An Unknown Lover by Mrs George de Horne Vaizey (hardest books to read TXT) 📖

humbug and a sham. I can see myself living alone in that great house, very rich, very gorgeous; not a bit lonely! Friends would flock around, more friends than I need. Lovers too! for the unattainable is always tempting. I could amuse myself very well.”

“For heaven’s sake, Grizel!” Martin came to a standstill in front of her chair, his face flushed with protest. “For heaven’s sake speak the truth, and drop pretence! You are going to keep the money,—very well! but it is not for such reasons as those... There are precious few illusions left in life,—don’t kill one of the few that remain! You will keep the money, not out of self-indulgence, but because it was Lady Griselda’s wish, and because there is no stronger claim upon you, until—until the time arrives, as it will arrive, when you meet a man—”

“Whom I love,” concluded Grizel calmly. She was silent for a moment, then in the deepest, most bell-like notes of her beautiful voice, she added a few soft words. “More than the world! More than riches—more than my life. And then—”

“Then?” queried Martin breathlessly. To the end of his life he would hear the echo of Grizel’s voice intoning those thrilling words:

“It will depend upon him, and how brave he can be,” she returned quietly. She rose in her turn, and bending over the desk, drew together the scattered sheets. “How is the novel going, Martin? What is happening to them all? I was going to help, but fate intervened, and turned me into a heroine myself. Is she happy, your little girl with the hill-tarn eyes?”

“Yes—no. I couldn’t get on. The novel is shelved pro tem. My head was too full of other things. Your position, and the problem of the whole situation were so constantly in my mind, that it was a relief to work it out on paper... Those sheets are the draft of a short story, dealing with such a position—but not for publication.”

“I’m glad of that! I should not like it to be published,” said Grizel quickly. Her cheeks were flushed, she glanced at the sheets with an air at once timid and eager. “It would be interesting to hear what you make of it! May I read?”

“There’s so little done. Just the situation roughed in. A girl beautiful, alluring, left with a choice like yours, a man, loving her—”

“What kind of a man?”

“Ordinary—quite ordinary. A dull dog, but with a capacity, a hideous capacity for suffering—”

Grizel subsided on to the swivel chair, and lifted a quill pen from the rack. The seriousness, the quiet, almost timid manner of the last few minutes had disappeared as by a flash. Now she was composed again, mischievous, audacious; the dimples dipping in her soft, round cheek. She rested her elbows on the desk and nibbled at the pen with a delicious assumption of the professional manner.

“Make him a little bit interesting, Martin! He must be interesting. Is he tall? Is he handsome? I insist that he is thin and clean shaven. And charming, too—he must certainly be charming, or she wouldn’t have qualms, and at the least she must feel qualms! ... No girl could even imagine giving up a fortune for a dull man with a beard. Suppose you made him an author like yourself, so that he had something to offer on his own accord, such as a reputation which she would be proud to share! Then on his side would be love, fame, home, and on hers, ambition, wealth—”

“Opportunity—?”

“Humph!” Grizel stroked her chin. “In a sense! It’s a fact though, Martin,—humiliating as it is to acknowledge,—that man is the medium through which a woman discovers every possibility worth having. The opportunities which come apart from him are only makeshifts. I think we’ll rule out opportunity... Won’t he, at least, give her the choice?”

“I think not. He is not such an ass as to consider himself worth the sacrifice. The only decent thing he can do is to efface himself, and stand by ready to help her whenever he can be of use.”

“Humph!” commented Grizel again. “Admirable—but dull. How mad she’ll be! ... It’s just as I said, Martin—you don’t understand your own sex. You need me to write the man-ey bits. What he should really do, is to take her in his arms, and say, ‘Thirty-thousand-a-year! Thirty thousand pounds’—her light voice suddenly swelled into earnestness. ‘Ah! but I’ve more than that,—a better offer to make you!’ And he should hold her tight, tight, and laugh,—a strong man’s laugh, and look in her eyes, and cry: ‘You are mine! All the fortunes in the world could not buy you. All the fortunes in the world could not keep you. You belong to me! ... Leave your empty palace, and come Home, and as you are a true woman, and worth loving, I’ll give you more, far, far more than you ever dreamt,—ever imagined—’”

The soft voice broke: she wheeled suddenly round, hiding her face, but Martin leaped after her, seized her by the arms:

“Grizel—Grizel!”

Her face quivered into tears.

“Oh! Oh! you made me do it; and I vowed I wouldn’t!—If I’m worth having, I’m worth asking, and oh, Martin—I’ve waited!”

“Grizel, Grizel!” cried Martin again. She was in his arms, she clung to him, sobbing with the abandonment of a child. Grizel, in whose gay eyes he had never yet seen a tear! His grasp, the trembling of his strong frame, the dazed rapture of his face, told their own tale, but as yet he had no words; it was Grizel who poured out her tale of love.

