Part 36 (1/2)
”Openly advertising the fact that he preferred to have no part in any entertainment you were arranging,” was Landover's comment. ”I don't believe it was because of any particular delicacy of feeling on his part, my dear. In any case, the fact remains that he let you go ahead with the affair, and then, bang! right in the middle of it he stages his cheap, melodramatic, moving-picture act. Bos.h.!.+”
She turned on him with blazing eyes.
”You will not see anything good in him, will you? You can't be fair, can you? Well, I can be,--and I am. He has been fair with both of us,--and I am ashamed of the way I have treated him. We deserved his rebuke that morning, and he did not hesitate to turn us back,--although he realized what it would mean. He loves me, Abel Landover,--he loves me a thousand times more than you do, in spite of all your protestations. He--”
”Why, Ruth,--I--I--”
”Yes,--I know,--I know you are shocked. And I don't care,--do you understand? I don't care that! You want your answer, Mr. Landover. Well, you shall have it now. I cannot marry you. This is final.”
The blood left his face. ”You don't know what you are saying, Ruth,” he exclaimed. ”You are angry. When you have had time to--”
”I've had all the time I need,” she interrupted shortly. ”I don't want to be disagreeable,--but it's no use, Mr. Landover. I do not love you.
I am sorry if I have misled you into hoping. There is nothing more to be said.”
”You have misled me,” he cried out bitterly.
”I am to blame, I suppose, for not giving you your answer before this. I have temporized. It is a woman's trick,--and a horrid one, I'll admit. I have never even thought of marrying you.”
”Are you in love with Percival?” he demanded.
”Yes,--I think I am,” she replied, looking him straight in the eye. She spoke with a sort of gasp, as if releasing a confession that surprised even herself.
”My G.o.d, Ruth,--I can't believe it,” he groaned.
”I have denied it to myself--oh, a thousand times,--I've fought against it. I've tried to hate him. I've done everything in my power to make him believe that I despise him. But it's no use,--it's no use. I--I can't think of anything else. I can't think of any one else. Oh, I know I am quite mad to say this, but I sometimes find myself praying that we may never be rescued. It might mean--well, you can see what it might mean.
Thank G.o.d, you have driven me to this confession. It is the first time I have been really honest with myself. I have lied to myself over and over again about my feeling toward him. I have lain awake for hours at night lying to myself--telling myself that I hate him and always will hate him. Now, it's out,--the truth is out. I have never hated him,--I have cared for him from the very beginning.”
She spoke rapidly, the words rus.h.i.+ng forth like a flood suddenly released after breaking through the dam, sweeping everything before it,--resistless, devastating, cruelly rapturous. She thought nothing of the hurt she was inflicting upon the man beside her; he was an atom in the path of the torrent, a thing that went down and was left behind as the flood swept over and by him. As suddenly as it began the torrent was checked. A hot flush seared her neck, her cheeks, her brow.
”What a fool you must think me!” she cried in dire chagrin. ”What a stupid fool!”
He had not taken his eyes from her transfigured face. He had listened with his jaw set, his lips tightly pressed, his brow dark with anger.
”I don't think that,” he said shortly. ”You have merely lost your head, as any woman might, over a picturesque, good-looking soldier of fortune.
Perhaps I should not be surprised, nor even shocked by what you've just told me. He is the sort that women do fall in love with,--and I suppose they are not to be blamed for it. No, I do not think you are a fool.
When one reflects that such experienced heads as those possessed by the irreproachable Obosky, the immaculate Amori,--to say nothing of the estimable lady we are pleased to call the 'Empress of Brazil,'--when such heads as theirs are turned by a man it is high time to admit that he has something more than personal magnetism. I am wondering how far the contagion has really spread. There is a difference between contagion and infection, you know. Infection is the result of personal contact,--contagion is something in the air. This epidemic of infatuation very plainly is in two forms. It appears to be both infectious and contagious. I rather fancy the amiable Obosky has selected the former type of the prevailing malady. Percivalitis, I believe, is the name it goes by.”
There was no mistaking the significance of his words. The implication was clear, even though veiled in the heaviest sarcasm. He had the satisfaction of seeing the colour ebb from her cheek. Her face being averted, he missed the swift flicker of pain that rushed to her eyes and, departing, took away with it the soft light that had glowed in them the instant before. He had touched a concealed canker,--the sensitive spot that had been the real cause of her sleepless, troubled nights,--the thing she had refused in her pride to accept as the real source of discomfort.
Down in her soul lay the poison of jealousy, a cruel and malignant influence that until now had been subdued by a mind stubbornly unwilling to recognize its existence.
In the eagerness to supply herself with additional reasons for hating Percival, she had given her imagination a rather free rein in regard to his relations with Olga Obosky. While she was without actual proof, she nevertheless tortured herself with suspicions that came almost to the same thing; in any case, they had the desired effect in that they created a very positive sense of irritation, and nothing seemed to please her more in the dead hour of night than the feeling that she had a right to be disgusted with him.
And now, Landover, in his sly arraignment, prodded a very live, raw spot, and she knew that it was bleak unhappiness and not rancour that had kept her awake.
”Is it necessary to beat about the bush, Mr. Land-over? If you have anything definite to tell me about Mr. Percival and Madame Obosky, I grant you permission to say all you have to say in the plainest language. Call a spade a spade. I am quite old enough to hear things called by their right names.”