Part 13 (1/2)

”Indeed, no; it was not that.”

He struck the table impatiently with the paper-knife.

”My dear woman, do exert some common sense! What in the name of wonder could the fellow have to discuss with you at that hour? Your pardon if, finding no apparent limits to your innocence, I a.s.sume it to be illimitable, and point out that he would scarcely break bounds and play Romeo beneath the window of a middle-aged lady for the purpose of discussing water-colours with her, or the exploits of Vespasian.”

The taunt brought red to Dorothea's cheeks, and stung her into courage.

”He came to see me,” she persisted. Her voice dropped a little. ”I had come to feel a regard for M. Raoul; and he--” She could not go on. Her eyes met her brother's for a moment, then fell before them.

What she expected she could not tell. Certainly she did not expect what happened, and his sudden laughter smote her like a whip. It broke in a shout of high, incontrollable mirth, and he leaned back and shook in his chair until the tears streamed down his cheeks.

”You!” he gasped. ”You! Oh, oh, oh!”

She stood beneath the scourge, silent. She felt it curl across and bite the very flesh, and thought it was killing her, Her bosom heaved.

It ceased. He sat upright again, wiping his eyes.

”But it's incredible!” he protested; ”the scoundrel has fooled you all along. Yes, of course,” he pondered; ”that explains the success of the trick, which otherwise was clumsy beyond belief; in fact, its clumsiness puzzled me. But how was I to guess?” He pulled himself up on the edge of another guffaw. ”Look here, Dorothea, be sensible. It's clear as daylight the fellow was after Polly, and made you his cats- paw. Face it, my dear; face it, and conquer your illusions. I understand it must cost you some suffering, but, after all, you must find some blame in yourself--in your heart, I mean, not in your conduct. Doubtless your conduct showed weakness, or he would never have dared--but, there, I can trust my sister. Face it; the thing's absurd!

You, a woman of thirty-eight (or is it thirty-nine?), and he, if I may judge from appearances, young enough to be your son! Polly was his game--the deceitful little s.l.u.t! You must see it for yourself. And after all, it's more natural. Immoral, I've no doubt--”

He paused in the middle of his harangue. A parliamentary candidate (unsuccessful) for Axcester had once dared to poke fun at Endymion Westcote for having a.s.serted, in a public speech, that indecency was worse than immorality. For the life of him Endymion could never see where the joke came in; but the fellow had ill.u.s.trated it with such a wealth of humorous instances, and had kept his ignorant audience for twenty minutes in such fits of laughter, that he never afterwards approached the ant.i.thesis but he skirted it with a red face.

And Dorothea?

The scourge might cut into her heart; it could not reach the image of Raoul she s.h.i.+elded there. She knew her lover too well, and that he was incapable of this baseness. But the injurious charge, diverted from him, fell upon her own defences, and, breaking them, let in the cruel light at length on her pa.s.sion, her folly. This was how the world would see it. . . . Yes! Raoul was right--there is no enemy comparable with Time. Looks, fortune, birth, breed, unequal hearts and minds--all these Love may confound and play with; but Time which divides the dead from the living, sets easily between youth and age a gulf which not only forbids love but derides:

Age, I do abhor thee; Youth, I do adore thee; O, my Love, my Love is young!

She could give counsel, sympathy, care; could delight in his delights, hope in his hopes, melt with his woes, and, having wept a little, find comfort for them. She could thrill at his footsteps, blush at his salutation, sit happily beside him and talk or be silent, reading his moods. He might fill her waking day, haunt her dreams, in the end pa.s.s into prison for her sake, having crowned love with martyrdom. And the world would laugh as Endymion had laughed! Her hands went up to shut out the roar of it. A coa.r.s.e amour with Polly--that could be understood. Polly was young. Polly . . .

”What will you do?” she heard herself asking, and could scarcely believe the voice belonged to her.

”Do? Why, if my theory be right--and I hope I've convinced you--I see no use in meddling. The girl is respectably married. It will cause her quite unnecessary trouble if we rip this affair open again. Her husband will have just ground for complaint, and it might--I need not point out--be a little awkward, eh?”

For the first time in her life Dorothea regarded her brother with something like contempt. But the flash gave way to a look of weary resolve.

”Then I must tell the truth--to others,” she said.

It confounded him for a moment. But although here was a new Dorothea, belying all experience, his instinct for handling men and women told him at once what had happened. He had driven her too far. He was even clever enough to foresee that winning her back to obedience would be a ticklish, almost desperate, business; and even sensitive enough to redden at his blunder.

”You do not agree with my view?” he asked, tapping the table slowly.

”I disbelieve it. I have no right to believe it, even if I had the power. He is in prison. You must help me to set him free. If not--”

”He cannot, possibly return to Axcester.”

”Oh, what is that to me?” she cried with sudden impatience. Then her tone fell back to its dull level. ”I have not been pleading for myself.”

”No, no: I understand.” His brow cleared, as a man's who faces a bad business and resolves to go through with it. ”Well, there is only one way to spare you and everyone. We must get him a cartel.”