"Wait! Listen to my plan. I've only just thoroughly worked it out. I——"
"Yet you told us a minute ago that you'd decided on this marriage before sailing."
"That's true. But don't be so hard on me. You promised to be kind judges. Put yourself in my place, if you can, Mrs. Sorel. My love for your girl is more than love. It's a flame—a driving passion. Can a man reason coldly when his blood, and his brain too, are on fire! I had to come with her to New York. I couldn't look ahead further than that. I mean to make some plan, and God knows I've tried, day and night. I've thought of little else. But every idea I had was shut up inside what they call a 'vicious circle.' I could see no way out that Marise would accept—or you would let her accept. Then this last cable of old Con's came to-day, while I was at Belloc's. It is a kind of ultimatum. I know he means me to understand that. You can see it if you like—only let me go on now—as I'm started. It would be worse beginning again. He says he's down with 'flu, and Œnone is ill too, and he must see me to 'settle the matter under discussion, or it may be too late.' Those are his words. They're a threat. By Jove, it was a douche, reading that in the midst of a jolly luncheon! I saw stars: but one of them has sent me a ray of light. I almost prayed to get its message. First time I've prayed since I was in the nursery! Yet here I am on my knees to you both, to tell you what the star said.
"Uncle Con may have 'flu, and he may die, but he's sure to tie everything up tight. I'm marked for slaughter. There's no squirming out. But poor Œnone can't live long, even if she gets the toy she wants to play with—me. Her father doesn't thoroughly realise that she's doomed, but her doctors do. One of them is a friend of mine. He told me. She's got some queer kind of incipient tuberculosis, and chronic anæmia. Happiness—such as I can give her—will only be a flash in the pan. I'll be more of a nurse than a husband. Well, I'm willing to go through all that, and do my honest best for her, while she lives. But if I'm to live, I can't be separated for a year—or at worst, let's say two years—from the light of my life, the core of my heart. I must be able to meet Marise, to have her society, her friendship—by God, I swear I mean no evil! I must have something, I tell you, if I'm to get through that probation. Well, I see as clearly as you both see that we must have no scandal—for her sake—and for mine, too—and even for Œnone's. I don't want to distress the poor little thing! So here's the plan that jumped into my brain ready made. Don't cut me short—don't tell me to stop before I've explained—before I've got to the end."
"Go on," said Mary Sorel, in a strained voice. Marise did not speak. She felt dazed, as if she were in a feverish dream.
"Suppose I marry; suppose I bring my—suppose I bring Œnone (I can hardly call her a 'wife') over to America for a change of air, a tonic. She'd like that. She's always wanted to travel, but her father had no time; and she wouldn't have been happy with paid guardians. I'd paint a glowing picture of California—or Arizona: they say it's great out there for tubercular people. Even Œnone's own father would approve of such a trip if—if Marise were supposed to be out of the running. Don't speak! I'm going to explain! What I mean is this....
"Old Con is the opposite of a mole. He knows I've been a different man this last year. He ferreted out the truth somehow—did it himself, or with a detective's help. Probably himself: he's that kind. He doesn't trust his secrets to others. He didn't object openly to my American mission. In a way, it was an honour. But, of course, he learned that I was sailing on the ship with you two. He hasn't given me a day's rest since we landed. I wired I'd had 'flu. (I did get a cold last week!) Then he took a leaf out of my book. Now he's developed the disease! If Marise were acting in New York and touring the States, he'd smell a rat if I prescribed America for my bride's health. But if Marise were married to another man, and had left the stage——"
"Good heavens!" Mary bounded on the sofa, and gasped aloud. But Severance pressed her down with a strong arm.
"You promised to let me finish!" he urged. "Now you'll begin to understand why I wouldn't say all this to Marise alone. Asking you to be with us proves my respect for her—for you both. This isn't only the plea of a desperate man—though it's that first of all! It's a business proposition. The day I marry Œnone Ionides, I become master of a million pounds. That's five million dollars. One million of those five million dollars I would offer to a—dummy husband for Marise. Let me go on! A man who'd understand that he was to be a figurehead, and nothing more. You'd say—if you'd say anything—that only a cur in the gutter would take such a position, and a cur in the gutter would be of no use to us. To rise above suspicion—even old Con's suspicion!—He'd have to be a decent sort of chap to all appearances, a man who might attract a girl—even a girl like Marise. He'd have to have some money of his own already, and some sort of standing. With that in his favour, the world and my uncle would accept him as a husband Miss Sorel might choose. Such a person could be found—for a million dollars. I know men of all sorts, and I guarantee that. With a million dollars behind her, Marise could give up the stage—she'd do that, anyhow, if she married me. She could travel west with her dummy husband (and her mother, of course, that goes without saying!) By that time, I'd be over here again with poor Œnone. We could all meet—by accident. In England, even that might make talk. England's too small for us. But over here, in a big free country—especially out west—it would be safe. We should see each other, Marise and I. And I'd ask no more than that. For a while I could live on the sight of her—and hope. When Œnone's little spark of life burns out, as it must before long, with the best of care possible, Marise at once divorces her dummy. He gives her technical cause, of course. That's part of the bargain I make with my million. No breath of scandal against Marise! And, a few months later, she and I are married. There's only this short road of red-hot ploughshares for us both to tread. Then, instead of marrying a pauper, such as I am now, and both of us battening on her bank account—she'd perhaps be forced to go back on the stage to keep the pot boiling—my darling girl finds herself the wife of a very rich man, one of the richest peers in Great Britain. For in addition to old Con's million pounds, I should have Œnone's private fortune. He has agreed to that, with her, in the event of her death, which he hopes may be long delayed by happiness, and which I know won't—can't possibly be.... There! I've finished at last! The only thing left is for me to tell you over again that my life depends on your decision. I believe I'll kill myself if the answer is 'No.'"