The Lady of the Basement Flat Part 17

"Absolutely! Utterly! I must be easily duped, Evelyn, for with all my heart I believed that that man loved me as deeply as I loved him. Every word--every look! Oh, he was a finished actor! It all seemed so real-- so real--"

"Charmion, after you had read that letter and understood all that it meant, what did you do?"

"I went to my room, packed a bag with a few changes of clothing, collected all the money I had with me, quite a large sum in notes, and caught the afternoon train for New York. I had no idea where I was going. My one longing was to escape before he came back, but things were decided for me. The shock made me faint, and in the heat of the train I felt worse every hour. When we stopped at a half-way station I stepped out on to the platform in the same dull, dazed way, hardly realising what I was doing, and carried my bag out into the street.

Half a mile away I saw a notice of rooms to let in the window of a small house, and I knocked and went in.

"I stayed in that house for over six months, Evelyn. The woman was a saint--the kindliest, gentlest creature I have ever met. I told her that I was ill and in trouble, and wanted to rest, and she put me to bed and nursed me like a child. I was a long time in getting well. The very strings of my being seemed to have snapped. I lay torpid week after week, and the good soul took care of me and asked no questions.

She was one of those rare spirits who pray to G.o.d to guide them day by day, and mean literally what they ask. G.o.d had sent me to her in my need--that was her firm belief--and what she did for me she did for Him.

I had left no message behind--only that terrible letter sealed up, to be given to my husband on his return. I heard afterwards that he had searched for me far and wide, had even crossed over to England, thinking I must be here. When I was well enough I sent for my aunt's lawyer and took him into my confidence. He let me know when my husband returned to America, and as soon as possible after that I came to England myself, under another name. I was no longer his wife in heart. Why should I keep a name which was given to me under false pretences? Five years have pa.s.sed since then. It seems like a century, and--here I am!"

"And all this time you have heard nothing? Nothing has happened?"

"Yes. I have heard. He seems to have--felt it a good deal! It is always painful to be discovered, and for a man's wife to leave him before the honeymoon is over is hurtful to his pride. He makes periodic efforts to find me, but my lawyers are loyal, and will give no clue."

"And the settlement? The money you made over to him? Does he draw that still?"

She flushed and frowned.

"No. It appears not. He tells the lawyers that he will never touch it.

I suppose if he changed his manner of living it would be remarked, and people might guess something of the truth. His object is, of course, to throw all the blame on me."

The bitterness of her voice hurt me so that I ventured a timid protest.

"Charmion, I am not taking his part. I think he was contemptible beyond words; but--_isn't_ it possible that he has regretted, that he has not taken the money because he was _ashamed_?"

"Possible, of course; but I should say extremely improbable. However, I am no longer concerned in his motives. He gave up his liberty for a certain price, and the price is his. The money acc.u.mulates at the bank.

Some day, no doubt, he will find it convenient to draw it."

I felt a movement of revolt, and cried quickly:--

"There is one person I despise even more than the man himself, and that is the creature who kept that letter, and sent it to you too late to prevent the marriage! If it were to be done at all, why could it not have been done before?"

Her lips curved.

"Yes. It was very cruel. That was another disillusion, Evelyn. I have always been convinced that Marjorie was the sender. Probably the letter had been written to her brother, or to some near relation, and in some way had come into her possession. She behaved very strangely about our engagement. But I had been her friend--how she could find it in her heart! If there had been any possibility of doubt I would have gone straight to her, and demanded the truth, but--what was the use? The letter was _there_. I should only have brought more suffering upon myself. She wanted him for herself, and could not forgive me for taking him away; but if she had come to me at the beginning, when she saw how things might go, I should have gone away myself and left the coast clear. Even if it hurt myself, I should have been loyal to another woman who had _cared first_! Even now I have done my best for her. I offered, through my lawyers, to make no objection if he chose to free himself legally. It _could_ be done in America, you know. I explained that it would make no difference to the settlement. That was made, and should remain unchanged!"

I looked at her sharply, for the sneer in her voice hurt me more than the pain.

"Charmion! Forgive me, dearest. You have been cruelly treated, but-- don't be vexed--aren't you in the wrong, too, in feeling so bitter after all these years?"

To my surprise she a.s.sented instantly.

"Oh, yes; very wrong. More wrong than they, perhaps, for I have had so long to think; and what they did was done on an impulse. Don't think I excuse myself, Evelyn. I don't! I see quite well how hard and bitter I am, but--"

"You can't forgive?"

