III
“I’ll just wait here,” he said to the pretty maid. “I’m not dressed for a party. You might tell Mrs. Lindsay that—that when she’s not too busy, I’d like awfully to speak to her for a minute.”
“Very well, Mr. O’Hara.” Her voice had all the impersonal blankness of the well-trained servant, but once on the dark stairs she shook her glossy head dismally. She had come to know him well in the past weeks.
“The Saints preserve the poor man, it’s fit for a long rest in a pine box he’s looking, and that’s no lie at all! And it’s my fine lady upstairs that is after painting shadows black as the pit under his poor eyes, or my name’s not Bridget O’Neill. It’s a wicked world entirely, and that’s what it is!”
O’Hara stood watching the door through which she had vanished. In a minute—in five minutes—in ten minutes—someone else might stand framed in that door; he could not tear his eyes from it, but stood staring, hands thrust deep into his pockets, very quiet, with fever playing behind the tense stillness of his face. The painted clock on the mantel chimed the hour out twelve times, each stroke a mocking peal of laughter. His shoulders sagged abruptly and he turned from the door. What was the use?—she wasn’t coming. She would never come again.
He crossed to the mantel slowly, noting all the studied grace with desperate tenderness. To whom could it belong but Lilah, the little room that he loved, demure and gay—intimate as a boudoir, formal as a study? Those slim hands of hers must have placed the bright flowers in the low bowls of powdered Venetian glass, and lined the bookcases with deep-coloured books, set the small bright fire burning with pine cones, and lighted the waxen candles that were casting their gracious light all about him. The satin-wood desk looked austere enough, with its orderly stacks of paper, its trays of sharpened pencils and shining pens—but the lace pillow in the deep chair by the fire was a little crumpled, there was a half-burnt cigarette in the enamelled tray, and trailing its rosy grace shamelessly across a sombre cushion was a bit of chiffon and ribbon, the needle still sticking in it. It could not have been so long ago that she had been here; all the dainty disorder spoke eloquently of her still.
Oh, thrice-accursed fool that he had been to risk even for a second the happiness that for weeks had been fluttering closer to him—the happiness that only a day before had almost closed its shining wings about him! They had been looking at some of her old snapshots of a motor trip through Ireland, laughing together in the enchanted intimacy which they had acquired over the begoggled, be-veiled, and beswaddled small creature that she assured him was her exquisite self—and then she had come upon a snapshot that was only too obviously not Ireland. It was of a vine-hung terrace, with the sea stretching far out in the distance, and the sunlight dappling through onto the upturned face of a man—quite a young man, in white flannels, swinging a careless tennis racquet and laughing in the sun. For a minute her sure fingers had faltered; there, very deliberately, she had picked it up, tearing it into small pieces, dropping them deftly into the dancing fire.
“Here’s one of us having tea by the road,” she had continued evenly, but O’Hara had not even heard her. His mind was far away, sick with apprehension and suspicion, all the old dim terrors suddenly rampant.
“Lilah—it’s unspeakable of me to worry you with this—but I can’t get it out of my mind somehow. Will you tell me—will you tell me if they ever found out who sent that anonymous letter to your husband?”
She had stared back at him with strange eyes set in a face from which every trace of emotion had suddenly been frozen.
“The letter? No.” The small remote voice was utterly forbidding. “You are quite right; it is cruel to remind of those times. What difference can it possibly make to you?”
He had fought desperately to find some words that would show her what need his sick soul had of assurance, but he had found none. He could only stare at her dumbly, his wretched eyes assuring that it made, somehow, a huge difference.
“But why?”
And he had cried hopelessly, “Oh, I may be mad—I think I am—but I can’t get it out of my head. I keep wondering whether you—if you sent——”
“I?” She had cried out as sharply as though he had struck her, and then sat very still, fighting her way back to composure, inch by inch. When she spoke again her voice was very low, incredibly controlled.
“You are implying something that is too monstrous for sanity. May I ask what motive—what possible motive, however abominable—you think that I could have had for wrecking my husband’s career?”
He had whispered, “Oh, God forgive me, what motive had Antony’s Egypt? What motive have any of you for flaunting your power over us? You crack the whip, and we go crashing through the hoop of our dreams, smashing it—smashing it for ever.”
She had risen then, sweeping him from brow to heel with her unrelenting eyes.
“How you know us!” His heart had sickened under that terrible small laugh, cold as frozen water. And she had turned to the door, her head high. “If you can think such things of me—if you can even dream them—your presence here is simply an insult to us both. I must ask you to leave. And unless you realize the grotesque madness of your accusation, I must ask you not to come here again. That releases you from dinner to-morrow night, naturally. I don’t think that there is anything more to be said.”
