Such is love

by Burchell, Mary

  But she didn't feel glad. She couldn't feel glad about anything. In a horrid sort of dream she saw him making the round of good-byes. He kissed her lightly—he never omitted to do that, however short the separation was to be. Then he went out of the room, and after a few minutes they heard the front door close.

  For a little while after Van's departure, Gwyneth took in hardly anything of the conversation. She contributed a "Yes" and a "No" and a "Do you really think so?" But she was not paying very much attention to what was being said.

  After a while she became aware that Terry was watching her with slightly narrowed eyes. She knew why, of course. He was judging her indecision to a nicety, and he knew his whole future depended on whether or not that indecision would harden into determination.

  "Such a pity that Van had to go," Mrs. Stacey was saying. "The very first time we have been able to arrange a dinner party together. But I hope it will be only the first of many. When Paula is married, I dare say she will be entertaining us all in her house."

  Benign and satisfied smiles came to bear upon Paula.

  Slowly but irresistibly, Gwyneth saw, the moment was approaching. It was like hearing the rumblings of a volcano that was about to erupt.

  "I can only say I hope Paula and Terry will be as happy as you and Van obviously are." Mrs. Stacey smiled benignly upon Gwyneth this time.

  But Gwyneth didn't smile back. She looked straight across at Mrs.-Stacey, her eyes so dark with fear and determination that they looked almost black, her face so white that her hostess gave an exclamation and half rose to her feet.

  "It*s all right, Mrs. Stacey. I expect I look ghastly, but I'm not going to faint or anything. Only there's something painful and horrible that I've got to say to you all "

  "GwynethI" The sharp word of protest came from Paula, not Terry. But Gwyneth took no notice.

  "I've been trying to get up my courage to say this for nearly a week. It was wrong of me to wait so long—^I did it because I was afraid. But nothing else is going to disclose the fact—I've got to do it. Terry can't legally marry Paula because he is married already, and his wife is alive. I know it because he played the same trick on me when I was even younger than she is. I can't stand by and see Paula put through the same experience—abandoned when he is tired of her, perhaps with a child—as I was."

  "GwynethI" That was Paula again. "Are you mad? What

  that Toby "

  Gwyneth felt dreadfully cold, as she always did in a moment of despair and acute terror.

  "Yes," she said slowly, "Toby is my own son—^mine and Terry's."

  There was such a profound silence for a few seconds after she had said that that she almost wondered if she had really said it, or if she were only following out the scene in her fevered imagination again—as she had so often done before.

  Now that the confession was over, it scarcely seemed to hurt. It was like losing a limb and not being able to feel the loss at first because the nerves were numb.

  Then Terry spoke—^very coolly, but with a queer, metallic note in his voice.

  "It's very distressing, of course, if Mrs. Onslie indulged in some such escapade years ago, but I most violently protest against having the result wished on to me."

  "Terry, don't," Gwyneth said almost wearily. "It's so futile."

  "Mrs. Onslie, these are terrible charges you're making against someone who is almost a member of our family." Mr. Stacey spoke in a voice which was really not quite steady. "I don't want to question your truthfulness, but— but you really must give us some form of proof, you know."

  "I defy her to!" Terry was perfect in his rising tide of indignant annoyance. "It's an outrageous suggestion."

  "No," Gwyneth said quietly, "it's not outrageous. The only outrageous part is your effrontery, Terry, when you must know you're beaten. Anyway, I have got proof."

  Terry's eyes met hers for an instant in fear as well as anger. It was a strange moment—one that gave her a fierce, swift sense of triumph. It was gone almost as soon as it came, but it had been there. For the space of a couple of seconds she knew that Terry had been afraid of her, instead of the inevitable, humiliating reverse position.

  She looked at him with measureless contempt.

  "It was silly of you to leave me to pay the bill, all those years ago, for the weeks we spent together at that wretched

  168

  little hoteL Economical, perhaps, to leave it to me, but short-sighted. You see, I have the bill here."

  She drew it out of her evening bag and spread it out on the small table beside her.

  Very crumpled, lightly tattered from being crushed up

  at the bottom of a box for so long—^it lay there for them

  [all to see. Even now, she could not have said why she had

  [kept it. Perhaps she had had some wild idea at the time

  [that she might need it to provfe something. Perhaps, having

  been cheated so often, she had merely thought that, at

  least, the shady hotel should not charge her again. Perhaps

  it was simply that some queer instinct had told her that,

  one day, it would be very important to her.

  But anyway, there it was—damning evidence against even so accomplished a twister as Terry.

  Three out of the four people present leant forward fascinatedly, to read the bill headed "Mr. and Mrs. T. Muirkirk".

  "You can see—it's for quite a long period." Gwyneth still spoke with that sort of weary determination. "He'd had quite a good time before his wife came and claimed him. And if you want any further evidence, I suppose there is still some sort of record at the register office— false facts and all.'*

  Again there was a heavy silence. Mr. Stacey, breathing rather deeply, slowly pulled the bill towards him and examined it afresh, as though something else might come to light.

  Paula looked across at Terry with incredulous, horrified eyes.

