Grey Mask (13 page)

Dinner was over at last. Charles had never endured forty minutes more crowded with indiscretions. He was reduced to a condition of exasperated resignation. After all, neither Freddy nor Archie mattered; but unless one locked the creature up, she would prattle in the same artless way to anyone she met. He thought of uninhabited islands with yearning, and of Margaret with rage. If it were not for Margaret he would not be mixed up in this damned affair at all.

The girls went upstairs to put on their coats. Freddy fussed away to see if the car had come round. Archie turned a reproachful eye on Charles.

“Why teach an innocent child to practise concealments?”

Charles had no reply but a frown.

“Why keep me out of it anyhow? Why pretend?”

“What are you driving at?”

“Well, she’s Margot Standing, isn’t she?”

“You guessed when she said ‘Egbert’?”

“I guessed the second time I saw her,” said Archie. “She wants a whole heap of practice before she can conceal anythin’. Does Freddy know?”

“I expect he does by now. Egbert isn’t the sort of name most fellows would be seen dead in a ditch with. Look here, Archie, I want to talk to you. What about after the show? We can take the girls home, and then you come round to ‘The Luxe’ with me.”

Archie nodded, and Freddy came, back into the room. Upstairs Greta clutched Margaret by the arm.

“He never showed us the miniature. Margaret, I do want to see your mother’s miniature so badly.”

“Why should you want to see it?” Her tone said plainly. “It has nothing to do with you.”

“I want to see it frightfully. When I saw Esther Brandon written on that bit of paper, it gave me a most frightfully excited sort of feeling. I simply must see her miniature. Where is it? Can’t you show it to me?”

“It’s in Freddy’s study,” said Margaret in a slow, flat voice.

“Show it to me quickly! Oh, do put on your coat and come and show it to me!”

She fairly danced down the stairs, looking back over her shoulder and urging Margaret to hurry.

The study was one of those built-out rooms half-way down the stair—a fussy, untidy place full of photographs, pipes, guns, fishing-rods, stamp-albums, old bound magazines, and a chaotic muddle of letters and bills.

“Freddy’s hopeless,” said Margaret.

“Where’s the miniature?”

“On his writing-table.” She moved The Times and two picture papers as she spoke. Under the papers was a tall old-fashioned miniature case. It had folding doors that could be locked. The doors were shut.

“Oh!” said Greta. She caught at the table and leaned on it. “Oh, it’s Papa’s! Oh, Margaret, it’s Papa’s!”

Margaret just stood and looked at it.

“Margaret, it is Papa’s! Oh, do open it!”

“What are you talking about?” said Margaret very slowly.

“Papa had a case just like this. It stood on his table. I told Mr. Hale about it. I only saw inside it once—just a peep. Oh, Margaret, do open it—do!”

Margaret put her hand on the case.

“It’s locked, Greta.”

“Get him to open it. Oh, I do want to see what’s inside!”

“I can’t do that.”

“Papa’s had diamonds all round it. Has this one got diamonds all round it?”

“No, it’s quite plain—just a picture of my mother in a white dress.”

“My mother had a white dress too. It must have been my mother. Don’t you think so? There were diamonds all round. They sparkled like anything.”

“Greta! Margaret! Hurry up!” Freddy was fussing in the hall; his voice sounded querulous.

Greta gave a little shriek of dismay:

“Oh, we’ll be late! We mustn’t be late! We’re coming,” she cried, and ran out of the room.

For a moment Margaret stayed behind. She put both hands on the case and opened the little doors. The case opened quite easily. Esther Brandon looked out at her. She wore a white dress. She smiled serenely. The world was at her feet.

Margaret shut the case and went slowly out of the room.

The show was a great success as far as Greta and Freddy were concerned. There was singing, there was dancing; there were coloured lights and gorgeous scenes quite unlike anything except a stage land of dreams.

Greta was in the seventh heaven. She sat between Freddy and Archie, and at intervals she murmured, “How frightfully clever! How frightfully sweet!” and “Oh, isn’t he wonderful?”

Archie’s comment, “Revoltin’ fellow,” was received with intense disfavour.

“He’s lovely! His eyelashes are longer than Charles’. I think he’s simply sweet.”

This was in the interval.

Archie made a face and hummed just under his breath.

