Part 16 (2/2)

”If I were you I should still keep perfectly silent about it,” she almost whispered persuasively. ”It'll be just as well. If I were you, I shouldn't worry myself. I can quite understand how it happened, and I'm glad you've told me. But don't worry. You've been exciting yourself these last two or three days. I thought it was about my money business, but I see it wasn't. At least that may have brought it on, like. Now the best thing you can do is to forget it.”

She did not believe him! She simply discredited the whole story; and, told in Werter Road, like that, the story did sound fantastic; it did come very near to pa.s.sing belief. She had always noticed a certain queerness in her husband. His sudden gaieties about a tint in the sky or the gesture of a horse in the street, for example, were most uncanny.

And he had peculiar absences of mind that she could never account for.

She was sure that he must have been a very bad valet. However, she did not marry him for a valet, but for a husband; and she was satisfied with her bargain. What if he did suffer under a delusion? The exposure of that delusion merely crystallized into a definite shape her vague suspicions concerning his mentality. Besides, it was a harmless delusion. And it explained things. It explained, among other things, why he had gone to stay at the Grand Babylon Hotel. That must have been the inception of the delusion. She was glad to know the worst.

She adored him more than ever.

There was a silence.

”No,” she repeated, in the most matter-of-fact tone, ”I should say nothing, in your place. I should forget it.”

”You would?” He drummed on the table.

”I should! And whatever you do, don't worry.” Her accents were the coaxing accents of a nurse with a child--or with a lunatic.

He perceived now with the utmost clearness that she did not believe a word of what he had said, and that in her magnificent and calm sagacity she was only trying to humour him. He had expected to disturb her soul to its profoundest depths; he had expected that they would sit up half the night discussing the situation. And lo!--”I should forget it,”

indulgently! And a mild continuance of darning!

He had to think, and think hard.

_Tears_

”Henry,” she called out the next morning, as he disappeared up the stairs. ”What _are_ you doing up there?”

She had behaved exactly as if nothing had happened; and she was one of those women whose prudent policy it is to let their men alone even to the furthest limit of patience; but she had nerves, too, and they were being affected. For three days Henry had really been too mysterious!

He stopped, and put his head over the banisters, and in a queer, moved voice answered:

”Come and see.”

Sooner or later she must see. Sooner or later the already distended situation must get more and more distended until it burst with a loud report. Let the moment be sooner, he swiftly decided.

So she went and saw.

Half-way up the attic stairs she began to sniff, and as he turned the k.n.o.b of the attic door for her she said, ”What a smell of paint! I fancied yesterday----”

If she had been clever enough she would have said, ”What a smell of masterpieces!” But her cleverness lay in other fields.

”You surely haven't been aspinalling that bath-room chair?... Oh!”

This loud exclamation escaped from her as she entered the attic and saw the back of the picture which Priam had lodged on the said bath-room chair--filched by him from the bath-room on the previous day. She stepped to the vicinity of the window and obtained a good view of the picture. It was brilliantly s.h.i.+ning in the light of morn. It looked glorious; it was a fit companion of many pictures from the same hand distributed among European galleries. It had that priceless quality, at once n.o.ble and radiant, which distinguished all Priam's work. It transformed the attic; and thousands of amateurs and students, from St.

Petersburg to San Francisco, would have gone into that attic with their hats off and a thrill in the spine, had they known what was there and had they been invited to enter and wors.h.i.+p. Priam himself was pleased; he was delighted; he was enthusiastic. And he stood near the picture, glancing at it and then glancing at Alice, nervously, like a mother whose sister-in-law has come to look at the baby. As for Alice, she said nothing. She had first of all to take in the fact that her husband had been ungenerous enough to keep her quite in the dark as to the nature of his secret activities; then she had to take in the fact of the picture.

”Did you do that?” she said limply.

”Yes,” said he, with all the casualness that he could a.s.sume. ”How does it strike you?” And to himself: ”This'll make her see I'm not a mere lunatic. This'll give her a shaking up.”

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