No, there had been nothing more to be said—nothing. He could not remember how he had got himself out of the house—he could not remember anything save a dull nightmare of vacillation and despair, that had finally driven him back to the little room, whipped and beaten, ready to capitulate on any terms—ready for any life that would buy him a moment’s happiness. And now—now she would not come, even to accept his surrender. He turned from the mantel violently, and felt his heart contract in swift panic. A man was watching him intently from the other end of the room—a man with a hateful, twisted face—he caught his breath in a shaken laugh. Those damned nerves of his would wreck him yet! It was only his reflection in the cloudy Venetian mirror; the firelight and candlelight played strange tricks with it, shadowing it grotesquely—still, even looked at closely, it was nothing to boast of. He stood contemplating it grimly with its tortured mouth and haunted eyes—and then suddenly the air was full of violets. He turned slowly, a strange peace holding his tired heart. She had come to him; nothing else would ever matter again.
She was standing in the doorway, a little cloud of palest gray. It was the first time that he had seen her in light colours, and she had done something to her hair—caught it up with a great sparkling comb—it shone like pale fire. Her arms were quite full of violets—the largest ones that he had ever seen, like purple pansies. He stood drinking her in with his tired eyes, not even looking for words. It was she who spoke.
“Bridget told me that you were here. I thought that you were not coming to-night.”
He shook his head, with a torn and lamentable smile. “You said—until I realized my madness. Believe me—believe me, I have realized it, Lilah.”
She came slowly into the room, but the nearer she came to him the farther she seemed away, secure in her ethereal loveliness, her velvet eyes turned to ice.
“You have realized it, I am afraid, too late. There are still two tables of bridge upstairs; I have only a few minutes to give you. Was there anything that you wished to say?”
He shook his head dumbly, and she sank into the great chair, stifling a small yawn perfunctorily.
“Oh, I’m deathly tired. It’s been a hideous evening, from beginning to end. Come, amuse me, good tragedian, make me laugh just once, and I may forgive you. I may forgive you, even though you do not desire it.” Again that fleeting smile, exquisite and terrible.
But O’Hara was on his knees beside her.
“Delilah, don’t laugh, don’t laugh—I’m telling you the laughter is dead in me. I’d rather see you weeping for the poor, blind fool who lost the key to Paradise.”
“Who threw it away,” she amended, touching the violets with light fingers. “But never forget, it’s better not to have set your foot within its gates than to be exiled from it. Never forget that, my tragedian.”
He raised his head, haggard and alert. “Lilah, what do you mean?”
“Why, nothing—only Lucia Dane was here for dinner and she thought it—strange—that you and I should be the gossip of Washington these days. When she had finished with what you had said to her, I thought it strange, too. And I assured her that there would be no more cause for gossip.”
“I was mad when I talked to that little fool,” he told her fiercely. “Clean out of my head trying to fight off your magic. That was the first night—the first night that I owned to myself that I loved you.”
“Your madness seems to be recurrent,” she murmured. “You should take measures against it.”
“I have taken measures. It shall never touch you again. I know now that it has simply been an obsession—a hallucination—anything in Heaven or Hell that you want to call it. You have all my trust, all my faith.”
“It is a terrible thing not to trust a woman,” she said. “More terrible than you know. Sometimes it makes her unworthy of trust.”
“Not you,” he whispered. “Never.”
“We’re delicate machinery, tragedian. Touch a hidden spring in us with your clumsy fingers and the little thing that was ticking away as faithfully and peacefully as an alarm-clock stops for a minute—and then goes on ticking. Only it has turned to an infernal machine—and it will destroy you.”
She was silent for a moment, her fingers resting lightly on that bowed head. When she spoke again her voice was gentle. “Last night, after you had gone, I remembered what you had said about Antony and his Egypt, and I found the play. Parts of it still go singing through my head. They loved each other so, those two magnificent fools. He finds her treacherous a hundred times, and each time forgives her, and loves her again—and she repays him beyond belief—far, far beyond power and treachery and death. Do you remember his cry in that first hour of his disaster?
“‘O, whither hast thou led me, Egypt?’
“And when she weeps for pardon, how he tells her
“‘Fall not a tear, I say: one of them rates
All that is won and lost. Give me a kiss,
Even this repays me.’
“Though she has ruined him utterly—though he sees it and cries aloud
“‘O this false soul of Egypt! this grave charm,—
Whose eye becked forth my wars, and called them home,
Like a right gipsy hath at false and loose
Beguiled me to the very heart of loss.’
“Still, still his last thought is to reach her arms.
‘I am dying, Egypt, dying, only
I here importune death awhile, until
Of many thousand kisses the poor last
I lay upon thy lips.’”
“Why, he was well repaid,” said that strange, humble voice.