“Oh, you do need

Someone to watch over you—misquotation from Oh Kay.”

“You’ve got it all wrong. It says,

“ ‘Oh, I do need

Someone to watch over me.’ ”

“That’s what I said. Or, in the plain words of everyday life, you want someone to look after you.”

“I don’t! I can look after myself. I’m eighteen, and I was leaving school at Christmas anyhow. Of course you’re older than me. But I’m grown up, and that’s what matters. How old are you, Archie? Are you frightfully old?”

“Frightfully. Poor old Charles and I are just hangin’ on.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven,” said Archie. “But Charles was twenty-eight a week ago, so I’m one up on him.”

“It must be simply frightful to be twenty-eight,” said Greta with conviction. She snuggled up to Archie and whispered, “Is Margaret awfully old too?”

“Ssh! She’s twenty-four. Pretty bad—isn’t it?”

Greta considered.

“I shall be married years and years before I’m twenty-four. It’s rather old, but I do love Margaret all the same.”

When the curtain had fallen for the last time, they came out into a windy night. It had been raining; the pavements were wet, and the wind was wet.

Freddy shepherded his party briskly.

“We’ll just go along to the corner and cross over. Archie can get us a taxi quite easily from there. Much better than waiting in this crush. Rather nice to get a breath of air— what? Lucky it’s not raining—isn’t it? Now I remember once—” he addressed himself to Greta; fragments of the anecdote that followed reached Charles as he walked a yard ahead…“and I said I’d give her a lift because it was so wet…too bad, wasn’t it?…me, of all people in the world…and I think her name was Gwendolen Jones, but I can’t be sure…”

They crossed to an island in the middle of the road. Archie made a rapid dash and got to the farther side. Freddy was fussing over Margaret and Greta.

“Now, my dear, take my arm. Margaret, perhaps you’d better take Charles’ arm.”

Charles heard Margaret say, “I don’t want anyone’s arm,” and at the same moment the people on the island began to flow across. He saw Margaret and Greta together, Freddy next Margaret; and then, when he was half-way over, he heard Greta scream. He turned. It was a scream of sharp and anguished fear. He looked, and could see only a crowd and a confusion. There was a bus standing still.

He pushed through, and saw Greta just not under the bus. She was lying as she had fallen, her hands spread out, her fair hair splashed with mud, her face splashed with mud. Freddy and the bus-conductor were picking her up, and as Charles arrived she was beginning to cry. He looked round for Margaret, and saw her standing straight and still. The light from the arc-lamp was on her face.

Charles felt his heart turn over. The whole thing had happened in a moment, and in a moment it was past. The driver of the bus was saying loudly and dogmatically, “She ain’t hurt, I tell you. She ain’t touched I tell you”; and this was mixed with Greta’s sobs and Freddy’s “Very careless— very careless indeed! The young lady might have been killed.”

Charles said, “What happened?” and the sound of his own voice startled him. It seemed to startle Greta too. She gave a much louder sob and flung both arms round his neck with a wail of “Take me home! Oh, Charles, please take me home!”

It was at this moment that the policeman arrived.

Freddy was in his element at once.

“Most unfortunate, constable—the young lady might have been killed. We were all going across together, my daughter and this young lady and I, and she slipped—Didn’t you, my dear? Dear me, we ought to be very thankful she isn’t hurt. She slipped and fell right in front of the bus. Now, my dear, you’re quite safe. No—don’t cry. You’re not hurt, are you?”

“She wasn’t touched,” said the driver of the bus in the same loud aggressive voice.

“Are you hurt, miss?” inquired the policeman.

Charles had removed Greta’s arms from about his neck, but she still clung to his shoulder. In spite of the splashes of mud on her face she managed to look pretty and appealing.

“I might have been killed,” she said.

“Are you hurt, miss?”

“I might have been killed,” said Greta with a sob. “Someone pushed me, and I fell right under that horrible bus.”

“Any injuries, miss?”

“N-no,” said Greta. She gazed down at the drabbled white skirt which her open coat disclosed. “Oh, my frock’s spoilt!”

