CHAPTER XXII
AN UNHOLY COMPACT
As may easily be imagined I had seen quite enough of Olive Berdensteinfor one day at any rate, if not for a long time to come. But to mysurprise, on that same afternoon, as I sat in our little drawing roompretending to read a stupid novel, there was a timid ring at the bell,and she was shown into the room. She entered nervously, as thoughuncertain as to how I should receive her. I daresay she would not havebeen at all surprised if I had ordered her out again. If I hadfollowed my first impulse I should certainly have done so. Wisercounsels prevailed, however, and although I did not offer her my hand,I suppressed my surprise at her coming, and motioned her to take aseat.
She was dressed much more quietly than I had yet seen her, in a plainbrown dress, beautifully made. The element of incongruity was stillthere, however, for she wore a large Paris hat, and the little lacescarf at her throat was fastened with a great diamond.
She sat quite still, and I could see that she was very nervous. Shekept her eyes away from my face as much as possible. When she began totalk she did so rapidly, and in a low tone.
"I suppose you are very surprised to see me, Miss Ffolliot, after thismorning," she commenced, tentatively.
"Rather," I answered.
"I only made up my mind to come an hour ago. It was a suddenimpulse. I started at once, or I should have changed my mind. I havecome to make you an offer. It will sound very oddly to you, but youmust not be angry. You must hear all that I have to say. I havethought it all out; it is very reasonable."
"You need not be afraid," I answered. "I shall certainly not mindlistening--so long as you do not talk as you were talking thismorning. I am quite willing to forget that if you do not remind me ofit."
She fixed her black eyes upon me intently.
"Miss Ffolliot, have you ever loved any one--a man, I mean?"
I could not help starting, the question was so unexpected. She waswatching me very keenly. Perhaps my color was not altogether steady.
"I don't think so--not in the way you mean," I answered.
"I will make it clear. I do love some one. I did not think that youwould, you are too cold, you look too proud. Now I want to tell you.There is some one whom I love desperately--with my whole life. I wantto tell you about it. Do you mind?"
"Certainly not," I answered, softly. The change in her waswonderful. Her eyes were as soft as velvet; there was a faint flush inher cheeks. But for those prominent teeth and the sharp outlines ofher features she was almost beautiful.
"You remember, I have told you of our accident in Switzerland, and ofMr. Deville, and how gloriously he saved us. Oh, it was wonderful!Even now when I think of it I feel excited."
I bowed my head slowly. I began to understand.
"Well, ever since that moment I have loved him," she said, simply. "Icould not get him out of my mind. Oh! it was magnificent to see himstruggling there for our lives with those fierce, strong horses,beating them back, mastering them little by little, and all the timequite cool and silent! But you have heard all about that, you do notwant to hear the story again. Since that day I have never been able tothink of any other man. I have had many offers, for I am rich, but Ionly laughed. The idea of marriage when he was in the world seemedwicked to me. It was because of him that I did not go back to SouthAmerica. It was because he was an Englishman that I kept on coming toEngland and looking for him in all those places where Englishmen aremostly to be found. I have never missed a season in London since, andyet I do not care for London. It was just because of the chance offinding him there. It is three years ago now, but I have neverdespaired. I think that I must be something of a fatalist. I have saidto myself that in the end we must meet again, and now you see althoughwe have been living in this out-of-the-way spot, the time hascome. There is something wonderful about it. Don't you think so?"
I bowed my head. The eagerness of her question demanded anaffirmative.
She sighed, softly, with an air of gentle satisfaction.
"That is what I tell myself," she continued. "It is wonderful. Itmust have been fate. I tell myself that, and it seems to me that fatewhich has brought us together could not now be so cruel as tointerfere between us. And I love him, I love him so much!"
She paused a moment and looked at me almost with pity.
"You," she said, thoughtfully--"you will never know the misery ofit--or the happiness!"
I smiled faintly, and without mirth. Poor girl! There was somethingterribly pathetic in her little confession. From the bottom of myheart I pitied her.
"And Mr. Deville?" I asked, softly.
Her face fell a little. The enthusiasm died away. Still she washopeful.
