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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cdefea2 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #52606 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/52606) diff --git a/old/52606-0.txt b/old/52606-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index cba8310..0000000 --- a/old/52606-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3820 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Daughters of Belgravia; vol 3 of 3, by -Mrs. Alexander Fraser - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Daughters of Belgravia; vol 3 of 3 - -Author: Mrs. Alexander Fraser - -Release Date: July 19, 2016 [EBook #52606] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAUGHTERS OF BELGRAVIA; VOL 3 OF 3 *** - - - - -Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -book was produced from scanned images of public domain -material from the Google Books project.) - - - - - - - - - - - DAUGHTERS OF BELGRAVIA. - - - - - DAUGHTERS OF BELGRAVIA - - BY - - MRS. ALEXANDER FRASER, - - Author of - - “THE LAST DRAWING-ROOM,” “A FATAL PASSION,” - “THE MATCH OF THE SEASON,” “A FASHIONABLE MARRIAGE,” - “A PROFESSIONAL BEAUTY,” etc., etc., etc. - - “O! Daughters of dreams and of stories - That life is not wearied of yet! - Faustine! Fragoletta! Dolores! - Fèlise and Yolande, Juliette!” - - _IN THREE VOLUMES._ - - VOLUME III. - - LONDON: - F. V. WHITE & CO., - 31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND. - 1887. - - - PRINTED BY - KELLY AND CO., GATE STREET, LINCOLN’S INN FIELDS, - AND KINGSTON-ON-THAMES. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - -CHAP. PAGE - -I.--“ARE YOU GOING TO MARRY ZAI?” 1 - -II.--CARLTON CONWAY 37 - -III.--ANTEROS 54 - -IV.--LA BLONDE AUX YEUX NOIR 92 - -V.--DRIFTING 114 - -VI.--IN THE MESHES 124 - -VII.--DEEPER AND DEEPER STILL 149 - -VIII.--DON’T YOU KNOW ME, DELAVAL? 175 - -IX.--THROUGH THE SHADOWS 189 - - - “SELECT” NOVELS. - - _Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. each._ - - AT ALL BOOKSELLERS’ AND BOOKSTALLS. - - -By FLORENCE MARRYAT. - - THE HEIR PRESUMPTIVE. - THE HEART OF JANE WARNER. - UNDER THE LILIES AND ROSES. - MY OWN CHILD. - HER WORLD AGAINST A LIE. - PEERESS AND PLAYER. - FACING THE FOOTLIGHTS. - MY SISTER THE ACTRESS. - - -By ANNIE THOMAS (Mrs. Pender Cudlip). - - HER SUCCESS. - KATE VALLIANT. - JENIFER. - FRIENDS AND LOVERS. - - -By LADY CONSTANCE HOWARD. - - MATED WITH A CLOWN. - ONLY A VILLAGE MAIDEN. - MOLLIE DARLING. - - -By MRS. HOUSTOUN, Author of “Recommended to Mercy.” - - BARBARA’S WARNING. - - -By MRS. ALEXANDER FRASER. - - THE MATCH OF THE SEASON. - A FATAL PASSION. - A PROFESSIONAL BEAUTY. - - -By IZA DUFFUS-HARDY. - - ONLY A LOVE STORY. - NOT EASILY JEALOUS. - LOVE, HONOUR AND OBEY. - - -By JEAN MIDDLEMASS. - - POISONED ARROWS. - - -By MRS. LOVETT CAMERON. - - IN A GRASS COUNTRY. - A DEAD PAST. - A NORTH COUNTRY MAID. - - -By DORA RUSSELL. By LADY VIOLET GRENVILLE - - OUT OF EDEN. - KEITH’S WIFE. - - -By NELLIE FORTESCUE HARRISON, - -Author of “So runs my Dream.” - - FOR ONE MAN’S PLEASURE. - - -By EDMUND LEATHES. - - THE ACTOR’S WIFE. - - -By HARRIETT JAY. - - A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE. - - - - - DAUGHTERS OF BELGRAVIA. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -“ARE YOU GOING TO MARRY ZAI?” - - “If I could but know after all, - I might cease to hunger and ache, - Though your heart were ever so small, - If it were not a stone or a snake.” - - -It is the truth that Gabrielle is desperately in love with Lord Delaval, -and it is equally true that, thrusting all maidenly reserve to the four -winds, she does not hesitate to let him know it. - -Last night--will she ever forget it? She was sitting in the twilight, -shaded from view by the amber hangings of the music room. For an hour -she had been singing the passionate French and Italian songs in which -she could pour out her soul freely, but she had tired of it since he was -not by for audience. So dashing her music aside she pulled a chair into -the embrasure of the bay window, and with her chin resting on her hand, -was soon lost in a waking dream, of which he, of course, was central -figure. - -How long she sat there she never knew. Anyway, the purple twilight had -merged into grey gloom, through which myriads of twinkling stars peered -down at her flushed cheeks and passionate black eyes, when suddenly a -voice startled her, a voice whose accents bore such genuine feeling in -them, that for a moment it seemed unfamiliar to her ears. - -And this is what it said--while Gabrielle listened with beating heart -and bated breath, rent with jealousy and rage. - -“Tell me! when is my probation to end? Have you no mercy for me?” - -“What for?” and Zai’s tone, in comparison with his, was strangely hard -and cold. - -“What for? Don’t you know that I want to claim you before all the world? -Don’t you know that I am longing to take my darling in my arms and swear -on her sweet lips how I love her?” - -Whether Zai answered this phantasy tenderly or no, Gabrielle never knew, -for the two passed the open door and were out of hearing. - -_The two!_ - -Her faithless lover and her step-sister! - -Gabrielle flew upstairs noiselessly, and reaching her own room, locked -the door. - -She was alone now--alone--thank God! alone! Here there were no mocking -eyes to note her horrible folly, to laugh at her awful, awful anguish, -here she could grind her white teeth in impotent rage, or grovel on the -floor in humiliation and a futile passion. She flung off the pretty -dress she had put on for dinner to please his eyes, a delicious -_mélange_ of white lace and vivid scarlet, the colour that suited best -her soft creamy skin and coal-black hair, and matched the hue of her -perfect lips, and she thrust impatiently aside the glittering bracelets -and rings with which she loved to deck her rounded arms and tapering -fingers. - -What were these baubles worth now, that she had lost the jewel of Lord -Delaval’s heart? - -_Vanitas Vanitatum!_ - -Sackcloth and ashes are the garments she should wear, poor, passionate, -reckless creature, a victim to a worldling’s fickleness. And Gabrielle, -the cynical, the votary of Balzac and Georges Sand, the unbeliever in -true feeling, wept bitterly over the wreck that had been made of her -life “for one man’s pleasure only.” - -Her strictly worldly surroundings forbade her from giving way to an -honest violent grief that would serve for sluice-gates to her heart. And -she smothered back the sobs that broke from her with a rapidity of -passion that she couldn’t restrain. - -Poor soul, that a sojourn in Belgravia had starved, it could find no -balm in Gilead, no physician, now that the one human creature she had -placed on a pedestal to worship had tumbled down ignominiously, to her -thinking the veriest lump of clay. And she writhed as she remembered -that not only by words and looks, but even by kisses on her red lips, he -had betrayed her. - -She positively wailed out her misery and her wrath in a low deep wail, -weird enough to be a cry from one of Dante’s lost souls. Yet-- - - “Is it worth a tear? is it worth an hour? - To think of things that are well outworn, - Of fruitless husk and fugitive flower, - The dreams foregone, and the deed forborne?” - -Had she not lived long enough in her twenty-six years to know that man -and fickleness are synonymous terms, and to be avoided? - -Apparently not--for even while she groans and moans over his -shortcomings, a mighty love fills her for the man whom she adores with a -wild, unreasoning, selfish passion, and whose happiness she would -immolate unscrupulously, if it pleased her to have it so. It must be -owned that Lord Delaval is both a flirt and a butterfly, and that he has -played fast and loose with mostly all the pretty women he has come -across. - -Flirting comes to him as to the manner born; it lurks in his ultramarine -eyes, in the corners of his mouth, in his voice, in his manners, and in -his actions, and he thinks nothing of it. - -Some women regret his love, some resign themselves to his fickle ways, -but Gabrielle Beranger is not of the common herd. She is a law unto -herself in all things. She can love well (in her fashion) and she can -hate well, with her great black gleaming orbs, her white passion-tossed -features, her tumultuous, unscrupulous spirit. She regrets now, -bitterly, but she does not dream of growing resigned. - -“_Tout vient a celui qui sait attendre_,” she mutters to herself. - -Lord Delaval has laid a burthen on her which she cannot bear. She has -but one stimulus left in life, but one object. It is to appeal to -him--to his honour--to his love. If she fails--but she does not dream of -failing. - -One thing, she will separate the man she loves, and the man who has -loved her, after the fashion of some men’s love, from her step-sister. -If not now, she will some day, even if Zai marries him. - -To her the words--“Those whom God hath joined together let no man put -asunder,” are but idle prattle. A mere formula of the Church, a creed -which her blind unbelief in all good things makes her mock at and fling -aside like the voice of the wind. - -Gabrielle is one part Belgravian and three parts French, and has the -faults of both. Honour and loyalty are dead letters to such women. -Strong and practical of nature, animal in instinct and passion, savage -and cruel in greed of love, is it likely that women possessing such -qualifications can wage war and be beaten? - -Cunning, craftiness, deceit and falsity, ranged against truth, -innocence, purity and simple mindedness, form a very uneven contest, my -readers. - -And, in spite of the pleasant doctrine that goodness rears its head over -badness, it is a fact that human creatures of the Gabrielle Beranger -type have often a better time of it in this world than their purer -sisterhood. - -Gabrielle is not going to leave Lord Delaval in ignorance of her -sufferings, for she is not of the nature of a violet, or likely to let -concealment like a worm, &c., &c. - -“Are you going to marry Zai?” she asks abruptly. She has come face to -face with him--accidentally on purpose--in a walk that is out of sight -of the windows at Sandilands. - -Lord Delaval, Greek almost in indolence and love of rest and luxury, has -one habit to which most of our golden youth are not given--a habit of -rising early and going out early. - -So that Gabrielle has him all to herself this bright sunny morning, -while the Beranger family are still enjoying their slumbers. - -For an instant, surprise--and it must be confessed irritation at -meeting her--keeps him silent, so she repeats-- - -“Are you going to marry Zai?” - -He looks at her--to say that he quails would be perhaps going too -far--but he is unmistakably nervous. There is more moral cowardice in -men than in women as a rule. - -She stands like an image of Nemesis, right in the centre of the -path--immovable--a trifle formidable, her tall figure pulled well up to -its fullest height, her features rigid and white as a sheet, and only -her big black eyes burning with quite a hungry ferocious look as they -rest on the handsome blond face of the man who has made love to her. - -How remarkably sorry he is for it now! But there is no denying it; he -has certainly made love to her, under the cover of some -incomprehensible doctrine all about “affinities,” in which he believes -no whit himself; he has beguiled her affections, or rather her passions, -by the sweet words that are as sweet now as when Adam whispered them to -his Eve in Paradise; he has beguiled her by soft treacherous kisses, in -which the beak of the cruel vulture is hid beneath the tender touch of -the dove, until this woman has paid him back by an enduring but terrible -love that is not only a nuisance but may be worse. - -Why Lord Delaval has made love to her, really not caring for her, is not -difficult to tell. He adores beauty, and Gabrielle has plenty of it; her -other attraction to him has been her intense contrast to the other women -of the London world, with whom his flirtations have been as numerous as -stars in a southern sky. - -With her big black gipsy eyes, her demonstrative manner, her _bizarre_ -words and ways, and with the very vehemence and intensity of the passion -that has repelled him even while it attracted him, his erratic fancy has -been caught, but never enchained. He rather dislikes her now; and, after -this, what breath can fill and re-inspire a dead fancy? - -“Lord Delaval, is it true that you are going to marry Zai?” she asks for -the third time, in a quiet hushed voice, that yet teems with a keen -concentrated scorn that she means to cut like a whipcord, and from which -he recoils angrily, for he is a thorough Epicurean in his liking for -pleasantness, and a mental tussle disturbs his equanimity. - -“It is quite true!” he says, rather haughtily, but when he sees her -turn whiter than before, and her mouth quiver with pain, he relents. “I -should have told you before, but Zai wished it kept quiet!” - -“She did, did she? She knew she has acted a treacherous, deceitful part. -Good Heavens! what are you marrying her for?” - -“Because I love her!” he answers coolly, “and because she loves me!” - -“Loves you--you! Why all London knows of her love for Carlton Conway!” - -He shrinks a little from this, and the colour mounts hotly to his face, -but soon recedes again, leaving him quite pallid. - -“All London knows a good deal that does not exist!” - -“_Il n’y’a pas de fumée sans feu_,” she says sneeringly. - -“Zai is too good, too pure, to deceive any man,” he answers quietly, but -the remark about Carl rankles in his mind. “You don’t understand your -sister, Miss Beranger, or you would not depreciate your own judgment of -human nature by believing her capable of deceit, or falsity, or evil of -any kind! If all women were like her the world would be a paradise!” - -“Fools’ paradise!” she cries contemptuously. “I certainly never gave -_you_ credit for being hoodwinked by a few babyish ways and innocent -smiles! a man of _your_ mind!” she goes on frankly--a frankness which is -the very essence of consummate flattery--but he is not to be taken in. - -“Thanks for the pretty compliment! it would turn my head if I was -younger, coming from such fresh scarlet lips,” he replies with a -Jesuitical smile; “but I am getting quite old, and as hard as adamant; -not even _your_ approbation can make my mind rise to the height of folly -which would discover flaws in angels or paint a lily black.” - -“I really think you have begun to hate me!” she says passionately, with -tears welling up in her eyes; “Have you?” - -He looks at her for a moment steadily. He has thought her face, in spite -of its beauty, false, wicked, and meretricious. He sees it now lovely in -its creamy tints, its superb eyes, its chiselled features, and its waves -of dusky hair, and withal a soft and tender expression leavening the -whole. - -“No!” he answers slowly. “I don’t hate you at all. It depends on -yourself, Gabrielle, if I hate you later!” - -She marks at once the relenting in his features, and, like the busy bee, -improves the shining hour. - -“You’ll _never_ hate me, for pity’s sake!” she cries, and flinging -herself down on the path she wreathes her arms round his knees, while -her fierce black eyes, with a good deal of the tiger-cat in their -depths, seem to devour greedily his handsome face. “Delaval! who will -love you as I do? who will hunger and thirst for your every word and -look like me? Oh if you were ever so poor and humble, but still -yourself, I would slave for you, _die_ for you! only--only--I could not -bear that any other woman should cling to you like this!” and with a -sudden spring she throws herself on his breast, panting, breathless, -quivering from head to foot. “Delaval, you have pretended to love -me. You have kissed me, and you have made me love _you_, till I -am mad with misery, till I lose sight of all that women hold -dear--pride--reserve--delicacy! For mercy’s sake don’t give me up, and -place an insuperable bar between us two!” - -But he coolly puts her aside--not roughly, but very determinedly. - -“So!” she says, standing tall and erect before him. “So! words are of no -avail. Love is a theme you have heard so often that its name has an -empty sound! You are an honourable man, Lord Delaval! Your conscience -can never prick you. For you have never acted basely, cruelly, to anyone -in your life!” she cries, with a sneer. - -He feels quite an aversion to her as he answers: “Men may be -dishonourable towards women, perhaps. But rely upon it, it is the -woman’s fault if they are so! Men may act cruelly, basely, but I’ll be -sworn baseness and cruelty have been forced from them in order to check -a woman’s undisciplined feelings, in order to recall a woman to the -decorum which belongs to her sex! I think, Miss Beranger, since I am not -honoured by your good opinion, my best move will be to say ‘Good-bye!’” - -She feels that she has played her game wretchedly. The man is a vain -man; and instead of reaching his heart through fair means, she has lost -her temper, wounded his _amour propre_, and placed a further barrier -betwixt them. Once more she is down on her knees, her clasped hands -lifted, her face quivering with emotion. Gabrielle is a born actress; -but now her acting is supremely good, for there is a deal of genuine -feeling in it. - -“Delaval! Forgive! forgive! I was mad to speak as I did! Oh I could -kill myself for it! Say you forgive me, Delaval!” - -But he stands motionless and impassive still. - -“You won’t? Have you grown utterly hard and cold and strange then to me? -Have you no mercy, no pity, no compunction? Can you face me like a stock -or a stone, and trample on my heart like this? Don’t you know that you -gave me the right to love you--by your kisses, by the specious words -that have fallen from your lips? And I believed in them! I believed that -some day I should be your wife! Oh Delaval! if I have showed an -undisciplined mind, a want of decorum, it is your fault. You are a man, -I but a poor weak loving woman. You are the stronger, I but the weaker -vessel. It is you who should have saved me from myself. It is you who -should have placed a dam against the sluice-gates of a love that is -going to wreck my whole life! Delaval, dearest, say, have you _never_ -cared for me? Has it all been untrue, a hideous delusion, a chimera of -my own brain?