Who? Part 39

Cyril felt as if he were caught in a trap.

"My G.o.d," he cried, "you wouldn't do that! I swear to you that she is absolutely innocent. She was in a terrible situation and to say that she was my wife seemed the only way to save her. She doesn't even know I am married!"

"Really? And have you never considered that when she finds out the truth, she may fail to appreciate the delicacy which no doubt prevented you from mentioning the trifling fact of my existence? It is rather funny that your attempts to rescue forlorn damsels seem doomed to be unsuccessful! Or were your motives in this case not quite so impersonal as I fancied? Has Launcelot at last found his Guinevere? If so, I may yet be avenged vicariously."

"Your presence is punishment enough, I a.s.sure you, for all the sins I ever committed! But come to the point. What exactly is it that you are threatening me with?"

"Publicity, that is all. If neither you nor this woman object to its being known that you travelled together as man and wife, then I am powerless."

"But you have just acknowledged that you know that our relation is a harmless one," cried Cyril.

"I do not know it--but--yes, I believe it. Do you think, however, that any one else will do so?"

"Surely you would not be such a fiend as to wreck the life of an innocent young girl?"

"If her life is wrecked, whose fault is it? Not mine, at all events. It was you who by publicly proclaiming her to be your wife, made it impossible for her disgrace to remain a secret. Don't you realise that even if I took no steps in the matter, sooner or later the truth is bound to be discovered? Now I--and I alone--can save you from the consequences of your folly. If you will agree not to divorce me, I promise not only to keep your secret, but to protect the good name of this woman by every means in my power."

"I should like to know what you expect to gain by trying to force me to take you back? Is it the t.i.tle that you covet, or do you long to s.h.i.+ne in society? But remember that in order to do that, you would have radically to reform your habits."

"I have no intention of reforming and I don't care a fig for conventional society!"

"You tell me that you no longer love me and that you found existence with me unsupportable. Why then are you not willing to end it?"

"It is true, I no longer love you, but while I live, no other woman shall usurp my place."

"Your place! When you broke your marriage vows, you forfeited your right to a place in my life. But I will make a compact with you. You can have all the money you can possibly want as long as you neither do nor say anything to imperil the reputation of the young lady in question."

"All the wealth in the world could not buy my silence!"

"This is too horrible!" cried Cyril almost beside himself. "In order to s.h.i.+eld a poor innocent child, you demand that I sacrifice my freedom, my future, even my honour? Have you no sense of justice, no pity?"

"None. I have said my last word. It is now for you to decide whether I am to go or stay. Well--which is it to be?"

Cyril looked into her white, set face; what he read there destroyed his last, lingering hope.

"Stay," he muttered through his clenched teeth.

CHAPTER XX

"I KNOW IT, COUSIN CYRIL"

Cyril leaned wearily back in his chair. He was in that state of apathetic calm which sometimes succeeds a violent emotion. Of his wife he had neither seen or heard anything since they parted the night before.

"My lord!"

Cyril started, for he had not noticed Peter's entrance and the suppressed excitement of the latter's manner alarmed him.

"What is the matter now?" he demanded.

"She's 'ere, my lord," replied Peter, dropping his voice till it was almost a whisper.

Cyril sprang from his seat.

"Who?" he cried. "Speak up, can't you?"

"The--the young lady, my lord, as you took charge of on the train. I was just pa.s.sing through the 'all as she came in and so----"

"Here?" exclaimed Cyril. "Why didn't you show her up at once?"

"But, my lord," objected Peter. "If 'er Ladys.h.i.+p should 'ear----"

"Mind your own business, you fool, or----"

But Peter had already scuttled out of the room.

Cyril waited, every nerve strung to the highest tension. Was he again to be disappointed? Yet if his visitor was really Anita, some new misfortune must have occurred! It seemed to him ages before the door again opened and admitted a small, cloaked figure, whose features were practically concealed by a heavy veil. A glance, however, sufficed to a.s.sure him that it was indeed Anita who stood before him. While Cyril was struggling to regain his composure, she lifted her veil. The desperation of her eyes appalled him.

"My G.o.d, what is the matter?" cried Cyril, striding forward and seizing her hands.

She gently disengaged herself.

"Lord Wilmersley--" Cyril jumped as if he had been shot. "Yes," she continued, "I know who you are. I also know who I am."

"But who told you?" stuttered Cyril.

"You did," she quietly replied.

"I? What do you mean?"

For the first time the ghost of a smile hovered round her lips.

"You called me Anita! You didn't know that, did you?"

"Did I really? What a blundering fool I have been from first to last!"

Cyril exclaimed remorsefully.

"You need not reproach yourself. For some days I had been haunted by fragmentary visions of the past and before I saw you yesterday, I was practically certain that you were not my husband. Oh! It was not without a struggle that I finally made up my mind that you had deceived me. I told myself again and again that you were not the sort of a man who would take advantage of an unprotected girl; yet the more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that my suspicions were correct.

Then I tried to imagine what reason you could have for posing as my husband, but I could think of none. I was in despair! I didn't know what to do, whom to turn to; for if I could not trust you, whom could I trust? When I heard my name, it was as if a dim light suddenly flooded my brain. I knew who I was. I remembered leaving Geralton, but little by little I realised with dismay that I was still completely in the dark as to who you were, why you had come into my life. It seemed to me that if I could not discover the truth, I should go mad. Then I decided to appeal to Miss Trevor. She was a woman. She looked kind. She would tell me! I was somehow convinced that she did not know who I was, but I said to myself that she would certainly have heard of my disappearance, for I could not believe that Arthur had allowed me to go out of his life without moving heaven and earth to find me."

"You did not know----?"

Anita shook her head.

"No; it was Miss Trevor who told me that Arthur was dead--that he had been murdered." She shuddered convulsively. "You see," she added with pathetic humility, "there are still so many things I do not remember.

Even now I can hardly believe that I, I of all people, killed my husband." Great tears coursed slowly down her cheeks.