“I was. But that something saved me—the something that drove me to find you. I walked here, by roundabout ways, but always coming nearer and nearer, as if being drawn into a whirlpool. At last, I was in this street, on the side opposite your house. I hadn’t made up my mind yet, that I would try to see you. I didn’t know what I would do. I stood still, and tried to think. It was very black, in the angle between two garden walls where the big plane tree sprouts up, you know. Nobody who didn’t expect to find a man would have noticed me in the darkness. I hadn’t been there for two minutes when a man turned the corner, walking very fast. As he passed the street lamp just before reaching the garden wall, I saw him plainly—not his face, but his figure, and he was young and well dressed, in travelling clothes. I thought he looked like an Englishman. He went straight to your gate and rang. A moment later someone, I couldn’t see who, opened the gate and let him in. Involuntarily I took a step forward, with the idea of following—of pushing my way in to see who he was and who had opened the gate. But I wasn’t quite mad enough to act like a cad. The gate shut. Oh, Maxine, there were evil and cruel thoughts in my mind, I confess it to you—but how they made me suffer! I stood as if I were turned to stone, and I only wished that I might be, for a stone knows no pain. Just then a motor cab going slowly along the street stopped in front of your gate. There were two women in it. I could see them by the light of the street lamp, though not as plainly as I’d seen the man, and they appeared to be arguing very excitedly about something. Whatever it was, it must have been in some way concerned with you, or your affairs, because they were tremendously interested in the house. They both looked out, and one pointed several times. Even if I’d intended to go in, I wouldn’t have gone while they were there. But the very fact that they were there roused me out of the kind of lethargy of misery I’d fallen into. I wondered who they were, and if they meant you harm or good. When they had driven away I made up my mind that I would see you if I could. I tried the gate, and found it unlocked. I walked in, and—there were lights in these windows. I knew you couldn’t have gone to bed yet, though you’d said you were so tired. There was death in my heart then, for you and for me, Maxine, for—the gate hadn’t opened again, and—”
“I know what you thought!” I broke in, my heart beating so now that my voice shook a little, though I struggled to seem calm. “You said to yourself, ‘It was Maxine who let the man in. He is with her now. I shall find them together.’”
“Yes,” Raoul admitted. “But I didn’t try the handle of the door, as I had of the gate. I rang. I couldn’t bring myself to take you unawares.”
“Do you think still that I let a man in, and hid him when I heard you ring?” I asked. (For an instant I was inclined to tell the story Ivor had advised me to tell; but I saw how excited Raoul was; I saw how, in painting the picture for me, he lived through the scene again, and, in spite of himself, suffered almost as keenly as he had suffered in the experience. I saw how his suspicions of me came crawling into his heart, though he strove to lash them back. I dared not bring Ivor out from the other room, if he were still there. He was too handsome, too young, too attractive in every way. If Raoul had been jealous of Count Godensky, whom he knew I had refused, what would he feel towards Ivor Dundas, a stranger whose name I had never mentioned, though he was received at my house after midnight? I was thankful I hadn’t taken Ivor’s advice and introduced the two men at first, for in his then mood Raoul would have listened to no explanations. He and I would never have arrived at the understanding we had reached now. And not having been frank at first, I must be secret to the end.)
The very asking of such a bold question—“Do you think I let a man in, and hid him?” helped my cause with Raoul.
“No,” he said, “I can’t think it. I won’t, and don’t think it. And you need tell me nothing. I love you. And so help me God, I won’t distrust you again!”
Just as it entered my mind to risk everything on the chance that Ivor had by this time found his way out, I heard, or fancied I heard, a faint sound in the next room. He was there still.
Instead of throwing open the door, as it had occurred to me to do, saying, “Let us look for the man, and make sure no one else let him in,” I laughed out abruptly, as if on a sudden thought, but really to cover the sound if it should come again.
“Oh, Raoul!” I exclaimed, in the midst of the laughter with which I surprised him. “You’re taking this too seriously. A thousand times I thank you for trusting me in spite of appearances, but—after all, were they so much against me? You seem to think I am the only young woman in this house. Marianne, poor dear, is old enough, it’s true. But I have a femme de chambre and a cuisinière, both under twenty-five, both pretty, and both engaged to be married.” (This was true. Ah, what a comfort to speak the truth to him!) “Doesn’t it occur to you that, at this very moment, a couple of lovers may be sitting hand in hand on the seat under the old yew arbour? Can’t you imagine how they started and tried to hold their breath lest you should hear, as you opened the gate and came up the path?”
“Forgive me!” murmured Raoul, in the depths of remorse again.