CHAPTER XXVI
“YOU are frightening me, Beppo! We have been out long enough. Let us go home.”
Lily Fairfield was speaking in a very quiet, level voice, but her face looked white and strained.
Beppo had stopped the motor beside a steep and lonely mountain gorge; and now he was pouring a torrent of violent, passionate words of love into her ear. As soon as his hand was free he had grasped her left wrist as in a vice, and now he was trying to force her to look round at him.
But she went on staring before her, a look of endurance and growing fear on her pale face.
“There is nothing to be frightened of, Lily. Do you not understand that I love you? I love you as an Indian devotee worships his idol! You are in no danger from me. I should not have spoken to you to-day had you not seemed so gentle and so kind. I thought your cold heart might be melting a little—that you might be feeling touched by my silent devotion! Now that I am going away so soon—surely I may speak? What is there between us—what is that menacing shadow that always rises up when I speak to you, God knows with infinite reverence and respect, of my love for you?”
He was speaking in broken, agitated, pleading tones, and yet there was an underlying touch of fierceness in his voice which in very truth did terrify the girl. And the expression on his face had so changed that he seemed a savage stranger, rather than a friend.
She knew that they were miles and miles from La Solitude—for all she knew, miles and miles away from any human habitation—and she was sick with fear and distress. She felt as if she was dealing with a madman.
She asked herself, in, a kind of agony, if it would be right to temporise, to soothe him down, to tell him that perhaps in time she would become as he wished her to be.
And then the image of Angus Stuart rose before her. No, she could not be, even for a few moments, false to their love.
“Only tell me that I may hope,” he reiterated urgently, “and I will compel you to love me! Nay,”—as he saw her shrink back—“I will teach you most gently, most devotedly, to allow me to love you! That is all that I ask—it is not much, surely?”
She turned round and faced him, but seeing his convulsed face and blazing eyes, her heart almost stopped beating with fright. She forced herself to say, very quietly: “If you will let go my hand, Beppo, I will speak to you.”
He relaxed his strong, painful, grip of her soft wrist.
“Forgive me!” he exclaimed. “I fear I hurt you—but Lily, I am mad—mad for love of you!” and he covered his face with his hands.
“Believe me when I say that I am grateful for your love”
Poor Lily! She stopped dead, for she did not know what more to say. She would have given years of her life to end this painful, to her this agonising, scene. And the still, lonely beauty of the country round her seemed to mock her distress.
“God bless you for saying that!” exclaimed Beppo fervently. “Lily! My sweet snow-like angel—do not be angry if I ask you to grant me one great, supreme favour”
Lily looked at him wonderingly. He spoke more like his old self, but he was gazing at her with supplicating eyes. What was he going to say now? He had already implored her to marry him—already implored her to try and love him—to allow him to love her—to give him time to prove his love for her! What was there left to ask for? A supreme favour? What a strange expression! He had been talking—for how long was it? she had lost count of time—ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, half an hour?—it had seemed an eternity to her—in so extravagant and wild a way that there seemed nothing left for him to say.
“What is it?” she asked uncertainly. “I would do a great deal to please you, Beppo, if only—if only”—her voice faltered—“if only you would be reasonable.”
He was looking at her now intently, almost as if he were trying to hypnotise her, with those strange, brilliant blue eyes of his.
“The favour I ask,” he said at last, and in a very low voice, “I ask, Lily, as a man prays for a saint's intercession—on my knees. Do not be offended—do not be what you in England called 'shocked.' It is not a very great thing that I ask of you—yet to me it will be the greatest thing in the world. It is a thing which many a woman is quite willing to give—a friend.”
He stopped, and Lily, looking at him puzzled, asked hesitatingly: “What is it, Beppo? You know I would do anything in reason to please you.”
“All I ask for,” he said at last, “is the privilege”
“Yes?” said Lily. “What privilege, Beppo?”
He did not answer at once, and when at last he spoke, his voice had dropped almost to a whisper.
“The privilege of taking you in my arms and kissing you just once, Lily! That is all I ask. Is it not possible that at the contact of our lips your hesitation, your coldness, will melt? May I not teach you what a man's love means to the woman he adores?”
As he ended his quick, rapt, low utterances of these, to Lily, extraordinary and unexpected words, he suddenly got up, pulled her to her feet, and threw his arms round her.
