Such is love (24 page)

Her mother gave an agitated little exclamation, and, getting up, she went after her. At the door, she turned and addressed her husband, a little as though Terry and—to tell the truth, Gwyneth—no longer existed.

"I hope, WiUiam, you will deal with this—^this person" she said, and went out of the room, too.

"I think," Mr. Stacey said—and, small man though he was, he looked almost dignified in his turn as he addressed Terry—"I think you will see that to remain here in our house would be both pointless and offensive."

Terry bowed slightly, even now concealing what must have been very deep chagrin under an insolent little smile.

"Since you put it so pressingly as that, I'll go."

He bowed slightly to Gwyneth, too, but the cold menace in his eyes made her very heart quail. He looked like a murderer at that moment. Only a tremendous physical effort kept her from letting him see how afraid she was, but she managed to stare back coolly at him until he turned away.

Even when he had gone out of the room, Mr. Stacey didn't say anything to her at once. He sat down rather heavily, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands hanging aimlessly. He looked a very old man indeed just then.

They both heard the clang of the front door closing behind Terry. He had gone out of Paula's life now. But

out of Gwyneth's life, too ? Well, that was a different

thing.

Gwyneth looked at the bent old man, and hated the fact that it had been she who had had to deal this blow.

"Mr. Stacey, I feel I ought to say how terribly sorry I am that "

He roused himself then to interrupt her before she could finish her lame little apology.

"My dear, it was not your fault that such dreadful facts were there to be told. It was extremely brave of you to tell them. I—^we appreciate what it must have meant for you to rake up such an unhappy story—something that was entirely your own affair. It was very, very good of you to put Paula's welfare before your own feelings like that. I know my wife would feel the same. She would want me to say this for her, as well as for myself."

Gwyneth smiled rather wanly at him.

"Thank you—but I couldn't have done anything else really, you know. No one could, without being absolutely despicable."

The old man shook his head.

"It was a very severe demand of conscience, and I

should hke you to feel sure " He paused and looked

slightly embarrassed. "That is to say, I hope you understand that in no circumstances should we ever abuse the confidence you've placed in us. What you told us belongs to your own past history, and yours alone. Please consider that it is absolutely safe with us."

"Thank you," Gwyneth said again, and she took the hand which he held out to hen

She didn't tell him that it was not they whom she feared, but Terry. She held his hand very warmly for a moment. Then she managed to smile more naturally.

"I think I had better go, Mr. Stacey. I don't expect that either Paula or Mrs. Stacey will want to see anyone again tonight."

"Oh, but please let me fetch my wife. She would want "

"No, really." Gwyneth was firm. "Paula will need her. I don't want her to feel she must come down again."

"But do wait until Van comes to fetch you. He said he

would come for you. I don't like the idea of your going alone."

"It's really quite all right," Gwyneth assured him, contriving somehow to disguise from him her wild longing to escape—escape, away from this terrible house, where this awful thing had happened to her.

"If you're quite sure "

"Quite sure. I shall be home before Van starts out to fetch me."

"But he'U come straight from the office."

"Oh yes, of course he will." She was given pause for a moment—^forced to think out some other way of keeping Van from returning here. She didn't want him back at this house, tonight. She didn't want further conferences and explanations just now. She was prepared to face the wretched fact that he must know. But now now—^not for a few hours longer. She had had as much as she could bear.

She turned back to Mr. Stacey.

"If I might telephone, please ?'*

"Of course, of course."

He dialed the number for her, and she was sorry to see that his rather withered hands were very unsteady. Then she took the receiver, and the next moment she heard Van himself say:

"Yes? Van Onslie speaking."

"Van, it's Gwyneth. Look here, dear, don't bother to come for me. I'm getting a taxi now." Her voice was amazingly calm and matter-of-fact, she noticed.

"Now?" She could almost see him glance in surprise at his watch. "But it's very early yet, isn't it?"

"Yes, I know. I'll explain later. Just go straight home, Van. I'll join you there."

"Very well, of course, if you really want that."

"Yes, please." She rang off quicldy, then, for fear he might ask questions, though she thought from his tone that he had gathered there was something which she could not explain by telephone.

When she had rung off, she found old Mr. Stacey watching her with a grave and troubled expression. But he said comfortingly:

"Van will make you feel less unhappy, my dear. All this did happen a good many years ago, and now that you are

happily married you must put everything behind you again. It was terrible that you had to look back like that, but since you were brave enough to do it, I hope you will be brave enough to forget it again now. I am sure Van would be the first to remind you that you have your little boy safely with you now, and Van is evidently extremely fond of him as well as of you. Nothing could have worked out better "

"Except," Gwyneth said sadly, "that Van doesn't know anything about this at all. He has no idea that Toby is my own child—and Terry's."

The consternation on Mr. Stacey's face was an eloquent comment on what he thought Van's reaction would be. For a moment he obviously could think of nothing at all to say.

"I didn't realize that," he murmured at last, shaking his head. "I didn't understand that, at all. Oh, dear, dear, this is terrible." Then he added—^not very hopefully: "We must hope that Terry will, at least, have the decency to keep things to himself."

Gwyneth sighed. "No," she said, "I'm afraid decency doesn't enter into Terry's calculations at all. He kept quiet until now because, of course, he couldn't expose my story without showing his own part in it. If he were really going to marry Paula, it was as much in his interests as in mine that he should say nothing. But now "

She broke off without finishing the sentence, and she and Mr. Stacey looked at each other in silence. It was so difficult to think of anything to say.

"Of course, Van is a very just man," Mr. Stacey offered at last, but he evidently didn't think much of that feeble bit of comfort himself.

"It's a little difficult to be strictly just, when everything you admire and cherish is involved," Gwyneth said. "I think perhaps it is mercy rather than justice that is needed."