--a device of the Devil to lull me in a slumber of Paradise -only to awake to a full sense of his tortures? Oh, if I could die! If I -could die! For I have nothing to live for now--nothing! I _shall_ die; -for I could not live and see another come between my Heaven and me! I -could curse her!” - -Lord Delaval winces a little at this. Curses are hard words to come near -the soft little tender girl he is going to marry, and whose words to him -are as shy as the light of a star. - -But, just for once, he is taken rather aback. Shoals of women have loved -him, and reproached him, but never like this. It is the first time he -has evoked such a fierce tornado, and for a moment it staggers him. Then -he becomes conscious of a feeling of thankfulness that this woman, -beautiful and adoring, is not going to be his _wife_! - -“I can do nothing but regret!” he says gently. “My faith is pledged to -your sister, and--and--forgive me if I say that I do not wish to recall -it! It is kinder to you, and kinder to myself, to speak openly!” - -After this, nothing can be said, she feels. - -She rises slowly from her knees, and stands a little apart. After all, -she is not bad, she is not lost to shame; and it dyes her cheek crimson, -while her lids droop over the fire in her eyes, and her mouth -trembles--as much perhaps with wrath as sorrow. - -What man can look utterly unmoved on such a spectacle as this? - -“I feel so much for you,” he says quite softly, “but Fate has decreed -our paths to divide, and who can act against Fate? My faith, as I said, -is pledged to Zai; but there is no reason that you and I, Gabrielle, -should be foes. I shall always care for you, always take an interest in -you, always be glad to be a _brother_ to you!” - -“A _brother_!” she mutters. “I am no hypocrite! I could never feel like -a sister towards you, and I will not pretend it! But we’ll part in -peace! Only--only--!” - -She flings her arms round him, and lifts up wild wet eyes, their fire -and wrath all quenched in the passion that floods her whole being, “Say -that you _have_ loved me, if you do not love me now!” - -It takes not only a perfect man, but a strong one, to reject a pleading -woman, especially if her prayer is for Love, and the lips with which she -utters it are fresh and tempting; and Lord Delaval is an imperfect man, -assuredly. - -So he stoops; and while her flushed stormy face lies against his breast, -he kisses her, but only on the cheek, with the comfortable conviction -that he has preserved his loyalty to Zai intact by avoiding Gabrielle’s -lips. Most men now a-days are so addicted to splitting hairs! - -“Good-bye!” she whispers, “I cannot stay here and see you and her -together!” - -She says it so tragically, that he half smiles. He has always thought -her an excellent actress, but now she excels herself. - -“Nonsense, Gabrielle!” he answers carelessly. “For God’s sake don’t make -a scandal whatever you do! If we _have_ made love--how many men and -women do the same--without one or the other bringing the house down -about their ears. You are not the only girl I have kissed and vowed all -sorts of things to, but no one else has made me repent my folly as you -have done. Come, kiss me--a kiss of peace--and forget that a kiss of -love has ever been exchanged between us. We must all bow to the -inevitable, and you cannot expect to be exempt.” - -“But the inevitable in this case does not come from the hand of -Providence, but from the hand of the man who ought to be the last to -hurt me!” she says, passionately. “I _will_ kiss you--ay, kiss you a -dozen times; but, Delaval, they will be the kisses that one gives to the -man one loves best, and upon whom one will never look again!” - -She kisses him as she speaks--kisses him on his brow, and eyes, and -lips, wildly, fiercely; then she almost pushes him from her. - -“Good-bye!” - -“Good-bye!” he answers quietly, “since you will have it so; and when we -meet again----” - -“We shall _never_ meet again!” she says, abruptly. - -“What folly!” he exclaims, impatiently. “I hope we never shall, until -you have regained your senses, and don’t act like a mad woman.” - -“If I am a mad woman, you are the man who has made me so!” she retorts, -impetuously. - -“God forgive you for it, for I cannot!” and turning on her heel, she is -soon out of view. - -He shrugs his shoulders, and forgetting all about her, saunters back to -the house whistling an opera bouffe air. - -But though the opera bouffe air runs in his head, in his mind there is -an unpleasant conviction that Gabrielle will make a scandal of some -sort. - -“These hot-headed, hot-hearted women are the very devil,” he mutters -angrily to himself; “and I should not be surprised if she goes and -peaches to old Beranger and her Ladyship--but no matter--a coronet, and -a good-looking fellow like myself, to say nothing of the tin my dear -miserly old dad hoarded up, are proof against any back-biters, and I’ll -marry Zai yet, dear little thing. I do believe she is beginning to love -me!” - -But even with this comforting reflection, he gives a little start at -luncheon when he sees one chair empty, and hears Trixy whisper to her -sister, “Gabrielle is so queer to-day, queerer than usual. I really -think she’s going off her head.” - -Later on, at dinner, come Miss Beranger’s excuses. - -“Gabrielle is not very well, and cannot come down,” Lady Beranger -remarks indifferently, going on with her _potage à la Reine_, and Lord -Delaval makes a tolerable meal--drinks a little more than usual, but not -too much (wine bibbing is not one of his faults), laughs and talks a -little nervously, and even is slightly _distrait_, while Zai sings in -her fresh sweet soprano a bit of Swinburne, set to pathetic music-- - - “If I could but know after all, - I might cease to hunger and ache, - Though your heart were ever so small, - If it were not a stone or a snake.” - -He seems to look past her dainty chesnut-crowned head, as he listens to -these words, at Gabrielle--Gabrielle, with her wild wet eyes, her white -passion-tossed features, her clinging arms and bitter reproach. - -All night long, through his sleep, they come back to him, and will not -be thrust away. - -Once more, at breakfast, the empty chair faces him, and in spite of -himself he says to his hostess, “I hope Miss Beranger is better to-day?” - -“Yes! I think so,” Lady Beranger answers; “at any rate, well enough to -travel. Gabrielle went off by the early train to Southampton, I believe, -didn’t she, Trixy?” - -“I think so, mamma; at least, Fanchette told me. She has gone, but she -never said good-bye.” - -“Ah! just like her,” Lady Beranger observes, carelessly. “Gabrielle is -so queer, so _bizarre_, you know.” And she takes another help of _fillet -de sole_, and gives no further thought to her stepdaughter. - -“Will you come out on the lawn, the morning is perfect?” Lord Delaval -says to Zai, when they make a move from the table, and she, who has -determined to love him and obey him, turns up a fair sweet face, and -smiling, runs away for her hat. - -He looks after her slender figure with visible admiration in his eyes. -Zai is his beau ideal, _pro tem._ of womankind. - -“Don’t be long away,” he calls, softly; and he longs to have her with -him, where, sending the _convenances au diable_, he can gaze his fill on -her beauty, and kiss her to his heart’s content. - -“A letter for you! my lord.” - -He starts and stammers as he asks: - -“For me?” - -And, as he takes the sealed missive in his hand, a sort of foreboding -makes him pale and shrink from opening it. - -He even forgets to wait for Zai, but walks out of the house, and down -towards the far end of the grounds, before he breaks the seal. - - “When you read this, Delaval, I shall be dead. ‘What folly!’ I hear - you say. But folly or not, it is the truth. Oh, Delaval, I wonder I - did not die yesterday! when you killed me with your hard words and - looks. I cannot, I say, live and know that the love and caresses - that are all the world to me are given to another woman. I have no - home, no friends, no money. What then is left to me but death! - Good-bye! my love! my love! My last prayer will be that some day - you will say to yourself, ‘She loved me best of all.’ Good-bye!” - - “GABRIELLE.” - - - -When he has read it all, his first thought is, “What a very unpleasant -state of affairs.” - -He cannot show the letter to his future wife or her people. He cannot -give a hint that Gabrielle may have committed the atrocious folly of -putting an end to herself. True, the uncertainty of her fate does not -conduce to his comfort or his equanimity of mind, but it is not to be -thought of that he should cut his own throat by showing her letter. - -“Here goes!” he says, at last, with a sigh of relief, as the torn -fragments of Gabrielle’s last words scatter to the four winds, and he -turns with a tender smile to meet his betrothed, who comes slowly and -sadly, as it seems to him, up the garden walk. - -“I thought you were never coming, darling,” he whispers in his softest -voice, while his ultramarine eyes look into her own longingly, -yearningly. - -But Zai’s grey eyes do not respond, and her face is very grave as she -falters: - -“Gabrielle! oh, how shall I tell you Gabrielle----?” - -“Yes,” he questions feverishly, staring at her in his bewilderment. - -“_Poor Gabrielle is dead!_” - -“Dead?” - -“Yes! We thought she had gone to Southampton, but she hasn’t--for--oh! -_what_ could have made her do it?” she cries, looking up with piteous -eyes into his white face. “She has drowned herself in the river! _What_ -could have made her do such a terrible thing?” - -“God knows!” he says. - -It is quite true what Zai has told him. - -Close to the brink of the Urling river that runs through the Sandilands -estate they have found Gabrielle’s hat. How well they know it, the -dainty hat with its pompon of vivid scarlet and black! - -For five days they drag the river without success, but on the sixth day -a human form is brought and laid on the silvery bed of sand. - -A woman’s form, tall and slender like Gabrielle’s, yet so unlike, for it -is terrible to look upon. The light summer dress she wore is tattered -and draggled and discoloured beyond recognition, and the face,--but none -who have known her can look twice on the fearful lineaments that the -water have so cruelly caressed and changed. - -Not even her own father can believe that this awful thing lying at his -feet can be all that is left of his beautiful daughter, Gabrielle -Beranger. - - * * * * * - -Again Lady Beranger has to mourn like her fellow “quality” in “deep -kilts”--procured on credit--but this time she has a certain satisfaction -in it, which she salves down her conscience with by saying: - -“Gabrielle was such a queer girl that she _must_ have come to an -out-of-the-way end. She was so fast, so _bizarre_, so dreadfully -indifferent to the _bienséances_ and the _convenances_, you know, and, -dear Marchioness, is it not far better to have drowned herself than to -have gone to the bad?” - -The Marchioness, who has had a _jeunesse orageuse_ herself, shakes her -dyed curls solemnly and virtuously. - -“Very true, dear Lady Beranger. Once a girl has got the bit between her -teeth, she is _sure_ to ride to the Devil, and poor dear Gabrielle -always struck me as the sort that go the fastest. Well! well! we must -console ourselves by the hope that the best thing possible has happened -to her. And how long are the weddings put off for?” - -“Till November. This is not the first time Gabrielle has inconvenienced -me, but I suppose we _must_ delay the marriages for two months, or -people will talk. All these sort of things entail so much expense too; -no sooner has one gone into half-mourning for my dear lost Baby, but -there’s the deep black for Gabrielle again. It really seems to me that -she only thought of herself, and did not care a bit for the annoyance -and inconvenience she caused to others!” - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -CARLTON CONWAY. - - “But love so lightly plighted, - Our love with torch unlighted, - Paused near us unaffrighted, - Who found and left him free. - None seeing us cloven in sunder, - Will weep, or laugh, or wonder, - Light love stands clear of thunder, - And safe from winds at sea.” - - -November has set in with its yellow fogs and gloom, and the Berangers -are back in Belgrave Square, for the dual weddings come off in another -ten days, and the _trousseau_ requires her ladyship’s taste and personal -supervision in the finishing touches. - -Trixy, whose nature is made up of frivolity and bagatelles, and to whom -the colour of a dress or the shape of a bonnet are solemn subjects for -reflection and consideration, is an enthusiastic shopper, but not so -Zai. - -It is seldom that she can call up courage enough to wade through Elise’s -and Worth’s establishments, to devote her whole and sole attention to -the important point as to whether her chemisette shall be edged with -Valenciennes or Honiton. - -Zai is studiously learning to care for the man she is going to marry in -a few days, and this subject engrosses her to the expulsion of all -extraneous matter. - -Down on her knees beside her little white curtained bed she prays that -the gift of “loving” Lord Delaval may be given her. Downstairs, while he -sits beside her, the same prayer goes on in her heart, for, born and -bred in Belgravia, Zai is the best little thing that ever tried to do -her duty towards God and man. - -This much has been vouchsafed her, that Carlton Conway, who has been the -stumbling block in her path to reaching the goal she desires, has never -turned up on the scene to open by his presence the old wound, which Zai -firmly believes now is closed for always. - -Once she has heard him mentioned at an afternoon tea, but it was only to -the effect that his marriage with Miss Meredyth was put off for a while. - -Zai has never forgotten, never will forget perhaps, the days when Carl -was all in all to her. She lived an enchanted life during the time, for -all the love her girl’s heart knew swept into one great channel and -poured itself out at his feet. Paradise had opened for her out of the -dull monotony of Belgravian life and moments--golden with the light of -romance--had shone on her with a radiance like unto no other radiance of -time. And she certainly had not stayed then to count the cost of the -bitter desolation that followed. - -After all Eve herself would hardly have surrendered the memory of Eden -for all the joys to be found on earth, and she must have dreamed of it -full many a time and waked to weep such tears of unavailing regret as -have watered this sad planet of ours most plenteously. - -The London world outside is full of fog and gloom, with a few feeble gas -lamps struggling through it, but inside the drawing-room in Belgrave -Square with its firelight and luxury is conducive enough to “dreaming.” - -So Zai gives herself up to this delicious pastime, and, strangely -enough, Carl does not appear as central figure. Possibly her earnest -prayers for oblivion of him and his falsity have been answered; anyway -it is a blond face with deep blue eyes and hair that shines up like gold -under the sunbeams, that her mind’s eye sees, while her broad white lids -are closed. - -“Dreaming, my sweet! Is it of me?” - -Some one bends over her. Some one’s hand drops softly on her shoulder, -and when she looks up, some one’s handsome face is very close to her -own. Suddenly--Zai blushed furiously afterwards when she thought of -it--she slips her arm round his neck and draws down his head till his -lips rest upon her own. - -It is the first voluntary caress she has given him. - -To say that Lord Delaval is amazed, bewildered, enchanted, all in the -same moment, would be to say very little indeed. A great joy and wonder -take possession of him, and for a second he is almost an unresponsive -party, but in the next instant he has her in his arms, close against his -heart, and to indemnify himself for loss of time, he rains down kisses -on her charming face from brow to chin. - -Kisses that come so fast--so fast, so eagerly, so fiercely even, that -Zai stands almost stunned with all that her first demonstration of love -for him has called down on her. - -Then he sits down on the sofa beside her and, putting his arm round her, -draws her near him. - -He had felt that kiss she gave him go through him like an electric shock -that sent the blood rushing through his veins, and made his pulses throb -hard. - -Scores of women had offered him kisses before, and he had accepted them -or rejected them according to his mood, but this kiss, that the girl he -is going to marry had volunteered of her own accord, seemed quite -different to the rest. Then a sudden thought came like a stab. - -“Zai,” he asks gravely, “are you sure--_quite_ sure--that you are acting -according to your feelings in marrying me?” - -She looks up at him in surprise. His face is quite pale, but his eyes -seem to burn strangely. - -“Quite sure,” she answers quietly, convinced in her own mind that she -_is_ sure--perfectly sure of the fact. - -“Darling Zai! You have never given me a chance before to tell you how I -love you--love you with all my heart! to tell you that I will strain -every nerve to make you care for me as I care for you! But there is one -thing you must confess to me. Loving you as I do I shall be a very -lenient judge, my child. Do you love me enough to be true to me always?” - -She knows she does not love him as she had loved Carl. That had been a -mad phantom, possessing her heart and her brain. But she knows if she -marries this man she will make him a good and true wife. - -She is _sure_ that, in deed and word, and even thought, she will be -loyal and faithful to him always. - -The fitful pink colour comes and goes on her cheek, the big grey eyes -droop as they have a habit of doing, but a smile--a little ghost of a -smile, hovers round her pretty red lips. - -“I love you, and I shall be true to you always!” she says, and Lord -Delaval, cynical as he is--sceptical of all things, _feels_ that her -words are genuine, and he starts and his face grows radiant. - -“Zai!” he cries breathlessly. - -And bending, he puts his hand under the rounded chin and lifts up the -little drooping face towards him. Zai’s eyes are still downcast, but he -manages to read their language pretty well, and he sees the lips part in -something between a quiver and a laugh. - -“Is it so--say?” he whispers passionately, throwing his arms round her -and gathering her close until her face rests against his. “Zai, for -God’s sake, is it so? Don’t--_don’t_ take away my new-born hope, but -tell me that you really love me and only me!” - -“I love only you.” - -And when she says this Zai feels that her prayers are answered, and the -old love for Carlton Conway is conquered. - -“Look at me, my darling child!” - -She looks up, and in the soft grey eyes he reads honesty and truth, and -on the impulse of the moment he stoops, and his lips cling feverishly, -almost fiercely, to hers. - -Zai starts away from him then, and for a second she seems scared, white, -trembling. - -His wild, fierce kiss has sent the blood back from her cheek to her -heart, that throbs with a pain that makes her faint and sick. Then the -pretty pink colour creeps slowly back, and of the passionate caress that -has lingered on her mouth there is born a new feeling for her betrothed -husband. - -“Zai, you hated me once, I believe,” he says reproachfully. “I wonder -why?” - -“Never mind, since I love you now,” she replies. - -“You hated me when you cared for Conway, Zai!” - -He looks at her keenly as he deals what she thinks a random shot, but -which is really a premeditated speech, for ever since Gabrielle’s words, -Lord Delaval has been jealous for the very first time in his life. - -Never before has he felt the pangs of the green-eyed monster. It may be -because he has never before perhaps felt a true and pure love. - -Zai laughs, but the laugh is a little forced. - -“You see, Delaval, if you did not care about me you would not be -jealous! The past belongs to me, you know, but the future is -yours--won’t that content you?” she asks softly. “Shall I promise that -it is only you that I shall love for the rest of my life?” - -“Suppose you couldn’t keep your promise, Zai. Suppose an old influence -was too strong for you--what then?” - -“An old influence! No one could have any influence over me now but you, -Delaval!” - -“Will you swear that you will stick to me through thick and thin? Will -you swear that no other man shall come between us ever?” - -She does not answer. - -A feeling a little rebellious creeps up in her heart. It is hard--so -hard--to be doubted like this, when she has so bravely cast from her -all sentiment for her old lover--when she is “really and earnestly -caring” for this man. - -“You can’t answer for yourself, Zai!” he exclaims angrily. “Or perhaps -you _won’t_ answer?” - -Still she does not say a word, but hides her face against his arm. - -So he moves away from her and faces her, his arms crossed over his -chest, and speaks slowly and deliberately: - -“Zai, when you know that a man is hungering and thirsting for a word of -reassurance--when you _must_ feel that it kills me to be in uncertainty -of your _real_ feeling you keep that word locked up in your bosom--you -put a seal on your lips--you are thinking what a happier fate would have -been yours as Conway’s wife.” - -The suddenness of these last words sends a thrill through her, and -involuntarily she starts. - -“Delaval, Mr. Conway is probably a married man by this time, and I -really think you forget that I am just going to be _your_ wife.” - -“Will you always remember you are my wife?” he asks. - -“I am not likely ever to let the fact escape my notice,” she answers -gravely. “Mr. Conway is nothing to me but an acquaintance; as far as -_love_ is concerned, he and I are as far removed from one another as if -he or I were _dead_.” - -“Bah!” he says roughly, “don’t think all that goody-goody sentiment is a -safeguard for errant fancies. Morality now-a-days is at a very low ebb, -and marital obligations go a precious little way against -inclination--certainly where _men_ are concerned. On your honour, Zai, -if Conway was free and could marry you, would you still have me?” - -“On my honour I would have you and no one else--if I _may_?” she asks -with a deprecatory smile. - -Whereupon he catches her once more in his arms. - -“Now,” he says, “while I hold you like this--heart to heart, hand in -hand, and lip to lip--come, Zai! give me your lips--there!--I will put -your love to a test! Zai, Zai!