Such is love (23 page)

After dinner, while Van and Terry were left with their host to do justice to his admirable port, Gwyneth found, to her dismay, that she was to inspect the part of Paula's trousseau wtdch was already completed.

She didn't know which was more agitating—Paula's excited pleasure or her mother's graver, more weighty satisfaction.

The weaker part of her conscience began to whisper insistently to her: "Now, isn't it better to leave them in this nice fools' paradise as long as possible? They won't thank you for pushing them out of it. Is it really worth ruining your whole life to do it? Anyway, what are you going to do?"

She didn't know the answer to that question, so she looked at delectable creations in white and peach and palest blue and mauve, and said: "Sweetl" "How lovely!" and "What an adorable shade," as often as was necessary.

If only she had not known just how base Terry was! If only she hadn't seen for herself that his wife was still alive!

But of course, she ought not to think that, because it was that which had made her realize the urgent necessity of saving Paula.

It was ridiculous to suppose that Terry would really settle down with her for the rest of his life—even if one could overlook the unpleasant fact that the marriage was no marriage. That, after all, was not her business. But it was her business that she, of all of them, knew just what would happen when, presently, he grew tired of Paula. There would be nothing to hold him, either legally or financially. Her own parents would have provided him with the wherewithal to desert her.

And she would not be a deserted wife. She would be a deserted mistress—as Gwyneth had been. And there might be a child as well 1

"Of course, I shall miss her very much." Mrs. Stacey was speaking and Gwyneth must listen and make suitable replies. "But it's what all parents must expect, sooner or later, and if you know your children are going to be happy, that really is the only thing that matters."

Gwyneth agreed as fervently as she could to this indisputably excellent truth. She wondered what good it would be to say: "Yes, but this man happens to be a bigamist, you know, and an extremely accomplished swindler."

No, that was not the way to do it. She must wait for a better opening.

Or was it just that her cowardly conscience counselled delay, delay, delay?

Back in the drawing-room once more, they found that the men had already come in, and presently Gwyneth sought the company of old Mr. Stacey, because she simply-could not bear to hear the wedding and honeymoon plans which formed the principal part of almost every conversation conducted by Mrs. Stacey—or, indeed, Paula.

The old gentleman seemed pleased and rather flattered by her notice, and asked her if she played chess.

Gwyneth confessed complete ignorance, but was more than willing to show interest, if only it would keep him from the subject of Paula's foolish marriage.

He showed her his collection of chessmen, which included some beautiful specimens that she would have found genuinely interesting at any other time. They were

at the far end of the long room now, rather removed from the others, and Gwyneth felt a slight slackening of the tension. It tightened almost immediately, however, when he said:

"Terry doesn't play, but he has a very keen appreciation of some of these specimens as works of art. I'm glad—I'm very glad, because I'd like them to go to someone who would appreciate them."

"Perhaps Paula would," Gwyneth suggested. (It was horrible! Even this nice old man's precious chessmen were to go to the contemptible, sponging Terry.)

He laughed slightly and shook his head.

"Oh no, Paula doesn't care much about this kind of thing. Naturally, naturally. She's very young and likes something brighter and more in keeping with youth. Besides"—^his eyes twinkled—"it isn't a very feminine game, chess, you know."

"N-no. But if Terry is interested in these works of art, surely Paula might be too?"

"Oh, a little, I daresay. But she's more interested in jewellery and that sort of thing, you know. This is more what would have gone to a son, if we'd had one. But then, of course, Terry is a very good substitute for one. He's a good boy," the old man added, with grave inaccuracy. "We're more than willing to look on him as a son."

Gwyneth was silent, holding a beautifuUy-carved ivory *piece' in her hand and trying to think what to say.

The old man watched her, willing to let her take her time in examining things.

"I suppose"—Gwyneth cleared her throat slightly, and started again—"I suppose you are perfectly satisfied about —Paula's future?"

"Pleased about her marriage, you mean?"

"Y-yes."

The old man smiled again, in the indulgent way he seemed to keep for any reference to his daughter.

