The Tragic Bride Part 14

Why did you come to me about this instead of to Arthur himself? Because you were afraid. That was the reason."

The shot was made at a venture, but Gabrielle quickly saw that it had taken effect. She followed it up:

"You thought that if you upset him he might lose what he's gained. You don't know--we none of us know yet--how deep the change is. You didn't dare to face that little risk; but it's nothing compared with the one you want to take now. That's what you've got to face!"

She could say no more. When she stopped speaking Mrs. Payne knew that the girl's eyes were fixed on her eagerly, desperately, trying to search into her mind. The older woman stood there still and bewildered by the choice that had been presented to her. It was the most awful moment in her emotional life. Her mind was a battlefield on which her love, her sense of right, her acquired conventions, her religion, and her hungry maternal pa.s.sion were pitted against one formidable dread. She wanted to shield Arthur against harm: from a social disaster no less than from what she considered a mortal sin; and, above all, after these years of patient suffering, she wanted him for herself. It was neither religion nor morality that drove her to her final decision, but a thing far stronger: her pa.s.sionate instinct to possess the son of her body. Even if she were to lose him, to rescue no more than the changeling that she had always known, she could not bring herself to share him with any other woman on earth. He was hers and hers alone. She did not know if she were right.

She did not care if she were wrong. The decision formed itself inexorably in her mind. She could only obey it. Gabrielle, watching her narrowly, saw a sudden peace descend upon her agonised face. Mrs. Payne gave a long shuddering sigh. Then she spoke, dully, mechanically:

"The train goes at seven-fifty. I will order the carriage. I will write to Dr. Considine in the morning."

Gabrielle clutched at her breast. "You can't realise what you're doing!

It's too great a risk. Think of it again ... I beg you!"

"No," said Mrs. Payne slowly. "I've made up my mind. We must invent some plausible excuse. Illness will do ... anything. And you must help me, if only for your own sake."

Desperate tears came into Gabrielle's eyes.

"For your own sake," Mrs. Payne repeated. "You've realised, I know, that if you go on with this unfortunate love-affair you must ruin not only your own happiness and your husband's, but Arthur's as well. If you love him at all you can't drag him into social ruin. Well, I've made my decision. If anything disastrous happens my blood's on my own head. We must make the best of a bad job. Don't think I'm not sorry for you, my dear."

This final tenderness was too much for Gabrielle. She broke down, sobbing so tragically in Mrs. Payne's arms that the older woman was almost ashamed of her victory. She knew that she could afford to be kind. She felt that she would like to tell her that under any other circ.u.mstances she knew none whom she would rather trust as Arthur's wife; but to say so would have been a bitter mockery. She waited in silence while Gabrielle mastered her own feelings and raised, at last, her haggard eyes.

"What can you say to my husband?" she said.

"We must say that I am ill. That will give you a good reason for returning."

"And Arthur?"

"The same reason will explain why he doesn't go back to Lapton on Tuesday. After that I don't know what I shall do."

"But I can see him before I go?"

"That would be quite useless. It might even do harm. You are going to help me, you know, for his sake."

"He'll wonder. How can we satisfy him? What can I do?"

"You had better write to him. Tell him that after to-night it's impossible for you to stay. Only ... only please don't mention me."

"It will kill him...."

"Or save him. It's the only thing that you can do."

"I'll write it now."

She went over to the writing table in the window, and there, with streaming eyes, she wrote her letter. It took her a long time to do, and when she had finished she brought it with the envelope to Mrs. Payne.

"Do you want to read it?" she asked.

"No ... Of course I trust you."

"Thank you." She fastened the envelope and addressed it. "I feel as if I were dead," she said.

"You're young," said Mrs. Payne.

"But you'll let me know what happens, you'll write to me?"

"Yes, I'll write to you."

"I have a dread, an awful dread of what may happen. I can't be sure that we've done right."

"Neither can I. I had to make a decision. I pray G.o.d that it will turn out well. We can do no more."

"I know now that you love him. I'm glad to know that."

"Did you ever doubt it?"

"But for me there's nothing left ... nothing." Gabrielle stood for a moment in silence. Then she said, "I'd better pack," and Mrs. Payne clutching at any refuge from the intensity of the moment offered to help her.

"No," said Gabrielle, "if you don't mind, I'd rather be alone. We'd better say good-bye."

"I don't like to leave you," said Mrs. Payne, "but perhaps you're right."

With a sudden impulse Gabrielle came over to her. Mrs. Payne took her in her arms and they kissed.

"I could love you," said Gabrielle. "You have Arthur's eyes...."

Mrs. Payne left her.

XX

Much to the disgust of Hollis, who was in the habit of making the most of his Sundays, Gabrielle left Overton by the early morning train while Arthur slept undisturbed after his night of wonder, and Mrs. Payne rose anxiously to face the certain embarra.s.sments and the possible bitterness of her victory. She had not slept at all, for though she never for one moment dreamed of going back on the decision which her conscience, amongst other things, had dictated, she was still in doubt as to whether she had won her son or lost him for ever. She almost regretted the burst of generosity in which she had refused to read Gabrielle's letter of renunciation. For all she knew the wording might be provocative and calculated to wreck her plans at the last moment.

The letter lay sealed upon her dressing-table. It speaks well for her sense of honour in a bargain that this pathetic doc.u.ment remained unopened. Meanwhile she only prayed that the hours might pa.s.s and her fate be revealed. She could only rack her brains imagining some means by which the severity of the blow might be tempered for Arthur.

Next morning he came down ten minutes late for breakfast. He missed Gabrielle at once.

"Where's Mrs. Considine?" he said. "I called at her door as I came down, but I don't think she's there."

"No," said Mrs. Payne. "She had to go back to Lapton by the first train. An urgent call of some kind."

"A telegram? The old man isn't ill, is he?"

"She left a letter for you," said Mrs. Payne, handing him Gabrielle's envelope.

"What a rotten shame," he said as he took it. "It's a splendid morning for a ride. I hope it's not serious."

He opened the letter and read it. What Gabrielle had written Mrs.

Payne never knew, for even in later years he did not tell her. She had expected a terrible and pa.s.sionate outburst and prepared herself to meet it with argument and consolation, but no outburst came. She saw him go very red and then white. Then he steadied himself and said in a curious voice: "Mother ... if you'll excuse me, I must go out."