Chapter XV: Lifts the Veil

Husband and wife drove at once to the Hotel Victoria, situated near the harbour.

Thyra felt happy again at Paul’s side, squeezed in the corner of the fiacre. Yes, certainly, Christiania was the dream-city, full of gardens, fountains, grand buildings; a city great and splendid by day and by night! She felt joyous, as if she had drunk wine; she chattered with feverish animation. Never afterwards did she succeed in remembering what she said in that first hour of arrival; she did remember, however, that her pleasure was marred by the strange thoughtful look upon Paul’s face, a look she had never noticed there before.

They reached the hotel at last. The manager came forth, bowing, and Thyra was impressed by the grand entrance-hall and the marble staircase, which seemed a continuation of the splendours of the street.

The suite of rooms reserved for them was on the first floor, a pretty sitting-room, two bedrooms, a dressing-room, and bath-room, and when their baggage was deposited and the porters and chambermaid had left, Grinevitch clasped his wife in his arms and fondly kissed her.

“Paul,” she said, “you don’t, somehow, seem your old self to-day. How is it?”

“I don’t know,” he laughed. “I wasn’t aware that I was unusually uninteresting.” And he assumed an air of gaiety which she, with her woman’s quick perception, detected was forced and false.

She took off her hat and cloak; her little face, all eyes and lips, seemed suddenly pale and frightened under the waves of her abundant hair.

He grasped her hand and raised it tenderly to his lips, saying:

“Tell me, little one, what’s the matter? You, who seemed so very happy as we drove from the station, are now worried and pale.”

“Why, I’m sure I’m not, Paul!” she protested. “I’m so delighted to be back again in Christiania. I want this afternoon to go and see my old schoolfellow, Aslang Anderson, if you’ll let me. I sent her a postcard from Trondhjem.”

“Of course, dearest, go and see her, if you wish. I have letters to write, so I’ll remain in after luncheon.”

Thyra, who had sought permission to be absent not without some apprehension, breathed more freely when her husband gave his consent. Would he have done so so readily, she wondered, if he had known her real intention?

When she had washed and redressed her pretty hair, they sat down to _dejeuner_ in their little salon, both laughing merrily while they ate their meal.

Paul, who had been rather surprised at her change of manner, attributed it to her excitement at again finding herself back in the capital, where she had spent so many happy days of her girlhood.

“My friend has no idea I’m here,” she was saying. “I did not telegraph to her, as I want to give her a surprise. She doesn’t even know I’m married.”

But Paul listened to her chatter only mechanically. His mind was full of other things. A cloud had arisen upon the horizon, and he was now wondering if it would pass over, as so many clouds had passed over, or if it would burst.

If it did, what then? Well, he would be instantly overwhelmed. The truth would be out! He held his breath at the mere thought of such ugly contretemps.

Their marriage had been a strange one, it was true, but its result was foredoomed to be stranger, with a _denouement_ undreamed of.

About two o’clock Thyra put on her furs, and for the first time since her marriage wished her husband “Au revoir!” promising to be back in a couple of hours at most. She knew her way well about the capital; therefore, before leaving Paul, she kissed him and begged him not to be apprehensive on her behalf.

“Get through all your horrid letters, dearest,” she urged, “and we will go out to the theatre this evening. It will be such a great treat to me, you know.”

So he promised her, and, with a ripple of light, happy laughter, she left him, and disappeared with a frou-frou of her skirts down the great staircase.

From the window he watched her turn the corner out of sight, for she preferred not to take a cab. She loved to walk in Christiania, she declared.

Then, when she had gone, the man drew a long breath, and, as he stood in the centre of the room, he gasped:

“My God! if she knew! Ah! if she knew, what would she think? But she must never know the truth—never!”

He lit a cigar to steady his nerves, and then passed out upon the balcony, where he seated himself, staring moodily down into the street.

Afterwards, agitated and unnerved, he rose and, returning to the room, sat at the writing-table for a short time. The three letters he had written with a fountain-pen, he took in his hand, and, descending to the bureau, asked that they might be sent to the post office to be registered. He also remarked to the manager that any visitor who should chance to call should be shown to his room at once.

Then he re-ascended the broad staircase and paced the room in quick agitation. The expression upon his countenance showed that he dreaded something—that a dark cloud overwhelmed him.

Shortly before half-past three a waiter tapped at the door of the sitting-room and ushered in a tall, slim young woman in deep mourning, and wearing a veil.

“Well, Paul,” she exclaimed in a hard voice, the moment the man had gone, “this is a curious situation, is it not? So you are married!”

