# The Masque of Love/Chapter 10

pp. 37–40.

### x

HE stirred at last like a man waking from a dream and then went on in the same rapid undertone.
“You took the papers?”
“Yes,”
“When?”
“Five minutes before these men came.”
She answered him as he questioned her, quietly, without visible emotion. Now she came a step nearer to him. “You see—I forced the drawer—I meant to steal the papers. I knew of their existence—or rather I guessed. I had heard Gilbert Haig talk at a dinner in New York—he talked more than he meant—but I understood that he was there to track you down—to ruin you if he could. I took his task from him. It was only money—business, to him—but to me it was more than that. I had my justification. You will understand better when I tell you who I am—”
“You are Margaret Ashton's sister,” Monkhouse interrupted quietly.
Her eyes sought his full of half-incredulous bewilderment.
“You know that?”
“I have known for some time.”
She came a little closer, and now only the table separated them. The light was on both their faces, revealing every line with remorseless truth.
“And you let me stay here? After all, what I have done is mean and treacherous, if you like, but I warned you—I warned you twice. You could have driven me out of the house—”
He shook his head.
“Will you understand if I tell you something? Can you understand the hunted man who turns back and gives himself up to his pursuers? Or the man who flings down his weapon and bares his breast to his enemy? There comes a time when one is too weary—when one would be glad to reach the end.” He made a gesture of passionate resignation. “I thought the end had come to-night—and that you had brought it about. I welcomed it. Then the score between us would have been settled and you might have looked at me with less hatred.”
“I—hatred?” she echoed, dully.
He glanced towards the door.
“Why don't you call them?” he asked, gently. “Why don't you give them what they are seeking for? Make an end—for God's sake, make an end—”
“I couldn't,” she broke out wildly. “When they were—here—in this room—I tried to. I meant to—it was what I had set out to do. For seventeen years I have worked and waited for just such a chance. But I couldn't. I hated them so. I saw them laying hands on you—I felt all the humiliation—the horror—the suffering—”
“Wasn't that what you wished?” he exclaimed. “Wasn't it the retribution you sought from me?”
She laid something on the table before him.
“I found that among the papers,” she said. “I knew then—all I owed you. You saved me—yet you never told me—never let me guess—”
He took up the ring and held it outstretched in the palm of his hand. He was smiling faintly.
“I didn't want to disarm you. I don't want to disarm you now. It would be womanish and weak to turn aside from your purpose because of this. I am a criminal. You must not be weak. It was chance that I saved your life. It was no chance that I stole and cheated my way to wealth—or that Margaret's death lies at-my door. Forget this—do what you must.”
But she made no answer, and suddenly he realized that she had broken down. She was crying wildly—terribly. He stretched out his hands as though to touch her and then let them sink helpless to his side. “Don't!” he exclaimed brokenly. “Don't let it hurt you—I can't bear to see it—nothing else matters to me—go and forget—
But she answered him, a bitter despair mingled with her appeal.
“I can't—not now. Oh, if only you could give me some right to forgive—to forget—some excuse—some explanation of the past—”
“I can't,” he answered. “I have lost the right to an explanation—or to forgiveness—”
He stopped short. The door had opened violently, and involuntarily both turned to confront whatever was to come. A man stood on the: threshold, and at sight of him Monkhouse sprang to his feet.
“Are you mad?” he demanded, with repressed violence. “Isn't it enough to have the place honeycombed with the police? Clear out if you want to save yourself. There's still time—”
But John Monkhouse closed the door behind him. He came forward on tiptoe, his finger to his lips, and as he reached the circle of lamplight they saw his face, distraught, disfigured, the eyes starting in bloodshot, maniacal terror.
