Bruce of the Circle A Part 29

"Yes, Ned. Don't get worked up. It's been all right. I'm sure the weeks you put in here have given...."

"Given what?" he broke in, brows gathering, thrusting out his chin, glaring at her and drawing back his lips to bare the gap left by the broken and missing teeth.

The woman recoiled.

"Give what?" he demanded again, trembling from knee to fingers. "To give him a chance to come and see you, that's what you've given!"

"Ned Ly--"--crouching, a hand to one cheek, Ann backed into Bayard's room quickly as her husband, fists clenched and raised, lurched toward her.

"Don't talk to me!" he cried thickly, face dark, voice unnatural. "Don't talk to me,"--looking not at her eyes but at her heaving breast. "I know. I know now what I should have known weeks ago! I know now why he's been shaving his pretty face every day, why he's been dolling up every time he left for town, putting on his gay scarfs, changing his shirts like a gentleman, instead of a dirty hound that would steal a man's wife as soon as he would steal a neighbor's calf! I know why he's held me here and lied to me and played the hypocrite,"--words running together under the intensity of his raving.

"I see it now! I see why he's admitted that there was a woman bothering him. I see why he's tried to ring in that hotel waitress to make me think she was the one he went to see. I see it all; I see what a fool I've been, what a lying pup Bayard is with all his smug talk about helping me! Helping me ... when he's been helping himself to my wife!"

"Ned!"

"A month, eh?" he went on. "You've been here a month, have you? And he's known it; he's kept me here, by G.o.d, through fear, that's all. I confess it to you! I'd have been gone long ago but I was afraid of him! He's intimidated me on the pretext of doing it for my own good while he could steal my wife ... my wife ... you-u-u...."

He advanced slowly, reasonless eyes on hers now, and Ann backed swiftly, putting the table between them, watching him with fear stamped on her features.

"Ugh! The snake! The poison, lying, grovelling--"

"Ned!"

The sharpness of her cry, the way she straightened and stamped her foot and vibrated with indignation broke through his rage, even, and he stopped.

"You don't know what you're saying." Her voice quivered. "You're accusing the best man friend you've ever had; you're cursing one of the best men that ever walked ground, and you're doing it without reason!"

"Without reason, am I?" he parried, quieter, breathing hard, but controlling his voice. "It's without reason when he lives with me a month, seeing my wife day after day, knowing I've not seen her in years and then never breathing a word about it? It's without reason when he opens this room to you ... a room he's never let me look into, and tells you to use it? It's no reason when he runs away to town rather than face me here in your presence? Can you argue against that?

"And it's without reason when you stand there flushed to your hair, you guilty woman?"

He thumped the table with his fist. "You guilty woman," he repeated, just above a whisper. "You guilty--My wife, conspiring with your lover while he keeps me here by force, by brute force. Can you argue against that ... against that?"

It was the great moment of Ann Lytton's life. It seemed as though the inner conflict was causing congestion in her chest, stilling her heart, clogging her breathing, making her blind and powerless to move or speak or think. It was the last struggle against her old manner of thought, against the old Ann, the strangling for once and for all that narrow conscience, the wiping out of that false conception of morality, for she emerged from her moment of doubt, of torment, a beautiful, brave creature. Her great sacrifice had been offered; it had been repulsed with contempt and now she stood free, ready to fight for her spiritual honor, her self-respect, in the face of a world's disapproval, if that should become necessary.

"Yes, I can argue against that," she cried, closing her eyes and smiling in fine confidence. "I can, Ned Lytton. I can, because he is my lover, because the love he bears for me is pure, is good, is true holiness!"

She leaned toward him across the table, still smiling and letting her voice drop to its normal tone, yet losing none of its triumphant resonance.

"And you can say that," he jeered, "after he's been ... after you've been letting him keep you a month!"

"Oh, you can't hurt me with your insults, Ned, for they won't go home.

You know that statement isn't true; you know me too well for that. I'm your wife by law, Ned, but beyond that I'm as free as I was five years ago, before I ever saw you. Emanc.i.p.ating myself wasn't easy. I came out here hampered by tradition and terms and prejudice, but I've learned the truth from this country, these people, from ... you. I've learned that without love, without sympathy, without understanding or the effort, the desire, to understand, no marriage is a marriage; that without them it is only ugly, hideous.