--for God’s sake--don’t you fail me now!” - -“I shall never fail you,” she answers in a low voice. - -“Not if I tell you that----” - -He pauses. He really dreads to see her start and shrink away from him -perhaps--he dreads to see the sweet lovelight in her grey eyes fade -into coldness or hardness--he dreads to lose the delicious guerdon of -these soft, delicious lips. - -“Not if you tell me _anything_.” - -“Zai, Conway _is_ a free man. His marriage with Miss Meredyth is broken -off entirely. Her people found out something about Flora Fitzallan, of -the Bagatelle Theatre. I know for a fact that he will never be allowed -to marry her. Well?” - -“I think,” she says, and putting her arms around his neck she lifts up a -pair of sweet, soft eyes, “I think that it is a very bad thing for Mr. -Conway to have lost a rich wife, and that his misfortune is my gain, for -_now_ you will believe that----” - -“That what?” he asks eagerly. - -“That who he marries is no concern of mine so long as I----” - -“Well?” - -“Marry--_you_!” she says, and as she clings to this man who is to be her -husband, she thanks God that she can go down on her knees beside him and -swear to love, honour, and obey him so long as they both shall live. - -“My darling! my own, own darling!” he whispers, in his most melodious -voice, and his voice can be not only melodious but _séduisante_ when he -likes. “Listen, Zai. I have never been a good man; but I swear that the -day of our marriage I’ll commence a new life. You will never regret that -you have taken me, Zai. So help me Heaven!” - -The recording angel carried up this oath, but the other angels blotted -it out with tears. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -ANTEROS. - - “Shall we not laugh, shall we not weep? - Not we, though this be as it is; - For love awake or love asleep - Ends in a laugh, a dream, a kiss!” - - -Twelve months wedded, Lady Delaval yet leads a charmed life. Her cup of -bliss overflows, and under its influence her lovely face is tenfold -lovelier, with the sunshine of her soul illuminating it. - -She has made her curtsey to the Queen on her marriage, and her train, -her coiffure, and her beauty have been the talk of town. She looks so -good and pure too, with no fast proclivities, and to the satiated eyes -of town men these things have vast attraction. - -Lord Delaval has shunned all his old haunts, turned the cold shoulder to -his numerous loves, avoided even looking at the professional and other -beauties, and evinced an utter devotion to one woman--his wife--a fact -which has amazed Society, amongst whom his fickleness has been a by-word -hitherto. - -Prophecies as to the duration of such strange and praiseworthy conduct -are rife. - -Will he stick to it? - -The “No’s” preponderate considerably over the “Yes’s,” but time will -reveal which of the gossips are the best judges of human nature. - -When the season is over, they come down to Delaval Court--a magnificent -place in Hampshire--and here among the beautiful sylvan shades, Zai -discovers that she has really fallen over head and ears in love with -her handsome husband, but with a graver, even tenderer, sentiment than -mere being “in love.” She is grown so fragile that she looks as if a -breath of wind would blow her away, but her heart beats stronger than -ever with two feelings--love for the man she has married, and love for -the child which is to perfect her life; and Lord Delaval, about whom is -a deal of indolent sybaritical self-indulgence, has his “mystic” summer -too. - -He really finds it quite delicious to talk of the future as he lies -stretched at full length on the cool green velvety sward at his wife’s -feet, in the twilight and the starlight, with the subtle fragrance of a -myriad flowers pervading their senses, and the Channel sweeping before -them like a great phantom sea. - -Somehow the stars seem to shine with a holier, tenderer radiance; the -roses sigh out greater sweetness; the waters murmur more gladly to him -than they have ever done before in his life. - -True, that in these charmed moments he talks principally of town topics; -and she scarcely comprehends the gist of the gossip. Belgravian born and -bred as she is, she has never in fact really comprehended the world of -London well, but she likes to hear her husband tell about it, simply -because it is the world in which _he_ has lived so much. - -But somehow, to Zai, the theatres, the balls, Hurlingham, the -fashionable resorts, the feverish dissipation among which she passed -nineteen years seem distant and even myths now. She cares nothing for -town, save the Park, and even that cannot vie, in her eyes, with the -delightful green shades and sunlit bits that Delaval Court owns. - -She does not feel the least interested in the new professional beauties -or the American stars that crop up, to make themselves nine days’ -wonders at the risk of a life-long reputation. Zai has, in fact, a -foolish horror of women being held up to public view and subjected to -public admiration and criticism. Her notions are a little obsolete, -perhaps, for neither Lord nor Lady Beranger are good, simple folk, and -have plenty of the “go-ahead” sentiments of their fellow aristocrats, -and their daughters have certainly not been brought up as quietly and -carefully as they might have been. - -But, after all, Zai’s goodness and purity to a certain extent is a -disadvantage to her. - -Men of the Lord Delaval type are not likely to be long attracted by -rustic wax-work when passionate, demonstrative human nature comes in -their way to appeal to their feelings or senses, and even in these palmy -days, Lord Delaval, when he finds his wife uninterested in the talk that -his lips are mostly accustomed to utter, feels rather injured and -inclined to be silent or sullen. But he is quite enough enamoured of her -still, not to seek for other audiences, at any rate, just yet. So the -summer flies quickly by, and autumn is waning, and Zai, as she opens her -sweet grey eyes on a dull November morning, remembers that to-day is the -anniversary of her marriage, and thanks God for the happiness He has -granted her. But the autumnal days are dark and dreary, and the presence -of outsiders, which would have seemed a terrible nuisance to Lord -Delaval a few weeks ago, would now be a blessing. He feels as if he -would gladly welcome anybody, whose advent would put a little spice, a -little zest into his daily routine. It is easier for an Ethiopian to -change his skin and a leopard his spots than for a worldling to alter -his nature. - -Lord Delaval does not acknowledge to himself even, with that utter -self-delusion that comes so easily to most men--that there was something -in poor Gabrielle’s feverish passion that appealed to him, gratified -him, soothed him. He does not guess himself how deliciously sweet to his -heart are the voice of flattery and the yield of worship. There are men -and _men_. - -To some, the self-abnegatory passion of women is no doubt distasteful, -even repellant. To others--to those of Lord Delaval’s temperament -especially--it is a poisonous incense--intoxicating, subtle, pleasant, -and nearly always irresistible. - -Meanwhile, Zai has no wish ungratified, no desire unsatisfied. To her -the world contains but one man, and this is--her husband. Now and then -she remembers the existence of Carlton Conway, but only with wonder -filling her that she ever could have exalted him into a creature to -adore, when he is so different--personally, mentally, in every way--to -Delaval. She is flung, as it were, on her husband entirely for all the -pleasure, enjoyment, and amusement of life. Gabrielle is drowned; Baby -is dead; her father and mother, left to themselves, live in the London -world and for the London world. There is no one, then, of her people, -save Trixy, from whom she can hear of the old life, the old haunts, the -old faces, and Trixy, with her grand house in Park Lane, her dresses, -her jewels, her millions, is strangely silent. “She has no time, amid -the pomps and vanities, to think of me, I suppose,” Zai says, after a -couple of months have elapsed since Trixy’s last hurried scrawl. “Did -you hear of her, Delaval, yesterday in town?” - -“Yes!” he answers rather gravely. Lax as he is in morals himself, he -objects utterly to his wife’s ears being sullied with scandal. After -all, though Zai’s innocence rather palls on him, he would not have it -otherwise for all the world. But he has heard so much of Trixy from -Percy Rayne that he feels it his bounden duty to do his best to keep the -mire off the family he has married into. - -“You did not tell me you had heard about her,” Zai says, rather -reproachfully, “perhaps you even saw her!” - -“No, I didn’t, my darling; but I am going to see her! and that -to-morrow. Your sister is a giddy, frivolous little woman, and poor old -Stubbs hasn’t much influence over her, I am afraid.” - -“Why, what has Trixy been doing, Delaval?” Zai asks hastily, lifting up -a pair of anxious grey eyes, that are so pretty that he draws their -owner down on his knee and kisses her. - -“Never mind what she has been doing, my own! I’m not going to tell you -all the naughty things women do, or you will be following their bad -example!” - -“Delaval!” - -Zai flings her arm round her husband’s neck, and kisses him in return. -Like Cæsar’s wife, she renders unto Cæsar all that is his due--with -interest. - -“Well?” - -“You don’t really believe I would ever do anything wrong, do you?” she -whispers. - -“I believe you are an angel!” he says truthfully, “and that is why I -won’t let anything of the earth--earthy, come near you!” - -But Zai, angel though she may be, has some of Eve’s curiosity in her. - -“I know Trixy did not like Mr. Stubbs when she married him. But she -always said she did not want love or affection so long as she had a fine -house and lots of diamonds,” she says, after a moment, and he reads in -her face a longing to hear more. - -“Fishing!” he laughs. “No use, little one, to fish in shallow water, you -know! I’m _not_ going to tell you anything about Trixy’s shortcomings -now, and I hope I shall not have anything to tell you later. Never mind -about Trixy, darling. Think about your husband. Will you miss him? I -shall be away three or four days, I am afraid, for I have a lot of -business to do. I have been living in Dreamland here so long that I have -neglected everything--but you!” - -“Going to London for three or four days, Delaval?” she asks, with -positive tears in her eyes. “Oh! I am so sorry.” - -“Nonsense, Zai. We can’t always be tied together, or we _may_ get tired -of one another, you know!” he replies, with a careless smile. The little -change to Town is quite an event to him, and he would not give it up for -the world. - -“Tired of one another?” she says, with a little quiver of her lip. “You -may be tired of me, but I shall _never_ be tired of you--_never_, so -long as I live!” - -And he believes her. For loads of women have never tired of him, -although he has treated them cruelly, and flung them aside, like old -gloves or withered flowers. - -“My little darling!” he murmurs, quite softly, pleased at her open -adoration of his irresistible self, “I shall never be tired of you, as -far as I can see. But you must not tax me too much. Men love variety, -you know! This Darby and Joan sort of life is very delightful, my pet, -but _ne quid nimis_--translated in English, ‘Too much of a good thing is -as bad as nothing!’ We must not let our happiness pall on us, Zai!” - -She turns away her head, and answers not a word. What can she say? If he -could see her face, it might bring him to a knowledge of the true and -enduring love he has inspired in the soft, loving, girlish heart. But -he doesn’t trouble to see it. Perhaps he thinks it is best to ignore -reproach or pathos, rather than let them prove hindrances to his -pleasure and amusement. - -And Zai neither asks him to curtail his visit to London, nor to speak -differently to her. For his indifferent words have cut her to the heart. -And for the first time since her marriage, directly his back is turned, -she sheds a perfect torrent of tears, and during his absence wanders -like a little ghost about the big house, with white cheeks, and great -pitiful eyes, and a load on her spirits that she cannot shake off. - -Meanwhile, Lord Delaval, driving from Waterloo to his club, espies, -standing at a shop, a brougham he knows; and stopping his hansom, walks -up to it just as its occupant is getting in. - -She is a lovely, golden-haired woman, but he scarcely recognises her. -For all the old delicious pink colour has left her cheeks, and she looks -wan and haggard, and years older than she did two months ago. - -“How do you do, Trixy?” he says, startling her evidently, for she drops -a tiny parcel on the pavement. “I wanted to see you. In fact, I came up -to Town on purpose.” - -“On purpose to see _me_, Delaval! What for?” she asks nervously. “I -can’t stay now to talk, anyhow. Piccadilly isn’t exactly the place for a -confab, you know. Especially as everyone doesn’t know you’re my handsome -brother-in-law!” - -“And you are so very particular as to what people think--eh, Trixy?” he -asks, drily. - -“Of _course_, I wish to adhere to the _convenances_!” she answers, -rather sullenly. - -“Well, we won’t talk now. When may I call and see you?” - -She hesitates, evidently. It may be that her time is not her own. Then -suddenly she changes her mind. - -“Come with me now, Delaval! I am sure you were only going for a prowl -down Regent Street, and I am rather curious to hear what you want to -talk about--come in.” - -He puts a foot on the step, then pauses. - -“But how about the _convenances_? Everyone doesn’t know that I am not -one of your lovers!” - -“Bother the _convenances_,” she cries, impatiently, “and everyone knows -I have _no_ lovers.” - -He enters the brougham, and a few in the crowd, who know the lovely -golden-haired woman by sight as one of the London belles, begin to -chatter about her. Different versions and interpretations of the matter -fly from lip to lip, the favourite rendition being a modified version of -“Auld Robin Gray.” - -“She married old Peter Stubbs, the millionaire, against her will, you -know,” Bevan, a man in the Coldstreams, tells a pretty coquettish little -woman who stands beside him on the steps of the Burlington Arcade. “She -was over head and ears in love with Conway, the actor.” - -“I know Carlton Conway,” little Mrs. De Clifford answers. “I met him -last night at Flora Fitzallan’s supper. He was quite the host there. -Flora has loved him slavishly for years, and though he spends all her -money, he tyrannises over her awfully. I suppose that wonderfully -handsome fellow is another lover of Mrs. Stubbs’,” she adds, with a -lingering look at Delaval’s undeniable beauty. - -“It happens to be her brother-in-law, Lord Delaval, _this_ time,” the -man replies, in the tone that flings away a woman’s reputation in the -twinkling of an eye. - -“And is Lady Delaval alive?” Mrs. De Clifford asks carelessly, but with -a mind to find out if Lord Delaval’s agreeability equals his good looks. - -Bevan, who has rather a weakness for his companion, awakens at once to a -suspicious condition. - -“Very much alive, I hope! Lady Delaval is the most beautiful woman I -have ever seen, and her husband adores her,” he says, with _malice -prepense_. - -Meanwhile the brougham, “dark green, _very_ dark green, and by Peters,” -as Trixy had ordained, has disgorged its occupants at a house which is -as exquisite within as it is big and stately without, and even Lord -Delaval, who is habituated to luxury, is struck forcibly by the -judicious manner in which the ethereal inspiration of poets and -painters, Trixy Stubbs, has so ably contrived to feather her nest. - -“I am inclined to believe, after all, Trixy, that you made a very wise -choice,” he remarks, a little sardonically, as he follows her into a -dim, flower-scented, rose-hung, mirror-embellished room, which the -Honourable Mrs. Stubbs calls her boudoir, and is told to sit down in a -chair that might tempt an anchorite into a fondness for luxury and -repose. “Love sometimes flies out of the window, my dear Trixy; but -statues, and mirrors, and French furniture are not disturbed by any -such freaks of passion. One’s heart might be in a fair way to break, but -such a delicious chair as this would be a comfort all the same.” - -“I am not so sure of that,” says Trixy, in her “Mary Anderson” voice, -full of pathos and tragedy, as she flings her dainty bonnet of pale blue -velvet, with its high silver aigrette, on the marquetrie floor, and -sinks into a corresponding chair, with a wealth of bright amber hair -crowning her like the halo of a saint. - -“Sometimes I should not care if it _did_ all fly through the window,” -she goes on, moodily. “Sometimes, Delaval, I cannot help thinking I have -paid a little too dear for--for everything.” - -“What do you mean?” he asks, bluntly. “Did you not choose to marry -Stubbs? That being the case, what right have you to complain because -your bargain may not be exactly to your taste? If you had not married of -your own free will, of course no one could have forced you into it.” - -“My own free will!” repeats Trixy, scornfully, curving down the corners -of her red lips. “I wonder when a man--a man like you--ever comprehends -that a woman’s free will, from her very cradle to her grave, means just -nothing. No right to complain, haven’t I? Well, I am not complaining. My -husband is kind and good to me, better and kinder by far than I deserve; -but none the less I suffer more than you would believe I do, if I were -fool enough to tell you everything.” - -Tears rise up in her lovely blue eyes--hot, angry, scorching tears, but -she chokes them back. - -Life is beginning to teach even this little spoiled butterfly some -self-control, and that wisdom which is learned only through sad -experience. Lord Delaval, susceptible always, is touched even by the -beauty and evident unhappiness of his sister-in-law. He leans forward, -takes gently the white hand that has dashed away the rebellious tear -drops. - -“Don’t be vexed, Trixy, if I spoke a little roughly just now,” he says, -in his pleasantest accents. “You used to like me years ago when you were -a child, and although you have out-grown the fondness, I am sure you -know that I like you awfully, if it is only for Zai’s sake.” - -“Delaval, I want you to answer me a question--on your honour, you know. -Does Zai love you?” - -“Love me? My dear Trixy, your question makes me answer rather -conceitedly, perhaps; but on my honour I don’t believe any woman loves -her husband better than my wife loves me.” - -“Thank God for that!” she exclaims passionately. - -He stares at her in surprise. Trixy is not of a devout nature, and it -seems to him a little strange also that she should trouble herself -earnestly about a sister with whom she has nothing in common, or -apparently much affection for. There must be an _arriére pensèe_ in her -ejaculation. - -“Why should you be so thankful that Zai cares for me?” he asks, -carelessly, amazed to see her colour come and go swiftly, and the hand -he still holds tremble in his. - -But Trixy drags away her fingers and shrinks back into the furthest -corner of her fauteuil. - -“Oh! I don’t know!” she says, nervously. “I just wanted to hear if she -was happy and loved you only.” - -“Loved me _only_! Why, who _should_ she love else?” he demands, gravely. - -“No one, of course. You always make me nervous, Delaval, when you turn -inquisitor. As a child I hated your questioning propensities.” - -“Yes; but you know you always found I was to be trusted; so tell me your -troubles now. It will be a relief to you, and let us see--two heads, -being better than one--if we cannot find a remedy for them.” - -“Don’t bother me, Delaval, I cannot.” - -“You mean that you cannot speak of your troubles?” - -“Yes! I mean just that. I can’t talk of them, at least to _you_.” - -“It would be better to talk of them to me, Trixy, than to Lady Smiles. -She is a chattering, double-faced woman.” - -“Lady Smiles! Why, what has she been saying? What _dare_ she say of me?” -Trixy asks feverishly, lifting up a flushed face. - -“Only letting out a few foolish confidences. You see Lady Smiles may -possibly fancy the same man as you may do; and women are horribly -spiteful to one another when a man comes between them!” - -“I don’t understand what you mean?” she stammers, growing quite white; -“and as for my troubles, you must not think that I have any complaint to -make against Mr. Stubbs,” she goes on with curious eagerness: “He is -really devoted to me, anticipating my wants, lavishing costly things on -me, caring for me ten times more than I merit, as I cannot help -thinking when I recollect that I married him, hating and despising him!” - -“But you care a