An Unknown Lover - Mrs George de Horne Vaizey (microsoft ebook reader TXT) 📗

Grizel in a grey dress, with a hat wreathed with violets, was a shock to Katrine’s sensibilities. In theory she disapproved of conventional mourning, and approved of fulfilling the wishes of the dead; in reality she was still under the thraldom of public opinion, and the prospect of walking down the High Street with a mourner in colours assumed the dimensions of a dread. “They” would say,—what would “they” say?

The unchanged demeanour of the mourner was likewise a shock. There was every reason why Lady Griselda’s death should be regarded as a relief, but an assumption of regret and gravity were customary under the circumstances, and Grizel was not even subdued. She smiled, and jested, preserved her lazy, untroubled air, and to an outside eye was in no respect altered by the happenings of the last weeks. Katrine waited impatiently for some reference to the dramatic will, and when none came, was driven to open the subject herself.

“Isn’t it glorious,” she questioned curiously, “to be mistress of that enormous fortune? To know that you can practically get anything in the whole world which you happen to fancy?”

Grizel stroked her nose, her eyes asking the question which would have been too banal in words. Anything? Katrine understood the reference, and flushed brightly. She hurried to add a clause:

“Of course, if you had been sentimentally disposed, it would have been different, but you have never—”

“No,” responded Grizel amiably, “I never have.”

Voice and manner were all that is friendly; there was not a particle of resentment, nevertheless the subject was closed, and Katrine knew that she could never refer to it again. That Martin would not do so on his own accord she felt convinced, for though Grizel herself was unchanged, there was an unmistakable difference between his present behaviour to his guest, and that during her recent visit. Now he was merely the courteous host, concerned with the comfort and amusement of his sister’s guest, but making no personal claim for attention. By day he shut himself in his study; in the evening he sedulously avoided tête-à-têtes. A still, set look had come back to his face, which brought with it a haunting memory of the past. Katrine had not realised how far from the desert of sorrow he had travelled until she recognised that look, and at the sight her heart contracted with a pang of protective tenderness, startling in its intensity. At that moment, and for the first time in her life, Self was wiped out, and her own welfare ceased to weigh in the balance. “Not again! Not again!” cried the inner voice. “He has suffered enough!” It was intolerable to think of living to see Martin pass through a second period of despair!

Katrine set her wits to work to puzzle out the problem before her, and at each point in her reflections the same question recurred with ever-increasing force. Why had Grizel come back? Realising as any woman must have done the depth of Martin’s love, why, at this moment of all others, had she deliberately put herself in his way? Grizel was not heartless, her numerous flirtations had been of an open and innocent nature, stopping well short of the danger point; it was inconceivable to believe that she would deliberately increase Martin’s pain. Then—could it be possible that she was willing to sacrifice all; was but waiting for a word, a sign? It was almost impossible to believe, but at least, Katrine determined, the opportunity should be given. Now that the critical moment had arrived all other dreads dwindled before that of failing to do her share to secure Martin’s happiness.

That very day at lunch she made her attempt.

“I have to be out this afternoon, Grizel,” she announced. “A committee meeting, and a tea. Martin must amuse you. The study is cool in the afternoon, you might sit there, or have tea in the garden.”

Martin’s start of surprise held no sign of pleasure. He appeared to be on the point of an objection, when Grizel’s calm acquiescence closed his lips:

“Yes—I’d like to! We’ll try the study first.”

“We shan’t need a fire to-day... I’m afraid it will be dull for you, but I can give you a good book.”

The words fell mechanically from Martin’s lips, but it was Katrine who flushed with resentment; Grizel smiled on, unperturbed. An hour afterwards she was sleeping like a child on her bedroom sofa, and Katrine peeping in to say good-bye, asked herself amazedly if such composure could exist side by side with any deep feeling. “If I—” the very suggestion made her heart leap, she looked on the sleeping face with a stirring of indignation. Martin’s life, and her own, shaken to their foundations, while Grizel slept! For a moment she wrestled with the temptation to shake the still form into consciousness, then turning slowly, left the room.

Half an hour later Grizel opened her eyes, and sat up on her couch. There was no intermediary stage of heaviness and confusion, with the very opening of her lids she was vividly, composedly awake. She rose, sauntered to the glass, and surveyed herself with critical detachment. Her cheeks were flushed with sleep, her hair ruffled into a disorder undeniably becoming. Her lips parted in a smile of transparent pleasure, then deliberately she took the brush and smoothed back the curling ends, which being done she seated herself by the open window, took up a book, and read composedly until the pink had faded from her cheeks. It was a pale, orderly, infinitely less attractive Grizel who tapped at Martin’s door, and seated herself by his desk.

“I’ve come, you see! You didn’t want me, but I wanted to come, and I always do what I want—”

“Grizel! that’s not true,” protested Martin hastily. He was still sitting in his swivel writing-chair, turned sideways from the desk so that he could see her face. A few scattered sheets of MS lay before him, but the ink was dry on the last words. When Grizel had entered the room, it had been to find him gazing blankly into space. It was not obvious against which part of Grizel’s declaration his protest was directed, nor did she trouble to enquire. Folding her hands she looked in his eyes with childlike directness and said simply:

“Martin—I want to talk! You have said nothing about my position, but I am waiting to hear what you think! I came down on purpose to talk.”

“But, Grizel, what is there to say?” Martin spoke in quick practical accents, his eyes sedulously avoiding hers. “I have not congratulated you, because it hardly seemed that congratulations were deserved. On the other hand, I cannot condole. Lady Griselda’s mind had been failing for years. I cannot believe that she was fully responsible when she concocted—”

“You are wrong there. She was perfectly clear. I have always expected some arrangement of the sort. She loved me; she was anxious for my happiness. If it could be happily arranged she wished me to inherit the money, but she had been an heiress herself, and had suffered by it, and she was sharp enough to estimate the sincerity of the men who hung around me. It’s quite simple, Martin, if you remember the clue. If I choose to remain single, I enjoy everything that her money can give; if I marry, I marry a man who wants me, not my wealth; Grizel Dundas,—herself—not what she can bring.”

“He would be a bold man who could ask a girl to give up thirty thousand a year, for the sake of his love!”

“Yes! He would need to be brave!”

The substitution of the word was so quiet as to appear unconscious. Martin shot a piercing look, but the eyes which met his were as expressionless as the voice. He leaped to his feet, and restlessly paced the floor.

“But you, Grizel?” he cried. “No one could expect it of you! You are born to the position; have been trained to it all your life. You will be one of the great hostesses of the day. You are young, brilliant, beautiful. The ordinary woman looks to love to provide the interest of life, but you have so much. The world is at your feet—”

“Yes,” sighed Grizel softly. “Yes.” She sat staring before her with rapt, smiling eyes. “And I love it, Martin. Pomp and show, and jewels, and beautiful clothes, and—power! All women do at the bottom of their hearts. If they pretend they don’t, it is a