The Lady of the Basement Flat Part 16

"That's the last thing you can call it! A more uninteresting production I never beheld. What right had he to waste good canvas? That is one point in which we do show more common sense than our ancestors. We do not consider it necessary to inflict our portraits on posterity."

"No. We don't. At least--"

He swung round, facing me, with his back to the open drawing-room door, his face suddenly keen and alert.

"Miss Wastneys--never mind the picture! I brought you out as an excuse.

I wanted to ask--_Whats the matter_?"

The question rapped out, short and sharp. I looked at him, made a big effort to be bright, and natural, and defiant, and realised suddenly that I was trembling; that, while my cheeks were hot, my hands were cold as ice; that, in short, the shock and excitement of the last half-hour was taking its physical revenge. For two straws I could have burst out crying there and then. It is a ridiculous feminine weakness to be given to tears at critical moments, but if you have it, you have it, and so far I have not discovered a cure. I could have kept going if he had taken no notice, and gone on talking naturally; but that question knocked me over, so I just stared at him and gulped, and pressed my hands together, with that awful, awful sensation which comes over one when one knows it is madness to give way, and yet feels that the moment after next you are just going to _do_ it, and nothing can stop you!

I thought of Charmion, sitting calm and quiet in the palm-house; I thought of that first horrible interview in the inn parlour; I thought of my heroic ancestors. It was no use; every moment I drew, nearer and nearer to the breaking-point. I still stared, but the Squire's face was growing misty, growing into a big, red-brown blur. Then suddenly a hand gripped my arm, and a voice said sharply:--

"Don't cry, please! No necessity to cry. You are tired. I will order the car. It shall be round in five minutes. You can surely pull yourself together for five minutes?"

The voice was like a douche of cold water. I s.h.i.+vered under it, but felt wonderfully braced.

"Oh, thank you, but we ordered a fly."

"That's all right. I'll see to that. No one shall know anything about it. You will leave earlier than you expected--that's all. I'm sorry"-- his lean face twitched--"the time has seemed so long!"

"It's not"--I said feebly--"it's not that!" But he led the way back to the drawing-room, taking no notice. Five minutes later "Mrs Fane's carriage" was announced, and we bade a protesting hostess good-night.

Charmion and I sat silent, hand in hand, all the way home. She felt cold as ice, but she clung to me; her fingers closed over mine. Just as we reached our own door she whispered a few words.

"I'll come to your room, dear. Wait up for me."

The time had come when I was to hear Charmion's story from her own lips!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

MORE BITTER THAN DEATH.

Charmion came to my room in her white dressing-gown, with her long hair hanging plaited down her back. Remembering the icy hands I had held in mine, I had lit the gas fire, and she cowered gratefully over its warmth.

"Kind of you, dear! Warmth is comforting. Well, Evelyn, so the time has come. I have waited, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up my courage; but the hour has been decided for us."

"Not unless you choose," I cried hastily. "I would far rather never hear--"

She checked me with a wan smile.

"I _do_ choose. When it is over, it will be a relief. I want you to know. You will understand better, and I shall not pain you so much, dear, kind Evelyn, by my harsh ways. So all this time you have believed that I was a happy widow?"

The expression jarred. She saw the shrinking in my eyes, and smiled again, in the same wan, hopeless fas.h.i.+on.

"Oh, I _mean_ it. Death comes like a sword, but in the end it is merciful, for it brings peace. The one who is left suffers many pangs, but in time--in time, learns to be thankful for all that the beloved is spared. It is the living troubles which sear the heart. I have envied the widows who could look up and say, 'It is well with him. We shall meet again.' With me it has been all bitterness, all rebellion."

I sat silent, not daring to interrupt, and after a moment's pause she began again, speaking in a still, level tone, with hardly any variety of expression.

