Chapter XIV
“What you venture to propose to me now, Colonel Graeme, is, in plain English, a double establishment, over one of which I am to have the honour of presiding, and this, I suppose,” tapping a slip of paper in her hand, “is my first quarter’s housekeeping allowance?”
Stara’s voice was like the dropping of ice-cold water and her eyes steely as she stood up, straight and slim, every faculty alert and concentrated on the crushing of her opponent, who was carelessly lounging against the ship’s rail, his half-closed eyes fixed on hers.
“The exact opposite, as of course you know; but ‘even as the sepia darkens the water with ink, so does woman.’”
The thin ice of Stara’s composure flew into a thousand sparkling fragments, the grey eyes darkened as she moved towards him, her small hands clenched.
“You, you stand there and jibe at me! You insult a girl you professed to—to care for, and then laugh at her. You... devil!”
“I told you I loved you, if that’s what you mean by professing. I say so now, and give you the greatest proof I can.”
“How? By proposing to degrade me, me who you said was sacred to you, by a low intrigue? Your wife one day, I suppose, and me the next. I’m to be your toy, an amusement when you tire of her or want distraction from your soldiering. A proof of love, faugh! This cheque’s another proof, I suppose you think.”
“Hadn’t you better be quiet and listen?”
The thicker ice of Graeme’s self-control was now beginning to crack ominously.
“I won’t. I hate you. You took advantage of a moment of weakness any other man would have respected, to—to make me say things. You swore I could trust you, and I, like a fool, believed it, and against my own judgment let things be as before. I’ve sat with you, tried to amuse you, dressed for you even, why, it was for you I put on this dress to-night, because you said you liked it and this was our last night together. And all the time you were thinking, planning... this.”
She stopped suddenly, for Graeme, all pretence of composure abandoned, had seized her by the shoulders and was shaking her. For a moment she faced him bravely, and then before his anger hers died. She began to tremble, and then broke down and sobbed.
“Now, will you listen to me? If I have to keep you here all night to do it, I’ll make you in the end. You’re wrong, altogether wrong.”
“I won’t. I don’t want to hear; and how—how can I be wrong? You said you wanted me to belong to you, and how can I, except in—in the way I said? You’re married, and—and... you gave me money; it’s the money which kills me!” And passion reawakening, she flung the cheque from her over the rail. For a moment it fluttered in the breeze, and then was blown back again to their feet. Hector picked it up, smoothed it out, and, after looking at it for a moment, put it in his pocket.
“Perhaps it’s as well you did not present this, Stara,” he said; “I forgot to date it, as I usually do. Now, if you’re ready and won’t interrupt, I’ll explain.”
“You can’t. Don’t try to. I shan’t believe you whatever you say. Oh, go on then.”
“I’ll take the money first; that’s a trifle, the other’s not. You remember some time ago, when I told you I was always hard up, you offered me your quarter’s allowance. Fifty pounds it was—all you had.”
“That was different.”
“And you said that surely one friend could do a little thing like that for another. Did I fly out at you then?”
“But you didn’t take it.”
“Because I didn’t want the money. You do. There are those bills you told me about.”
“I would never have told you, had I thought you’d take advantage like this. That’s not what I did it for.”
“I know that as well as you do, but all the same you did tell me, and you said that, when you reached London, they’d probably serve a writ on you. Now, I’m not going to have you bothered by beastly tradespeople, and so I did the little thing you said one friend might do for another—I wrote you a cheque.”
“Hector, will you swear that was all you meant?”
“Certainly I will.”
“Oh... We’ll let that pass, then, though I don’t say I believe it, mind. And now for the other, rather more difficult of explanation, I imagine.”
“I’m coming to that presently. First, you must take this money.”
“I will not, the idea.”
“I’ll give you another cheque to-morrow morning. That’s settled. Now...”
“Oh, please, please don’t ask me. Well, if—if I do, I won’t spend the money.”
