't I marry you to save you from disgrace and penury?Haven't I done everything I could to keep you straight?"

  She rose slowly from her seat and he noticed for the first time that shewore a low-cut gown of some diaphanous material, which revealed and yetsoftened the too delicate lines of her sinuous figure. Her black hairlay in thick waves around her face, completely covering the ears, andwound in a coil at the back of her neck. He had never seen it arrangedin this fashion and reluctantly he had to admit that it was strangelybecoming to her. A wide band of dull gold, set with uncut gems,encircled her head and added a barbaric note to her exotic beauty. Itwas his last gift to her, he remembered.

  Yes, she was still beautiful, he acknowledged, although the life she hadled, had left its marks upon her. She looked older and frailer than whenhe had seen her last. But to-night the sunken eyes glowed withextraordinary brilliancy and a soft colour gave a certain roundness toher hollow cheeks. As she stood before him, Cyril was conscious, for thefirst time in years, of the alluring charm of her personality.

  She regarded him for a moment, her full red lips parted in aninscrutable smile. How well he recalled that smile! He could neverfathom its meaning. In some mysterious way it suggested infinitepossibilities. How he hated it!

  "You tried everything, I grant you," she said at last, "except the onething which would have proved efficacious."

  "And what was that, pray?"

  "You never loved me."

  Her unexpected accusation made Cyril pause. Yes, it was true, heacknowledged to himself. Had he not realised it during the last few daysas he had never done before?

  "You don't even take the trouble to deny it," she continued. "Youmarried me out of pity and instead of being ashamed of it, you actuallypride yourself on the purity of your motive."

  "Well, at any rate I can't see what there was to be ashamed of," hereplied indignantly.

  "Of course you can't! Oh, how you good people exasperate me! You seem tolack all comprehension of the natural cravings of a normal human being.Pity? What did I want with pity? I wanted love!"

  "It was not my fault that I could not love you."

  "No, but knowing that you did not love me, it was dastardly of you tohave married me without telling me the truth. In doing so, you took fromme my objective in life--you destroyed my ideals. Oh, don't look sosceptical, you fool! Can't you see that I should never have remained agoverness until I was twenty-five, if I had not had ideals? It wasbecause I had such lofty conceptions of love that I kept myselfscrupulously aloof from men, so that I might come to my mate, when Ifound him, with soul, mind, and body unsullied."

  She spoke with such passionate sincerity that it was with an effortCyril reminded himself that her past had not been as blameless as shepictured it.

  "Your fine ideals did not prevent you from becoming a drunkard--" heremarked drily.

  "When I married, I was not a drunkard," she vehemently protested. "Theexistence I led was abhorrent to me, and it is true that occasionallywhen I felt I could not stand it another moment, I would go to my roomafter dinner and get what comfort I could out of alcohol; but what Idid, I did deliberately and not to satisfy an ungovernable appetite. Iwas no more a drunkard than a woman who takes a dose of morphine duringbodily agony is a drug fiend. Of course, my conduct seems inexcusable toyou, for you are quite incapable of understanding the torture my lifewas to me."

  "Other women have suffered far greater misfortunes and have borne themwith fortitude and dignity."

  "Look at me, Cyril; even now am I like other women?" She drew herself upproudly. "Was it my fault that I was born with beauty that demanded itsdue? Was I to blame that my blood leaped wildly through my veins, thatmy imagination was always on fire? But I was, and still am,instinctively and fundamentally a virtuous woman. Oh, you may sneer, butit is true! Although as a girl I was starving for love, I never acceptedpassion as a substitute, and you can't realise how incessantly thelatter was offered me. Wherever I went, I was persecuted by it. At timesI had a h
orrible fear that desire was all that I was capable of evoking;and when you came to me in my misery, poverty, and disgrace, I hailedyou as my king--my man! I believed that you were offering me a love sogreat that it welcomed the sacrifice of every minor consideration. Itnever occurred to me that you would dare to ask me for myself, my life,my future, unless you were able to give me in exchange something morethan the mere luxuries of existence."

  "I also offered you my life----"

  "You did not!" she interrupted him. "You offered up your life, not tome, but to your own miserable conception of chivalry. The greatness ofyour sacrifice intoxicated you and consequently it seemed to youinevitable that I also would spend the rest of my days in humblecontemplation of your sublime character?"

  "Such an idea never occurred to me," Cyril angrily objected.

