The Passionate Friends
He regarded me for a moment with something bordering on admiration.
"Didn't you know?" he said.
"No."
"They've routed that out. You were sleeping with your two heads within a
yard of one another anyhow. Thirty-six you had, and she had
thirty-seven."
"But," I said and stopped.
Maxwell Hartington's admiration gave place I think to a slight
resentment at my sustained innocence. "And Lady Mary changed rooms with
her secretary two nights before--to be near the vacant room. The
secretary went into number 12 on the floor below,--a larger room, at
thirteen francs a day, and one not exposed to the early daylight...."
He turned over a paper on his desk. "You didn't know, of course," he
said. "But what I want to have"--and his voice grew wrathful--"is sure
evidence that you didn't know. No jury on earth is going to believe you
didn't know. No jury!---- Why,"--his mask dropped--"no man on earth is
going to believe a yarn like that! If that's all you have, Stratton----"
§ 9
Our London house was not shut up--two servants were there on board-wages
against the possibility of such a temporary return as I was now
making--Rachel was away with you three children at Cromingham. I had not
told her I was returning to London, and I had put up at one of my clubs.
Until I had had a second interview with Maxwell Hartington I still would
not let myself think that it was possible that Mary and I would fail
with our explanations. We had the common confidence of habitually
unchallenged people that our word would be accepted. I had hoped indeed
to get the whole affair settled and abolished without anything of it
coming to Rachel's ears. Then at my leisure I should be able to tell her
exactly how things had come about. But each day made it clearer that
things were not going to be settled, that the monstrous and the
incredible was going to happen and that Justin had set his mind
implacably upon a divorce. My sense of complete innocence had already
been shaken by Maxwell Hartington; I had come to perceive that we had
been amazingly indiscreet, I was beginning to think we had been
criminally indiscreet.
I saw Maxwell Hartington for a second time, and it became clear to me I
must abandon any hope of keeping things further from Rachel. I took my
luggage round to my house, to the great astonishment of the two
servants,--they had supposed of course that I was in Italy--and then
went down on the heels of a telegram to Rachel. I forget the wording of
that telegram, but it was as little alarming as possible; I think I said
something about "back in London for documents; shall try to get down to
you." I did not specify any particular train or indeed state definitely
that I was coming that day.
I had never been to Cromingham before. I went to the house you occupied
on the Esplanade and learnt that you were all upon the beach. I walked
along the sea-wall scrutinizing the various bright groups of children
and nursemaids and holiday people that were scattered over the sands. It
was a day of blazing sunshine, and, between the bright sky and the
silver drabs of the sand stretched the low levels of a sea that had its
customary green-grey touched for once with something of the sapphire
glow of the Mediterranean. Here and there were gay little umbrella tents
or canvas shelters, and a bather or so and pink and white wading
children broke the dazzling edge of foam. And I sought you with a kind
of reluctance as though finding you would bring nearer the black
irrational disaster that hung over us all.
And when I found you at last you were all radiantly happy and healthy,
the prettiest of families, and only your mother was touched with any
gravity deeper than the joy of sunshine and sea. You and Mademoiselle
Potin--in those days her ministrations were just beginning--were busy
constructing a great sea-wall that should really and truly stop the
advancing tide. Rachel Two was a little apart, making with infinite
contentment an endless multitude of conical sand pies with her little
tin pail. Margaret, a pink inarticulate lump, scrabbled in the warm sand
under Jessica's care. Your mother sat and watched you--thoughtfully. And
before any of you knew that I was there my shadow fell across you all.
You accepted my appearance when I ought to have been in Italy with the
unquestioning confidence with which you still take all my comings and
goings. For you, Italy, America, any place is just round the corner. I
was kissed with affection but haste, and you got back to your sand-works
as speedily as possible. I inspected Rachel Two's mounds,--she was
giving them the names of her various aunts and uncles--and patted the
crowing Margaret, who ignored me. Rachel had sprung to her feet and
kissed me and now hovered radiant over me as I caressed you youngsters.
It was all so warm, so real, that for an instant the dark threat that
hung over us all vanished from my skies, to return with the force of a
blow.
"And what has brought you back?" said Rachel. "I had expected a month of
widowhood. What can have brought you back?"
The dancing gladness in her eyes vanished swiftly as she waited for an
answer to her question. She caught the note of tragedy from my face.
"Why have you come back from Italy?" she asked in an altered voice.
"Rachel," I said taking her arm, with a desolating sense of the
futility in my gesture of protection; "let us walk along the beach. I
want to tell you something---- Something rather complicated."
"Is there going to be war, Stephen?" she asked abruptly.
It seemed then that this question which merely concerned the welfare of
a hundred million people or so and pain, destruction and disaster beyond
measure, was the most trivial of digressions.
"No," I said. "I haven't thought about the war."
"But I thought--you were thinking of nothing else."
"This has put it out of my head. It's something---- Something disastrous
to us."
"Something has happened to our money?"
"I wish that was all."
"Then what is it?" Her mind flashed out. "It has something to do with
Mary Justin."
