The Melody of Death · Chapter 5 (2/2)

“Won’t you sit down, Mrs. Cathcart?” he said.

“I’ll stand for what I have to say,” she snapped. “Now, what is the meaning of this?” She threw down the letter which the girl had written, and which she had read and reread until every word was engraven on her mind. “Is it true,” she asked fiercely, “that you are a poor man? That you have deceived us? That you have lied your way into a marriage⁠—”

He held up his hand.

“You seem to forget, Mrs. Cathcart,” he said with dignity, “that the question of my position has already been discussed by you and me, and you have been most emphatic in impressing upon me the fact that no worldly considerations would weigh with you.”

“Worldly!” she sneered. “What do you mean by worldly, Mr. Standerton? Are you not in the world? Do you not live in a house and eat bread and butter that costs money? Do you not use motorcars that require money for their upkeep? Whilst I am living in the world and you are living in the world worldly considerations will always count. I thought you were a rich man; you’re a beggar.”

He smiled a little contemptuously.

“A pretty mess you’ve made of it,” she said harshly. “You’ve got a woman who doesn’t love you⁠—I suppose you know that?”

He bowed.

“I know all that, Mrs. Cathcart,” he said. “I knew the worst when I learnt that. The fact that you so obviously planned the marriage because you thought that I was Sir John Standerton’s heir does not hurt me, because I have met so many women like you, only”⁠—he shrugged his shoulders⁠—“I must confess that I thought you were a little different to the rest of worldly mothers⁠—forgive me if I use that word again. But you are not any better⁠—you may be a little worse,” he said, his thoughtful eyes upon her face.

He was looking at her with a curious something which the woman could not quite understand in his eyes. She had seen that look somewhere, and in spite of herself she shivered. The anger died away in fear.

“I wanted you to postpone this wedding,” he went on softly. “I had an especial reason, a reason I will not give you, but which will interest you in a few months’ time. But you were fearful of losing your rich son-in-law. I didn’t realise then that that was your fear. I have satisfied myself⁠—it really doesn’t matter how,” he said steadily, “that you are more responsible than I for this good match.”

He was a changed man. Mrs. Cathcart in her gusty rage could recognise this: there was a new soul, a new spirit, a new determination, and⁠—that was it!⁠—a new and terrible ferocity which shone from his eyes and for the moment hardened his face till it was almost terrible to look upon.

“Your daughter married me under a misapprehension. She told you all that I had to tell⁠—almost all,” he corrected himself, “and I anticipated this visit. Had you not come I should have sent for you. Your daughter is as free as the air as far as I am concerned. I suppose your worldliness extends to a knowledge of the law? She can sue for a divorce tomorrow, and attain it without any difficulty and with little publicity.”

A gleam of hope came to the woman’s face.

“I never thought of that,” she said half to herself. She turned quickly to her daughter, for she was a woman of action. “Get your things and come with me.”

Edith did not stir. She stood the other side of the table, half facing her husband and wholly facing her mother.

“You hear what Mr. Standerton says,” said Mrs. Cathcart irritably. “He has opened a way of escape to you. What he says is true. A divorce can be obtained with no difficulty. Come with me. I will send for your clothes.”

Edith still did not move.

Mrs. Cathcart, watching her, saw her features soften one by one, saw the lips part in a smile and the head fall back as peal after peal of clear laughter rang through the room.

“Oh, mother!” The infinite contempt of the voice struck the woman like the lash of a whip. “You don’t know me! Go back with you? Divorce him? You’re mad! If he had been a rich man indeed I might; but for the time being, though I do not love him, and though I should not blame him and do not blame him if he does not love me, my lot is cast with his, my place is here.”

“Melodrama!” said the elder woman angrily.

“There’s a lot of truth and no end of decency in melodrama, Mrs. Cathcart,” said Gilbert.

His mother-in-law stood livid with rage, then turning, flung out of the room, and they heard the front door slam behind her.

They looked at each other, this strangely-married pair, for the space of a few seconds, and then Gilbert held out his hand.

“Thank you,” he said.

The girl dropped her eyes.

“You have nothing to thank me for,” she said listlessly. “I have done you too much wrong for one little act to wipe out all the effects of my selfishness.”