The Vision of Desire
grounds for being anything else. The past is dead--and it won't stand
resurrection."
"Does the past ever die?" she demanded, a note of despair in her voice.
"I think not."
He looked at her curiously--at the beautiful face, a trifle worn and
shadowed, with its sad eyes and that strangely patient curve of mouth.
"What do you mean?" he asked sharply.
"One pays, Eliot."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh, yes, one pays. But, in this particular instance, I thought it was I
who paid and you who took delivery of the goods."
She sprang up.
"Then you were wrong!" she exclaimed in low, passionate tones that, in
spite of himself, moved him strangely. "If you paid, I paid, too--every day
of my life. Oh, I had my punishment"--with a little laugh that held more
anguish than any tears. "Full measure, pressed down, running over."
He bent his sombre gaze on her.
"I don't think I understand," he said slowly.
"Don't you?" With a swift movement she thrust back the loose tulle sleeve
which veiled her arm, uncovering the ugly, rust-coloured scar which marred
its whiteness.
"That--that--?" He stammered off into a shocked silence, his eyes fastened
on the scar, so unmistakably that of a burn.
"That is the symbol of my married life," she said with a curious enforced
calm. She let her sleeve fall back into its place. "Did you never hear?
Dene drank--it was no secret. He was quite mad at times."
"And he--ill-treated you?"
"When it amused him. He had a passion for cruelty. I never knew it till I
married him. I found out afterwards he had been the same even as a child.
He loved torturing things." She paused, then added with a simplicity that
was infinitely pitiful: "So you see, I had my punishment."
"I was abroad. I never knew," said Eliot, as though in extenuation of
something of which he inwardly accused himself. "I never knew," he repeated
resentfully. "By God!"--with a sudden suppressed violence which was the
more intense by reason of its enforced restraint--"if I'd known, I'd have
freed the woman I once loved from degradation such as that!"
Used so unconsciously, without intent, the word "once" wounded her more
cruelly than any of his deliberately harsh and bitter utterances had had
power to do. It set her definitely outside his life, relegated her to a
past that was dead and done with--made her realise more completely than
anything else could have done that, as far as Eliot was concerned, she no
longer counted in his scheme of existence.
"_The woman I once loved_"--Cara clenched her hands, and bit back the cry
of pain which fought for utterance. For an instant she felt sick with
pain--as though some one had turned a knife in a raw wound. Then, with an
effort, she regained her self-control.
"Thank you," she said gently. "But no one could have helped me--least of
all you, even had you been in England."
They fell silent for a while. Eliot stood staring out across the
moon-flecked waters, and in the silver radiance which made the night almost
as light as day Cara could see the harsh lines which the years had graved
upon his, face, the grim closing of the lips, and the weariness that lay in
his eyes. Half timidly she laid her hand on his arm.
"I wish I could give you back your happiness," she said unevenly.
He turned and looked at her, and now there was neither pity nor compassion
in his gaze--only that hardness of granite with which she was all too
familiar.
"Unfortunately, that's out of your power," he said coldly. "You only had
power to wreck it."
He glanced down distastefully at the hand on his sleeve, and she withdrew
it hastily. But, with a sudden strength of purpose, born of her infinite
longing to repair the harm she had done, she persisted, daring his anger.
"There's Ann," she said simply.
She was surprised it hurt so little to put it into words--the fact that
he loved another woman. But, since the day she had first realised that
he cared for Ann, she had been schooling herself to a certain stoical
resignation. She recognised that she had forfeited her own claim to love
when she had married Dene Hilyard because he had more of this world's
goods than the man to whom she had given her heart, and she felt no actual
jealousy of Ann--only a wistful envy of the girl for whom the love of Eliot
Coventry might yet create the heaven on earth which she herself had thrown
away.
"There's Ann," she said.
For an instant Eliot's face seemed convulsed, twisted into a grim mask of
agony.
"Yes," he said hoarsely. "There's Ann. And because of you, I can't believe
in her."
It was like an accusation flung straight in her face. She shrank back as
though he had struck her. So he cared for Ann--like that.... And because of
what she had done, because of her sin of ten years ago, he would not trust
her--would not trust any woman.
"You make my 'account rendered' a very heavy one," she said unsteadily.
Then, on a note of increasing urgency: "Don't judge Ann--by me, Eliot.
She's different ... the kind of woman God meant women to be. If you care
for her, you won't make her pay--for what I did."
His expression altered slightly. A new look came into his eyes--of
uncertainty, as though he were regarding things from some fresh angle. But
he made no answer, and before Cara could speak again Robin's cheerful voice
broke in upon them.
"We've just finished our rubber," he called, as he came towards them. "Will
you folks come and take a hand?"
Then, as neither of them made any immediate response, he paused uncertainly
and glanced in, an embarrassed way from one to the other, vaguely conscious
that his appearance on the scene had been inopportune. Womanlike, Cara was
the first to recover her self-possession.
"Yes, of course we'll come," she said quickly. "But I haven't played cards
for so long that I'm sure whoever is unlucky enough to draw me for a
partner will be thankful Miss Caroline has limited the stakes to a penny a
hundred."
