John had not spoken much, but stood by the fire.
How changed things were! Once he had to be persuaded and enticed to stay with her at such moments, and it was he who now seemed to desire to do so, and it was she who discouraged his wishes!
In Amaryllis" mind an agitation grew. What could she say to him presently--if he suggested coming to sleep in her room?
The knowledge in her breast rose as an insurmountable barrier between them.
During dinner she kept the conversation entirely upon his life at the Front--which indeed really interested her. She was not cold or stiff in her manner, but she was unconsciously aloof.
Then they went back into the library, each feeling exceedingly depressed.
When coffee had come and they were quite alone Amaryllis felt she could not stand the strain, and went to the piano. She played for quite a long time all the things she remembered that John liked best. She wanted the music to calm her, and she wanted to gain time. John sat in one of the monster chairs and gazed into the fire. He seemed to see pictures in the glowing coals.
The strange relentless fate which had pursued him always as far as happiness was concerned!
He remembered what his mother had said to him when she lay a-dying with a broken heart.
"John, we cannot see what G.o.d means in it all. There must be some explanation because He cannot be unjust. It is because we have missed the point of some lesson, probably, and so are given it again to learn. Do not ever be rebellious, my son, and perhaps some day light will come."
He had read an article in some paper lately ridiculing the theory that we have had former lives, but, after all, perhaps there was some foundation for the belief. Perhaps he was paying in this one for sins in a previous birth. That would account for the seeming inexorableness of the misfortunes which fell upon him now, since common sense told him that in this life such cruel blows were undeserved.
Amaryllis glanced at his face from the piano as she played. It was infinitely sad.
A great pity grew in her heart. What ought she to do not to be unkind?
Presently she finished a soft chord and got up and came to his side.
They were both suffering cruelly--but John was going back to fight. She must have some explanation with him which could make him return to France at peace in a measure. It was cowardly to shirk telling him the truth, and she could not let him go again into danger with this black shadow between them.
He looked up at her and rose from his chair.
"You play so beautifully," he said hastily. "You take one out of oneself. Now it is late and the day has been long. Let us go to bed, dearest child."
Amaryllis stiffened suddenly--the moment that she dreaded had come.
"I would rather that you slept in your dressing-room. I have ordered that to be prepared--"
He looked at her startled--and then he took her hand.
"Amaryllis--tell me everything. Why are you so changed?"
"I"m trying not to be, John."
"You are trying--that proves that you are, if you must try. Please tell me what this means."
She endeavoured to remain calm and not become unhinged.
"It was you yourself who altered me. I came to you all loving and human and you froze me. There is nothing to be done."
"Yes, there is. You know that I love you."
"Perhaps you do, but the family matters more to you than I do, or anything else in the world."
"That may have been so once, but not now," his voice throbbed with feeling.
"Alas!" was all she answered and looked down. John longed to appeal to her--but he was too honest to seek to soften her through the link of the child. Indeed, the thought of it had grown hateful to him. He only knew that he had played for a stake which now seemed worthless. Amaryllis and her love mattered more than any child.
He clenched his hands tightly; the pain of things seemed hard to bear.
Why had he not broken the thongs of reserve which held him long days ago and made love to her in words? But that would have been dishonest. He must at least be true; and he realised now that he had starved her--no matter what his motive had been.
"Amaryllis, tell me everything, please," and he held out his hands and drew her to the sofa and sat down by her side.
She could not control her emotion any longer, and her voice shook as she answered him:
"I know that it was not you--but Denzil, John--and the baby is his, not yours."
His face altered. He had not been prepared to hear this thing and he was stunned.
"Ferdinand is an awful possibility to contemplate there at Ardayre, if you have no son--" She went on, trying to be calm, "but do you not think that you might have told me? Surely a woman has the right to select the father of her child."
John could not answer her. He covered his face with his hands.
"You see it is all pitiful," she continued, her voice deep and broken with almost a sob in it. "Denzil is so like you--it was an easy transition to find that I loved him--because I was only loving the imaginary you I had made for myself. I cannot explain myself and do not make any excuse. There is something in me, whenever I think of the baby, that draws me to Denzil and makes me remember that night. John, we must just face the situation and try to find some way to avoid as much pain as we can. I hate to think it is hurting you, too."
"Did Denzil tell you this?" his voice was icy cold.
"No--it came to me suddenly when I heard him say a word."
""Sweetheart"!" and now John"s eyes flashed. "He called you again "Sweetheart"!"
"No, he did not--he used the word simply in speaking of a picture--but I recognised his voice then immediately--it is a little deeper than yours."
"When did you see Denzil?"
She told him the exact truth about their meeting and his coming to Ardayre, and how Denzil had endeavoured to keep his word.
"He would never have spoken to me--it was fate which sent him into the train, and then I made him speak--I could not bear it. After I recognised him, I made him admit that it was he. Denzil is not to blame.
He left immediately and I have never seen him or heard from him since.
It is I alone who must be counted with, John--Denzil will try never to see me again."
John groaned aloud.
"Oh G.o.d--the misery of it all!"
"John, I must tell you everything now while we are talking of these things. I love Denzil utterly. I thrill when I think of him; he seems to me my husband, not even only a lover. John, not long ago, when I felt the first movement of the child, I shook with longing for him--I found myself murmuring his name aloud. So you must think what it all means to me, so strongly pa.s.sionate as I am. But I would never cheat you, John--I had to be honest. I could not go on pretending to be your wife and living a lie."
Tears of agony gathered in John Ardayre"s blue eyes and rolled down his cheeks.