  "Is it true?" was all she said.

  Even Terry must have seen this was the end. He shrugged.

  "If you care to believe her word against mine "

  "But it isn't only her word. Here is the hotel bill, and—"

  "Very well. It's perfectly true that we stayed there together for some weeks. I'm ashamed of it now, but you must know these things happen occasionally in a man's past, and he can only say that he wishes to God he'd never done it. The rest of her story is an invention, because she's never forgiven me for tiring of the whole wretched business long before she did."

  "I think they feel more inclined to believe my version than yours, Terry," Gwyneth said quietly. "And Toby is no invention. Nor is your wife, who was walking with yo»^j when I saw you the other day. I suppose even you will find some difficulty in explaining her away."

  Paula sprang to her feet. She was very white, but her eyes were brilliant with anger now, even more than with dismay. Gwyneth was astounded to see that, far from being crushed by the discovery, she seemed to take on a furious dignity before which Terry might well have trembled.

  "How dare you!" she said slowly. "How dare you come here, lying and cheating and—^yes, sponging. I could—I could kill you!" And suddenly all the composure went. She burst into wild tears, more like a furious child again, and rushed from the room.

  Her mother gave an agitated little exclamation, and, getting up, she went after her. At the door, she turned and addressed her husband, a little as though Terry and—to tell the truth, Gwyneth—no longer existed.

  "I hope, WiUiam, you will deal with this—^this person" she said, and went out of the room, too.

  "I think," Mr. Stacey said—and, small man though he was, he looked almost dignified in his turn as he addressed Terry—"I think you will see that to remain here in our house would be both pointless and offensive."

  Terry bowed slightly, even now concealing what must have been very deep chagrin under an insolent little smile.

  "Since you put it so pressingly as that, I'll go."

  He bowed s
lightly to Gwyneth, too, but the cold menace in his eyes made her very heart quail. He looked like a murderer at that moment. Only a tremendous physical effort kept her from letting him see how afraid she was, but she managed to stare back coolly at him until he turned away.

  Even when he had gone out of the room, Mr. Stacey didn't say anything to her at once. He sat down rather heavily, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands hanging aimlessly. He looked a very old man indeed just then.

  They both heard the clang of the front door closing behind Terry. He had gone out of Paula's life now. But

  out of Gwyneth's life, too ? Well, that was a different

  thing.

  Gwyneth looked at the bent old man, and hated the fact that it had been she who had had to deal this blow.

  "Mr. Stacey, I feel I ought to say how terribly sorry I am that "

  He roused himself then to interrupt her before she could finish her lame little apology.

  "My dear, it was not your fault that such dreadful facts were there to be told. It was extremely brave of you to tell them. I—^we appreciate what it must have meant for you to rake up such an unhappy story—something that was entirely your own affair. It was very, very good of you to put Paula's welfare before your own feelings like that. I know my wife would feel the same. She would want me to say this for her, as well as for myself."

  Gwyneth smiled rather wanly at him.

  "Thank you—but I couldn't have done anything else really, you know. No one could, without being absolutely despicable."

  The old man shook his head.

  "It was a very severe demand of conscience, and I

  should hke you to feel sure " He paused and looked

  slightly embarrassed. "That is to say, I hope you understand that in no circumstances should we ever abuse the confidence you've placed in us. What you told us belongs to your own past history, and yours alone. Please consider that it is absolutely safe with us."

  "Thank you," Gwyneth said again, and she took the hand which he held out to hen

  She didn't tell him that it was not they whom she feared, but Terry. She held his hand very warmly for a moment. Then she managed to smile more naturally.

  "I think I had better go, Mr. Stacey. I don't expect that either Paula or Mrs. Stacey will want to see anyone again tonight."

  "Oh, but please let me fetch my wife. She would want "

  "No, really." Gwyneth was firm. "Paula will need her. I don't want her to feel she must come down again."

  "But do wait until Van comes to fetch you. He said he

  would come for you. I don't like the idea of your going alone."

  "It's really quite all right," Gwyneth assured him, contriving somehow to disguise from him her wild longing to escape—escape, away from this terrible house, where this awful thing had happened to her.

  "If you're quite sure "

  "Quite sure. I shall be home before Van starts out to fetch me."

  "But he'U come straight from the office."

  "Oh yes, of course he will." She was given pause for a moment—^forced to think out some other way of keeping Van from returning here. She didn't want him back at this house, tonight. She didn't want further conferences and explanations just now. She was prepared to face the wretched fact that he must know. But now now—^not for a few hours longer. She had had as much as she could bear.

  She turned back to Mr. Stacey.

  "If I might telephone, please ?'*

  "Of course, of course."

  He dialed the number for her, and she was sorry to see that his rather withered hands were very unsteady. Then she took the receiver, and the next moment she heard Van himself say:

  "Yes? Van Onslie speaking."

  "Van, it's Gwyneth. Look here, dear, don't bother to come for me. I'm getting a taxi now." Her voice was amazingly calm and matter-of-fact, she noticed.

  "Now?" She could almost see him glance in surprise at his watch. "But it's very early yet, isn't it?"