And then, in the little motor, there began a terrible, wordless struggle between the two. Lily was determined—absolutely determined—that he should not kiss her. Rather than that, she would wrench herself free and leap into the gulf to the edge of which they were now so perilously near.
Did Beppo Polda suddenly see into her terror-stricken mind? Or was it that at last he felt the horror and repugnance with which he inspired the girl whom he held closely pressed to him? Be that as it may, there swept over him, like a great tropical storm, a feeling of acute shame and self-loathing, as well as a determination that he would win her yet!
He relaxed his hold, but as he did so a wild blind rage rose up in his heart. Beppo Polda had never seen in a woman's face the look of physical repugnance he now saw in hers.
“You are not the pure angel that I thought you to be,” he said hoarsely. “You are keeping your kisses for another man. Is not that so, Lily? If the answer is 'yes,' then I will drive you and myself over the precipice! I have lived my life—I should not mind dying with you!” He was lashing himself up into more and more furious anger. “What a simple-minded fool I was! You are not the first English girl I have known, Lily. But I put you on a pedestal. I did not think you were a flirt—now I know you are! And you have succeeded in making me behave as I never thought to behave to a woman.”
She sank down, back in the corner of the little car—white and trembling all over, but feeling that Beppo's madness had passed. But with what horror, what loathing, what fear she still regarded him!
“I offer you my humble apology for what has happened,” he said in a bitter tone. And then he started the car.
They drove along, in dead silence, for some time. Suddenly he slowed down, and turned towards her.
“Lily,” he exclaimed, in a humble, deeply troubled tone, “I implore you to forgive me! I behaved as I should never have thought myself capable of behaving to any human being, least of all to her whom I adore. Will you forgive me, Lily?”
And as she remained silent, for she was still in no state to speak, he went on: “I'll do anything to atone. Impose the heaviest sentence, but do not look at me, Lily, as you are looking at me now!”
She made a great effort over herself.
“I do forgive you, Beppo,” she said in a low voice. “But I don't want ever to think about what happened to-day, again. Try and forget it too. I see,” she tried to smile, “that my leaving England at all was a mistake. I don't understand foreigners and their ways. Perhaps I was to blame. Please don't tell Aunt Cosy anything about it,” she looked at him pleadingly.
“I am not going to stay at La Solitude long,” she went on. “I've been thinking for some days that after you were gone I would make an arrangement with the Convalescent Home—they'll be glad for me to stay there for a while.”
He felt utterly dismayed. “Do not punish my poor father and mother for my evil deeds! Lily, that would not be like you—that would be most cruel and ungenerous! Most humbly do I beg your pardon. But—but, Lily, forgive me if I ask you—you do admit that I love you, do you not?”
There was a long pause. And then Lily said, “Yes, Beppo, I do believe you love me—though you show your love in what seems to me a very strange way.”
Her frankness took him completely by surprise—and somehow gave him hope.
“If I were to go away,” he said suddenly, “and then come back after a long time, is there any, any hope that I might find you different?”
She shook her head, and then, for the first time, she burst into tears.
Beppo stopped the car. He took her hand—very gently this time.
“Lily,” he exclaimed, “I shall never, never forgive myself for what happened to-day! Some demon whispered in my ear that if you would allow me to kiss you all would come right. It was a foolish and an arrogant thought. But I was going away—and, Lily, you admit that you know I love you!”
“Yes,” she said in a low tone. “I do know that. But let us try to forget what happened to-day—we have been so happy, so comfortable together, since you came to La Solitude!”
“Do you think you will ever feel happy and comfortable with me again?” he asked.
And she said slowly, “Yes, of course I shall—as soon as I can forget what happened just now. Let's get home, Beppo. And, if you don't mind, do promise me never to speak to me of it again!”
“I do promise you,” he said solemnly. And then, to Lily's secret astonishment, Beppo seemed suddenly to slip back into his old pleasant, easy way with her! It was almost as if what had happened on the edge of that great wooded gorge had been a dream—horrible, unnerving to look back on, but still only a dream.
Even so, she felt she would never forget, not even if she lived another fifty years, that awful moment of wordless, passionate struggle in the little car. She shuddered as she remembered how she had told herself that could she only free herself from Beppo's strong arms she would leap out into the void rather than endure the further contamination of his touch.