It was like a nightmare. When Archie came up with a taxi, Charles felt as if the whole thing had been going on for years and would continue to go on for ever. The interested crowd; the voice of the bus driver; Greta’s hysterical sobbing; and the policeman writing things down in a note-book. Just outside all this, Margaret standing under the arc-light. She had not spoken a word or moved to come to Greta.

Charles touched her on the arm.

“Come along—we want to get out of this. Freddy says he’ll walk, and Archie’s going the other way. I’ll take you home.”

When he had put the girls into the taxi, Charles spoke for a moment to Archie Millar.

“I’ll fix up a talk some other time—to-night won’t do.”

It was only afterwards he thought it strange that Archie turned away without so much as a word.

Greta talked the whole way home:

“Wasn’t it a frightful thing to happen? Didn’t I have a most frightfully narrow escape?”

“How did it happen?” said Charles.

“Margaret and I were going across, and Freddy was going with us, and I heard the bus coming and I said, ‘Oh!’ and Margaret said, ‘Don’t be silly,’ and I started to run. And someone pushed me frightfully hard, and I fell right under the bus.”

She held Charles tightly by the hand; her fingers were warm and clinging. She went on talking:

“I always did hate crossings, but now I shall hate them more than ever. Charles, it was frightful. Someone pushed me right under the bus.”

“You must have slipped,” said Charles.

He tried to draw his hand away, but she held it tight.

“No, I didn’t—not till I was pushed. I was just beginning to run, and someone pushed me hard.”

“Someone knocked against you in the crowd.”

“They knocked me right down,” said Greta indignantly. “And I’ve got mud all over my face, and Margaret’s white dress that she lent me is simply ruined. Margaret, your white frock is quite spoilt. Isn’t it a pity? But it’s not my fault—is it?”

She talked so much she did not even notice that Margaret did not speak at all. It was Charles for whom this silence came to be one of those unbearable things which have to be borne.

Greta exclaimed with pleasure when, having paid the taxi, he came upstairs with them. Her fright was wearing off; she was now merely excited and pleased at having Charles to talk to. She was not at all pleased, however, at being told to go to bed.

“I don’t want to. I want to sit up and talk—oh, for hours. Margaret, can’t we make coffee and have supper, just you and Charles and me? I’m frightfully hungry.”

Margaret was standing over the dead fire. She spoke now without turning round. Her voice sounded as if her lips were dry.

“There isn’t any coffee. You’d better go to bed.”

“Oh!” said Greta in a disappointed tone.

Charles put his hand on her shoulder and walked her to the door.

“Run along—there’s a good child. Wash your face and go to bed. I want to talk to Margaret.”

“Oh!” said Greta again. She pouted, looked at him through her eyelashes, and then suddenly showed all her very pretty teeth in a yawn.

“Off with you!” said Charles, and shut the door.

He came back to the hearth, Margaret had not moved, and for a long heavy minute Charles stood looking at her in silence. One arm lay on the mantelpiece. Her head was bent; she was looking down at the ashes of the fire. Her left hand hung straight at her side. The third finger would not have held his emerald now; the hand was thinner, whiter than it had been four years ago; it looked very white against the black dress.

Charles stood there. Three things said themselves over and over in his mind: “A street accident would be the safest way”; “Someone pushed me”; and, “All the perfumes of Arabia.”

He looked at Margaret’s hand—Margaret’s white hand, hanging there as if all the life, all the strength had gone out of it.

“Someone pushed me frightfully hard”; “A street accident would be the safest plan”; “All the perfumes of Arabia cannot sweeten—”

Margaret lifted her head.

“It is late,” she said.

“Yes.”

She looked like Margaret carved in stone; there seemed to be no colour, no feeling, no emotion. She said, “Aren’t you going?” and Charles shook his head.

“No—I want to talk to you.”

“Yes, there was something I was going to say—but it’s too late.”

“What were you going to say?”

She had not looked at him at all; she did not look at him now. He could not see her eyes. She spoke in a dull voice:

“When are you going to take her away?”

“Do you mean Greta?”

“I mean Margot Standing. When are you going to take her away? You had better take her away quickly.”

At the first sound of her voice Charles became once more master of his own thoughts. The obsession of those three terrible sentences was gone. He said perhaps the last thing that she expected, and said it in quiet everyday tones:

“Why did you break off our engagement?”

