The Man Without a Memory Part 28

"You saw a great deal of me, of course?"

"Well, naturally. I wasn't going to marry a man I never saw, I suppose."

"No, no, of course not. Oh dear, to think of it all!" I put a few more questions which she could easily answer, and when she was growing more glibly at ease I asked: "And how old is the child?"

"Eh? I don't know. Oh yes, I do, of course. Pops was nine last birthday."

"Nine!" I exclaimed. I might well be astonished, for they had muddled this part of the thing hopelessly. The child I had seen in the Thiergarten wasn't a day more than six, probably younger even. "Where was she born?"

This rattled her. "What does it matter where she was born, so long as she was born somewhere," she said, flushing so vividly that it showed under her rouge. Clearly she did not know where "our child" was supposed to have been born. "What does matter is what you're going to do about it."

"There's only one thing any honourable man would think of doing, Anna.

I shall make you my wife at once," I cried.

Her amazement was a sheer delight. It was so complete that she didn't know what to do or say and just stared at me open-eyed. "I didn't say I wanted that, did I?" she stammered at length.

"There's the child, Anna; and neither you nor I can afford to think of our own wishes;" and in proof of my moral duty in the circ.u.mstances, I delivered a lecture on the necessity of freeing the child from the stain of its birth.

This gave her time to pull herself together. "Are you in earnest?" she asked when I finished.

"I hold the strongest views in such cases. The best plan will be for me to arrange about the marriage at once, to-day indeed; and probably to-morrow or the next day we can be married."

"But I----" She pulled up suddenly. It looked as if she was going to protest she wouldn't marry a man she'd never seen before. "I'd like to think about it," she subst.i.tuted uneasily.

"But why any need to think? You showed this afternoon how bitterly you resented my desertion and, unless you were play-acting, how much you still care for me. So why delay when I am willing? It is true that I can't pretend to care for you as I used, but it may all come back again to me. We'll hope so, at any rate."

"But you're engaged to that rich cousin of yours, aren't you?"

This was a good example of her slip-shod methods. As she knew that, she knew also where to have found me of course, so that the little melodramatic recognition scene in the Thiergarten had been a mere picturesque superfluity. I let it pa.s.s and replied gravely: "I should not allow that engagement to interfere with my duty to you, Anna."

"You must have changed a lot, then."

"I hope I have, if you're not really mistaken about my being the man you think. But I'll go and see about our wedding;" and I rose.

"Wait a bit," she cried, fl.u.s.tered and perplexed. "I didn't expect you to--to give in quite so--quite like this," she added, laughing nervously. "It isn't a bit like I was led--what I expected. Do you mean really and truly that you're ready to marry me straight off like this?"

With all the earnestness I could command I gave her the a.s.surance. "I pledge you my sacred word of honour that if I've treated you as you say I'll marry you as soon as it can be done." A perfectly safe and sincere pledge.

This frightened her. The affair had taken a much more serious turn than she had expected. "You--you've taken my breath away almost," was how she put it; and she sat twisting and untwisting her fingers nervously, not in the least seeing how to meet the unexpected difficulty. "I must have time to think it over," she said at length.

"Why?"

"Oh, I don't know; but it's--it's so sudden."

"There's, the child, Anna," I reminded her again.

"Oh, bother the child. I mean I'm thinking of myself." This hurriedly, as she turned to stare out of the window. "Do you know the sort of life I've been living?" she asked in a low voice without looking round.

"Whatever it is, it must be my fault, and I don't care what you've been doing. I drove you to it. There's our child, remember."

There was another long silence as she stood at the window. Her laboured breathing, the clenched hands, and spasmodic movements of her shoulders evidenced some great agitation. If it was mere acting she was a far better actress than she had yet shown herself. And the change in her looks when at last she turned to me proved her emotion to be genuine.

"You're a white man right through, and I'm only dirt compared to you,"

she cried tensely. "Look here, I've lied about that kid. She isn't yours, or mine either for that matter. What do you say to that?" and she flung her head back challengingly.

"Only that I know it already, her age made it impossible. But it makes no difference to the wrong I did you."

"Do you still mean you'd marry me?"

"I mean every letter of the pledge I gave you just now, child or no child," I answered in the same earnest tone.

"My G.o.d!" she exclaimed ecstatically, throwing her hands up wildly, and then bursting into tears. "And they told me you were a scoundrel!" She was quite overcome, dropped into a chair and hid her face in her hands.

The tears were genuine enough, for when she looked up they had made little runlets in the rouge and powder.

"Well?" I asked presently.

"I'm not fit to be the wife of a man like you," she stammered through her sobs. "I'm dirt to you; just dirt. If more men were like you there'd be less women like me."

Had the moment come to push for her confession? It looked like it; but it seemed cowardly to take advantage of her remorse and distress produced by my own trickery.

"Go away now, please," she said after a long interval.

"But how do we stand, Anna?"

"I don't know. I can't think. I can't do anything. Only that if I'd known---- Oh, for Heaven's sake go away, or I shall say---- Oh, do go!"

"Is there anything else you would like to tell me?"

"No. Yes. I don't know. Only leave me alone now."

"Then I'll come to-morrow."

"No, not to-morrow. The next day. Give me time. I must have time," she cried wildly.

I hesitated. In her present condition it would have been easy to frighten her into admitting everything; but somehow I couldn't bring myself to do it, so I left her.

CHAPTER XV

A NIGHT ATTACK

The success of my bluffing offer to marry the woman prompted some regret that the matter had not been pushed home to the point of obtaining her full confession; and it was to prove one of those disastrous blunders which come from decent motives.

I had scarcely left her before I began to see the thing clearly. It had not been difficult to persuade her, but there was von Erstein. He was not likely to believe in any readiness to marry, and would soon be able to talk her round to his view. In that case I might whistle for a confession.