"I am not sure," she said, looking away from me into the fire. "He iskind to me, and I think that he likes me--a little. He does not carefor me as I do for him, of course," she added, sadly. "Why should he?I have done nothing for him, and he has done so much for me. It hasbeen all on one side. I have had no chance yet; but I could help him alittle. I am rich, very much richer than any one thinks, and they saythat, although he has a great house and lands, that he is very poor,and that he has heavy debts. I could pay them all off," she declared,with a little note of triumph in her tone. "I have what would come inEnglish money to nearly a million pounds. I should give it all to him,every penny. It would make him happy to pay off all his mortgages andold debts. Don't you think so?" she asked, anxiously.
"I daresay it might," I answered, gravely. "I should think itcertainly would."
"And I love him so," she repeated, softly. "It would be suchhappiness to do this for him. Perhaps he would not love me very muchjust yet, but when I had him all to myself it would come little bylittle. I could make it come; a woman can when she has a man all toherself. I am sure of it. I should have no fear at all."
Her eyes were very soft now and very bright. One forgot her sharpfeatures and sallow cheeks. Poor girl! Then suddenly she looked awayfrom the fire, and, rising, came over to my side.
"You are wondering why I have come to you to tell you my secret," shesaid. "I will tell you. I am afraid of you. You are so handsome, and Iam plain. Oh! yes, I am--I know it. Never mind, I love him. But hedoes not know that, and he admires you. I see him look at you, andthough he is kind to me, he does not look at me like that. Andyou--you do not care for him. I have watched you, and I am sure ofit. You do not want him, do you?"
"No, I do not want him," I answered, but without looking at her.
"I know you don't. I want to promise you something. I believe thatPhilip Maltabar is somewhere in this neighborhood, and I believe--no,I am sure--that in some way you are interested in him. Your fatherknows. That is why you have kept me from him. But never mind, I wantto forget all that if you will just help me a little. I shall go awayfrom here, presently. If I should come back again, and I should findPhilip Maltabar--well--never mind. I will forgive, and I willforget. God shall judge between those two--I will bury my desire forvengeance. This I swear--if you will help me a little."
"But how?" I asked, blandly. "What can I do?"
"You can help me simply by keeping away from Mr. Deville," she wenton, hastily, a certain bluntness creeping into the manner of herexpression as she reached the heart of her subject. "If you are notthere, then he will be content with me, I can talk to him. I can makehim understand by degrees. There! I suppose you think this is veryunwomanly of me. It is unwomanly, it is despicable. I should detestanother woman who did it. But I don't care--I want him so much. I lovehim better than life," she cried, with a little burst of passion. "Ishall die if he does not care for me--not as I care for him, ofcourse, but just a little--and more afterwards."
I leaned over and rested my hand upon hers. I felt a sudden kindnesstoward her. I don't know what instinct made me promise--I suppose itwas pity. There was something so pathetic in her intense earnestness.
"Yes, I will do what you wish," I said, softly; "but----"
"But what? Are you making conditions?"
I shook m
y head.
"I make no conditions. Only I wanted to say this to you. Do you thinkit is wise to let yourself care so much for any one who after all maynot care for you at all? It is like staking one's whole happiness upona chance. It is a terrible risk."
She smiled at me faintly, and shook her head.
"Ah," she said, "it is so easy to see that you have never loved--thatyou do not know what love is. When you do you will not talk aboutletting one's self care. You might as well talk about letting one'sself die when one is struggling upon a death bed panting and gaspingfor life. It is the inevitable in love as in death. There is nochoice."
She rose to her feet.
"Goodbye," she said. "I shall not trouble you any more. I am going toforget that such a person as Philip Maltabar ever lived."
I walked with her to the door. She looked down the dim road up thepark wistfully.
"Perhaps," she said, "I may see him this afternoon. Was he coming tosee you?"
"Certainly not. He does not visit here," I continued.
"Oh, he comes to see me," she said, quickly. "Perhaps it is notright--proper you call it--that he should. I do not care. I would likeyou to come and visit me--but--he might be there," she added,hesitatingly. "Goodbye."
I touched her hand, and she went out with a little flush stilllingering in her cheeks. I saw her look wistfully up and down theroad, and then she picked up her skirts and took the muddy footpathacross the park towards the Court. I turned away and went upstairs tomy room.
Was it pity for her I wonder that brought the tears into my eyes?After all, I was only a woman.