The ease with which she spoke sufficed to reassure Robin completely.
"You'll play, Coventry?" he said, as they all three turned and walked
towards the companion-way.
"I'll cut in--and take my chance," answered Eliot.
Cara glanced at him swiftly. His mouth wore a grave little smile, as though
the words bore for him a second and deeper meaning than the obvious one of
their reply to Robin's question.
CHAPTER XX
REFUSAL
The process of making a tour of the _Sphinx_ had been a lengthy one. The
yacht was beautifully appointed, and there had been much to examine and
admire. Brett, who loved every inch of her, from the marvellous little gold
figure of a sphinx, which he had had specially designed and carved as a
mascot, down to the polished knobs and buttons in the engine-room, had
expatiated with considerable length and fervour upon her various beauties
and advantages, and by the time he and Ann emerged on to the deck once more
it was to find it deserted by the rest of the party.
Brett moved a couple of deck-chairs into a sheltered corner.
"You must be tired," he said remorsefully. "I've kept you standing about an
unconscionable time while I yarned on about my old tub. If you'll sit down
here, I'll go and fetch you a wrap."
Ann subsided into one of the chairs not unthankfully.
"But I don't want a wrap," she protested.
"You will, presently. You must remember it's September, even though it is a
warm evening."
He departed on his errand, returning shortly with a wrap for her shoulders,
together with a light rug which he proceeded to tuck carefully round her.
She was reminded of the first occasion on which they had met, when the
charming way in which he had waited upon Lady Susan had moved her to the
reflection that he might be rather an adept in the art of spoiling any
woman. But she had not forgotten that he would want to master her first--as
he had mastered the bay mare, afterwards coaxing her into friendship.
They conversed desultorily for a time. Then, tossing away the cigarette he
was smoking, Brett shot an abrupt question at her.
"Well, so you like the yacht?" he demanded.
She nodded.
"I think it's just perfect," she answered cordially.
"I'm glad. Because"--he leaned forward and looked at her intently with a
curious sparkling light in his eyes--"I hope you'll spend a good deal of
time on board her."
"I?" Ann endeavoured to speak as casually as possible, warned by that
sudden danger-signal.
"Yes. Wouldn't you enjoy cruising about the world a bit?"
"Are you thinking of inviting us all to go for a trip in the _Sphinx_? I'm
afraid," shaking her head, "we're most of us much too busy people to go
racing off half across the world at a moment's notice."
"I wasn't thinking of inviting you all," he returned coolly. "Even if the
yacht could accommodate you. I was limiting the proposed yachting party to
you--and me."
Ann moved restlessly.
"Don't be absurd, Brett."
He laughed--that gay, triumphant laughter of his which always made her a
little afraid. It sounded so sure, so carelessly confident.
"Then don't fence with me any longer," he retorted. "What's the use of
pretending, anyway?"
"Pretending? I'm afraid I don't understand." She threw a quick, dismayed
glance down the length of the deck, devoutly wishing that some one would
come along and interrupt them. But there was nobody in sight except one of
the crew--and he was keeping his eyes very studiously turned away from the
corner where they were seated.
"You don't understand?" Brett's voice roughened a little. "Haven't I made
it clear what I want? I want _you_--"
"No, no!" Ann jumped up from her chair precipitately. "Don't say it, Brett!
Please don't. I--I don't want to hear."
There was a note of urgent pleading in her hurried speech, but if he heard
it he paid no attention. He was on his feet as quickly as she was. Perhaps
if she had looked at him she would have realised that she was drawing upon,
herself the very thing she was trying to avoid. But she had averted her
face, afraid of the blue flame of his eyes, and his quick movement, silent
and certain as the leap of a panther, filled her with a sudden irrational
terror. She started to run. Then, her feet entangled in the rug which had
slipped to the floor when she sprang up from her seat, she stumbled and
pitched helplessly forward.
But she did not reach the ground. Brett's arms closed round her like a vice
of steel, and the next moment she felt his lips on hers--on her eyes, her
throat, the gleaming curve of moon-white shoulder, straining against them
in fierce, possessive kisses that seemed to drain her of all strength to
resist.
At last:
"Now do you understand?" he demanded hoarsely. "I love you!... God in
heaven! I wonder if you know how much I love you!"
"No, no!" She struggled to free herself from his arms, but he held her in a
relentless grip that no power of hers could fight against.
"Let me go!" she gasped, finding herself helpless against him.
His eyes burned down on her.
"I'll let you go when you promise to be my wife--not before. Say you love
me, Ann!"
"But I don't--I don't love you at all. Let me go, Brett!" She made another
futile effort to release herself, but his grasp never slackened.
"You _shall_ love me!" he declared violently.
With the imperative need of the moment Ann found her courage returning. She
realised now that it was to be a battle between them, and she was filled
with a cold fury against this man who tried to enforce his will on hers.
Suddenly she ceased to struggle, and, bending her head back so that she
could see his face, confronted him with a cool, proud defiance.
"I shall hate you if you don't release me at once," she said quietly.
Her face, so close below his own, was milk-white in the moonlight, and her