The Immortal Moment Part 13

"There won't be any scene. I'm not going to read your beastly letter."

She opened the envelope and removed the notes and laid them on the dressing-table. Then she tore up the letter and the envelope together and tossed them into the grate.

"And I'm not going to take those notes."

"Nor am I."

"You'll have to." She found her companion's purse and tucked the notes inside it. Miss Keating turned on her. "Mrs. Tailleur, you shall not thrust your money on me. I will not take it."

"You little fool, you've got to."

Miss Keating closed her eyes. It was a way she had. "I can't. And you must please take back the things you've given me. They are all there; in that heap on the bed."

Kitty turned and looked at them. They were all there; everything she had ever given to her, the dresses, the combs, the little trinkets. She took some of these and stared at them as she held them in her hand.

"Won't you keep anything?"

"I won't keep a thing."

"Not even the little chain I gave you? Oh, Bunny, you liked your little chain."

Miss Keating took the chain from her and laid it with the rest.

"Please leave me to pack."

"Presently. Bunny--look at me--straight. Why are you doing this?"

"I wish to be spared the unpleasantness of speaking."

"But you've got to speak. Out with it. What have I done?"

"You know better than I do what your life has been."

"My life? I should think I did. Rather."

Kitty crossed the room to the bell.

"What time does your train go?"

"My----? I--must leave this at seven-thirty."

Kitty rang the bell. A housemaid appeared.

"I want a fly at seven-thirty. Please see that Miss Keating's luggage is downstairs by then. Her room will not be wanted."

Miss Keating's face was livid.

"You wish," said she, "the hotel people to think that it is you who have given _me_ notice?"

"You poor thing. I only wanted the fly to go down to my account."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"I don't expect anything of you--now. I suppose it's Colonel Hankin who has been talking about my life? It wasn't Mr. Lucy, though you'd like to make me think so."

"There's no need for anybody to talk. Do you suppose I don't know what you are? You can't hide what's in you. You're--you're full of it. And you've no shame about it. You can stand there, knowing that I know, and ask me what you've done. How do I know what you've done? I don't want to know it. It's bad enough to know what you are. And to know that I've been living with it for three months. You got hold of me, an innocent woman, and used me as a cover for your evil life. That's all you wanted me for."

"Whatever I've done, I've done nothing to deserve that."

"You think not? Have you any idea what you've done--to me?"

"No; I haven't. What have I done?"

"I'm going to tell you. You've never ceased casting it up to me that I'm not married, that I haven't your attractions--I thank heaven I have not--I am not the sort of woman you take me for. I never have wanted to be married, but if--if ever I had, I shouldn't want it now. You've spoilt all that for me. I shall never see a man without thinking of _you_. I shall hate every man I meet because of you."

"Well, hate them, hate them. It's better than loving them. Let me strap that box. You'll tear your poor heart out."

Miss Keating wrenched the strap from Kitty's hands.

"Ah, how you hate me! Hate the men, dear, that can't do you any harm; but don't hate the other women. At my worst I never did that."

Miss Keating shrugged her shoulders, for she was putting on her coat.

Kitty looked at her and sighed.

"Bunny," said she, "I want to make it quite clear to you why you're going. You think it's because you know something horrible about me. But it isn't. You don't know anything about me. You've only been listening to some of the people in the hotel. They don't know anything about me either. They've never met me in their lives before. But they've been thinking things and saying things, and you've swallowed it all because you wanted to. You're so desperately keen on making out there's something bad about me. Of course, you might have made it out; you might have proved all sorts of things against me. But you haven't. That's my whole point. You haven't proved a thing, have you? If you were my husband, and wanted to get rid of me, you'd have to trump up some evidence, wouldn't you?"

"There is no need to trump up evidence. I'm acting on my instinct and belief."

"Oh, I know you believe it all right."

"I can't help what I believe."

"No, you can't help it. You can't help what you want. And you wouldn't have wanted it if you hadn't been so furiously unhappy. I was furiously unhappy myself once. That's why I understand you."

"It is five-and-twenty minutes past seven, Mrs. Tailleur."

"And in five minutes you'll go. And you won't hear a word in my defence?

You won't? Why, if I'd murdered somebody and they were going to hang me, they'd let me defend myself before they did it. All I was going to say was--supposing everything you said was true, I think _you_ might have made allowances for me. You can't? I was harder driven than you."

"No two cases could well be more different."

"Once they were the same. Only it was worse for me. All your temptations are bottled up inside you. Mine rushed at me from inside and outside too. I've had all the things you had. I had a strait-laced parson for my father--so had you. I was poked away in a hole in the country--so were you. I had little sisters--so had you. My mother sent me away from home for fear I should harm them." Her voice shook. "I wouldn't have harmed them for the world. I was sent to live with an old lady--so were you. I was shut up with her all day, till I got ill and couldn't sleep at night. I never saw a soul but one or two other old ladies. They were quite fond of me--I made them. I should have died of it if it hadn't been for that. Then--do listen, Bunny--something happened, and I broke loose, and got away. You never had a chance to get away, so you don't know what it feels like. Perhaps, I think, when it came to the point, you'd have been afraid, or something. I wasn't. And I was young. I'm young still. You can't judge me. Anyhow, I know what you've been through. That's what made me sorry for you. Can't you be a little sorry for me?"

Miss Keating said nothing. She was putting on her hat, and her mouth at the moment was closed tight over a long hat-pin. She drew it out slowly between her shut lips. Meeting Kitty's eyes she blinked.

"You needn't be sorry," said Kitty. "I've had things that you haven't."

Miss Keating turned to the looking-gla.s.s and put on her veil. Her back was toward Kitty. The two women's faces were in the gla.s.s, the young and the middle-aged, each searching for the other. Kitty's face was tearful and piteous; it pleaded with the other face in the gla.s.s, a face furtive with hate, that hung between two lifted arms behind a veil.