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Tenterhooks

<h3 id="id01557" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XXVII</h3> The Elopement The following Tuesday, Edith, Aylmer, Vincy and Mrs Ottley were sitting on the veranda after dinner. They had a charming little veranda which led on to a lawn, and from there straight down to the sea. It was their custom to sit there in the evening and talk. The elder Mrs Ottley enjoyed these evenings, and the most modern conversation never seemed to startle her. She would listen impassively, or with a smile, as if in silent approval, to the most monstrous of paradoxes or the most childish chaff. Aylmer's attention and kind thought for her had absolutely won her heart. She consulted him about everything, and was only thoroughly satisfied when he was there. His strong, kind, decided voice, his good looks, his decision, and a sort of responsible impulsiveness, all appealed to her immensely. She looked up to him, in a kind of admiring maternal way; Edith often wondered, did she not see Aylmer's devotion? But, if she did, Mrs Ottley thought nothing of it. Her opinion of Edith was so high that she trusted her in any complications…. 'Isn't Bruce coming down tonight?' she asked Edith. 'I'm to have a wire.' 'Ah, here's the last post. Perhaps he's written instead.' Vincy fetched the letters. There was one from Bruce. Edith went into the drawing-room to read it; there was not sufficient light on the veranda…. In growing amazement she read the following words:— <h5 id="id01567">DEAR EDITH,</h5> 'I hope what I am about to tell you will not worry you too much. At any rate I do hope you will not allow it to affect your health. It is inevitable, and you must make up your mind to it as soon as possible. I say this in no spirit of unkindness; far from it. It is hard to me to break the news to you, but it must be done. 'Mavis Argles and I are all in all to each other. We have made up our minds on account of certain circumstances to throw in our lot together, and we are starting for Australia today. When this reaches you, we shall have started. I enclose the address to write to me. 'In taking this step I have, I am sure, acted for the best. It may cause you great surprise and pain. I regret it, but we met and became very quickly devoted to one another. She cannot live without me. What I am doing is my duty. I now ask you, and believe you will grant my request, to make arrangements to give me my freedom as soon as possible. Mind you do this, Edith, for it is really my duty to give my name to Mavis, who, as I have said, is devoted to me heart and soul, and cannot live without me. 'I shall always have the greatest regard and respect for you, and wish you well. 'I am sorry also about my mother, but you must try and explain that it is for the best. You also will know exactly what to do, and how to bring up the children just as well without me as with. 'Hoping this sudden news will not affect your health in any way, and that you will try and stay on a good while at Westgate, as I am sure the air is doing you good, believe me, yours affectionately as always, <h5 id="id01574">'BRUCE.</h5> 'P.S.—Mind you don't forget to divorce me as soon as you can for Mavis's sake. Vincy will give you all the advice you need. Don't think badly of me; I have meant well. Try and cheer up. I am sorry not to write more fully, but you can imagine how I was rushed to catch today's steamer.' She sat alone gazing at the letter under the light. She was divided at first between a desire to laugh and cry. Bruce had actually eloped! His silly weakness had culminated, his vanity had been got hold of. Vincy's horrid little art-student had positively led him into running away, and leaving his wife and children. Controlling herself, Edith went to the veranda and said to Mrs Ottley that Bruce wasn't coming back for a day or two, that she had neuralgia and was going to retire, but begged Aylmer not to go yet. Of course at this he went at once. The next morning Aylmer at his hotel received a little note asking him to come round and see Edith, while the others were out. It was there, in the cool, shady room, that Edith showed him the letter. 'Good God!' he exclaimed, looking simply wild with joy. 'This is too marvellous!—too heavenly! Do you realise it? Edith, don't you see he wants you to make him free? You will be my wife—that's settled—that's fixed up.' He looked at her in delight almost too great for expression. Edith knew she was going to have a hard task now. She was pale, but looked completely composed. She said: 'You're wrong, Aylmer. I'm not going to set him free.' 'What?' he almost shouted. 'Are you mad? What! Stick to him when he doesn't want you! Ruin the wretched girl's life!' 'That remains to be seen. I don't believe everything in the letter. The children—' 'Edith!' he exclaimed. 'What—when he doesn't want the children—when he deserts them?' 'He is their father.' 'Their father! Then, if you were married to a criminal who implored you to divorce him you wouldn't, because he was their father!' 'Bruce is not a criminal. He is not bad. He is a fool. He has behaved idiotically, and I can never care for him in the way I used to, but I mean to give him a chance. I'm not going to jump at his first real folly to get rid of him…. Poor Bruce!' She laughed. Aylmer threw himself down in an arm-chair, staring at her. 'You amaze me,' he said. 'You amaze me. You're not human. Do you adore this man, that you forgive him everything? You don't even seem angry.' 'I don't adore him, that is why I'm not so very angry. I was terribly hurt about Miss Townsend. My pride, my trust were hurt but after that I can't ever feel that personal jealousy any more. What I have got to think of is what is best.' 'Edith, you don't care for me. I'd better go away.' He turned away; he had tears in his eyes. 'Oh, don't, Aylmer! You know I do!' 'Well, then, it's all right. Fate seems to have arranged this on purpose for us—don't you know, dear, how I'd be good to the children? How I'd do anything on this earth for them? Why, I'd reconcile Mrs Ottley to it in ten minutes; I'd do anything!' He started up. 'I'm not going to let Mrs Ottley know anything about it for the present.' 'You're not going to tell her?' 'No. I shall invent a story to account for his absence. No-one need know. But, of course, if, later—I mean if he persists—' 'Oh, Edith, don't be a fool! You're throwing away our happiness when you've got it in your hand.' 