“Think what—what a mockery this is to me!”
What could I reply? Here was a girl not yet twenty, married only a few days and then deserted. Her distress was very real and very pitiful. It had been on the tip of my tongue to tax her with her concealment from me of Ruthen’s visits, but in view of what she was suffering I could not bring myself to pain her further. Either she loved her husband, in spite of his apparently callous desertion of her, or, for some inexplicable reason she was playing a part with a skill that many an actress would envy.
More and more I was tortured by my growing love for her. Hitherto I had kept it within bounds, and, so far as I knew, I had never—intentionally, at any rate—given a hint of it to Thelma herself. But as I look back, I can see now that such a restraint could not be maintained. A crash was bound to come. It came, very swiftly and very suddenly a few days later.
Thelma and her mother had promised to come and have tea with me in my rooms at Russell Square. At the last moment Mrs. Shaylor was called to Watford to see her sister who had been taken ill, and Thelma came alone. She was in comparatively good spirits and after my old housekeeper had served us with tea, we spent a couple of delightful hours. Thelma, an accomplished musician, sang to me, accompanying herself on my piano, and as I sat watching and listening to her I realized more fully than ever how handsome and lovable she was and my anger against Stanley Audley became almost unbearable.
“Poor mother!” she exclaimed presently as she re-seated herself by the fire, after singing a gay song from one of the latest revues, “She’s awfully worried. That’s why we are up in town. The securities which my father left are depreciating in value, and one of the companies in which he invested most of his money has now gone into liquidation. She came up to see my uncle, who is her trustee. Yes, Mr. Yelverton, the war spelt ruin to us, as it did to so many others, and yet the Stock Exchange speculators made fortunes out of it—out of lives of men.”
It was sad news she had told me, but I had not been blind to the fact that Mrs. Shaylor was, like so many other gentlewomen of today, keeping up a brave appearance, with but small funds at her disposal.
I longed to mention Harold Ruthen, but did not dare to do so lest I should betray what her mother had told me in confidence. But I was angry that the fellow dared to seek her at Bexhill and cause her worry. It, however, proved one fact, that he, at any rate, was not aware of Stanley’s whereabouts, and, for the moment, could not do him the harm that I believe he fully intended.
How one’s most momentous actions depend at times upon the merest trivialities! I little guessed that a trifle was to rouse in me a gust of emotion destined to sweep away the last vestige of the iron self-control I had honestly tried to set upon myself.
Thelma was the wife of another man: that fact I had tried to keep always before my mind. I was to learn now that there are, in each one of us, forces too strong to be enchained by any man-made codes of conduct.
Thelma had seated herself in a low chair and was gazing sadly into the fire. Either her gaiety had been a pretense or the thought of her unhappy position had again overcome her.