  "Oh, you never formulated it in so many words, I know that! You are tooself-conscious to be introspective and are actually proud of the factthat you never stop to analyse either yourself or your motives. So yougo blundering through life without in the least realising what are theinfluences which shape your actions. You fancy that you are notself-centred because you are too shy, yes, and too vain to probe thehidden recesses of your heart. You imagine that you are unselfishbecause you make daily sacrifices to your own ideal of conduct. But ofthat utter forgetfulness of self, of that complete merging andsubmerging of your identity in another's, you have never had even thevaguest conception. When you married me, it never occurred to you that Ihad the right to demand both love and comprehension. You, the idealist,expected me to be satisfied with the material advantages you offered;but I, the degraded creature you take me to be, had I known the truth,would never have consented to sell my birthright for a mess of pottage."

  "That sounds all very fine, and I confess I may not have been a perfecthusband, but after all, what would you have done, I should like to know,if I had not married you?"

  "Done? I would have worked and hoped, and if work had failed me, I wouldhave begged and hoped. I would even have starved, before abandoning thehope that some day I should find the man who was destined for me. When Iat last realised that you did not love me, you cannot imagine mydespair. I consumed myself in futile efforts to please you, but the veryintensity of my love prevented me from exercising those arts andartifices which might have brought you to my feet. My emotion in yourpresence was so great that it sealed my lips and made you find me a dullcompanion."

  "I never thought you dull. You know very well that it was not that whichalienated me from you. When I married you, I may not have been what iscalled in love with you, but I was certainly fond of you, and if you hadbehaved yourself, I should no doubt in time have become more closelyunited to you. You talk of 'consuming' yourself to please me. Nice,effective word, that! I must add it to my vocabulary. But you chose astrange means of gaining my affections when you took to disgracingyourself both privately and publicly."

  The passionate resentment which had transfigured her slowly faded fromAmy's face, leaving it drawn and old; her voice, when she spoke, soundedinfinitely weary.

  "When I knew for a certainty that a lukewarm affection was all you wouldever feel for me, I lost hope, and in losing hope, I lost my foothold onlife. I wanted to die--I determined to die. Time and time again, Ipressed your pistol to my forehead, but something stronger than my willalways prevented me from pulling the trigger; and finally I soughtforgetfulness in drink, because I had not the courage to find it indeath. At first I tried to hide my condition from you, but there came amoment when the sight of your bland self-satisfaction became unbearable,when your absolute unconsciousness of the havoc you had made of my lifemaddened me. I wanted you to suffer! Oh, not as I had suffered, you arenot capable of that; but at any rate I could hurt your vanity and deal adeath-blow to your pride! You had disgraced me when you tricked me intogiving myself to a man who did not love me; I determined to disgrace youby reeling through the public streets. And I was glad, glad!" she criedwith indescribable bitterness. "When I saw you grow pale with anger,when I saw you tremble with shame, I suppose you fancy that I must, attimes, have suffered from remorse and humiliation? I swear that neverfor a moment have I regretted the course I chose. I am ashamed ofnothing except that I lacked the courage to kill myself. Drink? I blessit! How I welcomed the gradual deadening of my senses, the dulling of myfevered brain! When I awoke from my long torpor and found myself atCharleroi, I cursed the doctor who had brought me back to life. Littleby little the old agony returned. The thought of you haunted me day andnight, while a raging thirst racked my body, and from this twofoldtorture the constant supervision of the nurses prevented me fromobtaining even a temporary respite. It was hell!"

  For a moment Cyril felt a wave of pity sweep over him, but suddenly hestiffened.

  "You forget to mention that--consolation was offered you."

  "Consolation! Had I found that, I should not be here! I admit, however,that when I first noticed that M. de Brissac was attracted by me, I wasmildly pleased. It was a solace to my wounded vanity to find that someone still found me desirable. But I swear that it never even occurred tome to give myself to him, till the doctor told me that you were comingto take me away with you. See you again? Subject myself anew to yourindifference--your contempt? Never! So I took the only means of escapingfrom you which offered itself. And I am glad, glad that I flung myselfinto the mire, for by defiling love, I killed it. I am at last free fromthe obsession which has been the torment of my life. Neither you nor anyother man will again fire my imagination or stir my senses. I am dead,but I am also free--free!"

  As she spoke the last words her expression was so exalted that Cyril wasforced to grant her his grudging admiration. As she stood before him,she seemed more a spirit than a woman; she seemed the incarnation oflife, of love, of the very fundamentals of existence. She was really anextraordinary woman; why did he not love her, he asked himself. But evenas this flashed through his mind the memory of his long martyrdomobtruded itself. He saw her again not as she appeared then, but as thecentral figure in a succession of loathsome scenes.

  "Your attempt to justify yourself may impose on others, but not on me. Iknow you too well! You are rotten to the core. What you term love isnothing but an abnormal craving, which no healthy-minded man with hiswork in life to do could have possibly satisfied. Our code, however, istoo different for me to discuss the matter with you. And so, if you havequite finished expatiating on my shortcomings, would you kindly tell meto what I owe the honour of your visit?"

