For he saw that she was no more the Amanda he hated and desired to kill than she had ever been the Amanda he had loved.
27
He took them by surprise. It had been his intention to take them by surprise. Such is the inelegance of the jealous state.
He reached London in the afternoon and put up at a hotel near Charing Cross. In the evening about ten he appeared at the house in Lancaster Gate. The butler was deferentially amazed. Mrs. Benham was, he said, at a theatre with Sir Philip Easton, and he thought some other people also. He did not know when she would be back. She might go on to supper. It was not the custom for the servants to wait up for her.
Benham went into the study that reduplicated his former rooms in Finacue Street and sat down before the fire the butler lit for him. He sent the man to bed, and fell into profound meditation.
It was nearly two o'clock when he heard the sound of her latchkey and went out at once upon the landing.
The half-door stood open and Easton's car was outside. She stood in the middle of the hall and relieved Easton of the gloves and fan he was carrying.
"Good-night," she said, "I am so tired."
"My wonderful goddess," he said.
She yielded herself to his accustomed embrace, then started, stared, and wrenched herself out of his arms.
Benham stood at the top of the stairs looking down upon them, white-faced and inexpressive. Easton dropped back a pace. For a moment no one moved nor spoke, and then very quietly Easton shut the half-door and shut out the noises of the road.
For some seconds Benham regarded them, and as he did so his spirit changed....
Everything he had thought of saying and doing vanished out of his mind.
He stuck his hands into his pockets and descended the staircase. When he was five or six steps above them, he spoke. "Just sit down here," he said, with a gesture of one hand, and sat down himself upon the stairs. "DO sit down," he said with a sudden testiness as they continued standing. "I know all about this affair. Do please sit down and let us talk.... Everybody's gone to bed long ago."
"Cheetah!" she said. "Why have you come back like this?"
Then at his mute gesture she sat down at his feet.
"I wish you would sit down, Easton," he said in a voice of subdued savagery.
"Why have you come back?" Sir Philip Easton found his voice to ask.
"SIT down," Benham spat, and Easton obeyed unwillingly.
"I came back," Benham went on, "to see to all this. Why else? I don't—now I see you—feel very fierce about it. But it has distressed me. You look changed, Amanda, and fagged. And your hair is untidy. It's as if something had happened to you and made you a stranger.... You two people are lovers. Very natural and simple, but I want to get out of it. Yes, I want to get out of it. That wasn't quite my idea, but now I see it is. It's queer, but on the whole I feel sorry for you. All of us, poor humans—. There's reason to be sorry for all of us. We're full of lusts and uneasiness and resentments that we haven't the will to control. What do you two people want me to do to you? Would you like a divorce, Amanda? It's the clean, straight thing, isn't it? Or would the scandal hurt you?"
Amanda sat crouched together, with her eyes on Benham.
"Give us a divorce," said Easton, looking to her to confirm him.
Amanda shook her head.
"I don't want a divorce," she said.
"Then what do you want?" asked Benham with sudden asperity.
"I don't want a divorce," she repeated. "Why do you, after a long silence, come home like this, abruptly, with no notice?"
"It was the way it took me," said Benham, after a little interval.
"You have left me for long months."
"Yes. I was angry. And it was ridiculous to be angry. I thought I wanted to kill you, and now I see you I see that all I want to do is to help you out of this miserable mess—and then get away from you. You two would like to marry. You ought to be married."
"I would die to make Amanda happy," said Easton.
"Your business, it seems to me, is to live to make her happy. That you may find more of a strain. Less tragic and more tiresome. I, on the other hand, want neither to die nor live for her." Amanda moved sharply. "It's extraordinary what amazing vapours a lonely man may get into his head. If you don't want a divorce then I suppose things might go on as they are now."
"I hate things as they are now," said Easton. "I hate this falsehood and deception."
"You would hate the scandal just as much," said Amanda.
"I would not care what the scandal was unless it hurt you."
"It would be only a temporary inconvenience," said Benham. "Every one would sympathize with you.... The whole thing is so natural.... People would be glad to forget very soon. They did with my mother."
"No," said Amanda, "it isn't so easy as that."
She seemed to come to a decision.
"Pip," she said. "I want to talk to—HIM—alone."
Easton's brown eyes were filled with distress and perplexity. "But why?" he asked.
"I do," she said.
"But this is a thing for US."
"Pip, I want to talk to him alone. There is something—something I can't say before you...."
Sir Philip rose slowly to his feet.
"Shall I wait outside?"
"No, Pip. Go home. Yes,—there are some things you must leave to me."
She stood up too and turned so that she and Benham both faced the younger man. The strangest uneasiness mingled with his resolve to be at any cost splendid. He felt—and it was a most unexpected and disconcerting feeling—that he was no longer confederated with Amanda; that prior, more fundamental and greater associations prevailed over his little new grip upon her mind and senses. He stared at husband and wife aghast in this realization. Then his resolute romanticism came to his help. "I would trust you—" he began. "If you tell me to go—"
Amanda seemed to measure her hold upon him.
She laid her hand upon his arm. "Go, my dear Pip," she said. "Go."
He had a moment of hesitation, of anguish, and it seemed to Benham as though he eked himself out with unreality, as though somewhen, somewhere, he had seen something of the sort in a play and filled in a gap that otherwise he could not have supplied.
Then the door had closed upon him, and Amanda, pale and darkly dishevelled, faced her husband, silently and intensely.
"WELL?" said Benham.
She held out her arms to him.
"Why did you leave me, Cheetah? Why did you leave me?"
28
Benham affected to ignore those proffered arms. But they recalled in a swift rush the animal anger that had brought him back to England. To remind him of desire now was to revive an anger stronger than any desire. He spoke seeking to hurt her.
"I am wondering now," he said, "why the devil I came back."
"You had to come back to me."
"I could have written just as well about these things."
"CHEETAH," she said softly, and came towards him slowly, stooping forward and looking into his eyes, "you had to come back to see your old Leopard. Your wretched Leopard. Who has rolled in the dirt. And is still yours."
"Do you want a divorce? How are we to fix things, Amanda?"
"Cheetah, I will tell you how we will fix things."
She dropped upon the step below him. She laid her hands with a deliberate softness upon him, she gave a toss so that her disordered hair was a little more disordered, and brought her soft chin down to touch his knees. Her eyes implored him.
"Cheetah," she said. "You are going to forgive."
He sat rigid, meeting her eyes.