She hesitated, her grey eyes gazing into s.p.a.ce.

"What exactly _is_ forgiveness? If by lifting a little finger I could make him suffer as he has made me, nothing would induce me to do it. If by lifting a little finger I could bring him happiness and success, I think--no, I am _sure_ that I would not hesitate. But to purge my heart of bitterness, that is beyond me! It's always there, deep down, a hard, hard wall, hiding the light, shutting me out from man--and from G.o.d!"

The last words came in a whisper. I knew the effort with which they were spoken, and sat silent, clinging to her hand. What could I say?

I, with my easy, sunshiny life; how dared I dictate to her great grief.

And yet I knew--I knew only in one way could peace come back.

The remembrance of the Vicar's first sermon came back to my heart like a breath of fresh air.

"Forgetting the things that are behind!" I said softly. "Couldn't you try that, Charmion? Forgetting, and--pressing forward! If forgiving seems beyond you for the moment, couldn't you take the first step?"

For the first time since she entered the room her face lightened into something like her own natural smile.

"Ah, Evelyn, that's like you! Thank you, dear, for the reminder. That was the text on our first Sunday here. There is one thing I would like you to know. _You_ have helped me more than anything else. You attracted me because you possess to excess the very qualities which I have lost--trust, faith, overflowing kindliness and love. It has been a tonic to be with you. There have been times--working in the garden by your side, seeing all the live green things springing out of darkness-- when I've been happy again, better than happy--_at peace_! But now-- this upheaval--it has renewed it all. Evelyn, do you think she suspected? Do you think she will talk?"

"I am sure she won't. Absolutely sure. She had not a flickering doubt.

The name is different, you see, and she is too much absorbed in herself and her own affairs to waste any thought upon us. In a few days they sail for India."

"Yes." She drew a sigh of relief. "That's good. I'm thankful. It would have been so hard to be uprooted again. But you can understand, Evelyn, that for a time--" She rose, stretched herself to her full height, and threw out her arms restlessly. "The roving fit is on me. I must be off into the wilds and fight it out by myself."

I had known it was coming--subconsciously had known it for weeks, but it was hard all the same. We had been so happy, and in six short months my roots seemed to have gone down surprisingly deep. I hated the idea of leaving "Pastimes," but I reminded myself that it was only for a time-- only for a time.

"_Of course_" Charmion a.s.sured me heartily. "It is August now. We will make a rendezvous for Christmas. Perhaps I may turn up before that, like a bad penny, but you may depend on me for Christmas. You--you will go to your flat, Evelyn?"

I nodded silently. The Pixie scheme had for the moment lost its charm, but I would not give in.

"Silly one!" murmured Charmion fondly. "You dear goose! Well, good luck to you. May you make other people as happy as you have made me."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

A YOUNG WIFE'S DILEMMA.

Not another word about herself did Charmion say, but she began at once to make preparations for going abroad, and before a week is over she will be off. She has friends in Italy, it appears, and will probably spend some time near them, but even I am only to have an official address, from which letters are to be forwarded. She warns me that I may hear very seldom, since when a "dark mood" is on, the very essence of a cure seems to be to hide herself in utter solitude.

Well, I also am going to hide, and to shelter myself behind an official address, so I ought not to complain; but all the same I do feel lorn and lone. First Kathie torn away to another continent, and now Charmion, who is so wonderfully dear! The next thing will be that Bridget will announce, some fine morning, that she is going to marry the gardener! I told her so, in a moment of dejection, and she petrified me by replying calmly:--

"Indeed, and he's been after pestering me to do it since the moment we set foot. There's a deal worse things I might do!"

"_Bridget_!" I gasped; and I lay back in my chair. I had spoken in the most absolute unbelief. There were no illusions between Bridget and me, each knew the other's age to an hour, and Queen Anne herself had not seemed to me more dead to romance than my staid maid. I stared at her broad, worn face, her broad, elderly figure in a petrified surprise.

"Bridget, do you really mean--do you honestly mean that you like him, too?"

She simpered like any bit of a girl.

"And why wouldn't I be liking him, Miss Evelyn? Isn't he the fine figure of a man, and as pleasant a way with him as if he'd been Irish himself?"

"But, Bridget, you're forty-five! Do women--can women--is it possible to--to _care_ at forty-five?"

Bridget chuckled; not a bit offended, but simply amused and superior.