The Man Without a Memory by Arthur W. Marchmont (good summer reads txt) 📖

a frown of perplexity. "I can't go home yet. I was just taking my little darling to some friends."

She was certainly not a good actress, or she would never have implied that it was more important to take the child to some friends than to have an explanation with the false lover discovered after long years. "When then?" I asked, concluding that the child had been borrowed for the show and was to be returned with thanks at once.

"Come there in an hour," she said after thinking. "You won't escape me again, for I know where to find you now," she added with a toss of the head.

"I shall not try. Here's my address;" and I scribbled it on a card. "I'll turn up all right. I'm only too interested in what you've said and wish to know all you can tell me about it. I'll do the right thing by you, Anna;" and I held out my hand.

She hesitated a second and then shook hands, her look showing that my words had impressed her favourably and also perplexed her.

I spent the interval in the Thiergarten thinking over the whole unpleasant incident: the probable effect upon those who had witnessed it, and the line to take in the coming interview.

It would serve one good turn at any rate. Von Gratzen would hear all about it from his wife and it ought to put an end to his suspicions. If the woman I had ruined could identify me as the result of a chance meeting, he could scarcely fail to regard it as a mighty strong corroboration of the Lassen theory.

Both Rosa and Nessa would of course know that the story, even if it were true, had nothing to do with me, and what the Countess herself thought didn't amount to anything. The main point was what would happen if the woman stuck to it and how far she was prepared to go. That would probably depend upon the inducements or pressure brought to bear by von Erstein; and judging the man, pressure was the more likely.

It would be easy enough to knock the bottom out of the scheme by bringing the police into it; her nervousness at the mention of them had shown that plainly. But that wouldn't suit me. The less the police had to meddle with my affairs, the better. No doubt an inquiry agent could soon get at the truth so far as the woman herself was concerned; and if she proved obdurate, that might be the best course. But obviously the quickest and best solution would be to get the woman herself to own up; and that must be the first line of attack.

Her answer to my question what she wished me to do, suggested an idea. She wanted her "rights," as she phrased it; and clearly the straightforward course was to offer them. "Rights" meant marriage; and she was likely to feel in a deuce of a stew if I agreed to marry her. The farce of it was quite to my liking. To appear to force her into such a marriage with a man she had never seen in her life was rich, and at the same time good policy, as it would impress her with my honesty of purpose.

I kept the appointment punctually and found her rather breathless and flurried. It was a mean little flat; had evidently been hastily got ready; and the number of things still littered about the room, told that I had arrived in the middle of her efforts to get it in order.

She looked far less presentable without her hat and things. She was an untidy person, anything but clean, and made the mistake of trying to explain away the confusion and disorder in the place.

"I didn't really believe you'd come, or I'd have had the place tidier. When any one has to struggle alone for a living in these times, there isn't much chance of keeping the home right."

"Still I can see you've been doing your best."

"I always have to," she replied with a quick, half-suspicious glance.

"You have a hard struggle?"

"Hard enough."

"What do you do?"

"Anything and everything I can, of course. It's hard work."

Her hands offered no evidence of this, however. "Well, we must try to make things easier for you, Anna. Now let us talk it over."

"I'll wash my hands first and tidy up a bit," and she went into the adjoining room, where I heard her moving some furniture into place.

This gave an opportunity of scrutinizing the mean little sitting-room, and one fact was instantly apparent. There was not a single thing to suggest that a child had even set foot in it. On the floor close to the shabby sofa was a partly open leather bag; much too good and expensive to be in keeping with the rest, and a glance into it revealed a number of dressing-table fitments, also much better than a struggling working woman would be at all likely to own.

She had forgotten this in her confusion at my arrival and presently came out to fetch it, still in the untidy slovenly dress. "I won't be a minute, now," she said.

But several minutes passed before she returned, wearing now a well-fitting coat and skirt and cosmeticed much as she had been when we had met first.

"I try to keep my head above water, you see," she said, to account for her good clothes, no doubt.

I smiled approval and got to business. "First let me ask you whether you are absolutely certain I am the man you think."

"Do you think I should have made that fuss to-day if I wasn't? Why do you ask such a question?"

"Because I don't remember anything whatever of it, and to me you are an absolute stranger. Just tell me everything about it."

Her story was in its essence that which von Erstein had told me, repeated as if she had got it up much as she would have studied her part in a play. She was not very perfect in it, and there were just those verbal slips and trips which one may hear in a badly rehearsed play on the first night of production. Moreover, apart from her lines she was hopelessly muddled and had either been very badly coached about details or her memory was little better than my assumed one.

