Who? Part 36

"Perhaps she is beginning to remember the past," suggested Cyril.

"How can I tell? Miss Trevor and I have tried everything we could think of to induce her to confide in us, but she won't. Possibly you might be more successful--" An involuntary sigh escaped Campbell. "I am sorry now that I prevented you from seeing her. Mind you, I still think it wiser not to do so, but I ought to have left you free to use your own judgment. The number of her sitting-room is 62, on the second floor and, for some reason or other, she insists on being left there alone every afternoon from three to four. Now I have told you all I know of the situation and you must handle it as you think best."

CHAPTER XVIII

A SLIP OF THE TONGUE

Cyril spent the night in a state of pitiable indecision. Should he or should he not risk a visit to Anita? If the police were shadowing him, it would be fatal, but he had somehow lately acquired the conviction that they were not. On the other hand, if he could only see her, how it would simplify everything! As she distrusted both Guy and Miss Trevor, even if his plot succeeded, she would probably refuse to leave England unless he himself told her that he wished her to do so. Besides, there were so many details to be discussed, so many arrangements to be talked over. "Yes," he said to himself as he lay staring into the darkness, "it is my duty to see her. I shall go to her not because I want to...." A horrid doubt made him pause. Was he so sure that his decision was not the outcome of his own desire? How could he trust his judgment in a matter where his inclinations were so deeply involved? Yet it would be shocking if he allowed his own feelings to induce him to do something which might be injurious to Anita. It was a nice question to determine whether her need of him was sufficient to justify him in risking a visit? For hours he debated with himself but could arrive at no conclusion. No sooner did he resolve to stay away from her than the thought of her unhappiness again made him waver. If he only knew why she was so unhappy, he told himself that the situation would not be so unendurable. When he had talked to her over the telephone, she had seemed cheerful; she had spoken of Guy and Miss Trevor with enthusiasm.

What could have occurred since then to make her distrust them and to plunge her into such a state of gloom? As he tossed to and fro on his hot, tumbled bed, his imagination pictured one dire possibility after another, till at last he made up his mind that he could bear the uncertainty no longer. He must see her! He would see her!

Having reached this decision, Cyril could hardly refrain from rushing off to her as soon as it was light. However, he had to curb his impatience. Three o'clock was the only hour he could be sure of finding her alone; so he must wait till three o'clock. But how on earth, he asked himself, was he going to get through the intervening time? He was in a state of feverish restlessness that was almost agony; he could not apply himself to anything; he could only wait--wait. Although he knew that there was no chance of his meeting Anita, he haunted the neighbourhood of the "George" all the morning. Every few minutes he consulted his watch and the progress of the hands seemed to him so incredibly slow that more than once he thought that it must have stopped altogether. Finally, finally, the hour struck.

Flinging back his shoulders and a.s.suming a carelessness that almost amounted to a swagger, Cyril entered the hotel. He was so self-conscious that it was with considerable surprise as well as relief that he noticed that no one paid the slightest attention to him. Even the porter hardly glanced at him, being at the moment engaged in speeding a parting guest.

Cyril decided to use the stairs in preference to the lift, as they were less frequented than the latter, and as it happened, he made his way up to the second landing without encountering anybody.

There, however, he came face to face with a pretty housemaid, who to his dismay looked at him attentively. Cyril went cold all over. Had he but known it, she had been attracted by his tall, soldierly figure and had merely offered him the tribute of an admiring glance. But this explanation never occurred to our modest hero and he hurried, quite absurdly fl.u.s.tered by this trifling incident. He found that No. 62 opened on a small, ill-lighted hall, which was for the moment completely deserted.

Now that he actually stood on the threshold of Anita's room, Cyril felt a curious reluctance to proceed farther. It was unwise.... She might not want to see him.... But even as these objections flashed through his mind, he knocked almost involuntarily.

"Come in."

Yet he still hesitated. His heart was beating like a sledge-hammer and his hands were trembling. Never had he experienced such a curious sensation before and he wondered vaguely what could be the matter with him.

"I can't stand here forever," he said in his heart. "I wanted to see her; well then, why don't I open the door? I am behaving like a fool!"

Still reasoning with himself, he finally entered the room.

A bright fire was burning on the hearth and before it were heaped a number of cushions and from this lowly seat Anita had apparently hastily arisen. The length of time he had taken to answer her summons had evidently alarmed her, for she stood like a creature at bay, her eyes wide open and frightened. On recognising Cyril a deep blush suffused her face and even coloured the whiteness of her throat.

"So it was you!" she exclaimed.

Her relief was obvious, yet her manner was distant, almost repellent.