She had been still before; but it seemed as if a hush came upon the stillness like the glaze of ice upon still water. There was a pause, so deep that very far off sounds came near and clamoured at Charles’ ears—a footstep a long way down the street; a motor horn two roads away; the sound of wet branches rubbing against each other from the tree whose yellow leaves he had watched falling—he could almost have heard them falling now.

Then Margaret said slowly,

“Do you want me to tell you that?”

“I think so—I think it would be better if you did.”

She moved her head a little. The movement said “No.” Her voice came faintly:

“It won’t do any good.”

“I want to know. I think you must tell me.”

“Yes,” said Margaret, “I must—now. But it won’t do any good. Nothing will do any good. Only you must take her away. I can’t have her here. You’ll take her away to-morrow—won’t you?”

Charles looked at her with a set face.

“Tell me why you broke our engagement.”

Just for a moment she stood where she was. Then she sat down in the nearest chair. It was the armchair affected by Greta; a novel lay on the floor beside it. Margaret sat down in the chair. She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her face screened by her hands.

Charles remained standing.

“Something happened to make you break your engagement. I want to know what it was.”

“Yes—something happened.” She paused. “It’s very difficult to tell.”

“Something happened after you got home from our dance that night, for I’ll swear—” He checked a rising note of passion, the memory of how they had parted.

“Some of it happened before. I didn’t know it was happening—I didn’t know what did happen. It was that morning. I was in a hurry. I went into the study for something. You know Freddy used to write there before breakfast—those long letters he loved to send people. He always wrote them in the study before breakfast. No one was allowed to disturb him. It was a regular family joke. Well, I thought he must have finished, and I went in. He was standing on the other side of the room with his back to me, and—Charles, there was a hole in the wall.”

“What!”

“It was a safe. You know, lots of people have them; only I didn’t know there was such a thing in the house. He had taken down a picture that covered it. And he was rustling some papers, so he didn’t hear me come in. I came right up to the table. And he didn’t hear me, so I stood there and waited for him to turn round. I wanted to ask him something—I forget what it was. I waited. I was rather curious too. There was a letter lying on the table—it caught my eye. You know, one wouldn’t ever think of Freddy’s letters being private— he used to pass them round. I noticed this one because it was written on such funny paper, like wrapping paper. I only saw one sentence, and I thought I had better not go on looking at it, so I moved back. And just then Freddy turned round. He was awfully startled. He thought he had locked the door, and he kept on saying how careless he was, and that it might have been one of the maids, and what was the good of a secret safe if everyone knew where it was? And he said would I promise not to tell anyone? And then I went away. I think perhaps he’d forgotten I was going to be out all day, because he said afterwards he tried to find me—I was out, you know, all day.”

Charles knew. They were together on the river—a cloudless day that neither of them guessed was to be their last.

Margaret went on. The words were coming more easily now. It was as if some frightful pressure of silence was at last finding relief.

“I only just had time to dress. Freddy seemed quite pleased all evening. But when we got home, he let Mother go upstairs and he said he wanted to speak to me. I went into the study with him, and he began to cry. It—it was dreadful. I’d never seen him anything but cheerful before. I’d never seen a man cry. He sat down at the table and put his head in his hands and burst out crying.”

She made a little pause; but Charles did not speak. She drew in her breath with a shiver and went on:

“It was about my mother. He told me she was very ill. He said she did not know it herself. He said if she had any trouble or anxiety, it would kill her. And then he put his head in his hands and groaned and said he was her murderer.” Again the pause, the shivering breath. “I couldn’t understand what he meant. And all of a sudden he began to talk about my coming into the study that morning. He asked me if I had noticed a letter lying on the table. I had almost forgotten all about it. He kept on asking whether I had read any of it, and how much I had read. And I told him I had only seen one sentence and a name. And I asked him if it was the name of a race-horse.” Her voice sank and ceased.

Charles stood dark and frowning above her. He spoke now, sharply.

“What did you see?”

Without looking at him and without answering, she took her hands from her face and spread them to the cold unlighted fire.

Charles repeated his question:

“What did you see?”

“I can’t tell you—I mustn’t—I promised.”

“What name did you see?”

“I didn’t know it was a name—I didn’t know what it was.”

“You saw a name. What was it?”