little for him now, don’t you?” - -“Yes, I care for him a little more now,” she replies very doubtfully. -“It is true that I ought to care for him, for he is kindness itself, -but----” - -Here the blue eyes fill with large tears again, and Lord Delaval frowns -as he realises that Lady Smiles--Trixy’s bosom friend and -_confidante_--has not been untruthful in her insinuations. Percy Rayne -is one of her admirers, and it is to him, as a connection of the -Berangers, that she has confided her fears that Trixy is a _leetle_ -imprudent in her conduct. - -“Trixy! I know you once had a foolish fancy for--for----” he hesitates -at the name, he hates it so! struggles with himself, and at last -wrenches the words out and almost flings them at her. “For--Carlton -Conway! but it is of course impossible that you can still waste a -thought or feeling on such an unmitigated scoundrel, a fellow who plays -fast and loose with every woman he comes across--a hypocrite, a -scoundrel!” - -But Trixy springs up from her chair and faces him; two scarlet spots -burn in her cheeks, her eyes blaze, and she looks like a beautiful -virago. - -“How _dare_ you speak of my friend like this, Lord Delaval! I forbid you -to do it; I forbid you to say behind Mr. Conway’s back what you would -not _presume_ to do before him! _Presume_, I say it again, for though he -is an actor and you are an Earl, there is more to be respected in his -little finger than in your whole body! He would not lower himself to -abuse a man, just because that man had been loved better than himself!” - -“What do you mean?” Lord Delaval demands sternly. He is standing too -now, with anger in his eyes, and wounded vanity in his breast. - -“I mean that your spite towards Mr. Conway only emanates from the -knowledge that your wife loved him as she will never care for any other -man in her life!” Trixy says defiantly, though her blue eyes quail a -little as they meet his. “And you may tell her from me, that the sooner -she forgets him the better, for he does not care for her--_that_,” and -she snaps her finger scornfully. - -“He cares for _you_, no doubt!” Lord Delaval answers quietly, though his -whole frame trembles with outraged pride and mortification. “But mark -my words, his love will drag you down to the lowest depths, and----” he -pauses, lays a hand on her shoulder, and speaks slowly and deliberately; -“when he has got hold of the money poor old Stubbs was fool enough to -settle on you, my dear Trixy, he will fling you to the devil!” - -And without another word he leaves the room. - -But Trixy’s words have raised up a feeling in his heart about his wife -which cannot fail to build up a wall of reserve and suspicion. - -It is in the dusk of the evening when he returns after two days’ -absence, but the firelight is bright enough to show him the gladness in -Zai’s face as he enters the room. Lavater himself could not find any -guile in it, but jealousy and suspicion know no reason. - -“My darling! my darling!” she cries, throwing herself into his arms, and -holding up her sweet lips for his kiss, but he puts her aside quietly, -and, amazed at his manner, she stands a little apart. - -“What are you doing in the dark here?” he asks, in a cold, cutting -voice. “Dreaming of the old days?” - -“I don’t understand what ails you!” she falters. “I was sitting here, -wondering when you would come back, for it has been so dull, so -miserable without you! but now you _have_ come back, you are so strange, -Delaval!” - -“Light those candles,” he orders abruptly. - -She goes up to the mantel-piece and obeys him. - -The tapers shine down full on her chesnut hair, her pure sweet face, her -pathetic grey eyes. - -“Now I can see you,” he says curtly, inwardly moved by her exceeding -fairness, but outwardly cold and stern. “Well, why don’t you ask for -news of Trixy?” - -“I forgot about her,” she answers gently. “I was thinking about you.” - -“About _me_! as if you ever gave me a thought!” he sneers. “I hate to be -fooled.” - -“Fooled!” she repeats. “Oh! Delaval, what have I done to make you say -such things?” - -“Done! why you have married me, loving that scoundrel Conway!” he blurts -furiously. “Nice thing it is for a man to know every day and night of -his life that his wife is eating her heart out for a fellow like that!” - -She has slid down on the floor by this time, and looks up at him with a -blanched, scared face, and piteous eyes. - -It seems to her that in this moment the love she has learned to look -upon as her dearest, _dearest_ possession is gone out of her grasp. - -Delaval _must_ hate her, or he could not glare at her like this, he -could not say such awful, _awful_ things. - -“Well?” he asks, “have you nothing to answer in self-defence? How dared -you come to an honest man’s home with infidelity in your heart, lies on -your lips. Don’t you know that you are a wicked----” - -“For God’s sake Delaval! For God’s sake! don’t say such things to me!” -she interrupts hastily. “If you believe me to be so false--so bad--send -me away from you, but I cannot live with you and learn that I have lost -your love!” - -“Poor little woman!” he says, half relenting; “we cannot control our -affections, so why should I blame you after all?” - -“Won’t you believe me if I swear, Delaval?” - -“I thought you never took an oath,” he says harshly. - -“I do not like to swear, but I will now, _now_ that all I hold most -precious on earth is in the balance!” she sobs through her tears. - -“Swear then! Say ‘I love you and you only, so help me God!’” - -“I love you, Delaval, and only you, so help me God!” she says solemnly. -“Oh! you believe me now, don’t you?” - -He looks at her. As has been said before in the olden days Phryne’s -face and form moved her judges to mercy--so this fair face and form move -him to belief. - -It is not possible that deceit can lurk behind her candid brow, her -limpid eyes! - -“Come to me, little one!” - -In a moment she is in his arms, her white face pillowed on his breast, -her lips smiling. “Ah! you believe me, Delaval, or you would not take me -in your arms! you know I love you--darling--my own, own darling!--love -you with _all_ my heart. I never, never think of any one else.” - -“Not even of--Conway?” - -But she does not shrink or blush at the name. - -“I do--sometimes,” she whispers, “but only to wonder how I could ever -have cared about him at all.” - -Truth is stamped on every feature of her face. Truth shines in her -glance. He would be more the man if he could resist this evidence. - -So, though he will not humiliate himself to his wife by acknowledging -himself in the wrong, he gathers her closer to him and kisses her with -the ardour of their honeymoon days. - -And she is content, she wants no more than this. - -“You have not asked about Trixy?” he says presently; “and I have -something to tell you that will grieve you, my pet.” - -But she is nestling in his clasp, and it seems to her that nothing can -grieve her very much _now_. - -“Is Trixy ill?” - -“No!” - -“Is she--but no--Delaval! it can’t be that Trixy is--dead!” she cries. - -“Dead to _you_--Zai--but not really dead, unfortunately for herself. -Trixy left her husband yesterday and has gone away,”--he hesitates. - -“Where?” - -“With--_Carlton Conway_!” - -Gone away with Carlton Conway! - -For a second Zai looks at her husband as if she was stunned, and does -not even realise the fact that he is watching her face with a keen -searching glance. - -“Poor Trixy!” she says at last, but beyond an expression of pity on her -mobile features, Lord Delaval fails to discover any regret. Still he -remarks perversely, “_Lucky_ Trixy! you mean!” - -“Oh! Delaval! isn’t it terrible!” Zai says, as if his last words had -fallen unheard. “Trixy _must_ awake some day to the consciousness of her -conduct to her husband. He isn’t loveable or lovely of course, but he -was awfully kind to her, you know. What will become of her, for I am -afraid Mr. Conway is not a good man, and unless she had money, he -wouldn’t care to be tied to her, I think!” - -“She _has_ money, old Stubbs settled £40,000 on her, and so long as it -lasts Conway will stick to her like a leech, you may be sure; but when -it’s gone, then Trixy will be sent to the devil!” - -“But he’ll marry her of course, directly the divorce is given! I hope -and pray he will! for after all she has given up for him, it will be -dreadful for Trixy to find out what he is! Papa can _make_ him marry -her, can’t he, Delaval!” - -“No one can _make_ him marry her--except his conscience--but I doubt his -having one. I say Zai, don’t you feel a little sorry that he has gone -over to your sister? Women hate defection in men you know!” - -“I _am_ sorry for Trixy! I don’t understand what you mean by women -hating defection in men, but if you think that it matters to me who Mr. -Conway runs away with, you are quite wrong! I would rather it was anyone -though but my sister, for of course I wish her to be happy.” - -“Which Mr. Conway’s noble presence ought to make her.” - -“Which it won’t make her. If I thought you would not call me -spiteful--Delaval--I would tell you what I think!” - -“Tell away--child.” - -“Well, mamma said he was a cad, and though I don’t quite know the exact -meaning of the word, I am afraid he is something of the sort!” - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -LA BLONDE AUX YEUX NOIR. - - “Your lithe hands draw me--your face burns through me, - I am swift to follow you, keen to see, - But love lacks might to redeem or undo me, - As I have been--I shall surely be.” - - -So, while all London talks of Trixy’s elopement with Carlton Conway, -Lord Delaval carries his wife off to Paris, and, in sumptuous apartments -at the Bristol, little Lord Vernon makes his appearance on the arena of -life. - -Zai adores her first-born to absurd adoration, but she has not the very -faintest idea how to take care of him, or the smallest conception what -to do with him. - -She loves to hear, as well as to know, that God has given her a living -child, and little Vernon does not disappoint her, for he screams away -the first weeks with a pertinacity which is fortunately rather rare. - -He seems to have not only the germ of a lachrymose disposition, but is -in actual fright at the new world in which he finds himself. - -According to the tenets of ideality and poetry, he ought to be like his -father, a large, fair, serene-eyed boy, born out of mystic hours and -moonlight dreaming. In reality he is the antipodes of serene, and is -acutely organised. He is tiny, and timid, and tearful too, but Zai, -after the fashion of most young mothers, considers him a cherub, a lump -of perfection. - -Whether he screams or whether he crows, she fancies they are warblings -of the angelic choir, but notwithstanding half the time she does not -know what to do for him. Long before she can manage to hold him tight in -her slender arms, without letting him drop on the floor, her big, -wistful grey eyes follow the obese proportions of the French nurse from -hour to hour to learn what she does to keep “Baby” quiet. And when at -last nature overpowers her prudence and she rashly insists on taking -charge of him herself, her fear lest he should come to grief gives him a -feeling of insecurity which makes him scream louder than ever. - -Nevertheless mother and child make such a charming Madonna-like picture -that Lord Delaval, who has always gone in for lust of the eye, likes to -look upon it. Nothing, in fact, can exceed his devotion for the first -six weeks of paternal experience. He may have been fickle and unstable, -but he now spends his whole time with his wife, his strong arms carry -her about, he reads to her, and gazes on her with eyes through which the -passionate fervour of the honeymoon shines out. - -Never has Zai had him so completely to herself. Never has he been so -gentle, so unselfish, so loving. And no matter what happens, she has -this period to look back upon with unmarred sensations of content. Maybe -if wrong or trouble come to her, these hours will be green oases in -life’s desert, landmarks in memory, which will soften resentment into -regret. But when a couple of months have gone by, Paris has begun her -season, and it is at Zai’s own solicitation that her husband begins to -go and look about him a little. - -“You’ll get quite ill, darling, unless you have a little distraction,” -she says, tenderly, as her white hand, smaller and thinner than ever, -plays with his fair hair. “And you need not mind leaving me, for I -shan’t be dull now I’ve got Baby.” Yes, she has got Baby to keep her -company and to take up all her attention, and he is not at all loth for -a little distraction, especially as she urges it. - -The next evening, sauntering down the Boulevard des Italiens, he runs -against old London pals, men of the same rank, and something of the same -calibre as himself, Shropshire and Silverlake, men who have formed -_mésalliances_, and whose morals are not too strict for a “spree.” - -“Hallo, Delaval, come over on French leave?” Shropshire asks. “There are -a lot of pretty women at the theatres now. Silverlake and I are off to -the Alcazar presently, and you might as well join us.” He -hesitates--the Alcazar--it does not sound so respectable as the Folies -Dramatiques, or the Opera Lyrique. Delaval has a dim sense that -music-halls in London are not quite the thing for newly married men, but -he salves his conscience by the thought that in Paris these kind of -places are on a more respectable footing. - -So after an excellent dinner at Bignon’s, washed down by Röederer, the -trio stroll to the Alcazar. - -“It’s a long time since I’ve been at a place like this,” Delaval says, -“but I suppose I must try and do some of the Parisian things, unless I -want to be taken for a regular savage.” - -“Things are rather changed since you were here, eh,” Silverlake asks. - -“Well, yes. It’s incredible how a year or so changes all the people and -places in Paris. I have scarcely seen one of the faces that used to be -familiar in the Bois two winters ago.” - -“Paris isn’t as bad as London for change,” Silverlake remarks. “In town -there’s a lot of cads who suddenly appear--no one knows whence--make a -great flare up with carriages, horses, opera boxes, powdered footmen, -and as suddenly disappear, goodness knows where, and sink into utter -oblivion. Cads who speculate, you know, make fortunes by some species of -swindling, and then lose them again.” - -“People who are not cads manage to get through their money pretty well,” -drawls Shropshire. - -At which Delaval laughs. - -“Does it hit home, Silverlake?” - -“Well, it’s a consolation he and I are in the same coach!” - -And then the three men enter a box, the next but one to the stage. - -The Alcazar is crowded to suffocation, there is no moving in the body of -the house, where they sit at the little tables smoking and drinking, and -as Delaval looks round, he says-- - -“What on earth do the people flock here for like this?” - -“For Marguerite Ange. Her singing has made this place an unheard of -success, you know.” - -“Marguerite Ange! I haven’t even heard of her!” - -“Don’t say so, my dear fellow, unless you want to argue yourself -unknown! Hi!” - -This last ejaculation is to a pretty coquettish little Marchande des -Fleurs, and Shropshire invests in a bouquet of Parma violets, as big as -his own head. - -“What a monster posy, who’s that for?” asks Delaval. “I pity its -recipient, it will almost crush her I should think.” - -“It’s for Mademoiselle Ange, of course,” Silverlake joins in, searching -in his pocket for a five-franc piece to buy a bunch of camellias, but -without success, “everyone throws the Ange a bouquet, it’s _la mode_.” - -“Wonder she isn’t like the fellow, you remember? the Roman fellow, who -was smothered by a shower of cloaks,” Delaval says, with a feeble -reminiscence of some old story learnt long ago in his cramming days. -“Eh, what?” Silverlake asks, “No! don’t know any Roman fellows, know -plenty of Jews, I am sorry to say.” - -“There’s an awful Jew fellow in that stage-box opposite,” whispers -Shropshire, “fingers blazing with diamonds, and all that sort of thing. -He’s after the Ange, comes here every night and ogles her. I wouldn’t -touch him for all the world.” - -“I shouldn’t mind touching his shekels of gold. I----” - -But Silverlake stops short, for just at this moment the shouts and -thunder of applause, the cries and calls for “Marguerite” grow terrific, -and Delaval, raising his glass, curiously eyes a woman advancing slowly -towards the footlights. It is Marguerite Ange, the woman who has turned -the heads of all Paris. - -She is beautiful, this Marguerite Ange, this singer at the Alcazar, this -child of the people, beautiful with a regal beauty any queen might envy. - -The patrician carriage of her grand head, the pride of her bearing, her -slow and stately step, the very swirl of her skirt as she sweeps -forward, all strike Delaval, who gazes at her with a momentary -astonishment that is not altogether born of her loveliness. “Is she an -empress in disguise,” he wonders; but at the second glance, he takes in -the whole splendid physique, the flesh and blood magnificence of -Mademoiselle Ange, and decides that she is of the earth, earthy, that -there is no semi-divine light in the slumbrous eyes over which droop -heavy white lids, no purity about the make of the warm full blooded -lips, no unfleshly refinement about her face and figure; but there is -rare perfection of form, and tropical brilliance of colouring about her, -and her vivid pink and white tints, her rich masses of golden hair form -a strange and almost _bizarre_ contrast to her immense eyes, black as -midnight skies, and of a velvety softness. - -Delaval remarks the peculiarity just as an inflammable French officer -near him remarks with enormous enthusiasm: - -“_Elle est belle à faire peur, cette blonde aux yeux noir!