CHAPTER XIX
A CORNER OF THE CURTAIN
A note was brought in to me at luncheon time, addressed in a bold yetdelicate feminine hand which was already becoming familiar. It wasfrom Adelaide Fortress, and it consisted of a single line only--
"Will you come to me this afternoon?--A.F."
I went to see her without any hesitation. She was sitting alone in herroom, and something in her greeting seemed to denote that she was notaltogether at her ease. Yet she was glad to see me.
"Sit down, child," she said. "I have been thinking about you allday. I am glad that you came."
"Not very cheerful thoughts, then, I am afraid," I remarked, with acertain half-unconscious sympathy in my tone. For her face was whiteand drawn, as though she had spent a sleepless night and an anxiousmorning.
"Not very," she admitted. "I have been thinking about you ever sinceyou left me yesterday. I am sorry for you. I am sorry for all ofus. It was an evil chance that brought that South American girl here."
"Was she born in South America?" I asked, with pointless curiosity.
"I do not know," she answered. "I should think so. She told me thatshe had spent most of her life there. A girl who dresses as she doeshere, and wears diamonds in the morning, must have come from someoutlandish place. Her toilette is not for our benefit, however."
I looked up inquiringly. She continued, with a slight frown upon herface--
"She follows Bruce Deville about everywhere. I never saw anything soatrociously barefaced. If he were her husband she could not claim morefrom him. They have just gone by together now."
"What! this afternoon?" I asked.
"Not a quarter of an hour ago," she declared. "She was holdinghis arm, and looking up at him with her great black eyes everymoment. Bah! such a woman gives one a bad taste in one's mouth."
"I wonder that Mr. Deville is not rude to her," I remarked. "He doesnot seem to be a man likely to be particularly amiable under thecircumstances. I should not think he would be very easily annexed."
She smiled faintly.
"From his general behavior one would not put him down as a willingsquire of dames," she said; "but that girl is like a dog fawning for abone. She will not let him alone. She waits about for him. She hatesto have him out of her sight."
"Perhaps--perhaps it is a good thing. It might take her mind off otherthings," I suggested, softly.
"That is what I too am hoping," she admitted. "That is why I believeBruce endures her. There is one thing only of which I am afraid."
"That is----" I asked.
"That she may send for a detective on her own account. Anything ratherthan that! The girl alone I think we might deal with."
"Mr. Deville must use all his influence. He must persuade her not to,"I declared.
She assented.
"He will try. Yet for all her folly, so far as Bruce is concerned, sheis not a perfect idiot. She knows that he is my friend--and yours--andshe is desperately jealous. She will suspect his advice. She will notaccept his bidding blindly. She is cunning. She will agree with him,and yet she will have her own way."
"He must be very firm," I said. "There must be no detective comehere. It would be the last straw. As it is, the anxiety is terribleenough."
We were silent, and we exchanged quick and furtive glances. Somethingin her sad face moved me almost to tears--it was strangely soft,so full of subtle and deep sympathy. Involuntarily I leaned acrossand held out my hands to her. She caught them in hers with alittle passionate gesture. That moment brought us into a newconnection. Henceforth we were on a different footing.
"My child!" she moaned. "My poor child! You have a terrible burdenupon your young shoulders."
"The burden I could bear," I answered, "if only I had some knowledgeof its meaning. You know, you could tell me if you would."
I crossed to her side and fell upon my knees, taking her hand inmine. She looked away into the fire and her face was as white asdeath.
"I cannot," she faltered, with trembling lips. "I cannot! Don't askme!"
"Oh! but I must!" I cried, passionately. "It cannot hurt me so muchto know as it does not to know. There is a secret between you and myfather. You knew him as Philip Maltabar. Tell me what manner of manhe was. Tell me why he has changed his name. Tell me what there wasbetween him and----"
She had risen to her feet at my first words. She sat down again, nowtrembling in every limb.
"I cannot tell you any of these things," she moaned. "I am sorry Iasked you to come. Go away! Please go away!"
But my mind was made up now, and the sight of her weakness only nervedme on. I stood up before her white and determined--brutally recklessas to her sufferings. I would know now, though I forced the words frombetween her white lips. She was a strong woman, but she had brokendown--she was at my mercy.
"I will not go away," I said, doggedly. "You sent for me, and I amhere. I will not go away until you have told me everything. I have aright to know, and I will know! You shall tell me!"