"I am an orphan like you, Evelyn. Both my parents died before I was fourteen, and I was sent over to America to live with a grandmother aunt. I was an heiress, unfortunately--you know my views about riches!--and by my father's will I came into my money at eighteen. My aunt was a wise woman, and even to her intimate friends she never gave a hint of my fortune. She was a wealthy woman herself, and had no daughter, only one son, so it seemed natural that she should give me a good time, dress me prettily, and take me about. She had a horror of fortune-hunters, and wanted me to be loved for myself, and be as happily married as she had been before me. When I came out she brought me over to London for a season, and I was presented; but that was my one and only visit to England in fifteen years. I was glad to go back to New York, for my real friends were there. We had grown up together, and had the a.s.sociations of years. In England I had only acquaintances. Well!

So it went on, the happiest of lives, till I was twenty-four. Several men wanted to marry me, but I never met anyone whom it was possible to think of as a husband until--"

"Your husband?"

"Yes. We were away for the summer--a whole party of us--camping in the most delicious spot. I wish you could join an American camping party some time, Evelyn. It's just the happiest, freest, most ideal of lives!

He came down as the guest of some other people. The daughter was one of my own friends. I thought at first that she cared for him herself, but he never paid her any attention--not the slightest; rather avoided her indeed, even before--"

"He cared for you. Did it begin--_soon_--Charmion?"

"I cared for him the first moment we met. I was sitting at a long tea-table set out in the open, and my friend brought him up to a seat right opposite to mine. She said, 'Charmion, this is Phil--Phil, this is Charmion!' It was one of the rules of the camp that we called each other by our Christian names. The life was so informal that 'Mr' and 'Miss' seemed out of place. I looked up and met his eyes, and--it was different from anything I had felt before.

"He came for a week, but he stayed on and on until it was nearly a month. I can't talk about it, Evelyn. Such times can never last. Even at the best it is impossible that they can last. Perfect happiness is not for this world. It was all beautiful. The place where we camped was like another Garden of Eden; the weather was exquisite, such days, such mornings! Oh, Evelyn, such nights! The sky a dome of deepest blue, with the stars s.h.i.+ning as you never saw them in this damp, misty atmosphere. And he and I--"

Her voice broke. Her hand went up to her face to hide the quivering of her lips. It was a petrifying thing to see Charmion break down. I turned away my eyes, unable to bear it. There was silence in the room for several moments, then she began again.

"Nothing was said in words. I didn't want him to speak. I was perfectly happy, perfectly sure, and I dreaded the publicity of an engagement. Every one talking, questioning, teasing. It would have seemed profanation. Besides--if Marjorie had really cared as I suspected, it would have been painful for her. I wouldn't _let_ him speak until we got back to New York, and then, the very night I arrived, Aunt Mary was taken dangerously ill. She lingered a few weeks, but there was never any hope. Then she died and I was left alone, for her son, my cousin, lived in India.

"All that time he--my husband--had been coming to see me every day. The doctor insisted that I should go out to be braced by the fresh air, so he took me long drives, long walks, and then sat by me indoors, comforting me, helping, advising. He was everything to me, Evelyn!

Aunt Mary was dying, and she had been like a mother, but when he was with me I was satisfied; I was content. When she died, he urged an immediate marriage, and I was quite ready. She had left no money to me, but I told him I had some of my own. He kissed me, and"--again her hand went up to hide that quivering lip--"he said that did not concern him.

He could keep his wife. What money I had I must keep for myself, to pay for 'little extravagancies'.

"I was thankful that he did not know, thankful that he did not care. I looked forward to telling him after we were married, and seeing his face of surprise. We had planned to live in an apartment until we had time to choose a house for ourselves. I laughed to think how much bigger and finer it would be than the little house of his dreams. He was not at all rich--did I tell you that? He had had a pretty hard struggle all his life, and had only quite a moderate income. I went to my lawyer and settled a fourth of my income on him for life. I knew if we lived in a bigger way there would be calls upon him which he would not otherwise have had. Calls for subscriptions, for charities, a dozen other claims.

I hated to think that he should have to come to me for money, or that cheques should be drawn in my name. He asked me what I was going to give him as a wedding present, and I laughed, and said, 'Nothing interesting. Only a little note!' The settlement was to be my gift."