"How did you know that?"
"I guessed."
"Well. It is. You see--in Switzerland we met."
"You _met_!"
"By accident. She had been staying at the hotel on Engstlen Alp."
"You slept there!" cried Rachel.
"I didn't know she was in the hotel until the next day."
"And then you came away!"
"That day."
"But you talked together?"
"Yes."
"And for some reason---- You never told me, Stephen! You never told me.
And you met. But---- Why is this, disaster?"
"Because Justin knows and he means to divorce her--and it may be he
will succeed...."
Rachel's face had become white, for some time she said nothing. Then
slowly, "And if he had not known and done that--I should never have
known."
I had no answer to make to that. It was true. Rachel's face was very
still, and her eyes stared at the situation laid bare to her.
"When you began," she choked presently, "when she wrote--I knew--I
felt----"
She ceased for fear she might weep, and for a time we walked in silence.
"I suppose," she said desperately at last, "he will get his divorce."
"I am afraid he will."
"There's no evidence--you didn't...."
"No."
"And I never dreamt----!"
Then her passion tore at her. "Stephen my dear," she wept, "you didn't?
you didn't? Stephen, indeed you didn't, did you? You kept faith with me
as a husband should. It was an accident--a real accident--and there was
no planning for you to meet together. It was as you say? I've never
doubted your word ever--I've never doubted you."
Well, at any rate I could answer that plainly, and I did.
"And you know, Stephen," she said, "I believe you. And I _can't_ believe
you. My heart is tormented. Why did you write to her? Why did you two
write and go on writing? And why did you tell me nothing of that
meeting? I believe you because I can't do anything but believe you. It
would kill me not to believe you in a thing that came so near to us. And
yet, there it is, like a knife being twisted in my heart--that you met.
Should I have known of your meeting, Stephen--ever? I know I'm talking
badly for you.... But this thing strikes me suddenly. Out of this clear
beautiful sky! And the children there--so happy in the sunshine! I was
so happy. So happy. With you coming.... It will mean shames and
law-courts and newspapers, losses of friends, losses of money and
freedom.... My mother and my people!... And you and all the work you
do!... People will never forget it, never forgive it. They will say you
promised.... If she had never written, if she had kept to her
bargain----"
"We should still have met."
"Stephen!... Stephen, you must bear with me...."
"This is a thing," I said, "that falls as you say out of the sky. It
seemed so natural--for her to write.... And the meeting ... it is like
some tremendous disaster of nature. I do not feel I have deserved it. It
is--irrational. But there it is, little Rachel of my heart, and we have
to face it. Whatever happens we have to go on. It doesn't alter the work
we have to do. If it clips our wings--we have to hop along with clipped
wings.... For you--I wish it could spare you. And she--she too is a
victim, Rachel."
"She need not have written," said Rachel. "She need not have written.
And then if you had met----"
She could not go on with that.
"It is so hard," I said, "to ask you to be just to her--and me. I wish I
could have come to you and married you--without all that legacy--of
things remembered.... I was what I was.... One can't shake off a thing
in one's blood. And besides--besides----"
I stopped helplessly.
§ 10
And then Mary came herself to tell me there would be no divorce.
She came to me unexpectedly. I had returned to town that evening, and
next morning as I was sitting down in my study to answer some
unimportant questions Maxwell Hartington had sent me, my parlormaid
appeared. "Can you speak," she asked, "to Lady Mary Justin?"
I stood up to receive my visitor.
She came in, a tall dark figure, and stood facing me in silence until
the door had closed behind her. Her face was white and drawn and very
grave. She stooped a little, I could see she had had no sleep, never
before had I seen her face marked by pain. And she hesitated.... "My
dear!" I said; "why have you come to me?"
I put a chair for her and she sat down.
For a moment she controlled herself with difficulty. She put her hand
over her eyes, she seemed on the verge of bitter weeping....
"I came," she said at last.... "I came. I had to come ... to see you."
I sat down in a chair beside her.
"It wasn't wise," I said. "But--never mind. You look so tired, my dear!"
She sat quite still for a little while.
Then she moved her arm as though she felt for me blindly, and I put my
arms about her and drew her head to my shoulder and she wept....
"I knew," she sobbed, "if I came to you...."
Presently her weeping was over.
"Get me a little cold water, Stephen," she said. "Let me have a little
cold water on my face. I've got my courage now again. Just then,--I was
down too low. Yes--cold water. Because I want to tell you--things you
will be glad to hear."
"You see, Stephen," she said--and now all her self-possession had
returned; "there mustn't be a divorce. I've thought it all out. And
there needn't be a divorce."
"Needn't be?"
"No."
"What do you mean?"
"I can stop it."
"But how?"
"I can stop it. I can manage---- I can make a bargain.... It's very
sweet, dear Stephen, to be here talking to you again."
She stood up.
"Sit at your desk, my dear," she said. "I'm all right now. That water
was good. How good cold things can be! Sit down at your desk and let me
sit here. And then I will talk to you. I've had such a time, my dear.
Ah!"