_” - -Strangely enough, the more Delaval looks at her the more he is reminded -of someone he has seen. To a certain extent her face appears really -quite familiar to him--but only to a certain extent--beyond this he is -quite in a fog, and searches vainly in the caverns of memory for an -elucidation of the mystery. - -Mademoiselle Ange stands for a moment or two perfectly motionless, with -her eyes fixed on the ground, while the clapping of hands and yelling -applause goes on, and the bright light falls full on a face of -marvellous, almost weird beauty, on perfectly moulded round white -limbs, revealed rather than hidden by clouds of diaphanous drapery, on a -shapely arm supporting a much ornamented guitar--(which by the way she -does not use). - -Then amidst a hush, in which the fall of a pin could be heard, she -begins her song in a deep rich contralto. - -There is none of the noise, or clap-trap, or glitter of the Alcazar -about her or her vocalisation. - -She sings her two first verses, without the quiver of a long black lash, -or the falter of a note, poetically, dreamily, entrancingly. Then she -pauses a second, stretches out one arm tragically towards the audience, -and commences the last verse in a soft, low, thrilling voice that -appeals to the roughest man there, while her huge black eyes seem to -burn and scintillate, firing the manly bosoms under broadcloth and -blouse with irrepressible ardour. - - “Je vis le lendemain non plus au bord de l’onde - Mais assise au chemin la jeune fille blonde! - Je vis qu’ils étaient deux--A! deux âmes sont joyeuse! - Comme il était heureux! Comme elle était heureuse! - Et moi, dans mon bonheur--de les voir si content - Je me mis a pleurer! Comme on pleure à vingt ans! - Et moi! dans mon bonheur--de les voir si content - Je me mis a pleurer! Comme on pleure à vingt ans!” - -Lord Delaval--_fanatico per la musica_--listens enthralled as the last -sweet, sad, soft notes die away on his ear. - -Once more shouts of “Marguerite _la Blonde aux yeux noir_!” fill the -house with deafening roar, and coming closer to the footlights with a -beaming smile on her scarlet lips, for the first time her eyes fall on -the box where Delaval sits leaning forward. - -Her glance rests an instant upon him. She utters a sharp cry, her face -through its rouge turns ghastly white, and Marguerite Ange drops -senseless on the floor. - -In a moment, however, the curtain falling, hides her from view. - -“What ails her?” cries Shropshire, as much concerned as if he had not -his Countess--(for whom he has gone through a good deal)--demanding his -allegiance and fidelity. - -“It’s the infernal excitement of all the noise that’s done her up,” -Silverlake says. “Isn’t she more like a witch than a woman? She’d take -the heart out of a man whether he would or no!” - -But Delaval answers nothing. His face is very pale, and there is a queer -dazed look in his eyes which is foreign to them, and a shiver passes -over his whole frame as the manager comes forward, announcing that -Mademoiselle Ange having recovered her indisposition, will sing again. - -After a few minutes she comes forward and sings a short but passionate -love song, in which her voice falters, and tears glitter in her -magnificent eyes. - -The cheers and cries from the motley audience would have gladdened the -ears of the greatest Diva that ever lived. And they bring triumph to the -heart of this woman, a mighty triumph that gleams from her glance as she -fixes one long look on Delaval’s face when she makes her final curtsey -and retires. - -“What sort of a woman is this Marguerite Ange?” Lord Delaval asks -carelessly, though he is conscious that his heart throbs a little -faster than usual as he awaits the answer. “She’s not over particular, -is she?” - -“Particular,” laughs Shropshire, “did you ever know an Alcazar -songstress particular? You might as well expect prudery from Rose -Stanley at the Holborn, or from little Kitty Mortimer at the Pavilion. -Do you imagine her salary at the Alcazar pays for her charming _au -premier_ in the Rue Tronchet, her carriage and _haute ecole_ cattle, the -jewels and laces and velvets that are the very soul and essence of the -beautiful Marguerite. Sapristi! You must have forgotten the world and -its ways.” - -“And the parable of the lamb and the wolves,” Silverlake adds. “I defy -any woman making head against the current of lovers that Marguerite -has.” - -“I might have known it! They are all alike, these women,” Delaval -mutters savagely through his set teeth. - -“Understand, I don’t mean to hint a word against her morals, in fact, -the Ange is extra proper. She always goes about with the most hideous of -duennas. But she’s the very devil with men--twists them round her -fingers--fools them to any extent--cleans them out and then throws them -overboard. Young Valentin de Brissac blew his brains out about her last -week, and not very long ago Jules de Grammont Charleville, a capital -fellow, and one of the Faubourg St. Germain Charleville’s, went to the -bad--took to drinking like a madman--tried to shoot her, and has got -five years for it. The Ange is as hard as granite, as calculating as a -Jew, and as vain as--well--I really can’t find anything to compare with -her vanity.” - -“Where did you say she lived, Shropshire?” - -Shropshire looks at him and elevates his eyebrows, while Silverlake -bursts out laughing. - -This is the model Benedict all London has talked about! - -“I thought you’d soon tire of domestic bliss and look out for pastures -new,” Shropshire says. “Well--well--Marguerite won’t have anything to -say to me, so I won’t be a dog in the manger, but wish you success. She -lives at Number 17 Rue de Tronchet, just close to the Madelaine, you -know.” - -“Thanks.” - - * * * * * - -And Delaval, leaving his companions, saunters towards the Champs -Elysèes instead of going home. - -It is a lovely night. There is no moon, but myriads of stars cluster -overhead, and somehow the quiet and the stillness of midnight are -pleasant to him. He has quite made up his mind to see Marguerite Ange -again. - -It is not because he has fallen in love with her, far from it. The -feeling she has inspired in him has at present, at any rate, no particle -of love in it, but something draws him on to seeing her--to speaking to -her--to saving her from a path that _must_ lead to perdition. - -And he smiles almost bitterly at such a feeling possessing him about a -singing woman at the Alcazar! - -By and by, when the air has cooled his hot temples a little, and the -oppressive sort of spell this evening has brought him disperses -somewhat, he goes back to the hotel and enters the room where Zai lies -fast asleep. How pretty she looks to his feverish eyes! The purity and -sweetness of her face come like a glimpse of blue sky after a storm. She -is happy, too, for her red lips part in a smile as she clasps her child -close to her heart. - -Lord Delaval stoops down and kisses her so softly that she never stirs. -He is a worshipper of female beauty, and here before him--within his -grasp--lies as fair a woman as ever was made to please the eyes of man. -His wife--his own! a legitimate object for love and passion and -admiration. - -But men’s hearts are perverse things. - -Noiselessly as he entered he steals away again to the adjoining room, -and without undressing, flings himself into an armchair. - -Here the break of dawn finds him--still sleepless, but lost in a waking -dream of “_La Blonde aux yeux noir_.” - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -DRIFTING. - - “A year divides us--love from love, - Though you love now, though I loved then, - The gulf is straight, but deep enough, - Who shall recross--who among men - Shall cross again?” - - -“You came in very late last night, darling,” Zai says, a little -reproachfully, as she sits _en peignoir_--but a _peignoir_ daintily got -up, with Valenciennes and pink ribbons, and looks divinely fair at the -head of the breakfast-table. - -“There was a carriage accident on the Boulevard, and I helped the -occupants to get out,” he answers. - -It is the first falsehood he has uttered to his wife, and in spite of -him a tinge of red sweeps across his fair skin, to hide which he buries -his face in his coffee-cup. - -“Were the occupants _ladies_?” Zai asks, with a sensation of incipient -jealousy. - -She has learned to think this husband of hers so superbly handsome and -irresistible that she believes all other women must consider him so -likewise. - -“Yes, ladies--_old_ ladies, going home from some concert. They were -terribly frightened, poor old girls,” he says, coolly. - -“And how did you amuse yourself, darling?--and did you talk to anyone?” - -“Why, you’ve grown into the Grand Inquisitor, my pet! I went to the -theatre and I talked to Shropshire and Silverlake.” - -“_Those_ men!” she says with a little _moue_. “They are dreadfully -fast, are they not, Delaval?” - -“So so!” - -“Were Lady Shropshire and Lady Silverlake there?” - -“Oh, no!--the husbands are doing Paris _en garçon_.” - -“How very horrid!” she decides. “_You_ wouldn’t care to go about _en -garçon_, would you, my own?” - -“_Certainly_ not,” he answers fervently. - -But he has made up his mind to go out _en garçon_ all the same. - -“And how’s baby?” he inquires unctuously, in the hope of turning the -subject. - -“He’s very well. I am sure he has grown half-an-inch in the last few -days, and I really think he tried to say ‘pa--pa’ this morning, -Delaval!” - -“Did he really! Dear little chap!” - -“Yes! and Madame Le Blanc tells me that she has been a monthly-nurse for -thirty years, and that its the first time she has ever heard a child of -two months-and-a-half pronounce so plainly!” - -“Why the little chap must be the infant prodigy! Pity he’s so beastly -red!” - -“_Red_, Delaval! Why he’s exactly like Dresden China!” she replies, with -intense mortification. - -He gives a forced laugh. Then he pushes his plate away, with the -devilled kidneys untouched, for he has no appetite. And leaning back in -his chair, looks at his wife. - -And he comes to the conclusion that he ought to be thoroughly ashamed of -himself. - -There she is, facing him. Could any creature of mortal mould be sweeter, -lovelier, purer, more adorable? - -_And yet!_ - -These are two little words that carry more meaning in them than all the -long, grandiose phrases in the Queen’s English. These two little words, -indefinite as they seem, show exactly what a man’s mind is when it -oscillates ’twixt right and wrong. Zai is undeniably charming, but she -is not--_la Blonde aux yeux noir_! - -She lacks the power to inflame the heart of the million. Her soft, -dove-like eyes, cannot burn into men’s brains and souls like the -dangerous but glorious black ones of Marguerite Ange! - -“What piece did you see last night, Delaval?” - -It is a poser. For one moment Lord Delaval, with the impatience and -dislike of being catechised, which is natural to him, has a mind to -speak the truth, and tell his wife that this morning he is not up to -small talk. But he thinks better of it, and is equal to the occasion. - -“A piece called _La Tentation_, darling! A thing in which there was a -lot of love-making and smiling and bowing, and a woman, supposed to be -an angel--but probably she is a devil,” he adds, almost _sotto voce_. - -“Was she pretty?” - -“Tol lol! You can’t tell what an actress is like on the stage, you -know!” - -“I hope you won’t find out what she is like off the stage!” Zai says -earnestly. “Actresses are such bad, dangerous women, sometimes!” - -“And how about _actors_?” - -The shot goes home, for she flinches and flushes a little, and he is -rather sorry he has said this. It was snobbish, perhaps! But when a man -wishes to stop his wife’s mouth, he must do it the best way he can. Zai -will not pursue the subject of Theatres and Thespians after his cut, he -thinks. But he is wrong. She flushed more from a wounded feeling at his -manner and tone than from the reference to her old lover, for whom she -has the most profound indifference now. - -“Have you heard anything about Trixy, Delaval?” she asks, in a low, -humble voice. She is very much ashamed of this sister of hers, and -scarcely likes mentioning her name before the man she not only loves but -honours. - -“Yes. Stubbs has got a divorce. Poor old chap! It appears that he was -awfully cut up; had a fit, and nearly died. He wanted her to go back to -him, and promised never to breathe a word of recrimination; but when he -found she wouldn’t, he got a divorce, and gave that scoundrel Conway a -bill at six months for ten thousand pounds provided he married her! Of -course, the money was too much for the fellow; so the marriage will come -off by-and-by.” - -“And where is Trixy now?” - -“Living at Hammersmith; dining at Richmond and the Orleans with all the -fast men; dressing to the nine, and making herself the talk of town. She -has quite forgotten the word more familiar to her youth than her -Bible--_convenances_; but what can be expected? If a girl is innately -bad, no power on earth can keep her straight.” - -“But Trixy was not innately bad,” Zai murmurs, deprecatingly. “She -married a man she could not love, and then--she yielded to----” - -“The fascinations of Mr. Conway! Joy go with her! Men are not fair -judges of their own sex, but if I was a woman, I should prefer old -Stubbs to a dozen Conways!” - -“And so should I--_now_,” Zai confesses meekly. “What a pity women have -not the gift of _clair-voyance_!” - -“Thank God, they haven’t!” he says to himself, as he rises, and walking -up to the mirror on the mantel, looks at himself. “I wonder what -Mademoiselle Ange saw in me to make her faint? It could not have been my -_ugliness_!” he thinks, as the glass reflects back his handsome face--a -face which he _knows_ to be handsome and irresistible to most women. - -Then he turns away carelessly--for he is not a vain man--and going up to -his wife kisses her on her forehead. - -But Zai is not satisfied with this. - -“Won’t you kiss me properly, darling?” she says, holding up her fresh, -red lips. - -And her darling kisses her “properly,” though all the while he is -wronging her in his heart, on the principle that sins of _omission_ are -as bad as sins of _commission_! - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -IN THE MESHES. - - “Take hands and part with laughter, - Touch lips and part with tears, - Once more, and no more after, - Whatever comes with years. - We twain shall not remeasure - The ways that left us twain, - Nor crush the lees of pleasure - From sanguine grapes of pain.” - - -Lord Delaval has never let a desire of his remain ungratified in his -life, so now, haunted by the beauty of a woman for the space of -twenty-four hours, he resolves to make her acquaintance. - -“Her sort are not very particular about the _convenances_,” he says to -himself as he approaches _Numèro 17 Rue de Tronchet_, but it must be -confessed that his courage does not rear its crest much aloft as he -rings the bell, and hears from the _concierge_ that “Mademoiselle Ange -_est chez elle_.” - -Still, though his mind is perturbed, his pulses throb, and there is a -mingling of expectation and trepidation in his breast, if his _real_ -feelings were finely analysed, it would be found that Mademoiselle’s -beauty repels even while it attracts him to the point of looking on it -closer. - -Possibly the daylight may dissipate his delusion, he thinks. And he is -conscious of a sort of half-hope, half-regret, that it may be so. - -The apartment, into which he is ushered by Mademoiselle’s own smart -_soubrette_, disappoints him at once. - -The decorations are florid and over-done. The big mirrors gleam too -brightly on the sea-green of the walls, the vivid scarlet of the -ottomans, the chairs, the velvet cushions, the too heavily perfumed -atmosphere, the curious medley of _objets d’art_, individually costly, -but making a strange and heterogeneous whole, all seem to his fastidious -eyes as redolent of the Alcazar. - -The sunbeams that fall through the rose-tinted blinds are studiously -toned down to a pale mystic light, fit for the languor of magnificent, -heavy-lidded eyes--a Marie Antoinette fan with a jewelled handle, a -flacon of _esprit des millefleurs_, a tiny handkerchief with a Chantilly -border, a volume of De Musset’s poems, lie together, and _bric-à-brac_, -rococo, ormolu, and Sèvres are heaped everywhere in picturesque -confusion. If Mademoiselle Ange has ever desired to be grand, she has -gained her desire. - -While he waits, he wonders if the woman is really content, and whether -these things are worth possessing at the price she has to pay for them. - -“Gratified vanity goes a precious long way, so I suppose she is happy -and satisfied,” he thinks with a sneer, and a sort of savage sensation -in his heart, that he has not found her in a barely furnished room, -devoid of luxury, and indicative of high moral worth. - -It certainly is not marvellous that _La Blonde aux Yeux Noir_ has -created a regular furore in Paris. - -As the heavy red velvet portières are pushed aside, and she comes into -the room, the sneer dies right away from his mouth, and he confesses -that this woman is a thing to wonder at. - -If she had struck him as beautiful in her diaphanous robes, in her -semi-nudity, with manacles of gold on her neck and arms, fit for an -Eastern Satrap’s love, she strikes him as ten times more attractive in -her day attire. - -She wears a deep wine-coloured satin, covered with a profusion of lace; -the bodice is cut square and the sleeves are open and hanging. Her -throat and slender wrists gleam like the purest alabaster under the -delicious rose-tinted light, and wine-coloured bands, studded with small -but rare brilliants, go round them. Her hair, perfectly golden, falls in -light bright curls above her dark straight brows, and is knotted -carelessly, but artistically, in thick glossy coils at the back of her -well-shaped head. - -She is thoroughly well got up, she has made the most of herself in every -particular, and yet she has the art of letting her magnificence seem -part and parcel of herself, as if it belonged to her and was not a -studied effect. - -And one of Marguerite Ange’s attractions is that she looks so young; she -cannot have reached one score to judge by her flawless face and her -slender figure, which is all bends and curves without an angle in it. - -“I scarcely dared to hope that you _would_ come and see me,” she says in -French that is true Parisian, though Delaval has heard that she comes -from Arles, the birth-place of beauty; and she holds out, rather -deprecatingly, a slim white hand, which, of course, he clasps eagerly, a -sharp thrill going through him as he does so. - -“Why not?” he asks in as excellent French as her own. “Could I be the -only man to resist the Queen of--_Hearts_?” - -And his voice has certainly a fervour and a ring of truth about it, -which perhaps gratifies her, for a little smile, savouring of triumph, -crosses her lips. - -She throws herself back among her vivid scarlet cushions, and makes a -gesture to him to sit down beside her. - -Then, for the first time, he grows conscious of the presence of a third -person, an old woman, hideous as Hecuba, who has seated herself close to -the portière. - -“That’s the sheep-dog Shropshire spoke of,” he thinks. - -“Madame Perchard, you can go for a walk if you like. It is a charming -day, and it will do you good. Stay! you might call at the costumier’s, -and desire them to send the domino and mask for the _Bal de l’Opera_ -to-morrow.” - -Madame Perchard, who looks as if she were well paid and well fed, smiles -feebly and goes on her way, and the others are left _tête-à-tête_. - -If anyone had suggested two months ago that he would be seated in a -dimly-lit room, side by side with a music-hall singer, Lord Delaval -would probably have scouted the notion, and resented the speaker’s -impertinence; but now it seems to him as if it is the most natural thing -in the world that he should be here, at Marguerite Ange’s feet -(mentally). - -He turns, and looks into her beautiful eyes long and steadfastly, -without speaking, until she, who has grown hardened to the boldest -stare, reddens a little. - -“_Eh bien?_” she says smiling, and her voice startles him out of a -reverie. He is not only thinking how exquisitely lovely she is, but -taxing his brain once more to find out _who_ she resembles. - -“I was dreaming, I believe, Mademoiselle Ange! Will you forgive me for -coming here like this? My only excuse is that my heart was stronger than -myself,” he says, in a low, passionate voice. - -“I forgive you!” she answers. “Ah! you don’t know what I felt the other -night when I first saw you. You are very like someone I once -knew--someone I loved as women only love once in their lives!