“It was always you—never any one else. And I was happy because I knew that some day—! And I tried, I tried to make you! ... Oh, Martin, your arms at last! To rest here! And you talk of money! Oh, now I am rich; but for years I have starved,—Martin! Martin!”

He strained her close, still dazed, incredulous with joy.

“Grizel. Beloved! You are my life, but can I take you? Dare I? Is it right?”

“You have no choice—I’m here! Martin, I’ve loved you since that day I saw you first, standing with little Juliet among the roses... She’ll be glad, Martin—there can be no jealousy in a spiritual world. She’ll just rejoice that you are happy, and that love has come to you again. I’m so sure of that!”

Was there another woman in the world who would have spoken of Juliet at that moment? Martin flinched, for at the back of his mind still lingered a consciousness of disloyalty, but he loved Grizel the more for her sweet comfort.

“I—I hope she is,” he said unsteadily. “Grizel you brought me back to life, but I dared not hope for this.—I’ll work like ten men; I will pour out my life for you like water, but I can never repay—never be worthy. Oh, my beautiful, that you should give up so much for met The wonder of it stuns me. Ought I to let you?”

“You can’t help it. I’m here,” cried Grizel once more. She tilted her face to look up at him, laughing, with the tears still wet on her lashes. “And, oh, Martin, won’t it sell your books! Think of the advertisement! Shall we keep it quiet until the new novel is out? Not too long, because, you know, I don’t mean to touch that money. It wouldn’t be straight, when I’m going to break the condition. There must be no question of staying on in the house, and making a book. I am not going back...”

“And when—when?” queried Martin hotly. “Grizel, will you come to me at once? Why should we wait? Everything is ready, if you are really willing to come to this tiny house. If it comes to that, I can’t wait, and I won’t! You shall never leave me again.”

“Oh, won’t I though,” Grizel laughed softly, pushing him from her with determined hands. “Now—let’s be sensible!—Sit over there, and I’ll tell you just what I will do, and what I won’t—I won’t marry you until the old Buddy has been dead for some months, and I won’t ever live in this house. We’ll find another, that looks to the sun, and I’ll furnish it in my own way, with my own fads. Buddy gave me lots of treasures for my own rooms. They are mine whatever I do, and I must have room for them. I have five hundred a year, you know, Martin. Shall you be able to afford a better house with an extra five hundred?”

“I can afford it now. You are quite right, it would be better to move, but I’m not going to touch a halfpenny of your money, sweetheart. You must keep that for yourself. It will seem little enough.”

“It takes a great deal to dress me!” sighed Grizel plaintively. “Can’t think why, when I’m so thin. And my lame dogs! I must squeeze out something for them. Well! there are some good pictures, and curios, and jewels. They are mine, too. With an occasional visit to the pawnshop, we’ll last out, somehow, till I’m fifty. Won’t be so long either! But, Martin! in heaven’s name, Who will order the dinners?”

“Perhaps—er—Katrine!” Martin’s voice sounded nervous and miserable. Grizel had thought of Juliet, but she had not mentioned Katrine, the obvious, living difficulty. He hated to remind her of it; hated to feel that his home was not his own.

“Yes. Perhaps—er—Katrine,” returned Grizel sweetly. She smiled into space, her face swept clear of expression, while Martin searched vainly for the hidden thought.

“I’m—sorry, darling! I hate the thought of a third person. It would be so perfect alone, but—Katrine has given me her youth, and there is nowhere else she could go. I should be a cur if I turned her out.”

“An ungrateful cur. We’ll never do it. I wouldn’t, if you could!”

“And do you think,—could you manage to be happy with her here, always with us?”

“I think,” pronounced Grizel judicially, “I might stand it for a week. With grace! Then I’d poison her with lingering torture.” She turned to him as she spoke, eyes shining, lips apart, deliberately inviting caress, but when he leaped to take her in his arms she waved him away. “No! This is business. Let us finish this first.”

“Oh, Bewildering Woman! Have you the least idea what you mean! Shall I ever understand you, to the end of my life? It’s a choice then between being a cur, and having you hung as a murderess. How do you reconcile that with your statement that you couldn’t, if I would.”

“I wouldn’t, and I shan’t. You won’t either. She will!” replied Grizel lucidly. “Oh, Man, don’t worry! Katrine is sensible if you are not! You must be good to her, and generous, and loving. Not affectionate, remember! laving, and things will arrange themselves well for us all. You’ll see!”

“I hope I may. At present I’m in a maze. I am to say to her—what am I to say?”

“That so long as you have a house there will be a Katrine’s room, and a welcome for her, if she chooses to stay. And you are to take no notice—not the slightest—of anything she says in reply, but to leave things to time, and her own good sense... Now we’ve wasted quite enough time on silly details. Let’s be sensible!—I love you, Martin!” ...