So Evil My Love

— 1 —-3

“My plans were unsettled,” agreed Mrs. Sacret gently. “And I did not expect you to write, nor any explanations. Indeed, I hardly expected to see you again, Susan.”

“Oh, why ever not!” exclaimed Mrs. Rue nervously.

“Our positions are so different. I came to London to look for work—and I haven’t found any. It was only a chance made me come here, just the chance of seeing your address yesterday.”

Mrs. Rue had drunk her second glass of sherry, she was flushed and restless. Mrs. Sacret thought she had been sleeping by the bright fire, sunk in the easy chair, in the room scented with the hothouse flowers, when her unexpected visitor had been announced.

“I’m afraid I startled you, Susan, coming like this—in my mourning. I am so sorry. I should have written; it was just an impulse. I really only intended to look at your house and go away again; then, somehow, I thought I would like to see you. I daresay that was ill advised.” Mrs. Sacret sighed, her pleasant voice fell to a whisper. “I’ve been lonely and poor, and idle, for awhile now, and living so one gets things out of proportion.”

“But, of course, I want to see you. I think of you so often,” protested Mrs. Rue. “Oh, here comes the tea. Are you sure that you won’t have a glass of wine first? It is so refreshing.”

“No, just the tea, thank you, Susan, just that and a little talk about the past.”

She glanced at the handsome tea equipage with the inevitable curiosity of the poor for the appointments of the rich—heavy silver, Worcester china, extravagant dainties, forced peaches and a pineapple were arranged on Brussels lace.

“We have pineries,” chattered Mrs. Rue quickly fidgeting with cups and plates. “Martin is interested in seeing what we can grow. Do you like the house? Martin bought it last year—I altered the name to the Old Priory—because of Tintern Road.”

“So I supposed. I know your romantic taste, Susan. No, not any cream, I am not used to rich food; indeed I live very plainly.”

“Oh, yes, on principle—as a Christian missionary.”

“And because I cannot afford anything but the cheapest fare.”

As she ate her sponge finger and sipped her China tea she regarded Susan critically. In her soft pink dress the pretty plump young woman was much like a rose herself, a loosened summer rose, soft, warm, luxuriant; she glowed, with her sanguine complexion, her bright brown hair, her blue-gray eyes, her white teeth, into one radiance that slipped into the pearls around her throat and the diamond bracelets at her wrists. Everything about her was expensive and Mrs. Sacret was surprised that she should be sitting alone on this Sunday afternoon; surely she had any number of friends; but questioned, Susan Rue replied, no, she was not expecting anyone, and Martin was away, spending the Sunday with his mother at Blackheath. “And what was the little talk about the past you wanted, Olivia?”

“Oh, our school days and then, three years ago, when you used to come to Minton Street, after Captain Dasent’s death.”

“Yes, you were very kind to me then, Olivia; of course I shall never forget it. I don’t know what you thought of me, I mean, I was so foolish, feather headed, as you used to say, and you were such a comfort, allowing me to write to you and pour out all my troubles.”

“They are over,” smiled Mrs. Sacret. “I haven’t come to remind you of them. I’d forgotten them until I came upon some letters of yours in an old box.”

“Some letters of mine! I suppose you burned them—as rubbish?”

“No, I didn’t. I can’t think why. I suppose I felt a little tenderly about them—about the days when we were such intimate friends.”

“It doesn’t matter—they are safe with you.”

“Why, Susan, you speak as if there was mischief in your letters—or harm. You know if there had been I should never have been your confidante.” Mrs. Sacret smiled charmingly. “And now you are so happy—”

“I don’t suppose that you approve of second marriages,” interrupted Susan Rue uneasily. “But I was very young—and sad—and not fit to manage my business, and in a conspicuous position—a widow with money.”

“Pray don’t explain to me, dear,” murmured Mrs. Sacret. “Of course you were right to do as your heart bid you—”

“My heart,” muttered Mrs. Rue, staring at her untouched cup of tea.