"I think she is doing what will really make her happy, so—^yes, I'm quite satisfied. I don't want to lose her, of course, but "

"I didn't quite mean that."

"No? Well, I suppose you know he isn't bringing her very much in the way of worldly goods. In fact, it's very

much the other way about, of course. I won't say the idea didn't shake me a good deal at first. That and his being an artist. I'd rather expected her to marry some decent, solid, comfortable fellow in the City. I suppose one always expects one's son-in-law to be in the same line as oneself. I shouldn't be surprised now, if your father had rather imagined you as a clergyman's wife?"

"Oh, I don't think so," Gwyneth said, a good deal surprised. She was perfectly sure her father hadn't had any ideas on the subject at all.

"Well, well, perhaps not. Anyway, it's rather a silly thing to do. It only means you have to readjust yourself when your girl does make her choice. And, of course, I did see Paula's point pretty quickly. One doesn't expect quite the same standards and ideas from an artist "

"But one does," Gwyneth exclaimed in dismay. And then, before her slightly startled host could take that up, Van came over to her.

"I'm so sorry, Gwyn. I've just had a phone message and I shall have to go along to the office after all. But there is no need at all for you to come, of course. I'll take the car now, and I don't expect to be very long. As a matter of fact, I'm almost sure to get through in time to come back for you. If not, I daresay you won't mind getting a taxi."

"No, of course I don't mind." She spoke rather slowly, because she did mind, terribly. She felt frightened and deserted and alone. She knew some crisis was very close on her now. Ridiculous to feel like that, of course, because, if anything, it was better for Van not to be there. He could not be any help or protection—and in any case, he would be the worst person of all to have to tell. He would have to know about it—^naturally—almost as soon as the others did—how, she was not quite sure; probably, she supposed, through Terry. But, in a way, it was something of a reprieve to have him go. She ought to feel glad.

But she didn't feel glad. She couldn't feel glad about anything. In a horrid sort of dream she saw him making the round of good-byes. He kissed her lightly—he never omitted to do that, however short the separation was to be. Then he went out of the room, and after a few minutes they heard the front door close.

For a little while after Van's departure, Gwyneth took in hardly anything of the conversation. She contributed a "Yes" and a "No" and a "Do you really think so?" But she was not paying very much attention to what was being said.

After a while she became aware that Terry was watching her with slightly narrowed eyes. She knew why, of course. He was judging her indecision to a nicety, and he knew his whole future depended on whether or not that indecision would harden into determination.

"Such a pity that Van had to go," Mrs. Stacey was saying. "The very first time we have been able to arrange a dinner party together. But I hope it will be only the first of many. When Paula is married, I dare say she will be entertaining us all in her house."

Benign and satisfied smiles came to bear upon Paula.

Slowly but irresistibly, Gwyneth saw, the moment was approaching. It was like hearing the rumblings of a volcano that was about to erupt.

"I can only say I hope Paula and Terry will be as happy as you and Van obviously are." Mrs. Stacey smiled benignly upon Gwyneth this time.

But Gwyneth didn't smile back. She looked straight across at Mrs.-Stacey, her eyes so dark with fear and determination that they looked almost black, her face so white that her hostess gave an exclamation and half rose to her feet.

"It*s all right, Mrs. Stacey. I expect I look ghastly, but I'm not going to faint or anything. Only there's something painful and horrible that I've got to say to you all "

"GwynethI" The sharp word of protest came from Paula, not Terry. But Gwyneth took no notice.

"I've been trying to get up my courage to say this for nearly a week. It was wrong of me to wait so long—^I did it because I was afraid. But nothing else is going to disclose the fact—I've got to do it. Terry can't legally marry Paula because he is married already, and his wife is alive. I know it because he played the same trick on me when I was even younger than she is. I can't stand by and see Paula put through the same experience—abandoned when he is tired of her, perhaps with a child—as I was."

"GwynethI" That was Paula again. "Are you mad? What

that Toby "

Gwyneth felt dreadfully cold, as she always did in a moment of despair and acute terror.