“I am glad that you feel that,” Delilah told him, and she rose swiftly. “Would you like to kiss me? You see, I have ruined you.”
O’Hara stumbled to his feet.
“What are you saying?” he whispered, a dreadful incredulity driving the words through his stiffened lips.
“That I have ruined you. I have sent your notes on the Irish situation to the other party.”
“You are mad.”
“No, no.” She shook her head reassuringly. “Quite sane. I didn’t address them in my own handwriting, naturally. The envelope is typewritten, but the notes are in long-hand; yours. The English Government will be forced to believe that for once it has misplaced its trust—but Ireland should pay you well—if she lives through civil war.”
“By God——” His voice failed him for a moment. “This is some filthy dream.”
“No dream, believe me.” She came closer to him, radiant and serene. “Did you think that I was a yellow-headed doll, that you could insult me beyond belief, mock me to my friends, slander me to the Committee of which I was a member? Monsieur De Nemours was good enough to warn me against you, also. I am no doll, you see; I happen to be a woman. We have not yet mastered that curiously devised code that you are pleased to term Honour—a code which permits you to betray a woman but not a secret—to cheat a man out of millions in business but not out of a cent at cards. It’s a little artificial, and we’re ridiculously primitive. We use lynch-law still; swift justice with the nearest weapon at hand.”
O’Hara was shaking like a man in a chill, his voice hardly above a whisper. “What have you done? What have you done, Delilah?”
“Don’t you understand?” She spoke with pretty patience, as though to some backward child. “I have ruined you—you and your Ireland, too. I sent——”
And suddenly, shaken and breathless, she was in his arms.
“Oh, Ireland—Ireland and I!” But even at that strange cry she never stirred. “It’s you—you who are ruined, my Magic—and it’s I who have done it, driving you to this ugly madness.” He held her as though he would never let her go, sheltering the bowed golden head with his hand. “Though I forgive you a thousand thousand times, how will you forgive yourself, my little Love? You who would not hurt a flower, where will you turn when you see what you have done?”
He could feel her tears on his hand; she was weeping piteously, like a terrified child.
“Oh, you do love me, you do love me! I was so frightened—I thought that you would never love me.”
He held her closer, infinitely careful of that shining fragility.
“I love nothing else.”
“Not Ireland?”
He closed his hunted eyes, shutting out Memory.
“I hated Ireland,” wept the small voice fiercely, “because you loved her so.”
“Hush, hush, my Heart.”
“But you do—you do love me best?”
“God forgive me, will you make me say so?”
There was a moment’s silence, then something brushed his hand, light as a flower, and Delilah raised her head.
“No, no, wait.” She was laughing, tremulous and exquisite. “Did you think—did you think that I had really sent your notes?”
O’Hara felt madness touching him; he stared down at her, voiceless.
“But of course, of course, I never sent them. They are upstairs; wait, I’ll get them for you—wait!”
She slipped from his arms and was half way to the door before his voice arrested her.
“Lilah!”
“Yes?”
“You say—that you have not sent the notes?”
“Darling idiot, how could you have thought that I would send them? This is Life, not melodrama!”
“You never—you never thought of sending them?”
“Never, never.” Her laughter rippled about him. “I wanted to see——”
But he was groping for the mantel, sick and dizzy now that there was no need of courage. Delilah was at his side in a flash, her arms about him.
“Oh, my dear!” He had found the chair but she still clung to him. “What is it? You’re ill—you’re ill!”
Someone was coming down the stairs; she straightened to rigidity, and was at the door in a flash.
“Captain Lawrence!”
The young Englishman halted abruptly—wheeled.
“Captain Lawrence, Mr. O’Hara is here; he had to see me about some papers, and he has been taken ill. He’s been overworking hideously lately. Will you get me some brandy for him?”
“Oh, I say, what rotten luck!” He lingered, concern touching his pleasant boyish face. “Where do I get the brandy, Mrs. Lindsay?”
“Ask Lucia Dane, she knows how to get hold of the maids. And hurry, will you?”
She was back at his side before the words had left; he could feel her fingers brushing his face like frightened butterflies, but he did not open his eyes. He was too mortally tired to lift his lids.
“Here you are, Mrs. Lindsay. Try this, old son. Steady does it.”
He swallowed, choked, felt the warm fire sweep through him, tried to smile, tried to rise.
“No, no, don’t move—don’t let him move, Captain Lawrence.”
“You stay where you are for a bit, young feller, my lad. Awfully sorry that I have to run, Mrs. Lindsay, but they telephoned for me from the Embassy. Some excitement about Turkey, the devil swallow them all. Good-night—take it easy, O’Hara!”
“Oh, Captain Lawrence!” He turned again. “Have you the letter that I asked you to mail?”
“Surely, right here. I’ll post it on my way over.”
