Vision House Part 9

"Go on," said Mary Sorel, in a strained voice. Marise did not speak. She felt dazed, as if she were in a feverish dream.

"Suppose I marry; suppose I bring my--suppose I bring OEnone (I can hardly call her a 'wife') over to America for a change of air, a tonic.

She'd like that. She's always wanted to travel, but her father had no time; and she wouldn't have been happy with paid guardians. I'd paint a glowing picture of California--or Arizona: they say it's great out there for tubercular people. Even OEnone's own father would approve of such a trip if--if Marise were supposed to be out of the running. Don't speak! I'm going to explain! What I mean is this....

"Old Con is the opposite of a mole. He knows I've been a different man this last year. He ferreted out the truth somehow--did it himself, or with a detective's help. Probably himself: he's that kind. He doesn't trust his secrets to others. He didn't object openly to my American mission. In a way, it was an honour. But, of course, he learned that I was sailing on the ship with you two. He hasn't given me a day's rest since we landed. I wired I'd had 'flu. (I did get a cold last week!) Then he took a leaf out of my book. Now he's developed the disease! If Marise were acting in New York and touring the States, he'd smell a rat if I prescribed America for my bride's health. But if Marise were married to another man, and had left the stage----"

"Good heavens!" Mary bounded on the sofa, and gasped aloud. But Severance pressed her down with a strong arm.

"You promised to let me finish!" he urged. "Now you'll begin to understand why I wouldn't say all this to Marise alone. Asking you to be with us proves my respect for her--for you both. This isn't only the plea of a desperate man--though it's that first of all! It's a business proposition. The day I marry OEnone Ionides, I become master of a million pounds. That's five million dollars. One million of those five million dollars I would offer to a--dummy husband for Marise. Let me go on! A man who'd understand that he was to be a figurehead, and nothing more. You'd say--if you'd say anything--that only a cur in the gutter would take such a position, and a cur in the gutter would be of no use to us. To rise above suspicion--even old Con's suspicion!--He'd have to be a decent sort of chap to all appearances, a man who might attract a girl--even a girl like Marise. He'd have to have some money of his own already, and some sort of standing. With that in his favour, the world and my uncle would accept him as a husband Miss Sorel might choose. Such a person could be found--for a million dollars. I know men of all sorts, and I guarantee that. With a million dollars behind her, Marise could give up the stage--she'd do that, anyhow, if she married me. She could travel west with her dummy husband (and her mother, of course, that goes without saying!) By that time, I'd be over here again with poor OEnone. We could all meet--by accident. In England, even that might make talk. England's too small for us. But over here, in a big free country--especially out west--it would be safe. We should see each other, Marise and I. And I'd ask no more than that. For a while I could live on the sight of her--and hope. When OEnone's little spark of life burns out, as it must before long, with the best of care possible, Marise at once divorces her dummy. He gives her technical cause, of course. That's part of the bargain I make with my million. No breath of scandal against Marise! And, a few months later, she and I are married.

There's only this short road of red-hot ploughshares for us both to tread. Then, instead of marrying a pauper, such as I am now, and both of us battening on her bank account--she'd perhaps be forced to go back on the stage to keep the pot boiling--my darling girl finds herself the wife of a very rich man, one of the richest peers in Great Britain. For in addition to old Con's million pounds, I should have OEnone's private fortune. He has agreed to that, with her, in the event of her death, which he hopes may be long delayed by happiness, and which I know won't--can't possibly be.... There! I've finished at last! The only thing left is for me to tell you over again that my life depends on your decision. I believe I'll kill myself if the answer is 'No.'"

CHAPTER IX

SOMETHING OUT OF ANCIENT ROME

The hot torrent of words ceased. There was silence in the gaily-tinted, flower-filled salon, save for the tick of an absurd Louis Seize clock on the mantel. Under the gilt wheel of Time a cupid balanced back and forth, in a Rhinestone swing--"Yes," "No," the seesaw motion seemed to say.

The stillness was terrible to Severance. He did not get up from his knees. He did not release the women's waists from the girdle of his arms. His eyes were on the face of Marise. Never had he seen her so pale.

"For G.o.d's sake, speak!--one of you," he stammered.

Abruptly the girl pushed his arm away, and sprang to her feet.

"You are wicked!" she cried. "Horrible! It can't be true that this has happened to me. It's a nightmare. I want to wake up!"

Severance abandoned his prayerful position and faced her. He would have caught her hands, but she thrust him back with violence.

"I thought you were a modern Englishman, like other Englishmen--like all other decent men I've known. But you're not," she panted. "You're something out of the Middle Ages. No! you're before that You're of Ancient Rome--the time of the Borgias. Or Beatrice Cenci."

"Don't, don't, Marise, my child!" Mary joined soothing with command.

"You'll make yourself ill. We must be calm. We must think."

"Think?" the girl repeated. "What is there to think about? Surely you don't suggest that I should 'reflect'--that I should study whether to accept or not such a--bargain?"

