CHAPTER XXII
TWO'S COMPANY
Alison was gone back to her house at Highgate--and immediately regrettedit. She took her adventures in a youthful, egoistic fashion: saw herselfas a lovely woman made the prey of man and robbed of her right to herown life, a tender, confiding soul deceived and tortured into despair.The Lincoln's Inn Fields became the abomination of desolation, her finesociety was dust and ashes and mankind in general all mocking villainy.So it was natural that she should retire from the world and become arecluse of tragic dignity. What other part is there for the desertedwife to play?
But she came upon awkward difficulties. The world would not be leftbehind. It was much more closely about her among the woods and meadows ofHighgate than in her London drawing-room. The would-be fine ladies andgentlemen of her routs and her card parties, so the sweetmeats and thewines and strong waters were good enough, cared nothing whether she had ahusband upstairs or somewhere else. Out in the country every one, gentleand simple, had a curious eye upon her. The very woods and meadows mustbe jogging her memory and putting her questions. Every one had known MissLambourne of the Hall and gone whispering about her strange, passionatemarriage. Each pleasant path and lane had seen something of that firstwild happiness. All day long she was driven back upon herself and whatshe had lost.
There is no doubt that she suffered. Of course she still told her heartwonderful tales about the shame that she had to bear and her torturingwrongs, and beyond doubt she believed most of them. For she could stillprofess to herself a miserable degradation in being married to a man ofno name: she would be gloomily convinced that Harry was by his father'svillainy a proven knave. But what hurt her most was the growing suspicionthat she was much to blame for her own plight. Alison Lambourne, whoacknowledged no law but her own will, who had never dreamed that shecould be wrong in her desires, driven to confess a ruinous blunder!Imagine her distress. At first she chose to pretend that she had beenoverthrown by passion. The more she tried to despise Harry, the more thatfancy shamed her. But there was in her a strength which refused to becontent with that. She would still boast to herself that she was not thewoman to be swept away by a gust of longing for the man who chanced totake her eye. And so she brought down on herself the inexorablequestion--if Harry were man enough to wake passion in her and deserve hermagnificence, why had she driven him off? For all her selfishness and herinsolent pride, she had a vehement desire, a part perhaps of her verypride in her womanhood, to owe him nothing, to play him fair, to givehim all that a man could ask. Little by little she forced herself tobelieve that she had failed of that. After all, he had offered hernothing but himself, poor, friendless, of no repute, indolent, carelessof all the world--and she had professed content. What his father might dowas no matter to that. He had offered her what he was and given itfaithfully. And she had not played fair. When she found herselfconfessing that, she discovered a new power of being wretched. All theromantic, egoistic melancholy went down the wind. The finest, proudest ofher, her own honour, told of a torturing wound.
"I'll satisfy you"--that had been the boast before the wild marriage wasdone. And after all she had chosen to deny him. Nothing else couldmatter. There could be no excuse. It was he that she had taken, not hisname or what he might be, and he had not changed. It was herself that shehad promised--what other honour for woman or man than to give like forlike?--and she had broken faith. She was humiliated--a state of allothers the most dolorous for Alison.
To it came on a merry spring day Mr. Waverton. She was in two mindswhether to let him see her, and then--too proud to hide from him orgreedy of a chance to hurt him--had him in.
Mr. Waverton had decorated himself for a house of mourning. His largeform was all black and silver and drooped sympathetically. His handsomeface was set in a chastened melancholy as of one who grieves foranother's trouble with a modest satisfaction. "Dear lady," says hetenderly, and bowed over her hand.
"Dear Geoffrey," says she. "Here's a new song."
"Madame?"
"'Vengeance is mine' was the refrain last time. Now it's weeping over thepenitent prodigal. How I love you, Geoffrey."
Mr. Waverton made a gesture of emotion, an exclamation. "I wronged you,Alison," he said in a deep voice. "Nay, but you must forgive me. I havesuffered too. Remember! I had lost all."
"Ah, no," says Alison tragically, "you had still yourself, Geoffrey."
His emotion was understood to be too much for Mr. Waverton. In a littlewhile, "We have both been the sport of villainy," he said. "Forgive me,Alison. I remember that I spoke bitterly. Can you wonder? I had dreamedof you in his arms. To see you there in that knave's power--ah, I wasbeside myself. And he laughed, do you remember, he laughed!"
"He never would take you to heart, in fact."
"A treacherous hound!" said Mr. Waverton with startling vehemence.
"Oh, he was honest when he laughed."
Mr. Waverton swept Harry out of the conversation. "Forgive me, Alison, Ishould have known. My heart should have told me."
"Oh Lud, and is your heart to give tongue now?"
"My heart," said Mr. Waverton with dignity, "my heart is always crying toyou. And now--now that the first agony is past, I know all."
"I wish I did," said Alison and looked in his eyes.
"But even then--ah, Alison, I have blamed myself cruelly--even then Ishould have known that when your eyes were opened, when you knew thetruth, you would have no more of him."
"You might have known," Alison said slowly. "You might have judged me byyourself."
"Aye, that indeed," says Mr. Waverton heartily. "For we are very like,Alison, we are of the same spirit, you and I."
