§ 7
“Am I mad?” said Christina Alberta as soon as she and Paul Lambone were in the street together. “Am I dreaming?”
Lambone was clumsy. “Mad? Dreaming? How?”
“Oh! don’t pretend not to understand. That he’s my real father? Don’t pretend! or, please don’t pretend! Is he or is he not?”
Lambone did not reply for a moment. “You flash at things—like a lizard. How could it have happened?”
“Then you did think?”
“My dear Christina Alberta, he didn’t know you existed until he set eyes on you. I’m sure of that.”
“But then. Wasn’t it plain? He knew them both!”
“Devizes,” said Lambone, “is ten years younger than I am. He’s barely forty. He must have been—not more than eighteen. Nineteen at most. It’s a little difficult.”
“That makes it easier. You never knew mother. If they were both young——”
“It’s just possible,” said Lambone, “there is some other explanation.”
“But what?”
“Can’t imagine. I suppose he was at Sheringham—perhaps for a holiday—and met her. But——”
“It must have been something casual, a kind of accident. Mother used to have flashes.... I never quite understood her. She used to suppress me, and perhaps she was suppressing herself.... And at the end—she said something. Someone had left her to it.... Do you know—at times—I’ve had fancies—suspicions! It seemed as though she guessed that I was guessing. Now I know—I was. It’s incredible. And yet it explains a hundred things.”
“He certainly never knew of you. He’s—amazed.”
“And what’s going to happen next?”
“Legally you’re Preemby’s daughter. Nothing can alter that. All the resemblances and coincidences in the world won’t alter that.”
“And all the law in the world won’t alter the facts. And——”
She turned on Lambone with a flushed face. “Do you realize what it means to think you are the daughter of a certified lunatic? And then find you are not? All last night I was awake with that unendurable thought.”
“All night—at your age!”
“It seemed all night. Last night—I tried to imagine that something of this sort had happened. Tried—and couldn’t. Tried to bring back all those old fancies. And here it is! I might have known. I did know and wouldn’t know.
“Tell me about this real father of mine. I don’t know a thing about him. Is he a good man? Is he a bad man? Has he a wife?”
“He adored his wife. And so did I. She was one of the loveliest and cleverest young women I’ve ever known. She was strong and jolly—and the beastly influenza and pneumonia got her. In a week. It cut him to ribbons. They’d had no children. They’d had only four years together. He’s attractive to women, but I don’t think there’ll be a second Mrs. Devizes for a long time. I can’t imagine it. Any other woman! Why! All that house—it’s full of her presence.”
“Yes,” said Christina Alberta, and thought for a time.
They were detached for a time in crossing Bond Street, and the pavement was too crowded and Piccadilly was too congested for them to talk again until they went in St. James’ Street.
“Daddy,” said Christina Alberta, “seems ten thousand miles away. But when I’m over the amazement of this I expect I’ll get back to him all right. But just for a time—he must wait.”
“You’ll come in for a bit?” said Lambone at the corner of Half Moon Street. “I could give you some dinner.”
“No, thanks. I’ll walk all the way to Chelsea,” said Christina Alberta. “I want to think this out by myself. I want to get alone with this spinning head of mine and try to slow it down. My life’s gone topsy-turvy. Or it’s been topsy-turvy and it’s suddenly come right side up. I don’t know which. Oh!—I don’t know anything. I’ve got to begin all over again.”
She shook hands and paused. Lambone waited, for manifestly she had something to say. She got it out at last.
“Do you think—he liked me?”
“He liked you all right, Christina Alberta. Don’t you worry about that.”