"That's a hard word!" Severance pleaded. "And as for Ancient Rome, I should say that it and modern Britain--or France--or even your own America--are the same at bed-rock. We're all volcanoes with our lava cooled a bit on the surface by laws--or civilisation. Human pa.s.sions don't change; and the strongest of them is love. Anyhow, it is so with me. I'm half Greek, you know, and my English half is half Spanish."

"Dearest, when I tell you to 'think,' of course it depends on whether you love Tony or not," Mary Sorel reminded her daughter. But even she did not dare touch Marise at that moment. It would have been much like trying to pat a young, unfed leopardess. She, always keeping on the conventional side, had never before called Severance "Tony" to his face.

As a parched patch of earth thirstily sucks in the least drop of dew, he caught at this sign of grace, and thanked his stars that he had made a reckless bid for Mary's friendship. She adored England and old English customs; above all, old English t.i.tles. In the midst of grat.i.tude, the man knew her for a sn.o.b, and counted on the sacrifice she would offer the G.o.d of Sn.o.bbery. If anyone could help him, she could. If any counsel could prevail with the hurt, humiliated, angry girl, it would be her mother's.

"Do you love him?" Mary persevered, when Marise kept silence behind a bitten red lip.

"I did love him. I thought I did."

"Darling, I know you loved him, and do love him. You're suffering now.

But, remember poor Tony is suffering too."

"Poor Tony!"

"Yes, poor Tony. He has gone through a great deal, and has kept it in, hoping against hope. He didn't speak out till there seemed to be no more hope--except in this one way. I told you, even on shipboard, I felt he was living under some strain. I'm a woman, and your mother. I'd be the first on earth to resent the slightest insult to you, if it were meant.

But just because I'm a woman, who has lived through a woman's experience of life and love--love of husband--love of child--I recognise sincerity by instinct. Severance is truly sincere. He worships you, and if he has been carried away, it is by worship. Don't drive him to desperation by refusing to forgive him, whatever else you may decide to do."

"It rests with you, Marise, whether I live or die," Severance was now encouraged to plead.

The girl's lips trembled. "Oh, if only I could wake up!" she cried.

Tears poured over her cheeks. Mary caught the shaking figure to her breast. The two wept together.

"We must--must face things!" Mary let herself sob. "I'm afraid we _are_ awake--wider awake than we've ever been in our happy life these last three years. We took the pleasant side of things for granted. As they say over here, we're 'up against' the grim side now. If you love Tony only half as much as he loves you, why, it seems to me you ought--indeed it's your duty to your future--to think twice before sending him out into darkness, with no light of hope."

"Things like my plan often happen to people, just by accident," said Tony. "A man who loves one girl has to marry another. His wife dies.

Meanwhile, the first girl has taken a husband--perhaps out of pique.

He's a rotter. She divorces him. Then the pair who've loved each other are free to be happy ever after. If they're rich, too, so much the better for them! They don't feel guilty. Why should they? They've nothing to feel guilty about. Why should it be so appalling if a man, to save his soul and his love, plans out something of this sort, instead of blundering into it? I can't see any reason. Aren't you being a Pharisee--or a hypocrite, Marise?"

"Aren't _you_ being a Joseph Surface?" she flung back. "Perhaps I never told you that I played 'Lady Teazle,' and got a prize at my dramatic school. So I know all about the 'consciousness of innocence.'"

The girl spoke stormily. Her eyes blazed at the man through tears. Yet he and Mary both knew from her words--her tone--that in spite of herself she had begun to "think."

"Joseph Surface was a cold snake," said Tony. "At worst I'm not that, or I wouldn't be ready to wade through fire and water to win you at last."

"No, you're not a cold snake," Marise agreed. And the eyes of Severance and Mrs. Sorel met, as the girl dashed a handkerchief across hers.

Mary's glance telegraphed Tony, "This sad business may come right, after all!" "You had better leave us, my friend," she said aloud. "Marise and I will at least talk this over--thrash it out, and----"

"A thrashing is just what it deserves," the girl snapped. "A thorough thrashing!"

"It shall have it," Mums soothed her patiently. "But we may think----"

"Even if we did think," Marise broke out, with a sudden flash at Severance, "what good would it do? Even if I were willing--though I can't conceive it! What use would that be? You can't kindle a fire without a match. There isn't a man living who'd be the match. A dummy match!"

"You forget the million dollars," Severance said.

"I don't. But you admitted yourself, he must at least seem a decent man, or the scheme would fail. No decent man----"

"Some smart actor who fancies himself, and dreams of having his own New York theatre," cried Severance, inspired. "With a million dollars----"

"He'd want me to stay on the stage and star with him----"

"Well, then, some inventor who'd sell his soul to have his invention taken up. A million dol----"

The phrase called back an echo in the girl's mind. "I'd sell my soul!"

What man had used those words to her that day--an hour ago?...

Marise laughed out aloud. "An inventor!" she exclaimed. "Oh, it's easy to generalise--to suggest someone--anyone--vaguely, in a world of men.

But if I should name one--if I should say, 'Here's the man,' you would shudder. The thought of him in flesh and blood as my husband--dummy or no dummy--would drive you mad--if you really love me."

"I wouldn't let it drive me mad," Severance swore. "I'd control myself--and control the man, too."