“I am very, very sorry,” said Dolly, after a short pause.
“Poor Mrs. Darche!” exclaimed Vanbrugh. “After all these months of freedom she has had, it will break her heart.”
“I was not thinking of Marion,” answered Dolly.
“Of whom, then?” asked Vanbrugh.
“Of — of — some one else.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Yes,” repeated Dolly with marked sympathy. “Will you not let me make you a nice cup of tea, Mr. Vanbrugh?”
“No, thanks.”
“Will you not light a cigarette?” asked Dolly. “Here are some of your own.”
“No, thanks,” answered Vanbrugh absently. “I have just smoked.”
“Do sit down and warm yourself,” said Dolly, pushing a chair towards the fire.
“Well — thanks — I suppose Mrs. Willoughby will be gone some minutes. Have you thought of what might happen if Darche were alive?” he asked, reverting to the subject uppermost in his mind.
“I do not like to think of it. But I cannot help thinking of it,” she answered almost inaudibly. “I know that I cannot, and I hate myself and everybody.”
“We may have to think of it seriously in three or four hours,” said Vanbrugh. “Brown will bring me word. He will dine with me, and I will be within reach in case anything happens.”
“What a head you have!” exclaimed Dolly. “You ought to be a general.”
“It is simple enough, it seems to me, as simple as going back to stop an express train when there has been an accident on the line.”
“Yes, but it is always the one particular man who has more sense than the rest who thinks of stopping the express train.”
“I suppose so,” answered Vanbrugh indifferently. “The man who has his eyes open. It is odd, is it not, that the happiness of so many people should be at stake on one day?”
“So many?”
“Well, three at least.”
“Three? Are there not four?” asked Dolly, with a smile.
“There is Stubbs, of course,” said Vanbrugh thoughtfully; “not to mention a lot of people who would not be particularly glad to see Darche back, on general principles. Well, I am sorry for them all, but I was not thinking of them especially.”
“Whom were you thinking of?”
“Some one not concerned in the matter — some one, I cannot say nearest; think of something that rhymes with it. You are fond of hymns and that sort of thing.”
“Dearest?” suggested Dolly.
“Yes, ‘dearest’; that rhymes, does it not?”
“Yes, that rhymes,” assented Dolly, with a little sigh. “Whom were you thinking of?” she asked.
“A person.”
“What an answer! And what an expression! I suppose the name of the person is a profound secret?”
“It has been a secret for some time,” said Vanbrugh.
“Oh! — then you have a faithful disposition?” asked Dolly with a laugh.
“I hope so,” answered Vanbrugh, smiling.
“Any other virtues?”
“Lots,” he laughed in his turn.
“I am so glad.”
“Why?”
“Virtue makes people so nice and safe,” said Dolly, “and helps them to bear misfortune, and to do almost everything except enjoy themselves.”
“What an appalling code for a Sunday school teacher!”
“Do not laugh. I have had an offer.”
“Of marriage?” asked Vanbrugh, looking at her.
“No. If I had, I would not tell you. I have been offered twenty-five dollars a month to teach at a Sunday school — a visitor, who did not know me, you see, and wished to engage me.”
“And you refused?”
“Yes. Foolish of me, was it not? Twenty-five dollars — just think!”
“It is a lot of money,” laughed Vanbrugh.
“Several pairs of gloves,” said Dolly gravely. “But I refused. You know the proverb— ‘be virtuous and you will be happy, but you will not have a good time.’”
“And you mean to have a good time. I have always been meaning to — but it is rather dull, all by myself. I am not young enough to be gay alone — nor old enough to enjoy being sour.”
“There is a remedy — get married!” Dolly smiled, looked grave, and then smiled again.
“That is almost easier done than said, if one does not mind whom one marries.”
“And you do mind, I suppose?”
“Yes — I am foolish enough to care,” answered Vanbrugh, glancing at her.
“To care for some particular person — is that rude, or indiscreet, or horrid of me?”
“Very! But I will forgive you on one condition.”
“I never accept conditions.”
“Unconditional surrender? Is that it?”
“Of course,” Dolly answered without hesitation.
“I surrender unconditionally — at discretion.”
“Oh — very well. Then I will be nice and ask what the condition was for the sake of which you kindly proposed to forgive me for what I did not do. Come — what is it?”
“You asked if I cared for one particular person,” said Vanbrugh, gently.
“Yes. Do you?” He could hardly distinguish the words.
“I will tell you, if you will answer the same question.”
“You answer first.”
“Yes. That is the answer.” His hand stole out towards hers.
“Yes — that is the other answer.”
“Do two positives make a negative?” asked Vanbrugh, as their hands met.
“No — not in mathematics,” laughed Dolly, a little awkwardly, and withdrawing her fingers from his. “Two negatives make a positive, sometimes.”
“A positive ‘no’?” asked Vanbrugh, incredulously.
“Sometimes.”
“But we were both saying ‘yes.’”
“We are both saying ‘yes,’” repeated Dolly slowly.
“Could we not go a step farther?”
“How?” Dolly started a little and looked at him. “I do not understand — I thought—”
“What did you think?”
“I do not know what to think.” She hesitated.