She threw her arms out towards me with a gesture half pathetic,half imploring. But I made no movement--my face was hard, and I hadset my teeth together. Her hands fell into her lap. I did not touchthem. She looked moodily into the fire. She sat there with fixedeyes, like a woman who sees a little drama in the red coals. My heartbeat fast with excitement. I knew that in the war of our wills I hadconquered. She was at my mercy. I was going to hear.
"Child," she said, slowly, and her voice seemed to belong to anotherwoman, and to come from a great distance, "I will tell you astory. Listen!"
I leaned over towards her holding my breath. Now at last, then, I wasto know. Yet even in those moments of intense excitement the outlineof her face, with its curious white torpor, oppressed me. A chill fearcrept into my blood.
She began.
"There was a girl, well educated, well bred, and clever. She was anorphan, and early in life it became necessary for her to earn her ownliving. There were several things which she could do a little, butonly one well. She could write. So she became a journalist.
"It was an odd life for her, but for a time she was happy. She herselfwas possessed of original ideas. She was brought into touch andsympathy with the modern schools of thought and manners. She wasadmitted into a brilliant little coterie of artists and literarymen and women whose views were daringly advanced, and who pridedthemselves in living up to all they professed. She herself developedopinions. I will not dwell upon them; I will only tell you in whatthey ended. She set herself against the marriage laws. At first shewas very strong and very bitter. The majority of men she hated fortheir cruelty to her sex. The thought of marriage disgusted her. Anyceremony in connection with it she looked upon as a farce. She had noreligion in the ordinary sense of the word. She was brave and daringand confident. This was all before she knew what love was."
There was a silence, but I did not move my eyes from her face. Wasshe waiting for a word of encouragement from me, I wondered? If so,the silence must last forever, for I was tongue-tied. She had createdan atmosphere around her, and I could scarcely breathe. Presently shewent on.
"The man came in time, of course. He was young, ardent, an enthusiast,fresh from college, with his feet on the threshold of life and eagerfor the struggle. He had a little money, and he was hesitating as toa profession. The girl was utterly free--she was her own mistress inevery sense of the word. There was no constraint upon her movements,no conventionalities to observe, no one who could exercise over hereven the slightest authority. The young man proposed marriage. Thegirl hesitated for a long while. Old ideas do not easily die, andshe saw clearly, although not clearly enough, that if she sacrificedthem to these new opinions of hers she must suffer, as the pioneer ofall great social changes must always suffer. Imperial dynasties andwhole empires have been overthrown in a single day, but generationsgo to the changing of a single social law. Yet she told herself thatif she were false to these tenets, which she had openly embracedand so often avowed, she must lose foreve
r her own self-esteem. Theeyes of that little band of fellow-thinkers were upon her. It was aglorious opportunity. It was only for her to lead and many otherswould follow. She felt herself in a sense the apostle of those newdoctrines in whose truth and purity she was a professed believer. Thatwas how it all seemed to her.
"She told the man what her decision was. To do him justice, hecombated her resolve fiercely. They parted, but it was only for awhile. In such a struggle victory must rest with the woman. This wasno exception to the general rule. The woman triumphed.
"Their after history is not pleasant telling. The woman and the manwere utterly unsuited for each other. The man was an enthusiast,almost a fanatic; the woman was cold, calculating, and matter offact. The man suddenly determined to enter the Church. The woman wassomething between a pantheist and an agnostic with a fixed contempt ofall creeds. The inevitable came to pass. She followed out the logicalsequence of her new principles, and left the man for another."
I suppose my face expressed a certain horror. How could I help it? Ishrank a little back, and my eyes sought her, doubtfully. She turnedupon me with a shade of fierceness on her white face.
"Oh, you are a swift judge!" she cried. "It is the young always whoare cruel! It is the young always who have no mercy!"
I was shocked at the agony which seemed to have laid hold of her. Thatslight instinct of repulsion of which she had been so quick to noticethe external signs in my face, seemed to have cut her like a knife. Imoved swiftly to her side and dropped on my knees by her. I wasashamed of myself.
"Forgive me!" I pleaded, softly. "I am very ignorant. I believe thatthe woman did what seemed right to her. I was wrong to judge."
She bent her head. I took her fingers softly into mine. "You were thatwoman," I whispered.
She looked at me and half rose from her chair, pushing me away fromher.
"I was that woman," she moaned. "Your father was the man! You----"
I cried out, but she would not be interrupted.
"You," she added, wildly, "are my child--and his!"
The Yellow House; Master of Men Page 19