"Of course, of course." There was a short silence. Neither of them offered to say what the chances were of Van displaying mercy in a situation like this.

"He really has no idea at all?" the old man said at last.

"No, none."

"It will be a terrible shock. You must try not to mind

too much, my dear, if he—^if he says some very hard things at first." .

Gwyneth didn't answer. She thought she could bear it if he only spoke to her. The terrible, burning question was —^what would he do?

What did a man do when he found his wife had had a *past'? But it wasn't any good putting it into general terms like that. A 'past' didn't necessarily involve a child—^now living under the unsuspecting husband's roof.

This story did.

But it was no good lingering on here, going over possibilities and impossibilities. It was strange enough, now she came to think of it, that she should have spent so much time, talking over her most intimate affairs with this old gentleman whom she had never met until this evening. But he was sympathetic, and she had had to talk to someone. And, in any case, the privacy of her affairs seemed rather a small thing just now.

She said good-bye to Mr. Stacey after that, begging him to make her good-byes for her to Paula and her mother. He came with her to the taxi—^very anxious, very kind, wishing he could do something for hero

But no one could do anything for her. That was the worst part of it. Her worried host could only clasp her hand very warmly as he said good night, and bow to her in a way that suggested she was really not at all to be despised, even if she had just described a most unhappy scandal in her past.

She was alone at last—^leaning back in the taxi with her eyes closed, trying not to remember the more awful moments of the evening.

And now she had to think what she was going to do about Van.

Well, she didn't know, of course. Her mind seemed to move very slowly and laboriously, and not to light upon anything at all helpful. She supposed, really, that the most obvious course was to go in now and confess the whole thing to him.

And yet

Suppose Terry, by some miracle, did not speak—did not betray her. Or suppose he failed to reach Van with

what he had to say

The taxi stopped with a jerk.

She got out mechanically, paid the driver and felt for her latch-key. As she opened the door of the flat, Van came out of the sitting-room to meet her.

"Hello, my dear. What happened?"

He gently took her fur coat from her and, putting his arm round her, went with her into the room.

"It was just that something very—unfortunate and— horrid happened," Gwyneth returned his kiss almost absently, and sank down in a chair by the fire. (He wouldn't have kissed her if he had known! Perhaps that was the last time he ever would kiss her.)

"Something which really upset you, do you mean?" He was standing looking down at her, tenderly and a little anxiously.

"Well—it was such a distressing business for all of them. They—Paula found out, just in the nick of time, that Terry is really married already "

''Marriedr

"—And that he makes almost a practice of this sort of thing—going round and apparently marrying rich, credulous young women. When he had had enough of Paula he —he meant to clear off, taking with him the money that Mr. Stacey would have settled on him. It was all quite— quite simple. They had helped to remove any obstacle themselves by being so very trusting."

"Good God! Then you were right in your instinct."

"What instinct?" She pushed back her hair wearily.

"When you said you felt certain Muirkirk was a bad* type and meant Paula no good. What an extraordinary thing! You were absolutely right."

She swallowed slightly. How was she to tell him that instinct had played no part—only sordid experience?

"But how on earth did the whole thing come out?— And what is going to happen now?"

"Well, of course, he had to go, and there is no question of his ever coming back," Gwyneth said slowly, taking the second question first. "He was—recognized by someone, Van."

"Recognized? By someone who just happened to call, do you mean? What an amazing coincidence! But how confoundedly lucky, too. Why, Paula's whole life would

have been ruined. I suppose she's taken it pretty badly, poor kid?"

"I'm afraid—she has," Gwyneth agreed faintly.

"Well, of course, it's a horrible experience for any girl to have—^though nothing like so horrible as if she had gone on and married him. This she can get over. She's young. She'll recover by and by, and find some other really nice fellow. She's much too attractive not to, and Paula's type is very elastic, with plenty of recuperative power." , "Yes."

She was dully thankful that, for some reason or other, he chose this particular moment to talk rather more than was usual with him. It gave her a slight chance of recovering herself.

Everything was not yet over. By a hair's breadth she had slipped past disaster once more. He was satisfied with the explanation she had given—^which he had practically given, come to that. He had almost put the words into her mouth.

The relief

But she knew suddenly that this time it was not relief. It was, rather, a dull horror that the thing was not over. Unless she could tell him in cold blood herself—^and how could she? How could she? She must go on dragging about this dead weight of fear and anticipation for some days longer, waiting until the blow fell.

Useless to tell herself she might just as well confess now and get it over, because in a day—^two days, Terry would do it for her. With a frantic effort at self-preservation, she still clung to the hundredth, thousandth, millionth chance that something would save her.

Look how it had done so farl Why, if she had spoken when she first wanted to

"Look here, darling, I'll tell you what I'm gomg to do with you," Van's concerned voice recalled her to the present. "I'm going to send you off to bed here and now. You're looking absolutely done. You mustn't upset yourself so much, you know, over other people's problems." He bent down and lifted her right up out of the chair.

She locked her arms convulsively round his neck and kissed him and kissed him.

"It's horrible when it happens, I know," he said gently.

"But Paula will get over it, and so will her parents. After the first shock, one couldn't be anything but thankful for the escape."

"I know—^I know." It was only a whisper, and spoken almost against him.

He carried her to her room then, waited to see that she would really undress and go straight to bed, and then went to get her a hot drink himself.

When he came back again, she was lying in bed—^very quiet and a little pale still, but she contrived to give him a brilliant smile as he came in.

She heard him catch his breath in a slight sound of relief, and that made her want to cry and to cling round him again, telling him all that had really happened. It was not only that she wanted the relief of some sort of confession herself. In this moment she hated and despised herself for ever having lied to someone who trusted her, as Van did now.