--someone -who is dead to me, and when I saw you I fainted.” - -So, this is why she fainted at sight of him--simply because he happens -to resemble some sweetheart of other days. The idea is not flattering, -and irritates him. Somehow, he had fancied that his own irresistible -attractions had had an effect on her; but he cannot gaze on her and not -soften at once. - -“Mademoiselle Ange, why do you live this life?” he says abruptly. - -“What harm is there in my life?” she asks. “It suits me!” - -“It suits no woman to forfeit respect for admiration--modest life for -public display; but what right have I to talk to you so? To what good -can I talk? For, _is it not a little too late_?” - -“You are very hard on me,” she falters. “Ah! I see you will _never_ like -me--for you are prejudiced!” - -“What does it matter to you if I am prejudiced? After all, you could -only care for my liking as you care for the liking of a dozen other men. -Come--strangers almost though we are--tell me who is the most favoured -amongst your worshippers! For, in spite of being prejudiced, I have felt -a great interest in you ever since I first looked on your face.” - -She glances up at him, and the colour deepens on her cheek. - -“Why should you take an interest in me? I am only a poor artist, and -quite below _your_ notice,” she answers, with a sort of proud humility. - -“You would not say that if you knew how much I have thought about you, -_how_ your face has haunted me. It has bewitched me--_malgre moi_--I -think. Do you know, Mademoiselle Ange, that if I am like someone you -knew, you are strangely like someone I have seen; someone who certainly -was not so beautiful as you are, or I should remember her to my cost,” -he adds softly. - -She flushes still deeper as she listens, then turns the subject by -saying lightly: - -“And what am I to tell you about myself? Only that I have a great deal -of admiration and very little love! Perhaps you will think that is all I -ought to expect, being myself! But really I don’t believe anyone has -ever _loved me_!” - -“It would indeed, be strange if they hadn’t,” he replies, unable to -remove his gaze from her. “You are deceiving yourself or deceiving _me_. -You are not one to be seen and not loved--_madly loved_! No matter the -dire results of it!” he cries eagerly, and her lids droop under the -infinite passion of his eyes. - -“It is very hard to tell the real from the sham in love, and in -everything else I don’t take the trouble to try; I class them all -together, and value them at just as much as they are worth,” she says -with a low laugh. “You asked me which of them I liked best--no _one_; -but somehow, though I only saw you two nights ago, _you_ seem to stand -apart from the rest, you are different _to me_! You won’t be ashamed to -come here now and then? I am not a _grande duchesse_, but still----” - -“I’ll come till you tire of me. I am afraid that will be _too soon_. You -women are so capricious, especially lovely ones.” - -“To everyone else, perhaps, but _never to you_!” she almost whispers, -looking right into his eyes now with a yearning, wistful look that might -make him lose his head, and he feels already that the best thing he can -do is not to see Mademoiselle Ange again. - -But what man has the strength of mind to resist a sudden and violent -passion like this? He thinks, as he gazes infatuated on her, of some -splendidly plumaged bird, of a mirage in the desert, of heavily scented -exotics, of burning skies, or rather he _feels_ all this, for her -prerogative is to inspire sensation. To look at her is a species of -moral dram drinking, and she stands in comparison to better, purer -women, women like Zai, as brandy stands to weak wine and water. - -“If Rubens had seen this girl,” Delaval says to himself, “he would not -have sent down for all time a burlesque upon this splendid red and -white, this fleshly magnificence!” - -“Do you know I had an instinct when I saw you the other night? I -believed you were my fate,” she says in a dreamy voice, but so suddenly -that he starts a little. - -It _is_ startling to think that he should in any way be connected with -the fate of this exquisite woman. - -As she sits here before him, her hands clasped loosely together, a sort -of abandon in her lovely figure, the light throws up richer gold on her -hair, the soft folds of her satin gown fall round her moulded form like -the robes of an empress, and he almost groans as he realises how -impossible it would be to choose a life for one gifted with such rare -physical beauty, that would not be hedged round with ten thousand -dangers. - -He shudders as he feels that this gift of beauty _must_ be a curse, -dragging her downwards. - -“_I_ your fate? God knows _what_ your fate will be! You must have been -mad to choose such an awful life.” - -“Because you think me pretty, you say that! What is the use of being -good-looking if it can bring me none of the nice things I desire? I -might as well be ugly and old and senseless, if I had to be shut up -within the narrow limits of most women’s lives. How could I gain power, -the appreciation which is my due, if the public do not see me and judge -for themselves? I wanted to be rich and I am so; I wanted to ride in -carriages like I have seen women do, whose beauty has paled beside mine. -What women care to live always in insignificance, obscurity, and, worst -of all, in _poverty_?” she asks simply. - -Lord Delaval is too much _homme du monde_ to shrink from her when she -says all this--when she breathes a creed utterly antagonistic to the -training of _good_ women. He does not revolt even from the evidently -hard realism of her nature; the manner in which she seems to appraise -and value her own attractions, setting no store on the beauty which -womanly women hold as a gift beyond price, but only as a means of -winning money, makes him regard her with a curious feeling that has no -repulsion in it. - -“Marguerite,” he says--he has already come to her Christian name, but -among her class this is so common that she probably never even notices -it. “Tell me, have you no heart, no feeling, that you talk so -strangely?” - -“_Do_ I talk strangely?” she asks with a bewildering smile. “Do I differ -so much in my words and ways from your high-born English misses--the -women who live in what you call your May Fair, your Belgravia, who sell -themselves for gold? I have heard that it is the trade, the profession, -of those ladies very often to lay themselves out to win some man, no -matter how old he is, how ugly he is, so that he is rich! And then they -give themselves in exchange for money or title. But it is a fair -bargain, is it not so? So much flesh and blood for so much gold, and -your aristocratic world smiles on them and honours them, while it and -you condemn such poor girls as I, who only use my youth and good looks -in the pursuit of my profession. There is only one difference you see, -the matrimonial market is not open to such as me with my soiled name, so -I am obliged to try and make a name and reputation for myself.” - -As he listens to her he wonders how a music-hall singer has learned the -astute wisdom of the world, how words flow to her lips so easily, how, -in spite of the surroundings of her daily life, her voice is so sweet -and low and soft, her manner so well-bred, her language so refined. - -“You say I have no heart, no feeling?” she goes on, drawing nearer him -and placing her hand upon her breast with a melo-dramatic air, “but what -have I to do with such things? Who has ever taught me what love means? -Cruelty and insult I have suffered. Once--ah! I nearly died because he -whom I adored, trampled on my heart as if it had been dust beneath his -feet! But that is past and gone. I forgive him and I do not resent it, -but love him still. Love, you know, like one gives to the dead. No! -Respect and tenderness to me are just empty sounds. Who in all this -world ever cared whether I suffered, whether I lived or--died? _No -one!_” - -Her face glows with emotion, and he, as her wild, reckless words sweep -over his ear, feels as if some spell was at work; the room seems to -stifle him, and Marguerite’s great black eyes seem to blaze and burn -into his brain. - -“You see I am quite removed from the pale of men’s sympathy. I cannot -find any happiness in the way other women find it. I am only a -pariah--an outcast.” - -“You say that you have no chances of happiness like other women have, -that there are none who would care to marry you! You will find out your -mistake some day, Marguerite. You will find that such a face as yours -can win, not only admiration and love, but a husband,” he answers. And -he actually believes that, if the Gordian knot was not already tied, -there is no knowing what imprudence he might not commit for a creature -as rarely lovely as this! - -“Is that true?” she asks, lifting her head with a strange light in her -eyes. “Would men who are far above me--like you, for instance--ever -stoop to me?” - -He half turns away from her. Perhaps his good angel is hovering near, -for he comes to the conclusion that it may be best for her and best for -himself if this interview comes to an end. - -She seems to have the power of drawing him nearer and nearer to her -every moment. - -“When you know more of the world,” he says quietly, “_my_ greatness will -diminish very greatly in your eyes, if it does not cease altogether. -Why, you have raised me aloft, Marguerite, when you don’t even know my -name or the class I belong to!” - -She smiles rather bitterly, and a bright pink surges over her face. - -“I know who you are--you are Lord Delaval!” she answers in a very low -voice, that lingers a little over his name. “Your friends who were with -you the other night told me.” - -“Ah!” he says, “and did they tell you more about me than my name?” he -asks eagerly, for somehow he is very averse to her knowing that he is -married. - -“No,” she replies. “Nothing. Wait! They did say that you were not -married.” - -He flushes and is silent a second. - -“They told you the truth,” he says calmly, but, lax as he is, his -conscience gives a throb of compunction at denying the existence of -Zai--Zai, who loves him with every inch of her heart. “But I _must_ go -now. I have been here too long already, Marguerite,” he adds rather -abruptly. - -“You are going?” she asks regretfully, and a tear glistens on her lash. -“Do you know I believe I shall _never_ see you again. Is this the only -time--tell me the truth, it will be kinder!--that my eyes will look on -your face?” - -“No. Of _course_ we shall meet again.” - -“When?” she asks fervently. - -“When? In a very few days, I trust.” - -“Will you come here on Wednesday night to supper? Ah, _do_! Let me have -some date to look forward to! Yet, no! Do not come! What use is it for -us to meet again? Are you not as far removed from me as heaven from -earth? as respectability from unrespectability? Say, is there not an -obstacle between us two that we cannot surmount?” - -Her lips are quivering. Her heart beats so loudly that he can almost -count its throbs. Truly there is no acting in this. Marguerite has -fallen in love with him at first sight, as he has done with her. - -“There is no obstacle between us,” he whispers, once more denying his -wife. “I will come on Wednesday.” - -“You will?” - -She holds out her hands to him, and as he clasps them closely, he bends -his head and his lips nearly rest upon hers. - -But it is only a passing madness. He is not quite lost yet. And -Marguerite, as she looks up at him hastily, sees no trace of passion in -his face. - -When she is alone she kisses eagerly the hands he has held in his. - -“He will come again, and again!” she says aloud. “He is not a man to -stop at anything if inclination leads him. He spoke of my _beauty_. Oh! -how I thank Heaven for it now--_now_ that I know it will give me my -heart’s desire yet!” - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -DEEPER AND DEEPER STILL. - - “If one should love you with real love-- - Such things have been-- - Things that your fair face knows nothing of - It seems--Faustine? - - * * * * * - - “Curled lips, long since half kissed away, - Still sweet and keen, - You’d give him poison, shall we say? - Or what--Faustine?” - - -They are much sought after, the little suppers that Mademoiselle Ange -gives on Wednesday nights. - -Dainty, _récherché_ feasts, where the guests are chosen more for social -than moral worth, and the _cuisine_ is irreproachable. - -Mademoiselle, with the tact of a hostess to the manner born, and the -_savoir-faire_ that she has learned goodness knows how, is careful that -these small feasts shall savour rather of gay Bohemianism than the -conventional dullness that some people deem inseparable from propriety. - -But while she regulates the social element, she does not ignore sympathy -between mind and body, and knowing that the nearest way to men’s hearts -is through their palates, secures the services of a noted _chef_, who -drives to the Rue Tronchet in his own _chic_ brougham, and disburses -himself of a hundred-guinea diamond ring before he commences the -momentous operation of trussing an ortolan. - -This Wednesday night most of the guests are assembled in the _salon_. - -Lounging on a sofa is a superb brunette, perfectly dressed and -bejewelled. She is Leonide Leroux, a dramatic star both in Paris and -London. By her side, languidly stroking his moustache, sits Ivan -Scoboloff, a Russian baron with more money than brains. Beside these are -little Rose Marigny, soubrette at the Theatre des Galléries, Monsieur -Chavard, dramatic critic and author, and Louis, Marquis de Belcour, a -good-looking giant and as rich as Crœsus. - -Mademoiselle Ange is not herself to-night. Lovely, of course, but with -the sparkle of her beauty lacking, as she reclines in a red velvet -chair, in an artistic pose, and gives small heed to the little -tittle-tattle around. - -The last Parisian scandal is discussed, the last _mot_ of the coulisses -related, but, contrary to her usual habit, Marguerite is evidently -_distraite_, and every now and then she throws anxious glances towards -the door. - -The full light of the crystal chandelier falls upon the snowy white of -her skin, the exquisite rose and opal tints of her lips and cheeks, and -her large black eyes full of passion and fire. - -The strongest glare can only show up her brilliance, and find no flaw or -blemish in the marvellous colouring that looks as if it was Nature’s own -handiwork. - -All that the best Parisian _modiste_ can do has been done for her, and -she is exceptionally well got up this evening; for she has abandoned her -usual preference for gorgeous hues and costly heavy materials, and her -trailing skirts of purest white fall in cloud-like masses round her as -she leans back with the mien of a young empress. Opals and brilliants -fasten the laces on her bosom, and a single tropical flower, with -blood-red petals, gleams near her slender throat. - -Suddenly a radiant light flashes in her restless eyes. The _portière_ is -held back, and Lord Delaval enters. - -As he approaches, a vivid flush of pleasure surges over her lovely face, -and, as he takes her hand, she says, in a low, reproachful voice: - -“I feared so much you were not coming, but you have come! Will you take -me in?” - -He offers her his arm and at this moment catches sight of De Belcour, -who is looking at him with ill-concealed jealousy and vexation. He has -met this man before, a year or two ago, and nods recognition, then, -turning towards his companion, forgets his existence. - -The _portière_ is drawn aside, and they enter the supper-room. On the -table are antique silver tripods holding rare hothouse flowers and -richest fruit, vases of exquisite camellias of every colour are -interspersed between, and the whole are lit up by the soft light of -waxen tapers. The supper itself is one of those which has made Monsieur -Hector a king of _chefs_. Meats have lost their identity in the -elaboration of the flavouring, cunning dishes are ingeniously devised to -give zest to appetites already satiated. Rhenish of the rarest bouquet -and Comet claret, tribute from the cellar of a youthful Duc, contribute -to the hilarious enjoyment of the company. - -The talk is animated, bright sallies and sharp repartee and racy -anecdotes succeed one another, and amidst it all, pleasant as it is, -Lord Delaval’s conscience rather smites him for being where he is, while -De Belcour waxes momentarily more wrathful at Mademoiselle Ange’s -evident partiality for the comparative stranger--“_ce milord Anglais_!” - -“Are these to-night’s spoils, Mademoiselle,” asks Ivan Scoboloff, taking -a lovely red camellia bud from its vase and quietly putting it into his -button-hole. “I believe all the conservatories are pillaged for your -especial benefit, and you’ll turn Paris into a wilderness.” - -“I am afraid my reign will last too short a while for that!” Marguerite -laughs, but in a tone rather tinged with regret, as she carelessly -plucks an exquisite Sofrano rose to pieces, that lies by her plate. “I -am only the rage of an hour, the fashion of a season, you know!” - -“If you _did_ lay Paris waste, what matter?” asks De Belcour, “and -while a laurel grows, you should have its tribute, for are you not the -Queen of--Hearts?” - -“I hate laurels, they are so gloomy, and I love flowers! though they are -not so lasting! still I prefer them, and as for tributes, of course the -praises of the public are for the singer and not for the woman! and I -like it so. I love to be applauded when I sing. It is life and soul to -me, but as for individual tributes, I don’t want them. I wonder why -people pester me with baubles and with _billets doux_. Heaven knows I -would rather be without them!” She speaks contemptuously, her eyes are -scornful, and it is easy to see that she is absolutely in earnest. - -“How inscrutable is woman!” Delaval remarks, with a little of his old -cynicism; “she despises the admiration she does all her best to inspire, -and repudiates the passion she has taken an immense trouble to create!” - -“Inscrutable you call us?” Marguerite answers, her face sparkling with -animation. “And yet you affect to read us so easily! We are not -inscrutable, I think, but we are inconsistent perhaps--cold and -passionate, selfish and self-denying, tender and heartless, kind and -cold, a mixture of the serpent and the dove; gentle as a faithful hound -when we love, fierce and relentless as the hawk to the quarry when we -hate, or have cause for revenge!” - -“A list of contradictions that prove you _are_ inscrutable, _ma belle_!” -observes Chavard, filling up his glass with Roussillion for the fifth -time. - -“I thought _you_ knew us better; it is your trade,” Marguerite says -carelessly, peeling a peach whose bloom is less lovely than her own. “I -wonder when men who want to win our love will cease to woo us? The prize -beyond a woman’s reach is always the most coveted; it has been so since -Paradise; it will be so for all eternity!” - -Her voice sinks lower as she says this, and there is quite a wistful -look in her eyes as she turns them towards Delaval, that evinces them to -be no affectation, but a true echo of her heart. - -“Don’t let us talk of love, _ma chère_,” Leonide Leroux breaks in -brightly. “It is the wettest blanket in the world. Love may be a -charming companion, but we all know it is an intolerable master. It’s -like this absinthe, delicious but dangerous; once let it get hold of -you--_eh bien!_--the rest I know nothing about, but I have heard it is -too terrible!” - -“I cannot think what the devil people fall in love for,” Ivan Scoboloff -murmurs languidly; “it’s an amusement that only suits boys and girls, -but after five-and-twenty no sane man would think of such folly.” - -“And yet I have seen you go in for it, although I fancy you have arrived -at a little beyond twenty-five,” Chavard says quietly, with a meaning -glance at Leonide Leroux. - -“I am a girl, but I have never gone in for love,” Rose Marigny cries in -her bird-like voice. - -“That’s well done, Mademoiselle Rose; mind you keep to that. No love is -half so sweet as _caramels à la vanille_ or _marrons glacés_,” -Mademoiselle Leroux answers, as she piles the above comestibles on her -plate. - -Meanwhile De Belcour joins very little in either conversation or -laughter, and grows momentarily more ill at ease. Desperately jealous by -nature, it irritates him almost beyond endurance to see Marguerite -bestow her attention upon any other man. - -Hitherto he has hugged to his bosom the notion that she is invariably -cold--to him only she has been kind of late, and her kindness has made a -great impression on him, simply from its contrast to the capricious -manner she has towards others. - -Is the love which he had begun to persuade himself she bore him nothing -but a passing caprice after all--an _amourette_ of an hour--to be -abandoned when it has lost the zest of freshness? Irritation, wounded -_amour propre_, fierce jealousy, all mingle together in his breast and -make a formidable whole when the fear creeps on him that the woman he -loves to fatuous stupidity sets so little value on his feelings that she -is ready to sacrifice it to the gratification of a passing whim, the -transient excitement of a new conquest. - -For what else, he argues, and not without reason on his side, can prompt -her to look and speak to Lord Delaval with eyes and lips that too truly -simulate a love she cannot possibly feel for him, stranger as he is? - -Every word, every glance she gives, tortures this impassioned, impetuous -Frenchman, and he determines to dog her steps and her house to find out -the mystery that drives him wild. - -“When’s the new play coming out, Chavard?” Scoboloff asks, gloating, -_gourmet_ as he is, on the lusciousness of an apricot before him. - -Chavard has written a play which his clique declare will take Paris by -storm, and, intolerably vain of his brains, he is of their opinion. - -“In about a month or two,” he answers. - -“Shocking bad time for that sort of thing, isn’t it? No one will be left -in Paris.” - -“No one at all to speak of--only about a couple of millions!” - -“Keep your smartness for your play, _mon cher_. Of course I meant no one -in Society.” - -“I don’t mind _that_. You swells are so phlegmatic, you see. The -_canaille_ laugh, and clap, and hoot, and shout at my work, and -thoroughly appreciate my pet points, but the golden youth sleep always, -snore even, through my best situations.” - -“Quite true!” cries Leonide Leroux. “I have often noticed them yawn when -I have been dying _so_ beautifully in the Sphinx. What makes swells so -sleepy, I wonder?” - -“Affectation--a little _ennui_--and a great deal of dinner,” says -Chavard. - -“Let us go into the drawing-room and have some music,” Marguerite -suggests, feeling possibly that at the supper-table she and Lord Delaval -are too much _en evidence_. - -So they all go, and Leonide Leroux sings them _Il Bacio_ deliciously in -a lovely soprano, while Marguerite lounges as usual in a large chair, -and her eyes glance frequently at a group near the window of smokers, -and which is composed of Scoboloff, Delaval and Rose Marigny, who puffs -away prettily at a dainty _Sultan doux_, and evidently is no novice in -the accomplishment. - -Presently De Belcour draws near his hostess--De Belcour, with half his -beauty spoiled by scowling eyes and a frown on his brow. - -“Why waste your glances on people who don’t appreciate them?” he asks, -in a low voice that has a sullen ring in it. - -She laughs, and does not answer, so he pulls viciously at his long -moustache to vent his anger on something, since he is afraid to vent it -on her. - -“You spoke the truth at supper to-night, Marguerite, when you said to -woo a woman was a sure way not to win her; and yet, poets rave about the -softness and the tenderness of women, and call them the link that -unites earth with Heaven. _Sapristi!