She judged by my looks that her story shocked me, and I sat a long time frowning as if lost in thought. "It seems absolutely inconceivable!" I exclaimed at length with a deep sigh. "Absolutely inconceivable that I could have treated you in this way; and only—how long ago was it?"

"You came straight to Hanover from Göttingen."

"What was I doing there?"

"I don't know? At least, you were always so close you would never tell me anything."

"You saw a great deal of me, of course?"

"Well, naturally. I wasn't going to marry a man I never saw, I suppose."

"No, no, of course not. Oh dear, to think of it all!" I put a few more questions which she could easily answer, and when she was growing more glibly at ease I asked: "And how old is the child?"

"Eh? I don't know. Oh yes, I do, of course. Pops was nine last birthday."

"Nine!" I exclaimed. I might well be astonished, for they had muddled this part of the thing hopelessly. The child I had seen in the Thiergarten wasn't a day more than six, probably younger even. "Where was she born?"

This rattled her. "What does it matter where she was born, so long as she was born somewhere," she said, flushing so vividly that it showed under her rouge. Clearly she did not know where "our child" was supposed to have been born. "What does matter is what you're going to do about it."

"There's only one thing any honourable man would think of doing, Anna. I shall make you my wife at once," I cried.

Her amazement was a sheer delight. It was so complete that she didn't know what to do or say and just stared at me open-eyed. "I didn't say I wanted that, did I?" she stammered at length.

"There's the child, Anna; and neither you nor I can afford to think of our own wishes;" and in proof of my moral duty in the circumstances, I delivered a lecture on the necessity of freeing the child from the stain of its birth.

This gave her time to pull herself together. "Are you in earnest?" she asked when I finished.

"I hold the strongest views in such cases. The best plan will be for me to arrange about the marriage at once, to-day indeed; and probably to-morrow or the next day we can be married."

"But I——" She pulled up suddenly. It looked as if she was going to protest she wouldn't marry a man she'd never seen before. "I'd like to think about it," she substituted uneasily.

"But why any need to think? You showed this afternoon how bitterly you resented my desertion and, unless you were play-acting, how much you still care for me. So why delay when I am willing? It is true that I can't pretend to care for you as I used, but it may all come back again to me. We'll hope so, at any rate."

"But you're engaged to that rich cousin of yours, aren't you?"

This was a good example of her slip-shod methods. As she knew that, she knew also where to have found me of course, so that the little melodramatic recognition scene in the Thiergarten had been a mere picturesque superfluity. I let it pass and replied gravely: "I should not allow that engagement to interfere with my duty to you, Anna."

"You must have changed a lot, then."

"I hope I have, if you're not really mistaken about my being the man you think. But I'll go and see about our wedding;" and I rose.

"Wait a bit," she cried, flustered and perplexed. "I didn't expect you to—to give in quite so—quite like this," she added, laughing nervously. "It isn't a bit like I was led—what I expected. Do you mean really and truly that you're ready to marry me straight off like this?"

With all the earnestness I could command I gave her the assurance. "I pledge you my sacred word of honour that if I've treated you as you say I'll marry you as soon as it can be done." A perfectly safe and sincere pledge.

This frightened her. The affair had taken a much more serious turn than she had expected. "You—you've taken my breath away almost," was how she put it; and she sat twisting and untwisting her fingers nervously, not in the least seeing how to meet the unexpected difficulty. "I must have time to think it over," she said at length.

"Why?"

"Oh, I don't know; but it's—it's so sudden."

"There's, the child, Anna," I reminded her again.

"Oh, bother the child. I mean I'm thinking of myself." This hurriedly, as she turned to stare out of the window. "Do you know the sort of life I've been living?" she asked in a low voice without looking round.

"Whatever it is, it must be my fault, and I don't care what you've been doing. I drove you to it. There's our child, remember."

There was another long silence as she stood at the window. Her laboured breathing, the clenched hands, and spasmodic movements of her shoulders evidenced some great agitation. If it was mere acting she was a far better actress than she had yet shown herself. And the change in her looks when at last she turned to me proved her emotion to be genuine.

"You're a white man right through, and I'm only dirt compared to you," she cried tensely. "Look here, I've lied about that kid. She isn't yours, or mine either for that matter. What do you say to that?" and she flung her head back challengingly.

"Only that I know it already, her age made it impossible. But it makes no difference to the wrong I did you."

"Do you still mean you'd marry