She spoke in Russian, though by her dress and manner she presented the appearance of a Frenchwoman. She was dark, and, when she raised her veil, revealed well-cut regular features.

He had risen, but had scarcely greeted her. Indeed, he had not even offered her a chair.

“Ah!” she laughed, “I see that my presence here is not altogether welcome, eh? You are devoted to your bride from the snows, of course,” she added with a sneer.

“Cannot we leave Thyra out of this discussion?” he asked coldly, indicating a chair, in which she seated herself.

“It seems that she’s gone out and left you. Have you quarrelled already?”

“It was fortunate, perhaps, that she wished to go and visit an old schoolfellow.”

“Fortunate for you. She would not have approved of this meeting.”

“I can’t think why you assume this attitude, Alza,” he cried angrily. “Surely it is only to torture me that you recall the past?”

She laughed triumphantly.

“Is the past so very bitter, then? I did not know you possessed a memory. I don’t.” She laughed airily. “It was not always so. You have tasted the sweets, you now have the dregs.”

“Yes,” he said, in a hoarse, bitter voice, “I know, alas! And you are carrying out your threat. You intend to expose me—to tell Thyra the truth.”

“I am here to do so,” was the woman’s calm response. “It is only right that she should be informed. She little knows whom she has married, poor girl.”

“And you!” he cried fiercely, advancing a few paces towards her. “You! What if I tell the truth—that you are the woman who——”

“My dear friend!” she exclaimed, interrupting him, “you are perfectly at liberty to make whatever charge you like against me. I am quite capable of taking care of myself.”

“Not always. Remember what you owe to that white-livered Englishman!”

“He was at least a gentleman, Paul,” she declared, “and, if he had chosen, he could have made matters very awkward for both of us.”

“If we had allowed him.”

“We could not have prevented it. I was caught like a rat in a trap.”

“Yes, I know,” laughed Paul Grinevitch, “but isn’t it best to drop the subject? Why are you here in Christiania—on the old game, I suppose?”

“My business here is my own affair,” she replied with an air of defiance. “You and I are not friends, so it is scarcely probable that I shall tell my secrets to my enemy, is it?” Then, suddenly catching sight of Thyra’s photograph on the writing-table, she crossed and took it up. It was a cabinet portrait in a plain silver frame.

For some time she regarded it in silence, then she replaced it with just a suspicion of a sigh. It was a pretty picture, one which Paul had himself taken up at Vardo, showing the girl in furs standing beside one of the high-prowed fishing-boats.

Afterwards, when she turned again to the man at her side, there was a curious hard expression in her eyes. It was evident that she held him in distrust. She had come there at his invitation, but, nevertheless, in order to make a statement to the woman who was now his wife.

“Well?” he asked; “don’t you think it’s time you left? Thyra may return at any moment.”

“I thought you wished to see me?”

“I did. I believed that you were better disposed towards me than you are. I wanted to ask you a favour.”

“A favour of me—eh?”

“Yes, Alza,” he said in an earnest, altered voice, “since that scoundrel Bourtzeff has spoken we are both sailing in the same boat. You know my position—penniless.”

“You’ve married Thyra, and haven’t a sou!”

“That is unfortunately true. I’ve been a fool, an absolute fool, but I loved her. I went too far, and I couldn’t draw back.”

“Well?”

“I want money—money to take us to England. You have plenty, I know. That last little affair with the French bonds must have brought you at least a hundred thousand francs. Will you lend me some?”

The well-dressed young woman sighed slightly, her dark eyes still fixed upon him.

“You want me to assist you to carry this grim comedy of marriage still further?”

“Yes. Why expose me? It would break the girl’s heart. You yourself have suffered sufficiently, I know; at least spare her—I beg of you.”

She hesitated for a few moments.

“Yes, Paul, as you appeal on the girl’s behalf, I’ll remain silent, and I will help you, only on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You will resume your friendship with me—your business friendship, if we may so put it,” she said, her eyes still upon his.

“But, Alza—I—could never do that! It wouldn’t be fair to Thyra.”

“Fair or not,” replied the young woman with determination, “if I help you, then you must in return give me your assistance.”

“And run the risk of arrest?”

“Are you not doing so now—each hour since Bourtzeff has betrayed us? Come, you will write a letter to Enderlein, agreeing to assist us again, and I will telephone to the Norsk Credit Bank for funds for you.”

“But I—I really can’t. I’ve done with that kind of thing—done with it for ever.”

“Very well,” she laughed, “then we, on our part, have done with you, and shall regard you still as an enemy.”