_ for cold-blooded cruelty, for -passionless devilment, a woman is to a man what a hawk is to a dove, a -tigress to a tame cat!” - -Marguerite elevates her pencilled brows slightly. - -“I wish you would try and be less violent and abusive in your talk, -Monsieur le Marquis: if you _must_ talk to me, let the talk be -endurable, anyway.” - -He clenches his teeth to suppress the oath that rises to his lips. - -“Marguerite! listen to me! Tell me, I implore of you, what spirit -possesses you to-night? Is it your vanity, your love of fresh victories, -that induces you to treat me like this? Marguerite, for the love of -Heaven!--for the sake of what we have been to each other--do not make -me suffer like this.” - -But he might as well plead to a marble pillar. - -“I wish you would go and smoke, and not talk nonsense,” she says, almost -in a whisper, with a flush of annoyance on her cheek. “I only wish _I_ -could smoke.” - -“If _that_ is your only ambition, do it; most things _end in smoke_,” he -replies meaningly and savagely; and while all this is going on, Lord -Delaval watches her covertly, and it is dear incense to his vanity when -he marks that De Belcour moves away from the evident contest, foiled and -angry. “After all, perhaps Shropshire and Silverlake wronged her,” he -thinks, and rather than the Frenchman shall monopolise her, he throws -away his half-smoked cigar and saunters towards her. - -Her eyes flash with pleasure as he approaches--her cheeks glow--and she -listens enraptured to his voice. - -Yes! It is evidently love at first sight with her, and to this man she -is certainly not acting a part. As her sweet warm breath sweeps past -him, he feels the sensuous delirium of a dream, he is intoxicated by the -power of her beauty; and she, hard and cold as she really is, deadly in -her revenge, cruel in her greed of love, relentless in her hate, her -heart yearns to him with quite a real feeling, a feeling which, though -wicked and worthless in itself, yet ennobles her to a certain extent, -for it makes her feel her own utter unworthiness. - -“Stay a few minutes,” she whispers, as he rises among the other guests -for his adieux. - -And so he stays, but in his mind’s eye he sees his wife’s face, and--man -of the world as he is, flirt, _vaurien_, lax to the last degree--his -deep blue eyes actually glisten with generous remorse. - -“Poor little woman!” he thinks. “By Jove! what an awful fool I was to -come here.” - -He calls himself a fool, but fool is a mild term to apply to a man who -deliberately seeks temptation, knowing himself to be uncommonly weak in -the flesh; nevertheless, he stays a little longer, and yet a little -longer. - -Marguerite Ange leans back in a pose that would drive a sculptor into a -phrensy of delight. The fragrance of her golden hair goes out to him, -and her charming red lips tempt dreadfully. - -How he anathematises inwardly the _convenances_ so dear to his -mother-in-law’s heart! - -The conventionalities (he does not dream of calling them by any more -serious term) that bid him and her sit apart. - -“It is growing very late, I am afraid,” he says, after a little. - -“If it is, what matter?” - -“I am afraid!” - -“Afraid! Afraid of whom?” - -“Afraid of _myself_,” he answers. - -“Is that really true?” - -“Quite, _quite_ true, so help me Heaven! Marguerite, you don’t _really_ -doubt me! Have you lived till now, and never learnt that a man often -fears to try and climb to the highest pinnacle of his desire, be it for -fame, or fortune, or bliss, lest he fall before he has tasted it. Don’t -you know what your face can do to a man?” - -She shakes her head, and the bright light glistening on it seems to turn -each tress to living gold. - -“It can send him into a dream of Heaven! fire his soul with rapture, or -drive him mad with disappointment and regret!” - -He pauses, a little breathless. Sentiment is not a plant of common or -spontaneous growth in our aristocracy, and it is not at all in Lord -Delaval’s line. - -The age is far too practical for it, more’s the pity. - -He is, in fact, a little astonished at his flight of eloquence, mediocre -though it be, and a little silence ensues. - -Then Marguerite Ange leans forward, puts her white hand, all sparkling -with gems, on his arm and looks up in his face. - -He is certainly the handsomest man she has ever seen. - -“The _last_ would never be _your_ fate,” she says, in a low, thrilling -tone; but he hears her, of course. Trust a man, even if he is partially -deaf, not to hear any sort of incense to his vanity, if he can hear -nothing else; and this man is especially vain, from the top of his blond -head to the sole of his well-made boot. - -His ultramarine eyes kindle at once into great fires, and the red spots -glow on his cheeks to match. - -“Do you know what your face has done to me, Marguerite?” he asks slowly. - -She does not reply, but somehow this face of hers seems to have come -nearer him, and through a bewildered haze he sees nothing but a pair of -lips, soft and maddening; a pair of eyes, black as midnight, lustrous as -two stars, with a depth of passion in their liquid depths that stirs his -pulse and makes his head whirl. - -It is a picture that brings oblivion of everything, save of dangerous -proximity. - -“I told you a falsehood the other day, Marguerite, when I said I was not -married. I _am_ married! I have not been married two years, and I -married for _love_. My wife loves me with all her soul, and it would -break her heart to lose me, and yet--Heaven forgive me!--I feel to-night -as if I _hated her_! because she seems to rise up between you and me.” - -She averts her face, and a little smile passes quickly over her mouth--a -smile that has triumph in it, a smile that is absolutely _wicked_. - -“When I entered this house to-night something told me of the end. It -seems utter folly for a man to go mad over a woman’s face like this, -doesn’t it? But, Marguerite, it _is_ so. I _have_ gone mad, I believe, -for, strangers as we were but three short days ago, I love you as I -_never_ loved anyone before! I swear it, Marguerite!” - -She does not smile now at his rhapsody. She knows he is watching her, -and he sees nothing but the sweetest, tenderest light in the wonderful -eyes, a softer look on the perfect mouth. - -“Strange!” she says simply, “that we should have felt the same -to-night--that----” - -“_We?_” he interrupts. “Say that again, Marguerite!” - -“Yes! Did I not tell you the first time we spoke that you were--_my -fate_!” And Marguerite’s head is very close to his shoulder, and her -lips seem to seek his. But she starts away hastily as De Belcour, -unannounced, strides into the room. - -“Pardon, Mademoiselle!” he says through his set teeth, “I forgot my -gloves! I am sorry to have interrupted you.” - -And Marguerite, forgetting the conventional smile which is one of the -tricks of her trade, sits silent and a little uncomfortable. - -“We may as well walk a little way together,” Lord Delaval says quietly. -“Mademoiselle’s society is so charming, I really forgot the hour!” - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -“DON’T YOU KNOW ME, DELAVAL?” - - “And where the red was--lo! the bloodless white, - And where truth was--the likeness of a liar, - And where day was--the likeness of the night, - This is the end of every man’s desire!” - - -The world seems very dark to Lord Delaval to-day--a terrible chaos, in -fact, in which right is hopelessly, inextricably, mingled with wrong. - -He hates and scorns himself for this passion for Marguerite Ange, which -gives him neither rest nor peace. - -He swears he will leave Paris and never set eyes on her again; then he -believes it is Kismet, bows to the inevitable, and resolves not to -struggle against a feeling that is evidently stronger than himself. - -Then comes a reaction once more. - -“There is nothing to be done but to go right away. There’s not much fear -she’ll break her heart, or that I have really inspired a _grande -passion_. _Her_ sort are not much given to fretting after one man, when -a dozen are at her beck,” he says to himself sardonically. “But I will -go and wish her good-bye. That much will be but gentlemanly.” - -So he goes, a few days after the supper party, to the Rue Tronchet. - -The lovely cause of so much heartburning leans back as usual among her -vivid scarlet cushions, doing nothing, as is her wont--like the lilies -of the field, she neither toils nor spins, but she looks in her shady, -luxurious room, provokingly cool and languid, and far away from the -troubles and perplexities of this work-a-day world. - -But the dreaminess of her eyes is lost in the radiant light that -transfigures her face as Lord Delaval enters, and starting up, she holds -out two hands without a word, but with a smile that is more than a -welcome. - -He takes them absently and seats himself beside her in rather an -abstracted way, and when he speaks, it is of the subject that is -uppermost in his mind. - -“I’ve come to say good-bye, Marguerite.” - -“Good-bye?” she repeats in a startled voice. - -“Yes. I am going away.” - -“Where?” - -Her accents tremble, her face blanches. It dawns upon her at once that -this is no ordinary leave-taking. - -“Oh, somewhere! Anywhere! What does it matter _where_, since it will be -where I shall not see _your_ face?” he asks, and he bites his lip to -hide its quivering. - -Not a word falls from her at this speech. She sits quite still and as -white as snow, her hands clench together, and her breath comes quick and -hard. - -“But I _couldn’t_ go away without coming to see you once more, -Marguerite--without carrying away with me one more glimpse of your -face.” - -In spite of him he falters, and with the perverse nature of his sex, is -angry with himself for rolling the stone to his own sepulchre. - -“Why must you go?” she pleads, looking up wistfully. “Why can’t you -stay? If you go I shall feel that I shall never, _never_ see you again.” - -“Are you sorry to lose me, Marguerite?” he asks softly. “I believe you -_are_. I believe you really care for me just _a little_.” - -“A little! Oh, Heavens!” she murmurs with her face all set and drawn, -and her figure rigid, as if despair had turned her into stone. “You -_dare_ to say that!” she cries suddenly and fiercely. “You _dare_ to say -that, when you know--ay, _must_ know--that all my life, all my love--ah! -what am I saying?” - -Then her passion, her bitterness, melts, and she wails out: - -“Have you no mercy, Lord Delaval? Am I so low--_so low_, that you cannot -even feel pity for me? See! I am praying here for clemency, for pity at -your hands! Praying you not to break my heart!--not to ruin my life for -ever and ever!” and she flings herself down on her knees and lifts up a -face still more wondrously beautiful through the emotion that lives in -every feature. - -“Marguerite! Oh! what have I said?” he cries in an agony of remorse. “I -would not give you a moment’s pain for the world. You say I deem you -‘low,’ Marguerite! Ah! if you could see into my heart, you would find -that it is because I not only love you, but _honour_ you, that I have -come to say good-bye!” - -He tries to draw away the hands with which she has hidden her face--the -face that has undone him--but she droops her head, while her whole frame -trembles with uncontrolled passion. - -“You must not mind what I say,” she whispers, after a moment, in a low, -hoarse voice; “it’s only my own folly--only I cannot help--oh! _how_ can -I _help_ loving you? Listen to me!” she goes on, pouring out her words -in an eager, impetuous torrent. “I shall never see you again, you -say--shall never speak to you! I will tell you all the truth then, and -after that we shall part, and you will forget my madness, and I--never -mind what I shall do--anyway, I shall not blame you; it isn’t your fault -that you are _yourself_! and that I could not help loving you. You have -been the one man in all the world to me. Ah! you can’t imagine how I -have worshipped you, how you have seemed to me as the light of Heaven, -as a being of another world who had deigned to speak, to look, to smile -on me. It was idolatry I felt when I first looked on your face, the germ -of a love that was to wreck my whole life. It has been my one ambition -that you should do justice to the attraction I possess; you have been my -religion, my conscience; and all I have wanted was to prove to you that -I was capable of winning men’s hearts, though yours might be denied me. -I have gloried in my beauty because I believed it had won you; I thanked -God only yesterday on my knees that my life was crowned with your love! -But it’s all over now! I have hung on every word you have spoken, I have -clung to every kindly look, believing, hoping, praying that at last--at -last!--no one could come between us two!” - -She drops his hand, and, springing up, stands opposite him, speaking -fast and almost incoherently now. - -“It has come to this now--_now_, that you have decided to part--that I, -who thought myself strong and brave, cry out in my weakness to you, -tearing open the wound that you may see me writhe under it. You may -scorn me, despise me, hate me if you will! I have been wicked, -treacherous, unscrupulous, but if you had loved me and stayed with me I -should have become a better woman. You have wrecked my whole life, but -through it all, through everything, through heartlessness, caprice, -falsity, dishonour, and even insult, I have loved you--loved you as no -woman will ever love you in this world! I have given you my life, my -soul, everything! Don’t you know me _now_, Delaval?” - -Dazed, almost stunned, he stares at her aghast, while his face grows -ashy white, even to his lips, from which no word issues, only--only, as -he gazes, in his mind dawns a misty memory, a doubt, _a repulsion_. - -“Is there so little of love’s instinct in your heart that a paltry mask -of pink and white, a little Golden Wash, has hidden from you that I -am----?” - -“_Gabrielle!_” - -He almost shouts in a voice that has a sharp ring of pain and horror in -it, and he shrinks back from her, while the warmth and tenderness his -face had worn fade right away, and in their place comes a cold, hard, -pitiless, passionless look that stings her to the very core. - -She shivers from head to foot, with a dumb agony in her eyes that might -touch a heart of granite, but it does not touch this man, who only -cries: - -“Thank God!--Thank God! I have been saved in time!” - -She falls upon her knees once more, grovelling at his feet. - -“Oh, Delaval! my love!--my love! don’t despise me! don’t loathe me! -Have you no pity for me?--_one word!_” - -But he spurns her from him with a rough gesture, and rising, she stands -a little apart. - -“No!” he says, in a hard, metallic tone, “I have no word for you--_not -one_! If there are things I hate, they are lies and deceit. If there is -a thing I never forgive, it is being made a fool of. Thank Heaven you -have told me now who you are. _What_ you are, I do not care to know! -Under the mask of youth and guilelessness you had nearly made me your -slave, you had fired the train that was to bring me to everlasting shame -and disgrace. Oh! I could kill myself for my cursed folly, my credulity, -my utter blindness! But I am saved!--saved from being a dupe to a base -woman, who scruples at nothing, not even the ruin of her sister’s home -and life, just to salve a paltry wound to her vanity, to hold in her -chains a man who had set her aside long ago, knowing her to be--_what -she is_!” - -Clear and cutting, like a knife, his words fall on the shady, luxurious, -silent room. - -Silent for one moment only, while he goes towards the door without one -backward glance. - -Before he reaches it, however, a sharp click breaks the silence and Lord -Delaval falls across the threshold---- - - _Shot!_ - -Gabrielle Beranger stoops down and gazes at the face of the man who has -insulted her, then she kisses his lips, and, closing the door after -her, steals noiselessly away. - - * * * * * - -The stars cluster thickly in the clear sky, and lights twinkle at each -other across the broad bosom of the Seine, when a woman comes slowly -and, pausing, looks down on the shimmering water. - -“Better to die _so_,” she mutters. “I am not good, neither was _he_, so -we two may yet meet again!” - -A dull sound like a break in the water, a glint of golden hair on the -edge of a ripple---- - - * * * * * - -Her face is fair even in death, as she lies here, in the terrible -Morgue, among ghastly things that bring horror and shrinking to human -hearts. - -“_Sapristi! C’est Marguerite Ange! La Blonde aux Yeux Noir_,” a man in a -blouse says in a hushed voice, as he peers through the little glass -window. - -“_Elle est belle à faire peur!_” answers his companion. - -And this is her requiem. - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -THROUGH THE SHADOWS. - - “It is not much that a man can save - On the sands of life--in the straits of Time, - Who swims in sight of the third great wave, - That never a swimmer shall cross or climb. - Some waif washed up with the strays and spars - That ebb-tide throws to the shore and the stars. - Weed from the water--grass from a grave-- - A broken blossom--a ruined rhyme!” - - -Through the mantle of dusk the lights shine brightly in the Place -Vendôme, but the room in the Hotel Bristol looks dark and dreary, save -for the fitful flame of the fire, when Zai, who has grown tired of her -own society, hears footsteps on the stairs. - -All the long afternoon she has been alone; even “Baby,” her resource on -most occasions, has slept through the hours as sound as the Seven -Sleepers. - -So, when a human tread falls welcome on her ear, she forgets that it is -not quite the thing for a countess to rush out on the landing of a -hotel. - -“Is that you, Delaval?” she cries in a bright ringing voice, for she is -longing to see him again, longing with a great longing that will not -allow her to study the _convenances_. But she draws back as the figure -of a stranger, a tall, handsome man, with a face after Velasquez, -confronts her. - -“Pardonne, Madame!” he says in a very low voice--and there is a gentle -sympathetic ring in it, for De Belcour is a thorough gentleman by nature -as well as by birth--“I have a mission to fulfil, a mission which pains -me more than I can say,” he adds earnestly, as he looks on the fair -sweet young face of his rival’s wife. - -But Zai does not speak, something--a dreadful instinct--seems to gather -round her heart, like an iron band. She stands as white as an image of -marble and as motionless as if she were rooted to the ground--with the -glad laugh on her pretty lips hushed into an awful silence, and with a -terrible fear filling her big grey eyes, as, slowly passing her, they -bear their burden into the room, and place it upon the very couch where -she had lain this afternoon full of hope and happiness and with the -sunshine of life dancing in her eyes and breaking into smiles on her -mouth, for Zai is young and lovely and rich, and she adores her husband -and the child that God has given her. - -Not a word falls from her now, and she never stirs from the spot where -she stands, but all the while she vigilantly watches the movements of -the men, and follows them with great piteous looks, and her little hands -clench and twist together in terror and despair. - -“He is not dead!” De Belcour whispers, “but--_dying_, I fear.” - -“_Not dead!