The Firing Line Part 52

"I don't know, Louis. Am I? How can I tell? Whom am I to ask? I _could_ ask my own mother if I had one--even if it hurt her. Mothers are made for pain--as we young girls are. Miserable, wretched, deceitful, frightened as I am I _could_ tell her--tell her all.... The longing to have her, to tell her has become almost--almost unendurable--lately....

I have so much need of her.... You don't know the desolation of it--and the fear! I beg your pardon for talking this way. It's over now. You see I am quite calm."

"Can't you confide in your--other mother--"

"I have no right. She did not bear me."

"It is the same as though you were her own; she feels so--"

"She cannot feel so! Nor can I. If I could I would take my fears and sorrows and my sins to her. I could take them to my own mother, for both our sakes; I cannot, to her, for my own sake alone. And never can."

"Then--I don't understand! You have just suggested telling her about ourselves, haven't you?"

"Yes. But not that it has been a horror--a mistake. If I tell her--if I think it necessary--best--to tell them, I--it will be done with mask still on--cheerfully--asking pardon with a smile--I do not lack that kind of courage. I can do that--if I must."

"There will be a new ceremony?"

"If they wish.... I can't--can't talk of it yet, unless I'm driven to it--"

He looked quietly around at her. "What drives you, s.h.i.+ela?"

Her eyes remained resolutely fixed on the road ahead, but her cheeks were flaming; and he turned his gaze elsewhere, thoughtful, chary of speech, until at last the lights of the station twinkled in the north.

Then he said, carelessly friendly: "I'll just say this: that, being of no legitimate use to anybody, if you find any use for me, you merely need to say so."

"Thank you, Louis."

"No; I thank you! It's a new sensation--to be of legitimate use to anybody. Really, I'm much obliged."

"Don't speak so bitterly--"

"Not at all. Short of being celestially translated and sinlessly melodious on my pianola up aloft, I had no hope of ever being useful to you and Hamil--"

She turned a miserable and colourless face to his and he ceased, startled at the tragedy in such young eyes.

Then he burst out impulsively: "Oh, why don't you cut and run with him!

Why, you little ninny, if I loved anybody like that I'd not worry over the morals of it!"

"What!" she gasped.

"Not I! Make a nunnery out of me if you must; clutch at me for sanctuary, if you want to; I'll stand for it! But if you'll listen to me you'll give up romantic martyrdom and sackcloth, put on your best frock, smile on Hamil, and go and ask your mother for a bright, s.h.i.+ny, brand-new divorce."

Revolted, incensed, eyes brilliant with anger, she sat speechless and rigid, clutching the steering-wheel as he nimbly descended to the platform.

"Good-bye, s.h.i.+ela," he said with a haggard smile. "I meant well--as usual."

Something about him as he stood there alone in the lamp's white radiance stilled her anger by degrees.

"Good-bye," she said with an effort.

He nodded, replaced his hat, and turned away.

"Good-bye, Louis," she said more gently.

He retraced his steps, and stood beside the motor, hat off. She bent forward, generous, as always, and extended her hand.

"What you said to me hurt," she said. "Do you think it would not be easy for me to persuade myself? I believe in divorce with all my heart and soul and intelligence. I _know_ it is right and just. But not for me....

Louis--how can I do this thing to them? How can I go to them and disclose myself as a common creature of common origin and primitive impulse, showing the crack in the gay gilding and veneer they have laboured to cover me with?... I cannot.... I could endure the disgrace myself; I cannot disgrace them. Think of the ridicule they would suffer if it became known that for two years I had been married, and now wanted a public divorce? No! No! There is nothing to do, nothing to hope for.... If it is--advisable--I will tell them, and take your name openly.... I am so uncertain, so frightened at moments--so perplexed.

There is no one to tell me what to do.... And, believe me, I am sorry for you--I am deeply, deeply sorry! Good-bye."

"And I for you," he said. "Good-bye."

She sat in her car, waiting, until the train started.

CHAPTER XVII

ECHOES

Some minutes later, on the northward speeding train, he left Portlaw playing solitaire in their own compartment, and, crossing the swaying corridor, entered the state-room opposite. Miss Wilming was there, reading a novel, an enormous bunch of roses, a box of bonbons, and a tiny kitten on the table before her. The kitten was so young that it was shaky on its legs, and it wore very wide eyes and a blue bow.

"h.e.l.lo, Dolly," he said pleasantly. She answered rather faintly.

"What a voice--like the peep of an infant sparrow! Are you worrying?"

"A little."

"You needn't be. Alphonse will make a noise, of course, but you needn't mind that. The main thing in life is to know what you want to do and do it. Which I've never yet done in my life. Zut! Zut!!--as our late Count Alphonse might say. And he'll say other remarks when he finds you've gone, Dolly." And Malcourt, who was a mimic, shrugged and raised his arms in Gallic appeal to the G.o.ds of wrath, until he mouthed his face into a startling resemblance to that of the bereft n.o.bleman.

Then he laughed a little--not very heartily; then, in a more familiar role, he sat down opposite the girl and held up one finger of admonition and consolation.

"The main thing, Dolly, was to get clear of him--and all that silly business. Yes? No? Bon!... And now everything is cleared up between us, and I've told you what I'd do--if you really wanted a chance. I believe in chances for people."

The girl, who was young, buried her delicate face in the roses and looked at him. The kitten, balanced on tiny, wavering legs, stared hard at him, too. He looked from girl to kitten, conscious of the resemblance, and managed to smother a smile.

"You said," he repeated severely, "that you wanted a chance. I told you what I could and would do; see that you live and dress decently, stand for your musical, dramatic, athletic, and terpsich.o.r.ean education and drilling--but not for one atom of nonsense. Is that clear?"

She nodded.

"Not one break; not one escapade, Dolly. It's up to you."

"I know it."

"All right, then. What's pa.s.sed doesn't count. You start in and see what you can do. They say they drag one about by the hair at those dramatic schools. If they do, you've got to let 'em. Anyway, things ought to come easier to you than to some, for you've got a corking education, and you don't drink sloe-gin, and you don't smoke."

"And I _can_ cook," added the girl gravely, looking at her childish ringless hands. The rings and a number of other details had been left behind addressed to the count.