“No—no.” She took a sharp anguished breath, her pupils wide with shock. “It’s impossible. You’re making this up.”
“How do I make it up when I have heard it all from David himself? Yes, he is the kind of man who seeks to discharge his guilt by an emotional confession. And succeeds. With weeping too, for, like other great men, he weeps easily—like a woman.”
“I won’t . . . I won’t listen to you.”
“But you must, dear Kathy, for your own sake. So our David came back full of the best intentions to make his wrong completely right. And when your mother was untortunately not available, you became the object of his kind attentions. And it was all good in the beginning, yes, beautifully good and proper, but then things changed a little, he wished very nobly to do even more for you, and so—for those soft charming men have so much a way with women—on the promise to marry and go to your mission he became your lover, as with your mother.”
“Stop!” Distractedly she covered her ears. “I can’t—I’ll not hear any more. It’s too horrible.”
“Certainly it is not a nice thought, to seduce first the mother, then the daughter, and all with the highest intentions. Yet I assure you he is not altogether bad, compared with others, for I know men, dear child, and some are by far more horrible, as you say, than David, who is only selfish and weak, avoiding trouble and difficulty for himself at all costs. No, do not run away.” Detainingly, as Kathy tried to rise, she held her arm. “Can’t you see I speak for your own good. I must show you your mistake. If you had married this famous David he would have tired of you and in six months broken your heart. You are altogether different, not of the same kind. You would never convert him to religion, or even to work again as a doctor. Nor could he have made you like his stupid antiques or his famous pictures, all a mode created by the dealers. Your marriage would have been a fatal disaster.”
Kathy sat quite still, her expression blurred, as though the structure of her face had given way. There was something terrifying in her immobility. She felt feverishly sick, stripped of all that she had prized, degraded and unclean. She wanted to get away but there was no strength in her, only weakness and self-disgust.
“So, is it not evident? The wife this David needs is not a sweet, gentle girl such as you, but a woman strong enough to master him, one who will make him obey, and do always, always what is needed.”
Kathy’s eyes widened suddenly, great pools of darkness in her small white face.
“You,” she gasped.
“Yes. Today we were married in Basle.”
Silence again. Kathy’s brows, knit in pain, gave her a twisted look. What thoughts raced through her tortured mind! Her head drooped, could not contain or combat them—the meeting at her mother’s grave, that charming, serious smile, a friend of your family, the day in Edinburgh, so gay and generous, the round of visits, what a wonderful nurse, but quite worn out, a cup of soup, my dear, so tenderly, and then Vienna, strange and whirling confusion of lights, sounds, music, Pinkerton, dear David, you could never be like that, Switzerland next, a mantle of purity, yes, I will come with you, the little mission church, one in the sight of heaven, and then, like her dear dead mother. . . . Oh God, she could not bear it. She jumped up, wildly, frantically, bent only on escape.
But Frida had risen quickly and stood at the door, blocking the way.
“Wait, Kathy, you must be sensible. Believe me, I mean well by you. There is much we can do for you.”
“Let me go. All I want is to go away . . . to go home.”
“Kathy, the car will take you to the hotel.”
“No, no . . . I’ll take the boat . . . I only want to go home.”
The doorway was still blocked. She looked feverishly round, ran to the french window, flung it open.
“Stop, Kathy.”
But she had already dashed across the terrace and the lawn to the narrow garden path that led to the village. Down the steep path she ran, into the darkness, mindless of the unseen steps, falling to her knees in her desperate haste, rising again, straining through the vicious shadows, seeking only to escape. Dark shapes of bushes whipped against her like things alive, stinging her with all the malice of mankind. Shocked out of sorrow, she was no longer herself, not altogether living, moving in a confused and tragic dream. In the dim world in which she ran, everything within her drifted away but pain, all was gone. She was lost.
Frida could not follow. Standing silent and distressed at the open french window, which threw out a following beam, she watched, watched until the stumbling, wavering little figure was lost as the brutal night took possession of it. Then, turning slowly, she shook her head, closed the window and, advancing into the hall, called upstairs. He came down slowly, nervously, with watery eyes and a veal-white face. He had been seated on the upper landing, trying to steady himself with one of his monogrammed Sobranies.
“It is all settled,” she told him calmly. “She has gone.”
“But where . . . and how” His voice shook.
“I offered the car but she prefers to return as she came, by boat. She goes home at once. All she wishes is to go home.”
“But Frida . . .” he faltered. “She has given up her job. She can’t go to Willie. Where is her home?”
“You have put the question. You had better answer it.”
A pause.
“Was she—much hurt?”
“Yes.”
“In—in what way?”
“Cannot you guess?”
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth. For her sake and ours it was necessary to perform a surgical operation. And I did so.”
“You told everything?”
“Yes.”
“But you—explained that I had meant well.”
“All was explained.”
“And yet—she was hurt—badly?”
“Yes.” With increasing sharpness: “Have I not already said it.”
“Surely she understood I couldn’t go out there.”
“She did not come here for you to go.”
He threw up his hands.
“But how in God’s name was I to know the Mission would burn down.”
“In the present circumstances it was more than a possibility. They are making bonfires of all the missions.”
“My God, Frida, I feel horribly upset. I worry about her getting back.” He looked at the clock. “She may have missed the boat—and it’s the last to Melsburg. I should go after her . . . if she’s still on the pier.”
“Then go.”
She said it cuttingly. The look in her yellow eyes, with their narrow slits of pupils, made him flush and wilt.
“No,” he said. “You’re quite right. It wouldn’t be wise.”
Silence again. Then firmly she put her hand on his shoulder.
“For the sake of pity, pull yourself into something like a man. She is young and, like her mother, will get over it. You can afford to make a settlement to her, and a large one. Later you must send it in proper legal form.”
“Yes.” His face lifted slightly. “I can do that, thank God, and I will. Make her comfortable for life. But, Frida . . .”. He hesitated, then, after a longish pause, said pleadingly, “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”