  She turned abruptly from him and leaned for a minute against themantelpiece; then, sinking into a chair, she took a cigarette from a boxwhich lay on the table near her and proceeded to light it with apparentunconcern. Cyril, however, noticed that her hand trembled violently.After inhaling a few puffs, she threw her head back and looked at himtauntingly from between her narrowed lids.

  "Because, my dear Cyril, I read in yesterday's paper that your wife hadbeen your companion on your ill-timed journey from Paris. So I thoughtit would be rather amusing to run over and find out a few particulars asto the young person who is masquerading under my name."

  She had caught Cyril completely off his guard and he felt for a momentincapable of parrying her attack.

  "I assure you," he stuttered, "it is all a mistake--" He hesitated; hecould think of no explanation which would satisfy her.

  "I expected you to tell me that she was as pure as snow!" she exclaimedwith a scornful laugh. "But how you with your puritanic ideas managed toget yourself into such an imbroglio passes my understanding. Really, Iconsider that you owe it to me, to satisfy my curiosity."

  "I regret that I am unable to do so."

  "So do I! Still, as I shall no doubt solve the riddle in a few days, Ican possess my soul in patience. Meanwhile I shall enjoy watching yourefforts to prevent me from learning the truth."

  "Unfortunately for you, that pleasure will be denied you. You are goingto leave this house at once and we shall not meet again till we do sobefore judge and ju
ry."

  Amy settled herself more comfortably in her chair.

  "So you will persist in trying to bluff it out? Foolish Cyril! Don't yourealise that I hold all the cards and that I am quite clever enough touse them to the best advantage? You see, knowing you as I do, I amconvinced that the motive which led you to sacrifice both truth andhonour is probably as praiseworthy as it is absurd. But having made sucha sacrifice, why are you determined to render it useless? I cannotbelieve that you are willing to face the loss not only of your ownreputation but of that of the young person who has accepted yourprotection. How do you fancy she would enjoy figuring as corespondent ina divorce suit?"

  Cyril felt as if he were caught in a trap.

  "My God," he cried, "you wouldn't do that! I swear to you that she isabsolutely innocent. She was in a terrible situation and to say that shewas my wife seemed the only way to save her. She doesn't even know I ammarried!"

  "Really? And have you never considered that when she finds out thetruth, she may fail to appreciate the delicacy which no doubt preventedyou from mentioning the trifling fact of my existence? It is ratherfunny that your attempts to rescue forlorn damsels seem doomed to beunsuccessful! Or were your motives in this case not quite so impersonalas I fancied? Has Launcelot at last found his Guinevere? If so, I mayyet be avenged vicariously."

  "Your presence is punishment enough, I assure you, for all the sins Iever committed! But come to the point. What exactly is it that you arethreatening me with?"

  "Publicity, that is all. If neither you nor this woman object to itsbeing known that you travelled together as man and wife, then I ampowerless."

  "But you have just acknowledged that you know that our relation is aharmless one," cried Cyril.

  "I do not know it--but--yes, I believe it. Do you think, however, thatany one else will do so?"

  "Surely you would not be such a fiend as to wreck the life of aninnocent young girl?"

  "If her life is wrecked, whose fault is it? Not mine, at all events. Itwas you who by publicly proclaiming her to be your wife, made itimpossible for her disgrace to remain a secret. Don't you realise thateven if I took no steps in the matter, sooner or later the truth isbound to be discovered? Now I--and I alone--can save you from theconsequences of your folly. If you will agree not to divorce me, Ipromise not only to keep your secret, but to protect the good name ofthis woman by every means in my power."

  "I should like to know what you expect to gain by trying to force me totake you back? Is it the title that you covet, or do you long to shinein society? But remember that in order to do that, you would haveradically to reform your habits."

  "I have no intention of reforming and I don't care a fig forconventional society!"

  "You tell me that you no longer love me and that you found existencewith me unsupportable. Why then are you not willing to end it?"

  "It is true, I no longer love you, but while I live, no other womanshall usurp my place."

  "Your place! When you broke your marriage vows, you forfeited your rightto a place in my life. But I will make a compact with you. You can haveall the money you can possibly want as long as you neither do nor sayanything to imperil the reputation of the young lady in question."

  "All the wealth in the world could not buy my silence!"

  "This is too horrible!" cried Cyril almost beside himself. "In order toshield a poor innocent child, you demand that I sacrifice my freedom, myfuture, even my honour? Have you no sense of justice, no pity?"

  "None. I have said my last word. It is now for you to decide whether Iam to go or stay. Well--which is it to be?"

  Cyril looked into her white, set face; what he read there destroyed hislast, lingering hope.

  "Stay," he muttered through his clenched teeth.