"Yes," she said slowly, "Toby is my own son—^mine and Terry's."

There was such a profound silence for a few seconds after she had said that that she almost wondered if she had really said it, or if she were only following out the scene in her fevered imagination again—as she had so often done before.

Now that the confession was over, it scarcely seemed to hurt. It was like losing a limb and not being able to feel the loss at first because the nerves were numb.

Then Terry spoke—^very coolly, but with a queer, metallic note in his voice.

"It's very distressing, of course, if Mrs. Onslie indulged in some such escapade years ago, but I most violently protest against having the result wished on to me."

"Terry, don't," Gwyneth said almost wearily. "It's so futile."

"Mrs. Onslie, these are terrible charges you're making against someone who is almost a member of our family." Mr. Stacey spoke in a voice which was really not quite steady. "I don't want to question your truthfulness, but— but you really must give us some form of proof, you know."

"I defy her to!" Terry was perfect in his rising tide of indignant annoyance. "It's an outrageous suggestion."

"No," Gwyneth said quietly, "it's not outrageous. The only outrageous part is your effrontery, Terry, when you must know you're beaten. Anyway, I have got proof."

Terry's eyes met hers for an instant in fear as well as anger. It was a strange moment—one that gave her a fierce, swift sense of triumph. It was gone almost as soon as it came, but it had been there. For the space of a couple of seconds she knew that Terry had been afraid of her, instead of the inevitable, humiliating reverse position.

She looked at him with measureless contempt.

"It was silly of you to leave me to pay the bill, all those years ago, for the weeks we spent together at that wretched

168

little hoteL Economical, perhaps, to leave it to me, but short-sighted. You see, I have the bill here."

She drew it out of her evening bag and spread it out on the small table beside her.

Very crumpled, lightly tattered from being crushed up

at the bottom of a box for so long—^it lay there for them

[all to see. Even now, she could not have said why she had

[kept it. Perhaps she had had some wild idea at the time

[that she might need it to provfe something. Perhaps, having

been cheated so often, she had merely thought that, at

least, the shady hotel should not charge her again. Perhaps

it was simply that some queer instinct had told her that,

one day, it would be very important to her.

But anyway, there it was—damning evidence against even so accomplished a twister as Terry.

Three out of the four people present leant forward fascinatedly, to read the bill headed "Mr. and Mrs. T. Muirkirk".

"You can see—it's for quite a long period." Gwyneth still spoke with that sort of weary determination. "He'd had quite a good time before his wife came and claimed him. And if you want any further evidence, I suppose there is still some sort of record at the register office— false facts and all.'*

Again there was a heavy silence. Mr. Stacey, breathing rather deeply, slowly pulled the bill towards him and examined it afresh, as though something else might come to light.

Paula looked across at Terry with incredulous, horrified eyes.

"Is it true?" was all she said.

Even Terry must have seen this was the end. He shrugged.

"If you care to believe her word against mine "

"But it isn't only her word. Here is the hotel bill, and—"

"Very well. It's perfectly true that we stayed there together for some weeks. I'm ashamed of it now, but you must know these things happen occasionally in a man's past, and he can only say that he wishes to God he'd never done it. The rest of her story is an invention, because she's never forgiven me for tiring of the whole wretched business long before she did."

"I think they feel more inclined to believe my version than yours, Terry," Gwyneth said quietly. "And Toby is no invention. Nor is your wife, who was walking with yo»^j when I saw you the other day. I suppose even you will find some difficulty in explaining her away."

Paula sprang to her feet. She was very white, but her eyes were brilliant with anger now, even more than with dismay. Gwyneth was astounded to see that, far from being crushed by the discovery, she seemed to take on a furious dignity before which Terry might well have trembled.

"How dare you!" she said slowly. "How dare you come here, lying and cheating and—^yes, sponging. I could—I could kill you!" And suddenly all the composure went. She burst into wild tears, more like a furious child again, and rushed from the room.