Silence again. I felt for her hand and held it tight? Tragedy was coming; I knew it. I waited, tense with suspense.

"We were married very quietly. Only two or three people in the church.

He called for me. It was unconventional, but I was nervous and weak, and he knew he could give me strength. We went up the aisle together, hand in hand. The man who was to give me away followed behind. Many people in America are married in their own homes, but I preferred a church. I've been sorry since. It has seemed a profanation. To stand before the altar in G.o.d's house and take those solemn vows, while all the time--all the time--"

She shuddered, and paused to regain self-possession.

"Well, Evelyn--well! I had two weeks' happiness, two weeks in my fool's paradise, and then--the end came! He had gone over to New York for a day. Some important business had arisen and he was obliged to go. He said good-bye." She paused again, struggling for composure. "It _was_ good-bye--good-bye for ever. He did not know that, but he parted from me as--a husband might from the wife of his heart. It was impossible to doubt. I was as sure of him, Evelyn--as sure as that the sun is in the sky!

"After he had gone a letter was handed to me. I did not know the writing, but inside--I could not understand it--was a letter in his own writing. Nothing else, just this one sheet, with one long pa.s.sage underscored. I did not stop to think; the words leapt at me, my own name first of all; and after I had begun to read there was no stopping short. It was the second sheet of a letter, so I could not tell to whom it had been written; but evidently it was to a man to whom money was owing, and who had been pressing for a settlement. It was full of apologies for having failed to pay before; and then--then came the pa.s.sage that had been underlined. Perhaps, he said, in a few months'

time things would look up. _There was a girl_. In a roundabout way, through an English acquaintance, he had heard that she had a pile of money, though the fact had been kept dark in America. There was no doubt about it, since his informant was a member of the legal firm who had wound up her father's estate. By a stroke of good luck the girl was staying at a summer camp with some of his own friends. He had engineered an invitation, and was there at the moment of writing.

"Think of it, Evelyn--at that very moment I was, perhaps, sitting innocently by his side. We used to scribble our letters together, sitting out in the woods, and break off every few minutes to laugh and chatter. Probably, after it was finished, we walked together to the nearest post, and as we went he looked at me--_he looked_. Oh!"--she winced in irrepressible misery--"is it _possible_--is it _possible_ that any man could act so well? Can you wonder that I am hard and cold--that I have so little sympathy for outside troubles? I was once as loving and impetuous as you are yourself, but that shock turned me to stone.

It killed my faith in human nature!"

She was silent, struggling for composure, and I laid my hand on her knee, and sat silent, not daring to speak. What was there to say? I realised now how infinitely more bitter than death was the loss which Charmion had to bear.

"Well,"--she roused herself to go on with her story--"you can imagine the rest. 'The heiress was,' he wrote, '_quite a possible girl_,' and seemed '_agreeably disposed_'. There was evidently no previous entanglement, and the circ.u.mstances were propitious. It was his intention to go in and win. If it came off he would be in a position to pay up old scores and to start life afresh. It would be worth giving up his liberty, to end the everlasting worry of the last ten years. The letter ended with more promises and his signature. No loophole of doubt was left, you see. There could be no mistaking that signature. I had been married exactly two weeks, and had believed myself the happiest woman in the world. I now discovered that I had been tracked down by an adventurer, who had married me only because, unfortunately, it was impossible to get hold of my fortune without putting up with me at the same time."

"What did he say, how did he look, when you told him about your money and the settlement? Of course, you _had_ told him by that time."

"Not much. Very little indeed. I thought at the time that he was overwhelmed, and a little sorry that the wealth was on my side. Looking back, I do him the justice to believe that he was ashamed! Even such a deliberate schemer might well feel a pang under the circ.u.mstances. I remember that he put his elbows on the table, and hid his face in his hands. He never alluded to the subject again, neither did I. There seemed plenty of time. I loved him all the more because he was not wildly elated. All my life I had been trained to dread fortune-hunters, to value sincerity above every other virtue."

"But during those two weeks _after_ you were married, he still seemed to--_care_? You believed in him still?"