"I've had to fight it all out and think it all out for myself.

Circ.u.mstances and people have helped me make my decision. I owed you something, I still thought, and I came here to-day to fulfill my duty, to give you another chance. If you had met me with even friendliness, I'd have shut my eyes, my ears, my heart to Bruce Bayard in spite of all he means to me. I'd have gone with you, thinking that I might take up the work of regeneration where he left off and give my life to making a man of you, foregoing anything greater, better for myself, in the hope that some day, some time you and I might approach halfway to happiness.

"But what did you do; what did I find? In the first moments hate of me came into your face; you jeered at me for coming, mocked me. That's what happened. Then you suspect me, suspect Bayard, who has kept you alive, who has given you another chance at everything ... including me."

"Suspect him? Of course I suspect him! You've admitted your guilt, you d.a.m.ned--"

"Don't go on that way, Ned. It's only a waste of time. I told you what would have happened, if you had greeted me in another way. You've had your chance ... you've had your thousand chances in these last five years. It's all over now. It's over between us, Ned. It's been a bitter, dreary failure and the sooner we end it all, the better. Don't think I'm going to transgress what you call morality," she pleaded, smiling weakly. "You deserted me, Ned, after you'd abused me. You've refused to support me, you've been unfaithful in every way. I don't think the law that made me your wife will refuse to release me now--"

"You're forgetting something," he broke in, rallying his a.s.surance with an effort. "You're forgetting that while you were conspiring to keep me here, your lover, Bruce Bayard,"--drawling the words--"was meeting you secretly. What do you think your law will say to that?"

"I'll trust to it, Ned," she answered, in splendid composure. "I will trust to other men to judge between us--"

"Then, I won't!" he screamed, stepping quickly around the table, grasping for her arm. She retreated quickly and he lunged for her again and again missed.

Then, with a choking oath, he threw the table aside and the lamp went crashing to the floor.

"Then, I won't, d.a.m.n you! You're my wife, to do as I please with; the law gave you to me, and it hasn't taken you from me yet!"

He advanced menacingly toward her as she backed into a corner, paling with actual fear now; his elbows stuck stiffly out from his sides, his hands were clenched at his hips, face thrust forward, feet carrying him to her with slow uncertainty.

"Ned--" Her voice quavered. "Ned, what are you going to do?"

"Maybe I'll ... strangle you!" he said.

She looked quickly from side to side and one hand clutched at her breast convulsively, clutched the cloth ... and something that was resting within her waist. She started and with a quick movement unb.u.t.toned the garment at her bosom, reached in and drew out an automatic pistol.

"Ned, don't force me!" she said, slowly, voice unsteady.

The man halted, hesitated, backed away, both hands half raised.

"Ann, you wouldn't shoot me!" he whispered.

"You said ... you'd strangle me, Ned,"--leaning against the wall for support, because weakness had swept over her.

Lytton drew a hand across his eyes. He trembled visibly.

"But ... I was mad, Ann," he stammered. "I was crazy; I wouldn't...."

Her hands dropped to her sides and she turned her face from him, shutting her eyes and frowning at the helplessness that came over her with the excitement and the fear of a physical encounter. She could brave any moral clash, but her body was a woman's body, her strength a woman's strength, and now, when she faced disaster, her muscles failed her.

Ned comprehended. He stepped quickly to her side, reached to the hand that held the weapon, fastened on it and with a wrench, jerked it free from her limp grasp.

"You would, would you?" he muttered, his old malevolence returning with a.s.surance that the woman could no longer defend herself. "This! Where did you get it?"--surveying the weapon.

"It's Bayard's."

"He gave it to you to use on me?"--with a short laugh.

The woman shook her head wearily.

"You refuse to understand anything," she responded. "He gave it to me to protect you from himself."

He stood looking at her, revolving that a.s.sertion quickly in his mind, feeling for the first time that his command over the situation was good only so long as they were alone. Before his suddenly rising fear of Bruce Bayard his bitterness retreated.