Part 35 (1/2)
”T-true!--Mrs. Ruthven!”
”Yes, true, Gerald! I--I don't care whether you know it; I don't care, as long as you stay away. I'm sick of it all, I tell you. Do you think I was educated for this?--for the wife of a chevalier of industry--”
”M-Mrs. Ruthven!” he gasped; but she was absolutely reckless now--and beneath it all, perhaps, lay a certainty of the boy's honour. She knew he was to be trusted--was the safest receptacle for wrath so long repressed. She let prudence go with a parting and vindictive slap, and opened her heart to the astounded boy. The tempest lasted a few seconds; then she ended as abruptly as she began.
To him she had always been what a pretty young matron usually is to a well-bred but hare-brained youth just untethered. Their acquaintance had been for him a combination of charming experiences diluted with grat.i.tude for her interest and a harmless _soupcon_ of sentimentality.
In her particular case, however, there was a little something more--a hint of the forbidden--a troubled enjoyment, because he knew, of course, that Mrs. Ruthven was on no footing at all with the Gerards. So in her friends.h.i.+p he savoured a piquancy not at all distasteful to a very young man's palate.
But now!--he had never, never seen her like this--nor any woman, for that matter--and he did not know where to look or what to do.
She was sitting back in the limousine, very limp and flushed; and the quiver of her under lip and the slightest dimness of her averted brown eyes distressed him dreadfully.
”Dear Mrs. Ruthven,” he blurted out with clumsy sympathy, ”you mustn't think such things, b-because they're all rot, you see; and if any fellow ever said those things to me I'd jolly soon--”
”Do you mean to say you've never heard us criticised?”
”I--well--everybody is--criticised, of course--”
”But not as we are! Do you read the papers? Well, then, do you understand how a woman must feel to have her husband continually made the b.u.t.t of foolish, absurd, untrue stories--as though he were a performing poodle! I--I'm sick of that, too, for another thing. Week after week, month by month, unpleasant things have been acc.u.mulating; and they're getting too heavy, Gerald--too crus.h.i.+ng for my shoulders... . Men call me restless. What wonder! Women link my name with any man who is k-kind to me! Is there no excuse then for what they call my restlessness? ... What woman would not be restless whose private affairs are the gossip of everybody? Was it not enough that I endured terrific publicity when--when trouble overtook me two years ago? ... I suppose I'm a fool to talk like this; but a girl must do it some time or burst!--and to whom am I to go? ... There was only one person; and I can't talk to--that one; he--that person knows too much about me, anyway; which is not good for a woman, Gerald, not good for a good woman... . I mean a pretty good woman; the kind people's sisters can still talk to, you know... . For I'm nothing more interesting than a _divorcee_, Gerald; nothing more dangerous than an unhappy little fool... . I wish I were... . But I'm still at the wheel! ... A man I know calls it hard steering but a.s.sures me that there's anchorage ahead... . He's a splendid fellow, Gerald; you ought to know him--well--some day; he's just a clean-cut, human, blundering, erring, unreasonable,lovable man whom any woman, who is not a fool herself, could manage... . Some day I should like to have you know him--intimately. He's good for people of your sort--even good for a restless, purposeless woman of my sort. Peace to him!--if there's any in the world... . Turn your back; I'm sniveling.”
A moment afterward she had calmed completely; and now she stole a curious side glance at the boy and blushed a little when he looked back at her earnestly. Then she smiled and quietly withdrew the hand he had been holding so tightly in both of his.
”So there we are, my poor friend,” she concluded with a shrug; ”the old penny shocker, you know, 'Alone in a great city!'--I've dropped my handkerchief.”
”I want you to believe me your friend,” said Gerald, in the low, resolute voice of unintentional melodrama.
”Why, thank you; are you so sure you want that, Gerald?”
”Yes, as long as I live!” he declared, generous emotion in the ascendant. A pretty woman upset him very easily even under normal circ.u.mstances. But beauty in distress knocked him flat--as it does every wholesome boy who is worth his salt.
And he said so in his own nave fas.h.i.+on; and the more eloquent he grew the more excited he grew and the deeper and blacker appeared her wrongs to him.
At first she humoured him, and rather enjoyed his fresh, eager sympathy; after a little his increasing ardour inclined her to laugh; but it was very splendid and chivalrous and genuine ardour, and the inclination to laugh died out, for emotion is contagious, and his earnestness not only flattered her legitimately but stirred the slackened tension of her heart-strings until, tightening again, they responded very faintly.
”I had no idea that _you_ were lonely,” he declared.
”Sometimes I am, a little, Gerald.” She ought to have known better.
Perhaps she did.
”Well,” he began, ”couldn't I come and--”
”No, Gerald.”
”I mean just to see you sometimes and have another of these jolly talks--”
”Do you call this a jolly talk?”--with deep reproach.