“Will you not let me help you to decide?” For the first time in their acquaintance, Vanbrugh’s voice grew tender.
“I — I am almost afraid—”
“Afraid of me?”
“Of you? Oh no, you do not frighten me at all — but I am just a little—” again Dolly hesitated, then as though making a great effort she tried to speak severely. “Mr. Vanbrugh, you must not play with me!”
“Miss Maylands, you have played with me a long time,” answered Vanbrugh softly.
“I?”
“Yes.”
“Have I? I — I did not mean to,” she added thoughtfully.
“Perhaps we have both played in earnest,” suggested Vanbrugh.
“But you play with so many people—”
“With whom, for instance?” asked Vanbrugh.
“With Marion, for instance,” said Dolly.
“With Mrs. Darche?” Vanbrugh’s voice expressed genuine astonishment. “What an extraordinary idea! As though Brett were not my best friend!”
“What of that?”
“Oh, do not pretend that you do not understand — especially to-day, when they are both so unhappy — you will do something that will hurt them if you are not careful.”
“I wonder—” Dolly did not complete the sentence, but turned away as though leaving it to him.
“I know. So you must not talk of my flirting with Mrs. Darche. It is not just to her nor kind to me — and you do not mean to be unkind to me, do you?”
“To you — of all people!” Her voice was very gentle.
“Of all people in the world, dear?”
“Yes — I think so — of all people.” She nodded slowly, and then looked up and let her eyes meet his.
“You think so — you are
not quite sure?” asked Vanbrugh, although there was no longer any doubt.
“I am always sure of what I think.” Dolly smiled, still looking at him.
“And this is not play any more? This is quite earnest?”
“Quite — quite—” While she was speaking his face was suddenly close to hers and his lips touched her cheek. “Oh! — I did not mean—”
“I did,” said Vanbrugh emphatically.
“I see you did,” answered Dolly, blushing scarlet.
“Will you not see again—” He leaned towards her again.
“Oh, no! Not on any account!” she cried, pushing him away and laughing. “Besides” — the handle of the door turned as she was speaking— “there are people coming. Oh — I can feel it!” she whispered, rising precipitately with her hands to her cheek. “But I am so happy!” she added, with one more look as she broke from him.
Dolly whispered the last words as Mrs. Willoughby re-entered the room, and Vanbrugh rose to his feet, hardly realising that the crisis of his life had been reached with a laugh and a kiss, but quite as happy as Dolly herself in his thoroughly undemonstrative way. Both were, perhaps, a little ashamed of themselves when they remembered Marion Darche’s trouble, and contrasted her anxiety with their own visions of a sunny future; and both felt all at once that they were out of place; if they could not be together without a third person, they wished to be alone.
“I do not really believe that anything will happen,” said Vanbrugh, speaking to Mrs. Willoughby. “I do not believe either, that this man is Mrs. Darche’s husband, for there is every reason to be sure that John Darche was actually drowned. But in case anything should happen, pray send for me at once. I shall be at home and shall not go out this evening. Good-night, Miss Maylands.”
“I am going, too,” said Dolly, rather suddenly. “Do you think,” she added, turning to Mrs. Willoughby, “that it would be very dreadful if Mr. Vanbrugh took me as far as the corner?”
“What is there dreadful in it?” asked Mrs. Willoughby, who was old-fashioned and remembered the times when young men used to take young girls to parties, and walked home with them unchaperoned.
“Very well, then, will you take me, Mr. Vanbrugh? My maid has not come yet. I only want to go to Mrs. Trehearne’s and tell her it is all right about that lace.”
“I shall be delighted,” answered Vanbrugh, his handsome face lighting up in a way Dolly had never seen.
They had not been gone more than five minutes when Brett rang at the door again and asked for Mrs. Darche. Stubbs looked at him for a moment, and then said that he would inquire. Brett waited in the library, by the deserted tea table, for Cousin Annie had betaken herself to her own room as soon as Dolly and Vanbrugh left, and he wondered who had been there. It was some time before Marion appeared.
“I am glad to see you again,” she said, quietly, and holding out her hand. “You went away so suddenly — as though you were anxious about something.”
“I am.”
“And you have made me anxious, too. You were telling me that a great and final misfortune is hanging over my head. You do not know me. You do not understand me. You do not see that I would much rather know what it is, and face it, than live in terror of it and trust altogether to you to keep it from me.”
“But do you not know after all these years, that you can trust me? Do you not trust me now?”
“Yes,” Marion answered after a pause. “As a man, my dear friend, I trust you. You do all that a man can do. I can even give you credit, perhaps, for being able to do more than you or any other man can do. But there is more. There is something yet. Be as faithful as you may, as honest as God has made you, and as brave and as strong as you are — you cannot control fate. You do not believe in fate? I do. Well, call it that you please. Circumstances arise which none of us, not the strongest of us, can govern. Whatever this secret is, it means a fact, it means that there is something, somewhere, which might come to my knowledge, which might make me unutterably miserable, which you some day may not be able to keep from me. Does it not?”
“Yes, it does,” said Brett, slowly. “I cannot deny that. You might, you may, come to know of it without my telling you.”
