As his footsteps died away Craven turned slowly toward the adjoining room with strangely contending emotions. “… keep her happy.” The bitter irony of the words bit into him as he crossed to the door and, tapping softly, went in.
She was waiting for him, lying high on the pillows that were no whiter than her face, toying nervously with the curling ends of the thick plait of soft brown hair that reached almost to her waist. Her eyes were fixed on him appealingly, and as he came toward her her face quivered suddenly and again he saw the look of fear that had tortured him before. “Oh, Barry,” she moaned, “don’t be angry with me.”
It was all that he could do to keep his hungry arms from closing round her, to keep back the passionate torrent of love that rushed to his lips. But he dared not give way to the weakness that was tempting him. Controlling himself with an effort of will he sat down on the edge of the bed and covered her twitching fingers with his lean muscular hands.
“I’m not angry, dear. God knows I’ve no right to be,” he said gently. “I just don’t understand. I never dreamt of anything like this. Can’t you tell me—explain—help me to understand?”
She dragged her hands from his, and covering her face gave way to bitter weeping. Her tears crucified him and his heart was breaking as he looked at her. “Gillian, have a little pity on me,” he pleaded. “Do you think I’m a stone that I can bear to see you cry?”
“What can I say?” she whispered sobbingly. “You wouldn’t understand. You have never understood. How should you? You were too generous. You gave me your name, your wealth, you sacrificed your freedom to save me from a knowledge of the callousness and cruelty of the world. You saw further than I did. You knew that I would fail—as I have failed. And because of that you married me in pity. Did you think I would never guess? I didn’t at first. I was a stupid ignorant child, I didn’t realise what a marriage like ours would mean. But when I did—oh, so soon—and when I knew that I could never repay you—I think I nearly died with shame. When I asked you to let me come to Paris it was not to lead the life you purposed for me but because my burden of debt had grown intolerable. I thought that if I worked here, paid my own way, got back my lost self-respect, that it would be easier to bear. When you took the flat I tried to make you understand but you wouldn’t listen and I couldn’t trouble you when you were going away. And then later when they told me at the convent what you had done, when I learned how much greater was my debt than I had ever dreamt, and when I heard of the money you gave them—the money you still give them every year—the money they call the Gillian Craven Fund—”
“They had no right, I made it a stipulation—”
“They didn’t realise, they thought because we were married that I must surely know. I couldn’t go on living in the flat, taking the allowance you heaped on me. All you gave,—all you did—your generosity—I couldn’t bear it! Oh, can’t you see—your money choked me!” she wailed, with a paroxysm of tears that frightened him. He caught her hands again, holding them firmly. “Your money as much as mine, Gillian. I have always tried to make you realise it. What is mine is yours. You’re my wife—”
“I’m not, I’m not,” she sobbed wildly. “I’m only a burden thrust on you.”
A cry burst from his lips. “A burden, my God, a burden!” he groaned. And suddenly he reached the end of his endurance. With the agony of death in his eyes he swept her into his arms, holding her to him with passionate strength, his lips buried in the fragrance of her hair. “Oh, my dear, my dear,” he murmured brokenly, “I’m not fit to touch you, but I’ve loved you always, worshipped you, longed for you until the longing grew too great to bear, and I left you because I knew that if I stayed I should not have the strength to leave you free. I married you because I loved you, because even this damnable mockery of a marriage was better than losing you out of my life—I was cur enough to keep you when I knew I might not take you. And I’ve wanted you, God knows how I’ve wanted you, all these ghastly years. I want you now, I’d give my hope of heaven to have your love, to hold you in my arms as my wife, to be a husband to you not only in name—but I’m not fit. You don’t know what I’ve done—what I’ve been. I had no right to marry you, to stain your purity with my sin, to link you with one who is fouled as I am. If you knew you’d never look at me again.” With a terrible sob he laid her back on the pillows and dropped on his knees beside her. Into her tear-wet eyes there came suddenly a light that was almost divine, her quivering face became glorious in its pitiful love. Trembling, she leant towards him, and her slender hands went out in swift compassion, drawing the bowed shamed head close to her tender breast.
“Tell me,” she whispered. And with her soft arms round him he told her, waiting in despair for the moment when she would shrink from him, repel him with the horror and disgust he dreaded. But she lay quite still until he finished, though once or twice she shuddered and he felt the quickened beating of her heart. And for long after his muffled voice had died away she remained silent. Then her thin hand crept quiveringly up to his hair, touching it shyly, and two great tears rolled down her face. “Barry, I’ve been so lonely”—it was the cry of a frightened desolate child—“if you have no pity on yourself, will you have no pity on me?”
“Gillian!” he raised his head sharply, staring at her with desperate unbelieving eyes, “You care?”
“Care?” she gave a tremulous little sobbing laugh. “How could I help but care! I’ve loved you since the day you came to me in the convent parlour. You’re all I have, and if you leave me now”—she clung to him suddenly—“Barry, Barry, I can’t bear any more. I haven’t any strength or courage left. I’m afraid! I can’t face the world alone—it’s cruel—pitiless. I love you, I want you, I can’t live without you,” and with a piteous sob she strained him to her, hiding her face against his breast, beseeching and distraught. His lips were trembling as he gathered the shuddering little body closely in his arms, but still he hesitated.
“Think, dear, think,” he muttered hoarsely, “I’m not fit to stay with you. I’ve done that which is unforgivable.”
“I’m your wife, I’ve the right to share your burden,” she cried passionately. “You didn’t know, you couldn’t know when you did that dreadful thing. And if God punishes you let Him punish me too. But God is love, He knows how you have suffered, and for those who repent His punishment is forgiveness.”
“But can you forgive—can you bear to come to me?” he faltered, still only half believing.
“I love you,” she said simply, “and life without you is death,” and lifting her face to his she gave him the lips he had not dared to take.