"If you like," she answered steadily.
"Do you know what it is, my dear?"
And suddenly she smiled, her face very close to his.
"Of course I know what it is. And I know what the answer is. So why wait a day or two—to ask it?"
VI. — DILEMMA
I AM on the horns of the most appalling dilemma. I don't know what I ought to do, and the more I think about it the more hopelessly difficult does it become. Listen, and I'll put the case to you. And if you can think of the right way out I shall be vastly obliged.
I shall have to go back a couple of years—nearly three— to the wedding of Lady Alice Denver to Mr. William Scrotton. You may remember it: it was one of the events, of the season. Blood marrying money, of course, though the illustrated weeklies glossed it over a bit. A bit—that's all: because nothing could gloss over Scrotton's appearance. Hardware, I think—or tinned food; anyway, the point is immaterial. He was a millionaire, which was all that mattered to Alice Denver.
You raise your eyebrows: I tell you I knew that girl. Better than most people. Hard: why, Scrotton's hardest tin was like putty compared to her. Beautiful undoubtedly; but underneath the beauty—rotten: rotten to the core.
Why Scrotton married her was best known to himself. He was just a plain, vulgar man, twenty years older than she. And she treated him like dirt. If it was for social advancement—he paid the price; if it was because he desired her, and was accustomed to having his desires gratified, well—I'm thinking he made a pretty bad bargain. The possession of a being who loathes you and despises you is a poor form of enjoyment. Why she married him is obvious. The Earls of Lakington have never been well off, and the present one—her father—was practically bankrupt, till Scrotton's money saved the situation.
The wedding took place at the height of the season, and to this day I don't know why I attended. I didn't know Scrotton: I didn't like his bride. The only reason why I had been honoured with an invitation was to ensure that I sent a present, and I should certainly never have been missed if I hadn't gone. However, that is beside the point: I did go. And now I wish to Heaven I hadn't.
The church was crammed with society people who had come to see the sale. Scrotton, with his neck bulging over his collar, looked worse than usual as he waited for his bride, and yet, of the two, I was the more sorry for him. Jove! If the poor devil could have heard the remarks a bunch of people in front of me were making about him!
I'd taken a seat right at the back of the church, and I'd been there about five minutes when a general craning of heads announced the bride's arrival. And I don't suppose Alice Denver had ever looked more beautiful in her life. White suited her. She went up the aisle on her father's arm, looking neither to the right hand nor to the left. And she gave one the impression of a block of ice. She knew—none better—the comments that were being made, and she called up all that scornful hardness of hers as if to challenge the gossipers to do their worst. It was a part of the price, and it had been duly reckoned.
It was just after the service commenced that I noticed him for the first time. He'd slipped into the end of my pew, and I put him down as a member of the general public who had managed to get in somehow. Or perhaps a reporter. He was dressed in a threadbare lounge suit, and his collar was none too clean. His face was emaciated: his age somewhere between thirty and forty. But the thing that riveted my attention after a time was his extreme restlessness. His hands were never still; his eyes—bright and feverish—kept darting all over the church, only to return always to the two figures standing in front of the altar.
And then quite suddenly it happened, and his voice rang through the church. "Stop! For God's sake—stop!"
It was a ghastly moment. The organ petered out abruptly: the choir ceased singing, and everyone craned round to see the cause of the interruption. He was standing up, his arms thrown out—and thus for a moment or two did he remain. Then, as if conscious of what he had done, his nerve seemed suddenly to go. And before anybody could stop him, he was out of the door and gone.
Horrified officials came hurrying up; old Lakington himself, in a state of pitiful agitation, almost ran down the aisle. The shock to him must have been terrific; to be deprived of the Scrotton money when he had to all intents and purposes felt it jangling in his pockets completely unnerved him. They appealed to me, and I told them that I thought it must be some madman who had eluded the guardians at the door. And that, at the time, is what I did think. At any rate, he had disappeared, and the pause was becoming more and more embarrassing. So, after a hurried conference, the organ let drive again, and a few minutes later Lady Alice Denver became Lady Alice Scrotton. And the Earl of Lakington breathed freely once again.
Somewhat naturally, so I was told afterwards, it was the sole topic of conversation at the reception. Everybody sympathised with the happy pair, and the general belief seemed to be that he was some unbalanced fanatic or Communist agitator who had deliberately tried to wreck the proceedings on some distorted question of principle.
That, as I say, is what I was told. Because I didn't go to the reception. And now I wish to Heaven I had. No; I didn't go—not being able to be in two places at once. And whilst the reception was being held, I was talking to the unbalanced fanatic in my rooms.
Why does one do these things? Why, for instance, when, on leaving the church, I saw his face in the crowd outside the door, did I not say to the nearest policeman—"There is the man who created the disturbance in church"? I don't know; let it suffice that I didn't. I merely stood chatting to one or two people, and keeping the corner of my eye fixed on him. And when he moved abruptly out of the onlookers and walked off rapidly, I followed him.
He swung round as I overtook him, and stared at me defiantly.
"May I ask the reason of your extraordinary outburst?" I said quietly.
"You may ask," he answered. "That's as far as it will get."
"Indeed!" I said. "You see that policeman? Can you suggest any good reason why I shouldn't give you in charge?"
"I wish to God you would," was his surprising reply. "If they sent me to prison for a few years I might be safe. Oh! don't think I'm mad: I'm as sane as you are."
"Doubtless," I agreed courteously. "So, proceeding on that assumption, perhaps you would be good enough to tell me why you did it. My rooms happen to be close by, where we shall be undisturbed."
For a moment or two he hesitated: then he gave a sudden harsh laugh.
"Very well, I will," he said. "On one condition—and one condition only. That you write down briefly what I am going to say to you, and post it to your bank or your lawyer tonight in a sealed envelope."
"Well, really—" I began doubtfully.
But now it was he who was insistent.
"Take me to your rooms," he demanded. "It's got to be told—this thing, and you'll do as well as anyone else."
That he was still in a very excited state was obvious, though he walked beside me in silence as far as my door. But his hands were twitching, and there was a queer light in his eyes that made one or two people we met stare at him curiously. In fact, once or twice I was on the point of suddenly remembering another appointment. But I didn't—more's the pity.
"Well, let's hear all about it," I said, as soon as we were comfortably settled. "Would you like a drink?"
"No, thanks," he answered. "Drink is a luxury that people in my financial position can't afford."
He lay back in his chair, and I waited for him to start. But his eyes were travelling round the room, and there was a twisted smile on his lips.
"God! How I envy you this!" He waved a comprehensive hand. "It's what I was brought up to expect—and look at me. I'm Eton, you know—and Balliol; though for the Lord's