“Brian!” he whispered. “Brian—I've seen her again—I've seen Margaret—under the lamplight. She was with my shadow and they whispered together and stared at me. Brian—she's come back—she can't rest—that's why she follows me. I'm going to make an end—I can't stand her eyes—Brian—” Suddenly his eyes fell on the quiet, motionless figure of the woman, and with a gasping cry he lurched forward—his arms raised above his head as though to ward off an annihilating blow. “Oh—has she sent you, too? You're Rachel—Rachel Ashton—I know you. I've waited for you. I've felt you'd come. We couldn't deceive you—we could lie to the others, but not to you. She called you her twin-soul—how could you help but know?” His voice dropped. He began to talk rapidly, smoothly, making groping, childish gestures of appeal and ingratiating obsequiousness. “After all, I had my excuse. That's what she said. Who could help loving her? Ask Brian there—he knew. But marriage—no, that was another matter. I needed influence—money. That was natural, wasn't it? And when the scandal broke loose, I had to be saved. That's what she said. She loved me. I had a career. She could not bear to think that she should ruin me. That was where Brian came in. She told him and he loved her. Everyone knew it. It was so easy to shelter behind him. What did it matter? He had no career to ruin—nothing to lose.” He edged nearer, clawing the arm of the woman, who shrank from him in uncontrollable repugnance. “Besides—he offered it himself—he even offered to marry her—think of it!—Brian marrying! No woman would ever look at him. But she wouldn't. She loved me—and afterward she drowned herself—” He stopped to laugh under his breath. “That's how it all happened. Afterward we made money together—Brian and I—and they call him Blackguard Brian—but I have a great career before me—a great career. Now you'll understand. Margaret understands—she wished it; but she can't rest. I am going to tell her that I have told you—and that you understand.” He looked from one to another with an ugly cunning. “And then I am going to make an end,” he whispered, “—an end.”
He crept towards the door, and Brian made a movement as though to hold him back, but like a shadow the shrunken, huddled figure flashed past him and was gone.
Brian Monkhouse turned back. Yet he did not look at the woman standing by the lamplight. He sat down with his face between his hands and waited. He felt how she came nearer to him, but he could not move, could not speak to her.
“It was Margaret's daughter whom he saw,” she said, in hushed wonderment. “Margaret's daughter. And God—perhaps sent him here so that I should understand and be saved from a great cruelty—a great treachery—for I do understand. You loved my sister and sacrificed yourself to save the man she loved. You let the Pharisees hound you out from the midst of decent men—and then you sold your honor to give her child—his child—wealth—in atonement—” She broke off, groping through the maze of crowding thoughts. He heard the rustle of paper and a sharp, rending sound as it was torn across and across. “That ends the chapter,” she said, simply. “You will never sell your honor again. You will go away from here and start to build up your life afresh—”
“I cannot,” he said, wearily. “I have no purpose left.”
Still she came nearer, and still he kept his face hidden from her. In the distance they heard the dulled clang of the outer door—the rumble and jar of the waiting motor—the gathering power of the engines fading presently into silence.
“No one can touch you now,” she said. “You will never give them the power to touch you again.”
“Why should I mind?” he answered. “What have I to fear or to hope? What have I ever had to fear or hope?”
There was a brief silence, and then he heard her voice—softened—broken—
“You loved my sister,” she said, “and because she could not care for you—is there no other woman in the world—?”
He sat back, turning his face to the light—stretching out his arms as though to reveal himself in all his great ugliness.
“What woman—what human being could ever care for me?”
She took the ring from the table and held it out to him.
“That was nothing,” she said, “nothing compared to the truth. Even if I had never found it, I should not have acted other than I did. I had to save you. All my life I had hardened my heart against you—set every power and faculty on the thought of the time when I should find you—hunt you down in the midst of your wealth and crime. I meant to hurt you—but when the time came I had no power—”
“Why not?” he broke out.
“Because I, too, was human. I, too, had discovered my vulnerability—my weakness—in a flash—” She put her hand on his arm.
“Unconsciously I have prayed for you each night—prayed for the man who gave his life for me—and my prayers have been answered—”
“Gratitude!” he exclaimed, fiercely, contemptuously.
A strange smile touched the corners of her mouth.
“Brian, for seventeen years I have lived with one thought—one passion. Gratitude would never have turned me aside—but there is one thing stronger than hate—bigger than the thirst for revenge—” She paused and went on scarcely above her breath. “Do you remember what you said about hatred?—hatred and love are so close to one another—and I know that it is true because I who hated you—love you.”
He made no answer. He seized her hand and buried his face upon it. She felt the hot, blinding tears, and kneeling beside him drew his head down upon her breast.