“And you are lucky, also. Two rich husbands—no, I don’t mean that in a vulgar sense, but you were just born to be petted and a little pampered, Susan, and to have someone to look after you. I am very glad, indeed, to see you so handsomely established.”

Susan Rue sighed. She seemed much disturbed by this sudden appearance of a figure from the past, and her facile, impulsive nature was without defenses against the serene skill with which Olivia Sacret probed into her simple affairs. After a further short conversation the missionary’s widow learned that her rich, lovely and indulged young friend was as lonely as she was herself, lonely and a little frightened. Her second marriage was not very successful. Martin was jealous, censorious and mean—yes, that was it, he was mean; though she had two fortunes to dispose of, he watched all her expenditures and begrudged her the comforts to which she was entitled. Why, as Olivia must have noticed, she had not even menservants, and then he disliked her going about, or entertaining, and she led a very solitary life. Martin was always at his office, or with his mother, or worrying about his health. Why, when they were in Florence, where she had expected to be gay, they had hardly left their hired villa and met no one. It was only on his glasshouses that Martin was prepared to spend money, on the pineries, the conservatories. And she, Susan, was tired of the tasteless forced fruit, the pallid forced flowers and the delicate ferns over which Martin fussed so continually—as if they were human. Olivia Sacret listened to this ingenuous confession with a sense of power; at a step she had regained her old ascendancy over this weak nature. Susan felt an obvious relief in pouring out her frivolous, futile complaints to this girlhood’s friend, and Olivia slid easily into her old position of confidante.

“You should have waited, dear,” she said sympathetically. “And married Sir John Curle. I saw that his wife is still—an invalid.”

At this Susan showed a startling agitation.

“Oh, please, Olivia! Don’t ever mention that name, now please don’t. Martin is so jealous.”

“What does he know about it? That name?”

Susan began suddenly to weep. “We were seen together—and talked of—a little—you know—he was married, though Lady Curle had been separated from him so long—and was weak-minded, and someone, of course—I think it was his mother—told him—and he is always casting it up at me.”

“Casting what up?”

Susan sobbed speechlessly.

“Why, I never came here, after all this time, to distress you,” cried Mrs. Sacret rising. “I never thought—I supposed you were happy—there now, do dry your eyes, before the maid comes, or what will she think I have done to you?”

Susan made a childish effort at control.

“I never see him, now, never,” she murmured. “It is all past—and I can trust him—”

“Of course. I don’t see why you disturb yourself. I’m sorry I mentioned the letters—”

“The letters, please, please, burn them, Olivia.”

“Certainly, if you wish. Only—”

“I know what you want to say. I ought to have thought of it before—to have looked you up—to have done something for you.”

“What do you mean, dear?” asked Mrs. Sacret softly, bending over the voluptuous figure of her friend in the soft scented silks and laces. Susan Rue glanced up with wet, frightened eyes.

“You said you had not found a post—and that you were poor.”

“Yes—hut I know what to do.”

Susan shrank from the serene gray eyes whose gaze was fixed on her so steadily. “Of course,” she whispered. “I understand. Will you come and live with me? I need a companion.”

“I did not think of that position,” replied Mrs. Sacret, concealing her intense surprise, “in anyone’s house.”

“Oh, I mean as a friend—as if you were a sister, everything as I have it—and—and—pocket money.”

“Pocket money?” repeated Mrs. Sacret.

“What do you want?” asked Susan Rue wildly. “I can only give you half of what I have myself—by pocket money I meant a salary—say two hundred a year—and presents—and nothing for you to do.”

“How extravagantly you talk,” said Mrs. Sacret, withdrawing across the hearth. “I never came here to ask for anything.”

“I know why you came. I’ve often expected you’d come. But I thought you were in the West Indies—you were always a good friend to me,” added Susan rising. “And I have no one,” she dabbed her eyes, “to talk to—and I’m sure I’m not offering you too much. I’m very tiresome to live with.”

The maid entered to fetch the tea equipage and Mrs. Sacret skillfully turned the conversation to an easy commonplace, under cover of which she took her leave, kissing Susan’s hot cheek kindly and promising “to think over” what had been said and to “write soon.”