'There are some things that one can't do.' said Edith. 'It goes against the grain. I can't take advantage of his folly to make the path smoother—for myself. What will become of him when they quarrel! It's all nonsense. Bruce is only weak. He's a very good fellow, really. He has no spirit, and not much intellect; but with us to look after him,' she unconsciously said us, and could not help smiling at the absurdity of it,' he will get along all right yet.' 'Edith, you're beyond me,' said Aylmer. 'I give up understanding you.' She stood up again and looked out of the window. 'Let him have his silly holiday and his elopement and his trip! He thinks it will make a terrific sensation! And I hope she will be seasick. I'm sure she will; she's the sort of woman who would, and then—after—' 'And you'll take him back? You have no pride, Edith.' She turned round. 'Take him back?—yes; officially. He has a right to live in his own house, with his own children. Why, ever since I found out about Miss Townsend … I'm sure I was nice to him, but only like a sister. Yes. I feel just like a sister to him now.' 'Oh, good God! I haven't patience with all this hair-splitting nonsense. Brotherly husbands who run away with other girls, and beg you to divorce them; sisterly wives who forgive them and stick to them against their will….' He suddenly stopped, and held out his hand. 'Forgive me, Edith. I believe whatever you say is right. Will you forgive me?' 'You see, it's chiefly on account of the children. If it weren't for them I would take advantage of this to be happy with you. At least—no—I'm not sure that I would; not if I thought it would be Bruce's ruin.' 'And you don't think I'd be good to the children?' 'Good? I know you would be an angel to them! But what's the use? I tell you I can't do it.' 'I won't tease you, I won't worry you any more,' he said, in a rather broken voice. 'At any rate, think what a terrible blow this is to me. You show me the chance of heaven, then you voluntarily dash it away. Don't you think you ought to consult someone? You have asked no-one?' 'I have consulted you,' she said, with a slight smile. 'You take no notice of what I say.' 'As a matter of fact, I don't wish to consult anyone. I have made my own decision. I have written my letter.' She took it out of her bag. It was directed to Bruce, at the address he had given her in Australia. 'I suppose you won't let me read it?' he said sadly. 'I think I'd rather not,' she said. Terribly hurt, he turned to the door. 'No—no, you shall read it!' she exclaimed. 'But don't say anything, make no remark about it. You shall read it because I trust you, because I really care for you.' 'Perhaps I oughtn't to,' he said. 'No, dear; keep it to yourself.' His delicacy had revived and he was ashamed of his jealousy. But now she insisted on showing it to him, and he read: <h5 id="id01624">'DEAR BRUCE,</h5> 'I'm not going to make any appeal to your feelings with regard to your mother and the children, because if you had thought even of me a little this would not have happened. I'm very, very sorry for it. I believe it happened from your weakness and foolishness, or you could not have behaved with such irresponsibility, but I'm trying to look at it quite calmly. I therefore propose to do nothing at all for three months. If I acted on your suggestion you might regret it ever after. If in three months you write to me again in the same strain, still desiring to be free, I will think of it, though I'm not sure that I should do it even then. But in case you change your mind I propose to tell nobody, not even your mother. By the time you get this letter, it will be six weeks since yours to me, and you may look at things differently. Perhaps by then you will be glad to hear that I have told your mother merely that you have been ordered away for a change, and I shall say the same to anyone else who inquires for you. If you feel after this time still responsible, and that you have a certain duty, still remember, even so, you might be very unhappy together all your lives. Excuse me, then, if I don't take you at your word. 'Another point occurs to me. In your hurry and excitement, perhaps you forgot that your father's legacy depended on the condition that you should not leave the Foreign Office before you were fifty. That is about fourteen years from now. If you are legally freed, and marry Miss Argles, you could hardly go back there. I think it would be practically impossible under those circumstances, while if you live in Australia you will have hardly any means. I merely remind you of this, in case you had forgotten. 'I shall regard it all as an unfortunate aberration; and if you regret it, and change your mind, you will be free at any time you like to come back and nothing shall be ever said about it. But I'm not begging you to do so. I may be wrong; perhaps she's the woman to make you happy. Let me know within three months how you feel about it. No-one will suffer except myself during this time, as I shall keep it from your mother, and shall remain here during this time. Perhaps you will be very angry with me that I don't wish to take you at your word, Bruce. At first I thought I would, but I'm doing what I think right, and one cannot do more. 'I'm not going to reproach you, for if you don't feel the claims of others on you, my words will make no difference. 'Think over what I say. Should you be unhappy and wish to separate from her without knowing how, and if it becomes a question of money, as so many things do, I would help you. I did not remind you about your father's legacy to induce you to come back. If you really find happiness in the way you expect, we could arrange it. You see, I have thought of everything, in one night. But you won't be happy. <h5 id="id01630">'EDITH OTTLEY.'</h5> 'Remember, whenever you like to come back, you will be welcomed, and nothing shall ever be said about it.' Aylmer gave her back the letter. He was touched. 'You see,' she said eagerly, 'I haven't got a grain of jealousy. All that part is quite finished. That's the very reason why I can judge calmly.' She fastened up the letter, and then said with a smile: 'And now, let's be happy the rest of the summer. Won't you?' He answered that she was impayable—marvellous—that he would help her—devote himself to doing whatever she wished. On consideration he saw that there was still hope. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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