“Thanks a lot, but I’ve decided not to send it, after all.” She stretched out her hand, smiling. “It’s an article on women in public life, and it’s going to need quite a few changes under the circumstances.”
“The circumstances?”
“Yes. You might tell them at the Embassy—if they’re interested. I’m handing in my resignation on the International Committee to-morrow.”
O’Hara gripped the arm of his chair until he felt it crack beneath his fingers. Captain Lawrence was staring at her in undisguised amazement.
“But I say! How in the world will they get along without you?”
“Oh, they’ll get along admirably.” She dismissed it as easily as though it were a luncheon engagement. “That young Lyons is the very man they need; he’s really brilliant and a perfect encyclopædia of information. I’ll see you at the Embassy on Friday, won’t I? Good-night.”
Her arms were about O’Hara before the hall door slammed.
“You’re better now? All right? Oh, you frightened me so! It wasn’t that foolish trick of mine that hurt you? Say no, say no—I couldn’t ever hurt you!”
“Never. I should be whipped for frightening you.” His arms were fast about her, but his eyes were straying. What had she done with that letter? He had caught a glimpse of it, quite a bulky letter, in a large envelope, with a typewritten address—typewritten.
“Have you noticed my hair?” The magic voice was touched with gayety again, and O’Hara brushed the silken mist with his lips, his eyes still seeking. “I remembered what you said, you see; it grows most awfully fast—one of these days it will be as long as Rappunzel’s or Melisande’s. Will you like it then?”
Ah, there it was, face down on the lacquer table. He drew a deep breath.
“Lilah, that letter—what did you say was in that letter?”
There was a sudden stillness in the room; he could hear the painted clock ticking clearly. Then she spoke quietly:
“It’s an article that I have written on women in public life. Didn’t you hear me telling Captain Lawrence?”
“Will you let me see it?”
Again that stillness; then, very gently, Delilah pushed away his arms and rose.
“No,” she said.
“You will not?”
“No.” The low voice was inflexible. “I know what you are thinking. You are thinking that those are the Irish notes; that I had fully intended to send them this evening; that it was only an impulse of mine that saved you, as it would have been an impulse that wrecked you. You are thinking that next time it may fall differently. And you are willing to believe me guilty until I am proved innocent. You have always been that—always.”
He bowed his head.
“I could hand you that envelope and prove that I am entirely innocent, but I’ll not purchase your confidence. It should be a gift—oh, it should be more. It is a debt that you owe me. Are you going to pay it?”
O’Hara raised haggard eyes to hers.
“How should I pay it?”
“If you insist on seeing this, I will show it to you; but I swear to you that I will never permit you to enter this house again; I swear it. Do you believe me?”
“Yes.”
“If you will trust me, I will give you your notes, love you for the rest of my life—marry you to-morrow.” She went to the table, picked up the envelope, and stood waiting. “What shall I do?”
He rose unsteadily, catching at the mantel. No use—he was beaten.
“Will you get me the notes?”
He saw her shake then, violently, from head to foot, but her eyes never wavered. She nodded, and was gone.
He stood leaning against the mantel, his dark head buried in his arms. Beaten! He would never know what was in that envelope—never, never. She could talk to all Eternity about faith and trust; he would go wondering all his life through. If he had stood his ground—if he had claimed the envelope and she had been proven innocent, he would have lost her but he would have found his faith. He had sold his soul to purchase her body. The painted clock struck once, and he raised his head——
No, no, he was mad. She was right—entirely, absolutely right—she was just and merciful, she who might have scourged him from her sight for ever. What reason in heaven or earth had he to distrust her? Because her voice was silver and her hair was gold? Because violets scattered their fragrance when she stirred? Oh, his folly was thrice damned. If he had a thousand proofs against her, he should still trust her. What was it that that chap Browning said?
“What so false as truth is
False to thee?”
That was what love should be—not this sick and faltering thing——
“Here are the notes,” said Delilah’s voice at his shoulder, and her eyes added, wistful and submissive: “And here am I.”
O’Hara took them in silence, his fingers folding them mechanically, measuring, weighing, appraising. The envelope could have held them easily——
She turned from him with a little cry.
“Oh, you are cruel, cruel!”
He stood staring at her for a moment—at the small, desolate figure with its bowed head, one arm flung across her eyes like a stricken child—and suddenly his heart melted within him. She was weeping, and he had made her weep. He took a swift step toward her, and halted. In the mirror at the far end of the room he could see her, dimly caught between firelight and candlelight, shadowy and lovely—in the mirror at the far end of the room she was smiling, mischievous and tragic and triumphant. He stared incredulously—and then swept her to him despairingly, burying his treacherous eyes in the bright hair in which clustered the invisible violets.