“Please yourself about that; and now for the other.” He paused, and then again seizing her by the shoulders while the glow in his eyes became a leaping flame, went on: “We love each other, Stara, and love such as ours must be satisfied. What do conventions matter to you and me; leave them to the weak fools whose lives they trammel. Belong to me you shall, not, as you think, by paltry deceit, but openly, for the whole world to see. It’s marriage I offer you, not dishonour.”
Stara looked up at him bewildered.
“Are you mad, Hector, your wife?”
“What is she to me—what is anything to me? Stara, in the whole world I can see but one thing now, you, and you I swear to have.”
“I don’t understand. You’re married; nothing can alter that. Oh, why talk about impossibilities?”
“There’s nothing impossible to me. There never was from the time you told me you loved me. Listen and I’ll tell you what I mean to do. To-morrow I shall see her—I will call her ‘my wife’ no longer, Stara—and I’ll tell her it’s you I love and not her. I’ll say, too, I’ve come to break with her, that the past is finished and a new life begun. Oh, I’ve thought it all out; the thing’s as good as done now.”
“I won’t be party to such a hateful bargain. Besides, what if—if she won’t?”
“She will, she’s a sensible woman; she will understand and set me free, and then, then, Stara, I shall claim you.”
“You shall not, I won’t be a party to this, I say. Oh Hector, dear, this is madness. Think what you’re saying, think what it means, to abandon a wife of ten years for a woman you met but three weeks ago, the dragging of your name through the mud of the Divorce Court. Never, Hector, never!”
“Such things are nothing to me, but you do what you like, consent or not as you like. I shall do it all the same. Can’t you see it’s my love for you that has made it impossible for me to go back to her?”
“But, Hector, we—you would forget in time; you will come together again and—and be glad.”
“Like they do in moral story books, I suppose, and why should we? We’ve got a chance of heaven now; we don’t get many. D’you think I’m going to give up that for mere paltry scruples? Bah! you’re but a weakling after all.”
“I’m not, only I happen to have some sense of honour and the ordinary feelings of humanity. Oh, please, please, listen to me.”
“Spare yourself the trouble; my mind’s made up. It’s but a small thing lies between us and happiness, and now you shrink from it, though you’re not asked to do anything but look on.”
“A small thing, great heavens, you call this a small thing!”
“Anything’s small that stands between you and me.”
Stara was silent, feeling the futility of further opposition.
“What—what is it you want me to do, then?” she said slowly.
“Marry me when I’m free.”
“And if she refuses?”
“She will not, I tell you; but if she does, we’ll have to content ourselves with platonics, I suppose. In any case I break with her.”
“You’d be satisfied with—platonics?”
“No, I should not, but I won’t ask more of you. I promise you that, and I keep my word, Stara.”
Again the girl was silent.
“You really mean to do this thing, Hector—nothing I can say will stop you?”
“Oh, why go over old ground, Stara? Now, about you, will you wait in London till I return?
“No; I will go back to South Africa by the next boat. My brother will think me mad, but he’ll be glad all the same. He always hated my nursing schemes. And there’s something I want to say now, Hector, before I leave you.” She paused and then went on hurriedly: “When—when it’s over, definitely broken off, I mean—and, oh, for my sake, dear, try to get her to divorce you—you may come out to me then.”
“Why do you say for your sake, Stara, isn’t it for both our sakes?”
“Because—because—oh, I won’t tell you now, but perhaps you’ll find that I’m not quite the weak creature you think, and if you make this sacrifice for me I too may... make a return. And, Hector, one thing more. Till then I don’t want to see you again, to me it would seem like—like an intrigue. When you come you must be free. And so, when we land to-morrow, don’t look for me, you won’t find me if you do.”
“How am I to give you that cheque, then?”
“Send it by a steward, if you must; and when it’s all over, wire to me the one word “Coming.” I shall understand and be waiting. Good-bye.”