  "Yes, I know. I'll explain later. Just go straight home, Van. I'll join you there."

  "Very well, of course, if you really want that."

  "Yes, please." She rang off quicldy, then, for fear he might ask questions, though she thought from his tone that he had gathered there was something which she could not explain by telephone.

  When she had rung off, she found old Mr. Stacey watching her with a grave and troubled expression. But he said comfortingly:

  "Van will make you feel less unhappy, my dear. All this did happen a good many years ago, and now that you are

  happily married you must put everything behind you again. It was terrible that you had to look back like that, but since you were brave enough to do it, I hope you will be brave enough to forget it again now. I am sure Van would be the first to remind you that you have your little boy safely with you now, and Van is evidently extremely fond of him as well as of you. Nothing could have worked out better "

  "Except," Gwyneth said sadly, "that Van doesn't know anything about this at all. He has no idea that Toby is my own child—and Terry's."

  The consternation on Mr. Stacey's face was an eloquent comment on what he thought Van's reaction would be. For a moment he obviously could think of nothing at all to say.

  "I didn't realize that," he murmured at last, shaking his head. "I didn't understand that, at all. Oh, dear, dear, this is terrible." Then he added—^not very hopefully: "We must hope that Terry will, at least, have the decency to keep things to himself."

  Gwyneth sighed. "No," she said, "I'm afraid decency doesn't enter into Terry's calculations at all. He kept quiet until now because, of course, he couldn't expose my story without showing his own part in it. If he were really going to marry Paula, it was as much in his interests as in mine that he should say nothing. But now "

  She broke off without finishing the sentence, and she and Mr. Stacey looked at each other in silence. It was so difficult to think of anything to say.

  "Of course, Van is a very just man," Mr. Stacey offered at last, but he evidently didn't think much of that feeble bit of comfort himself.

  "It's a little difficult to be strictly just, when everything you admire and cherish is involved," Gwyneth said. "I think perhaps it is mercy rather than justice that is needed."

  "Of course, of course." There was a short silence. Neither of them offered to say what the chances were of Van displaying mercy in a situation like this.

  "He really has no idea at all?" the old man said at last.

  "No, none."

  "It will be a terrible shock. You must try not to mind

  too much, my dear, if he—^if he says some very hard things at first." .

  Gwyneth didn't answer. She thought she could bear it if he only spoke to her. The terrible, burning question was —^what would he do?

  What did a man do when he found his wife had had a *past'? But it wasn't any good putting it into general terms like that. A 'past' didn't necessarily involve a child—^now living under the unsuspecting husband's roof.

  This story did.

  But it was no good lingering on here, going over possibilities and impossibilities. It was strange enough, now she came to think of it, that she should have spent so much time, talking over her most intimate affairs with this old gentleman whom she had never met until this evening. But he was sympathetic, and she had had to talk to someone. And, in any case, the privacy of her affairs seemed rather a small thing just now.

  She said good-bye to Mr. Stacey after that, begging him to make her good-byes for her to Paula and her mother. He came with her to the taxi—^very anxious, very kind, wishing he could do something for hero

  But no one could do anything for her. That was the worst part of it. Her worried host could only clasp her hand very warmly as he said good night, and bow to her in a way that suggested she was really not at all to be despised, even if she had just described a most unhappy scandal in her past.

  She was alone at last—^leaning back in the taxi with her eyes closed,
trying not to remember the more awful moments of the evening.

  And now she had to think what she was going to do about Van.

  Well, she didn't know, of course. Her mind seemed to move very slowly and laboriously, and not to light upon anything at all helpful. She supposed, really, that the most obvious course was to go in now and confess the whole thing to him.

  And yet

  Suppose Terry, by some miracle, did not speak—did not betray her. Or suppose he failed to reach Van with

  what he had to say

  The taxi stopped with a jerk.

  She got out mechanically, paid the driver and felt for her latch-key. As she opened the door of the flat, Van came out of the sitting-room to meet her.

  "Hello, my dear. What happened?"

  He gently took her fur coat from her and, putting his arm round her, went with her into the room.

  "It was just that something very—unfortunate and— horrid happened," Gwyneth returned his kiss almost absently, and sank down in a chair by the fire. (He wouldn't have kissed her if he had known! Perhaps that was the last time he ever would kiss her.)

  "Something which really upset you, do you mean?" He was standing looking down at her, tenderly and a little anxiously.

  "Well—it was such a distressing business for all of them. They—Paula found out, just in the nick of time, that Terry is really married already "

  ''Marriedr

  "—And that he makes almost a practice of this sort of thing—going round and apparently marrying rich, credulous young women. When he had had enough of Paula he —he meant to clear off, taking with him the money that Mr. Stacey would have settled on him. It was all quite— quite simple. They had helped to remove any obstacle themselves by being so very trusting."

  "Good God! Then you were right in your instinct."

  "What instinct?" She pushed back her hair wearily.

  "When you said you felt certain Muirkirk was a bad* type and meant Paula no good. What an extraordinary thing! You were absolutely right."

  She swallowed slightly. How was she to tell him that instinct had played no part—only sordid experience?