“Then tell me now,” said Marion earnestly. “Is it not far better and far more natural that this, whatever it may be, should come to me directly from you, instead of through some stranger, unawares, when I am least prepared for it, when I may break down under the shock of it? Do you not think that you, my best friend, could make it easier for me to hear, if any one could?”
“If any one could, yes,” answered Brett in a low voice.
“And if no one can, then you at least can make it less cruel. Let me know now when I am prepared for it by all you have said — prepared to hear the most dreadful news that I can possibly imagine, something far more dreadful, I am sure, than anything really could be. Let me hear of it from you of all other men.”
“No, no, do not ask me!” He turned from her as though he had finally made up his mind. “Of all men, I should be the last to hurt you. And there is no certainty, perhaps not even a probability, that you should ever know it if I do not tell you.”
“Ah, but there is!” she cried, insisting. “You have said so. You told me that a moment ago. No — you must tell me. I will not let you go until you do. I will not leave anything unsaid that I can say — that a woman can say—”
“No, no!”
“Harry, I must know. I will know.” She laid her hand upon his arm.
“For heaven’s sake!” exclaimed Brett in the utmost distress.
“Harry! You loved me once—” Her voice vibrated audibly.
“Once!” Brett started violently, and turned if possible, paler.
“You made me think so.”
“Marion, Marion, don’t!”
“I will. Do you remember, Harry, long, long ago when we were almost boy and girl, how you promised, faithfully, sacredly, that if ever I needed you, that if ever I asked your help—”
“And you married John Darche instead of me,” said Brett, interrupting her.
“Yes, and I married John Darche,” answered Marion, gravely.
“Because you loved him and not me.”
“Because I thought, — no, I will not go back to that. There is a nearer time than that in the past, a day we both remember, a day that I am ashamed of, and yet — well you have not forgotten it either. That morning — not so many months ago. It was on that day — that day when my husband was arrested. It was in this very room. You told me that you loved me, and I — you know what I did. It was bad. It was wrong. Call it what you please, but it was the truth. I let you know that I loved you as well as you loved me and better, for I had more to lose. John was alive then. He is dead now — long dead. If I was ashamed then, I am not ashamed now — for I have nothing to be ashamed of. I am showing whether I trust you or not, whether I believe in you, whether I am willing to stake my woman’s pride on your man’s faithfulness. I loved you then, and I showed you that I did. Harry! I love you now — and I tell you so without a blush.”
Brett trembled as though in bodily fear, glanced at her and turned away.
“Great God!” he exclaimed under his breath.
“And you — Harry — you still — Harry — look at me! What is it?”
With wide and loving eyes she looked at him, expecting every instant that he would turn to her. But he did not move. Then suddenly, with a low cry, as though she were mortally hurt, she fell back upon the sofa.
“Oh, my God! you do not love me!”
Her voice was broken and weak, but he heard the words. He turned at last, looked at her, and then knelt down at her side.
“Marion, Marion! dear!” he whispered lovingly, again and again. But she pushed him away. Then he rose to his feet and sat beside her, looking down into her face. “Yes,” he said gravely, “you must know my secret now.”
“Yes, I know your secret now, your miserable secret.” She turned her face from
him against the cushion.
“No, you do not know it,” he said. “You do not even guess it. But I must tell you now. Take care. Be strong, be brave. It will hurt you.”
While he was speaking Mrs. Darche rose from the sofa and her expression slowly changed as she realised that he had something grave to tell her. She rose slowly, steadying herself, but not taking her eyes from his face.
“Tell me, please. I am ready.”
“John Darche is alive, and I have known it almost from the first.”
It seemed to Brett that nothing he had ever done in his life had been half so hard. Marion stared at him for a moment, and then once more sank slowly into her seat and covered her face.
“Do you understand me now?” he asked after a long pause. “Do you see now why I have fought so hard against telling you this thing?”
“It is better so,” she answered in a low and indistinct tone. “It was better that I should know it now.” Then she was silent for a long time. “And is that all you have to tell me after all that I have told you?” she asked at last, as though in a dream.
“All? All, dear?” Suddenly his resolution broke down. “You know it is not all. I love you — that is all, indeed — and more than I have the right to say or you to hear.”
“A right! What is right? Where is right now?”
“Where you are, dear.” He was holding both her hands in his.
Then all at once a light came into her face.
“And we can make the rest right, too! Are there no laws? Is there no justice? If this man who has ruined both our lives is not dead — ah! but he is! I know he is. What proof have you? How can you stand there and tell me that I am still bound and tied to a man whose very name is a stain on me, whose mere memory is a disgrace.”
“How do I know?” repeated Brett. “It is simple enough. He has written to me. I have his letters. Do you care to see them? Do you know what he says? What he repeats whenever he writes? He began a few days after we heard of his supposed death. I know the letter by heart. ‘My dear Brett — I am not dead at all. I know that you love my wife, but I do not propose that you should be happy at my expense. If you try to marry her I shall be at the wedding to forbid the banns.’”
“He wrote that? He wrote that in his own hand?” The strange emotions that were chasing each other in her heart found quick expression in her face.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 653