Cyril had confidently antic.i.p.ated such a different reception that her unexpected coldness completed his discomfiture. He felt as if the foundations of his world were giving away beneath his feet. He managed, however, to murmur something, he knew not what. The pounding of his heart prevented him from thinking coherently. When his emotion had subsided sufficiently for him to realise what he was doing, he found himself sitting stiffly on one side of the fire with Anita sitting equally stiffly on the other. She was talking--no, rather she was engaging him in polite conversation. How long she had been doing so he did not know, but he gathered that it could not have been long, as she was still on the subject of the weather.

"It has been atrocious in London. I hope you had better luck in the country. To-day has been especially disagreeable," she was saying.

Cyril abused the weather with a vigour which was rather surprising, in view of the fact that till she had mentioned it, he had been sublimely unconscious whether the sun had been shining or not. But finally even that prolific topic was exhausted and as no other apparently suggested itself to either, they relapsed into a constrained silence.

Cyril was suffering acutely. He had so longed to see her, and now an impalpable barrier had somehow arisen between them which separated them more completely than mere bricks and mortar, than any distance could have done. True, he could feast his eyes on her cameo-like profile; on the soft curve of her cheek; on the long, golden-tipped lashes; on the slender, white throat, which rose like a column from the laces of her dress. But he dared not look at her too long. Cyril was not introspective and was only dimly aware of the cause of the turmoil which was raging in his heart. He did not know that he averted his eyes for fear that the primitive male within him would break loose from the fetters of his will and forcibly seize the small creature so temptingly within his reach.

"If I only knew what I have done to displease her!" he said to himself.

He longed to question her, but she held herself so rigidly aloof that he had not the courage to do so. It was in vain that he told himself that her coldness simplified the situation; that it would have been terrible to have had to repel her advances; but he could find no consolation in the thought. In speechless misery he sat gazing into the fire.

Suddenly he thrilled with the consciousness that she was looking at him.

He turned towards her and their eyes met.

The glance they exchanged was of the briefest duration, but it sufficed to lift the weight which had been crushing him. He leaned eagerly forward.

"Have I offended you?" he asked.

The corners of her mouth quivered slightly, but she did not answer.

"If I have," he continued, "I a.s.sure you it was quite unintentionally.

Why, I would give my life to save you a moment's pain. Can't you feel that I am speaking the truth?"

She turned her face towards him, and as he looked at her, Cyril realised that it was not only her manner which had altered; she herself had mysteriously altered. At first he could not define wherein the difference lay, but suddenly it flashed upon him. It was the expression of her eyes which had changed. Heretofore he had been confident that they reflected her every emotion; but now they were inscrutable. It was as if she had drawn a veil over her soul.

"I don't know what you mean," she said. There was more than a hint of hostility in her voice.

The evasion angered him.

"That is impossible! Why not be frank with me? If my visit is distasteful to you, you have only to say so and I will go."

As she did not immediately answer, he added:

"Perhaps I had better go." His tone, however, somehow implied more of a threat than a suggestion; for since they had exchanged that fleeting glance Cyril had felt unreasonably rea.s.sured. Despite her coldness, the memory of her tender entreaties for his speedy return, buoyed up his conceit. She could not be as indifferent to him as she seemed, he argued to himself. However, as the moments pa.s.sed and she offered no objection to his leaving her, his newly-aroused confidence evaporated.

"She does not want me!" he muttered to himself. "I must go." But he made no motion to do so; he could not.

"I can't leave her till I know how I have offended her.... There are so many arrangements to be made.... I must get in touch with her again,--"

were some of the excuses with which he tried to convince himself that he had a right to linger.

He tried to read her face, but she had averted her head till he could see nothing but one small, pink ear, peeping from beneath her curls.

Her silence exasperated him.

"Why don't you speak to me? Why do you treat me like this?" he demanded almost fiercely.

"It is a little difficult to know how you wish to be treated!" Her manner was icy, but his relief was so intense that he scarcely noticed it.

"She is piqued!" he cried exultingly in his heart. "She is piqued, that is the whole trouble." He felt a man once more, master of the situation.

"She probably expected me to--" He shrank from pursuing the thought any further as the hot blood surged to his face. He was again conscious of his helplessness. What could he say to her?

"Oh, if you could only understand!" he exclaimed aloud. "I suppose you think me cold and unfeeling? I only wish I were!... Oh, this is torture!"

She seemed startled by his vehemence, for she looked up at him timidly.

"Can't you trust me?" he continued. "Won't you tell me what has come between us?"

Two big tears gathered in her eyes.

The sight was too much for Cyril. Right and wrong ceased to exist for him. He forgot everything; stooping forward he gathered her into his arms and crushed her small body against his heart.