When they were close to La Solitude Beppo suddenly turned round. “Look here!” he exclaimed, “I think I'll go down to Monte Carlo this afternoon. A fellow I know asked me to meet him at the Club this evening. Good Madame Sansot will give me a bed at the Utrecht Hotel.” He paused. “Perhaps your thoughts will be kinder to-morrow?”
He said those words so humbly and sincerely that poor Lily felt troubled.
“Won't your going away upset Aunt Cosy?” she asked timidly.
“No, not a bit! I shall come up in the morning. But this is our last drive in this little car. Would that it had been a happier one for you! Tell them that I have gone down with the car, Lily, and that I may or may not come back to dinner.”
They were now on the clearing below the house, and then, so strange is human nature, Lily, in spite of all that had happened, felt just a little sorry that Beppo was going to leave her to go up alone to deliver his message at La Solitude.
“Won't you come up to the house?” she said nervously. “They'll think it so odd—your going away like this.”
And at once he said, quickly and reassuringly: “Yes, of course I'll come up! I thought you would prefer that I should not do so.”
She made no answer to that remark, and as they were walking up through the wood he asked. “Lily? Am I forgiven?”
“Yes,” she said, “you are forgiven, Beppo, and I really mean it. But never speak of it again. Perhaps I was foolish to be as upset as I was.”
“I was mad!” he muttered, “absolutely mad! When I am like that I lose possession of my senses—I forget what I do. Did I say anything very terrible to you?”
She tried to smile. “I can't remember,” she replied evasively. “Don't let's think about it any more, Beppo—please—please!”
And so it was an apparently very friendly couple who came up to the house. But the Countess had almost second sight where her son was concerned. She saw at once that there had been some kind of trouble; still, she pretended to see nothing, and accepted Beppo's news as to his forthcoming evening at the Club, and his night in Monte Carlo with apparent equanimity.
He kissed his mother and shook hands warmly with Lily. “I shall be up to-morrow morning,” he said. “Not very early, but in time for lunch.”
Lily went up to her room; she washed her face and she scrubbed her hands. And then she did what she could not remember ever having done before—she locked her door and lay down on her bed.
She lived through every moment of that awful time. If only it had not happened! It had spoilt her pleasant relations with Beppo she felt—for ever. Also, it would and must remain a secret as regarded herself and Angus Stuart. She could never, never tell him of what had happened to-day!
She looked at her wrist; it was still swollen. But Beppo had not known that he was hurting her. At one moment of their struggle the pressure of his arms had been so strong that shehad thought he would suffocate her, that she would faint—and she had been quite determined not to faint. She remembered with what a sensation of physical repulsion she had struggled—even after he had released her so suddenly the feeling had persisted for some time.
And now that feeling had become transferred, in a queer kind of way, to Aunt Cosy. When Aunt Cosy had come near her just now she had felt as if she must scream! Her nerves were thoroughly upset.
A few minutes before she knew supper would be ready, Lily got up and changed her dress; and then she cast a longing look at the now growing packet of Angus Stuart's letters. How right he had been when he had said that he wished she would leave La Solitude!
She made up her mind that to-morrow morning she would slip off to the Convalescent Home, and ask if they could put her up for a few days. When there she would be able to see Angus, and arrange never to go back to La Solitude again.
Though Lily tried to behave exactly as usual during the evening that followed, the Countess was well aware that something was wrong. She kept looking at the girl with a kind of furtive, anxious scrutiny.
“Did you have a pleasant drive?” asked Uncle Angelo. And Lily was able to answer, with some appearance of naturalness, “Yes, for we went a new way, and came to a most wonderful gorge. I thought it one of the loveliest spots I had ever seen!” And then she stopped, suddenly overcome by the recollection of what had happened there.
”You do not look well, Lily,” said the Countess anxiously. “You look very tired, my dear. Would you like to go up to bed at once, after dinner?”
Lily gratefully accepted. She hoped that very soon La Solitude would have become a memory—a memory of strangely mingled pain and pleasure, of regret and happiness. But now pain, regret and, yes, a hidden fear, predominated, and she longed, with a kind of desperate longing, to escape—now, at once, in the darkness, down to the Hôtel de Paris, to kind, sensible Papa Popeau, and to the man who loved her, and whom she loved!
For one wild moment she actually thought of doing so. And then she felt ashamed. After all, both Aunt Cosy and Uncle Angelo had been very kind to her, according to their lights. And she knew only too well how hurt and angry Aunt Cosy would be when she learnt that Lily had no intention of staying on at La Solitude all the winter.