“Grey Mask,” said Margaret in a whisper.

After a moment Charles said, “Go on.”

“He was dreadfully upset. He cried. After a bit he told me that when he was a boy he had got mixed up in a secret society. You know he lived abroad with his mother and never went to school or college. He said he got into bad company.” For the first time she looked at Charles. It was a look of appeal—for Freddy, not for herself. “You can imagine how it happened—you can imagine what Freddy was like as a boy.”

Charles had nothing sympathetic to say about Freddy. He said nothing.

“He joined this secret society. He didn’t tell me what it was for. He said it was political; but he said everyone who joined it signed a statement that implicated them in something they could be sent to prison for—they had to take an oath, and they had to sign a statement that they had committed some crime. It was all very carefully worked out. The things were things they could have done. It was to make it quite safe for the society. Freddy said he joined it when he was only seventeen—you know how a boy of that age will join anything that’s exciting. Well, he said after a few years he came over here, and he forgot all about it. And then he came into money, and they began to bother him. And he said he was in love with my mother, and he did foolish things to keep them quiet, so that they got a fresh hold on him. It was idiotic of him, but I don’t suppose Freddy could help it—I mean he’s like that. Then after he married Mother it got worse. I don’t know what they made him do—things he hated, and things that frightened him. He’d had a rotten time, he said.”

“Why did he tell you all this?”

“Because I had read that bit of the letter. He said they knew.”

“How could they know?”

Margaret looked up and then down again. Charles’ face was like a flint, all the features sharpened, the brows a black line.

“I’m afraid Freddy must have told them.”

“Go on,” said Charles in an expressionless voice.

Margaret hurried a little.

“He was afraid of them. He had been afraid of them for so many years he did not seem to have any will of his own. He told me the only thing I could do was to join them.”

“So you joined them.” His tone was quite polite and casual. It touched some secret spring of pride in Margaret; for the first time a little warmth came over her, a spark of the old fire showed in her eyes.

“I said what you would have said—what anyone would have said. I told him to be a man and stick it out. And he said it would kill Mother. I think we talked nearly all night. He told me some things I can’t tell you. They could have sent him to prison—he said they would if I refused to join. And he said it would kill Mother.” Margaret lifted her eyes to that hard face above her. They were very desolate, very tired; but the fire still burned. “It would have killed her— you won’t deny that—it would certainly have killed her.”

Charles did not speak.

“In the end I gave way. Freddy said it would be a form, just to make them feel safe. He had the statement all ready for me to sign.” Her lip lifted for an instant in the ghost of a smile. “I signed the statement, but I would not take any oath. I told Freddy it was no good—I wouldn’t do it; but if they would be satisfied with knowing they could ruin me if I talked, I’d give them that. I think I confessed to pilfering jewellery when I went out to dances. There were some of my friends’ names in the statement. It was frightfully cleverly done—the things really had been lost, and I could very easily have taken them. That frightened me afterwards, because I saw how clever they were. I saw how difficult it was for Freddy.” She stopped. There was a dead silence.

When it had lasted an unbearable time, Charles said, still in that easy voice:

“Aren’t you going to go on?”

Margaret started a little. The cold and the silence had closed in upon her.

“There isn’t anything more.”

“I should have thought there was.”

“I’ve told you.” Her voice was very tired.

“You haven’t told me why you broke off our engagement.”

“How could I go on with it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.”

“How could I? I’d got into this awful tangle. I couldn’t let Freddy down. Even if I’d refused to join, it would have come to the same in the end for—for us—if there had been a scandal, if Freddy—I couldn’t have married you—could I? I couldn’t have dragged you into it. I couldn’t marry you when I knew there might be some awful smash one day. I looked every way, and there wasn’t any way out.” Her voice trembled into passion. “Do you think I wouldn’t have found a way out if there had been one to find? There wasn’t any way out. There wasn’t anything I could do to save—us.” The last words faltered.

Margaret bent her head upon her hands. She was colder than she had ever been in her life. If only Charles would not hate her so! Nothing hurt her any more—she was too cold for that; but all the strength went out of her before this implacable resentment, and though everything in her failed, she had still to go on to the end. If he would understand a little and forgive! He did not love her any more; he was falling in love with Margot Standing. Why need he go on hating her so much?