"You make me proud."
"It's our tragedy: we so like, so made to answer each other, should bebetrayed to our ruin by this same vile trickster. Oh, I blame you no morethan myself."
"This is too generous."
"No," says Mr. Waverton. "No. When I came on that woman of yours, thatMrs. Weston--faith, I am glad that you have cut her off too. I neverliked that woman."
"Yes, she is poor."
"There it is! I doubt she was in Boyce's pay."
Alison opened her eyes at him. "Oh, Geoffrey, you surpass yourselfto-day. Go on, go on."
"If you please," says Mr. Waverton, something ruffled. "I believe hehired her to play his game with you. Had you a suspicion of it when yousent her packing?"
"By God, Geoffrey, I could suspect anyone when you talk to me."
"She is bitter against you. When I heard from her that you had driventhe fellow away from you, I was on fire to come to you."
"To forgive the prodigal! Oh, your nobility, Geoffrey. And pray where didyou meet Mrs. Weston?"
"Why, in the High Street here. She lodges in one of those wretchedcottages behind the street."
"She is here?" Alison shivered a little.
"Perhaps she has some game to play yet. She may be his spy. Be warnedagainst her."
Alison leant forward in her chair. Her face was hidden from him. "You aregiving me a lesson, Geoffrey. I'll profit by it, I promise you!"
"Alison!" Mr. Waverton gave a laugh of triumph. "I fight for us both. AndI promise you I am eager enough. As soon as I learnt that you had lefthim, why, he was delivered into my hand. By heaven, he shall find nomercy now. Already I have him watched. I went to an attorney muchpractised in these treasonous cheating plots, and of him I have hiredtrusty fellows who know all the rogues in London and their hiding-holes.You said something?"
But Alison was laughing.
"I believe there is some humour in it," Mr. Waverton conceded grandly."Well, they have tracked him down. Our gentleman lies at a filthy tavernin the Long Acre. The 'Leg of Pork,' or some such lewd name. He hauntsJacobite coffeehouses and the like low places. They believe that he makessome dirty money by scribbling for the Press. A writer in the newspapers!He is sunk almost to his right depth. They make no doubt that beforelong we shall catch him dabbling in some new treasonous matter. Andthen--" he m
ade gestures of doom.
"Well? And then?"
"The law may revenge us on the treacherous rogue," said Mr. Wavertonwith majesty.
Alison stood up. Mr. Waverton, always polite, started up too. "I give youjoy, Geoffrey," she said very quietly.
"Not yet! Not yet!" Mr. Waverton put up a modest hand.
"I believe there is nothing you could feel." Mr. Waverton recoiledand stared his bewilderment. "You carry a sword, Geoffrey. Oh, that Iwere a man!"
"To use it upon him! Bah, such rogues are not worth the honour of steel."
"Oh! Honour! Honour!" she cried and flung out her arms, trembling. "Thehonour of you and me!"
What was Mr. Waverton to make of that? "I believe I have excitedyou," says he.
"By God, it is the first time," Alison cried and turned on him sofiercely that he started back.
There was a servant at the door saying something which went unheard. ThenSusan Burford came into the room, an odd contrast in her placidsimplicity to the amazed magnificence of Mr. Waverton or Alison'stremulous, furious beauty. Alison was turned away from her and too muchengaged to hear or be aware of her.
"Here is Miss Burford," said Waverton in a hurry.
Alison whirled upon her. "You! You have nothing to do here."
"My dear Alison!" Waverton protested. "Miss Burford, your very obedient."
Susan made him a small leisurely curtsy and sat down. "Oh, please give mea dish of tea," she said.
"We have not seen you at Tetherdown in this long while," Mr. Wavertoncomplained genially.
"I believe not," says Susan.
Alison stared at her. "Why do you come here? You know you despise me."
"I do not come to people I despise," says Susan placidly.
"Well. I am private with dear Geoffrey, if you please."
"My dear Alison! I must be riding. We have finished our business, Ithink. I'll not fail to be with you again soon. I hope to have news foryou. Miss Burford, your most obedient." Susan bent her head. "Alison--"he held out his hand and smiled at her protective affection.
"Geoffrey," said Alison, and looked in his eyes. She did not take thehand. She was very pale.
Mr. Waverton's smile was withered. He took himself out with a jauntinessthat sat upon him awkwardly.
Then Alison turned again upon Susan. "You want to know what I have to dowith him?" she said fiercely.
"No," says Susan.
Alison stared at the fair, placid face and cried out: "You are a fool."
"Oh, my dear," says Susan.
"I hate that cold, flabby way of yours. You think it is all good andwise and kind. It's like a silly mother with a spoilt child. You've notspirit enough to scold, and all the while you are thinking me vile andbase and mean."
"But that is ridiculous. Nobody could think you mean," Susan said.
"There it is again. You believe it is kind to talk so, and it drives memad. I am shameful--do you hear? I am shameful and perhaps I want to be,and I loathe myself. Now, go. I shall not stay with you. Go."
Susan stood up. "Alison, oh, Alison," she said. Alison flung outof the room.