But that was exactly what Jim Bainbridge intended to dissuade him from doing. The moral rights of the case were too subtle for him to grasp; but he appreciated fully the insuperable difficulties of a readjustment under existing conditions. The lives of three people would be upset and the happiness of none secured. The only way to avoid further muddle was to allow the present muddle to go on. That was how he saw it; and he hoped to persuade Hallam into taking his view.
“Do many people know of your return?” he asked.
Hallam looked surprised.
“Only Huntley and yourself.”
“In your place, I should clear out,” Bainbridge advised. “Why not leave the country altogether, Paul? I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
As the drift of his meaning dawned on him, Hallam’s face hardened; the grey eyes shone steel-like. Jim Bainbridge, observing him closely, realised that the task he had set himself would prove no easy matter; but he braced himself to fight for the peace of mind of the woman whose happiness hung in the balance.
“You know,” he added, after a brief moment for reflection, “your long absence, your silence, amount pretty near to desertion. I don’t know much about the blooming divorce laws in this country; but I fancy if we stretched our imaginations a bit we could make out a good case. Clear out, Paul. Make it a case of desertion proper. It’s the only decent course to take. You don’t want to injure Esmé further. Leave her alone.”
“And condone a bigamy—in which my own wife is concerned! She is my wife. I will agree to a divorce only if she wishes it.”
“Man, can’t you see the unnecessary cruelty of letting her know you’re alive? She’s got used to thinking of you as dead. She’s happy.” Bainbridge leaned nearer to him and threw out a protesting hand. “It’s hard on you. I admit it’s hard on you—damned hard. But—hang it all!—you created the muddle. If it were only a matter of your claim against George’s, I wouldn’t offer advice; but it isn’t. It’s a case which would baffle Solomon himself. There’s a kid—a baby girl. If I’m not mistaken, the baby’s got a stronger claim than either of you two men. Some women are like that. Esmé lives for the child.”
He broke off, heated by his unusual eloquence, and uncomfortably aware of the expression of black hate on his listener’s face. Hallam sat silent, staring straight before him. The news of the child was the last dreg of bitterness in the cup which he was forced to drain. The thought of the child infuriated him, filled him with intolerable jealousy. Esmé, his wife,—with a child—which was not his! The thing would not bear thinking about. And yet it stuck in his thoughts, tormented his thoughts, would not be dismissed however much he strove to thrust it aside. In the moment when Jim Bainbridge let fall this bomb Hallam’s feeling for his wife underwent a sudden revulsion. It seemed to him that his love died as surely as if it had never been. It seemed to him, too, though he knew the thought to be an injustice, that the wife he had loved was unworthy, was no better than a light woman. She had consoled herself very speedily. His years of self-discipline had been spent in vain. He had gained a victory over himself at a terrible price—the price of his wife. He had lost the fruits of his labour; even as a man who will sometimes strive, putting all his endeavour into one harvest, to be ruthlessly cheated of the profit of his toil by some unforeseen calamity, such as drought or other disaster. These things happen: it is the throw of the dice of chance.