_” The words break from her almost in a shout of joy, and she -springs past him and crouches down beside what they have brought -her--beside all that is left of _him_. Her eyes are quite dry, and -glitter, undimmed by a single tear, as she sways backwards and forwards -in the plenitude and abjectness of her suffering. - -Then she raises a white, forlorn face, and falters: - -“Is no one coming to him?” - -And De Belcour, who feels himself moved to a great compassion for this -slender bit of a girl, stricken down in the very beginning and flush of -her life, bows his head in answer. - -She forgets his presence then. Bending over her husband, she touches his -closed lids and his cold cheeks very softly and caressingly, as if her -little fingers loved to linger in their task. She puts her hand on his -heart, which beats, but so faintly as if each throb were its last, and -she keeps on murmuring tender words to the ears which do not hear them. - -“Delaval, darling, speak to me, only one word--one little word, Delaval, -that I may just hear your voice. Oh, God! won’t he speak to me again? -shall I never hear him speak kind, dear words as he did to-day--before -he went away to--die? Die! Oh! you won’t die, Delaval, darling, my own -darling, you have not left me--left me--_for ever_!” - -The last words go out from her in a wail loud enough, and piteous -enough, to reach the sky. - -Faint and dizzy with fear, she stretches out her trembling hands, like a -blind woman, towards the form lying before her with the rigidity of -death, but, before they reach it, she falls back and drops senseless on -the floor. - - * * * * * - -Maybe her piteous cry has reached beyond the sky, for he has not left -her “for ever.” - -The shot of a vengeful woman, wounded in her terrible love, driven to -the phrensy of a wild beast, has grazed the right lung, and for a long -time he hovers between life and death, while his wife nurses him -unwearyingly night and day with a devoted unselfish love that is not -often to be found in the worldly daughters of Belgravia. - -Then, after a little, when they tell him he has crept slowly--slowly, -but surely--out of the shadows--and that life (not the old life, but one -twin with suffering perchance) yet lies before him, he feels that he -will regain health and strength sooner if the burden of a secret is -removed from him. - -It is very hard to face Zai as he makes a clean breast of it, but he -does it. - -“My pet,” he murmurs, in a low weak voice which is very unlike his old -accents, and the sound of which goes right to her heart, “I have -something to say to you.” - -So she kneels down beside him. It is the place she likes best now in the -world. - -“Do you love me very much, Zai?” he asks her, while his thin white hand -rests on her shining chesnut hair, and, looking up, she sees that there -is an actual mist of tears in his handsome ultramarine eyes. - -“Ah, don’t I?” she whispers, catching hold of his hand and kissing it -passionately, and he reads plainly enough the love that is patent on her -face. - -“But would you love me so much, Zai, if you knew that I had been -unfaithful--that I had forgotten you just for a little while?” he asks, -his lips quivering and his heart beating very fast. For somehow he holds -on to her love with a strange tenacity. It seems, in truth, to be the -only--only--thing worth living for. - -She does not answer for a moment, but she has his hand still clasped -close in her own, while her face grows deathly white, and there is a -startled, stricken look in her grey eyes that cuts him to the heart. - -“It is _quite_ true, Zai. For a little while I _did_ forget you. Another -woman’s face came between us, and for the life of me I _couldn’t_ shake -off its power over me, though I tried. Upon my soul I _tried_!” - -He pauses, breathless, and a pallor creeps over his face--a face as -handsome as Apollo’s, in spite of suffering. - -“Well, Zai, I saw her, not more than half-a-dozen times, perhaps, but -each time she seemed to draw me closer and closer to her, and -further--from--you--till the--_last time_.” - -Zai listens to it all--to this confession of sin and wrong--her gaze -never swerving from his face, and her heart full to bursting. - -“Did you _kiss_ her, Delaval?” she whispers at last in a faint, scared -voice, and on the impulse of the moment she puts up her little fingers -to stop her ears, in dread of his saying “Yes.” Then she drops them -desolately. - -“No! thank God I never did!” he says quite heartily, and Zai breathes -more freely. And, the tension gone, she lays her head down on his arm -and cries like a child, but the tears are more of relief than of -bitterness, and the world does not look half as dreary to her as it did -a few minutes ago. - -“No! I thank God, that you have nothing to forgive on that score, though -I am bound to say that both the spirit was willing and the flesh was -weak; but a lucky fate prevented it. No! it was only my _heart_, Zai! -Pshaw! fancy my calling it my _heart_. It was only my senses, Zai!” - -She ponders a moment. It is dreadful to know that he has been caring for -another woman; but still it is a great comfort--a very, very great -comfort--to know that he has not _kissed_ her. So she lifts up her face -with a smile, half-piteous, half-glad, on her mouth, and her arm steals -round his neck. - -Poor fellow, he looks so thin and white and haggard, she could not be -angry with him for the world. - -“Well, my little one?” he says, but he knows quite well that she loves -him so much she will never be hard on him, and, after all, it was only a -venial sin, he thinks, with the self-indulgent complacency so common to -the style of man he is. - -“I forgive you!” she whispers between fond fervent kisses on his lips, -“for you know, darling, that ‘to err is human.’” - -“Yes! my own, own love! And ‘to forgive--divine!’” - - * * * * * - -But there is one secret yet that Lord Delaval keeps religiously from his -wife’s innocent ears. It is, that the woman who tempted him -was--_Gabrielle_! - -THE END. - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Daughters of Belgravia; vol 3 of 3, by -Mrs. Alexander Fraser - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAUGHTERS OF BELGRAVIA; VOL 3 OF 3 *** - -***** This file should be named 52606-0.txt or 52606-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/6/0/52606/ - -Produced by Larry B. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Daughters of Belgravia; vol 3 of 3 - -Author: Mrs. Alexander Fraser - -Release Date: July 19, 2016 [EBook #52606] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAUGHTERS OF BELGRAVIA; VOL 3 OF 3 *** - - - - -Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -book was produced from scanned images of public domain -material from the Google Books project.) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="343" height="500" alt="[Image -of the cover unavailable.]" title="" /> -</div> - -<p class="cb">DAUGHTERS OF BELGRAVIA.</p> - -<h1>DAUGHTERS OF BELGRAVIA</h1> - -<p class="cb"><small>BY</small><br /> -<span class="smcap">Mrs.</span> ALEXANDER FRASER,<br /><br /> -Author of<br /> -<small> -“<span class="smcap">The Last Drawing-Room</span>,” “<span class="smcap">A Fatal Passion</span>,”<br /> -“<span class="smcap">The Match of the Season</span>,” “<span class="smcap">A Fashionable Marriage</span>,”<br /> -“<span class="smcap">A Professional Beauty</span>,” etc., etc., etc.</small></p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“O! Daughters of dreams and of stories<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That life is not wearied of yet!<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Faustine! Fragoletta! Dolores!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Fèlise and Yolande, Juliette!”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="c"> -<i>IN THREE VOLUMES.</i><br /> -<br /> -VOLUME III.<br /> -<br /> -LONDON:<br /> -F. V. WHITE & CO.,<br /> -31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND.<br /> -1887.<br /><br /><small> -PRINTED BY<br /> -KELLY AND CO., GATE STREET, LINCOLN’S INN FIELDS,<br /> -AND KINGSTON-ON-THAMES.</small></p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS.</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><td><small>CHAP.</small></td><td> </td> -<td><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">I.</a></td><td>—<a href="#CHAPTER_I"><span class="smcap">“Are You going to Marry Zai?”</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_001">1</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">II.</a></td><td>—<a href="#CHAPTER_II"><span class="smcap">Carlton Conway</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_037">37</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">III.</a></td><td>—<a href="#CHAPTER_III"><span class="smcap">Anteros</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_054">54</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV.</a></td><td>—<a href="#CHAPTER_IV"><span class="smcap">La Blonde aux Yeux Noir</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_092">92</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">V.</a></td><td>—<a href="#CHAPTER_V"><span class="smcap">Drifting</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_114">114</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI.</a></td><td>—<a href="#CHAPTER_VI"><span class="smcap">In the Meshes</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_124">124</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII.</a></td><td>—<a href="#CHAPTER_VII"><span class="smcap">Deeper and Deeper Still</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_149">149</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII.</a></td><td>—<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII"><span class="smcap">Don’t You know Me, Delaval?</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_175">175</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX.</a></td><td>—<a href="#CHAPTER_IX"><span class="smcap">Through the Shadows</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_189">189</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<div class="bbox"> -<p> </p> -<p class="cb"><big>“SELECT” NOVELS.</big></p> - -<p class="cb"><i>Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. each.</i></p> - -<p class="cb">AT ALL BOOKSELLERS’ AND BOOKSTALLS.</p> - -<p class="cb">———</p> - -<p class="cb">By FLORENCE MARRYAT.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza2"> -<span class="i0">THE HEIR PRESUMPTIVE.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">THE HEART OF JANE WARNER.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">UNDER THE LILIES AND ROSES.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">MY OWN CHILD.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">HER WORLD AGAINST A LIE.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">PEERESS AND PLAYER.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">FACING THE FOOTLIGHTS.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">MY SISTER THE ACTRESS.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cb">By ANNIE THOMAS (Mrs. Pender Cudlip).</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza2"> -<span class="i0">HER SUCCESS.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">KATE VALLIANT.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">JENIFER.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">FRIENDS AND LOVERS.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cb">By LADY CONSTANCE HOWARD.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza2"> -<span class="i0">MATED WITH A CLOWN.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">ONLY A VILLAGE MAIDEN.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">MOLLIE DARLING.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="c"><b>By MRS. HOUSTOUN</b>, Author of “Recommended to Mercy.”</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza2"> -<span class="i0">BARBARA’S WARNING.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cb">By MRS. ALEXANDER FRASER.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza2"> -<span class="i0">THE MATCH OF THE SEASON.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A FATAL PASSION.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A PROFESSIONAL BEAUTY.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cb">By IZA DUFFUS-HARDY.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza2"> -<span class="i0">ONLY A LOVE STORY.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">NOT EASILY JEALOUS.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">LOVE, HONOUR AND OBEY.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cb">By JEAN MIDDLEMASS.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza2"> -<span class="i0">POISONED ARROWS.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cb">By MRS. LOVETT CAMERON.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza2"> -<span class="i0">IN A GRASS COUNTRY.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A DEAD PAST.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A NORTH COUNTRY MAID.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cb">By DORA RUSSELL. By LADY VIOLET GRENVILLE.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza2"> -<span class="i0">OUT OF EDEN.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">KEITH’S WIFE.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cb">By NELLIE FORTESCUE HARRISON,</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza2"> -<span class="i0">Author of “So runs my Dream.”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">FOR ONE MAN’S PLEASURE.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cb">By EDMUND LEATHES.</p> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza2"> -<span class="i0">THE ACTOR’S WIFE.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cb">By HARRIETT JAY.</p> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza2"> -<span class="i0">A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a>{1}</span></p> - -<h1>DAUGHTERS OF BELGRAVIA.</h1> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.<br /><br /> -<small>“ARE YOU GOING TO MARRY ZAI?”</small></h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“If I could but know after all,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">I might cease to hunger and ache,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Though your heart were ever so small,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">If it were not a stone or a snake.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> is the truth that Gabrielle is desperately in love with Lord Delaval, -and it is equally true that, thrusting all maidenly reserve to the four -winds, she does not hesitate to let him know it.</p> - -<p>Last night—will she ever forget it? She was sitting in the twilight, -shaded from view by the amber hangings of the music<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a>{2}</span> room. For an hour -she had been singing the passionate French and Italian songs in which -she could pour out her soul freely, but she had tired of it since he was -not by for audience. So dashing her music aside she pulled a chair into -the embrasure of the bay window, and with her chin resting on her hand, -was soon lost in a waking dream, of which he, of course, was central -figure.</p> - -<p>How long she sat there she never knew. Anyway, the purple twilight had -merged into grey gloom, through which myriads of twinkling stars peered -down at her flushed cheeks and passionate black eyes, when suddenly a -voice startled her, a voice whose accents bore such genuine feeling in -them, that for a moment it seemed unfamiliar to her ears.</p> - -<p>And this is what it said—while Gabrielle<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a>{3}</span> listened with beating heart -and bated breath, rent with jealousy and rage.</p> - -<p>“Tell me! when is my probation to end? Have you no mercy for me?”</p> - -<p>“What for?” and Zai’s tone, in comparison with his, was strangely hard -and cold.</p> - -<p>“What for? Don’t you know that I want to claim you before all the world? -Don’t you know that I am longing to take my darling in my arms and swear -on her sweet lips how I love her?”</p> - -<p>Whether Zai answered this phantasy tenderly or no, Gabrielle never knew, -for the two passed the open door and were out of hearing.</p> - -<p><i>The two!</i></p> - -<p>Her faithless lover and her step-sister!</p> - -<p>Gabrielle flew upstairs noiselessly, and reaching her own room, locked -the door.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a>{4}</span></p> - -<p>She was alone now—alone—thank God! alone! Here there were no mocking -eyes to note her horrible folly, to laugh at her awful, awful anguish, -here she could grind her white teeth in impotent rage, or grovel on the -floor in humiliation and a futile passion. She flung off the pretty -dress she had put on for dinner to please his eyes, a delicious -<i>mélange</i> of white lace and vivid scarlet, the colour that suited best -her soft creamy skin and coal-black hair, and matched the hue of her -perfect lips, and she thrust impatiently aside the glittering bracelets -and rings with which she loved to deck her rounded arms and tapering -fingers.</p> - -<p>What were these baubles worth now, that she had lost the jewel of Lord -Delaval’s heart?</p> - -<p><i>Vanitas Vanitatum!</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a>{5}</span></p> - -<p>Sackcloth and ashes are the garments she should wear, poor, passionate, -reckless creature, a victim to a worldling’s fickleness. And Gabrielle, -the cynical, the votary of Balzac and Georges Sand, the unbeliever in -true feeling, wept bitterly over the wreck that had been made of her -life “for one man’s pleasure only.”</p> - -<p>Her strictly worldly surroundings forbade her from giving way to an -honest violent grief that would serve for sluice-gates to her heart. And -she smothered back the sobs that broke from her with a rapidity of -passion that she couldn’t restrain.</p> - -<p>Poor soul, that a sojourn in Belgravia had starved, it could find no -balm in Gilead, no physician, now that the one human creature she had -placed on a pedestal to worship had tumbled down ignominiously, to her -thinking the veriest lump of clay.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a>{6}</span> And she writhed as she remembered -that not only by words and looks, but even by kisses on her red lips, he -had betrayed her.</p> - -<p>She positively wailed out her misery and her wrath in a low deep wail, -weird enough to be a cry from one of Dante’s lost souls. Yet—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Is it worth a tear? is it worth an hour?<br /></span> -<span class="i3">To think of things that are well outworn,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Of fruitless husk and fugitive flower,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">The dreams foregone, and the deed forborne?”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Had</span> she not lived long enough in her twenty-six years to know that man -and fickleness are synonymous terms, and to be avoided?</p> - -<p>Apparently not—for even while she groans and moans over his -shortcomings, a mighty love fills her for the man whom she adores with a -wild, unreasoning, selfish<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a>{7}</span> passion, and whose happiness she would -immolate unscrupulously, if it pleased her to have it so. It must be -owned that Lord Delaval is both a flirt and a butterfly, and that he has -played fast and loose with mostly all the pretty women he has come -across.</p> - -<p>Flirting comes to him as to the manner born; it lurks in his ultramarine -eyes, in the corners of his mouth, in his voice, in his manners, and in -his actions, and he thinks nothing of it.</p> - -<p>Some women regret his love, some resign themselves to his fickle ways, -but Gabrielle Beranger is not of the common herd. She is a law unto -herself in all things. She can love well (in her fashion) and she can -hate well, with her great black gleaming orbs, her white passion-tossed -features, her tumultuous, unscrupulous spirit. She regrets<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a>{8}</span> now, -bitterly, but she does not dream of growing resigned.</p> - -<p>“<i>Tout vient a celui qui sait attendre</i>,” she mutters to herself.</p> - -<p>Lord Delaval has laid a burthen on her which she cannot bear. She has -but one stimulus left in life, but one object. It is to appeal to -him—to his honour—to his love. If she fails—but she does not dream of -failing.</p> - -<p>One thing, she will separate the man she loves, and the man who has -loved her, after the fashion of some men’s love, from her step-sister. -If not now, she will some day, even if Zai marries him.</p> - -<p>To her the words—“Those whom God hath joined together let no man put -asunder,” are but idle prattle. A mere formula of the Church, a creed -which her blind unbelief in all good things makes her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a>{9}</span> mock at and fling -aside like the voice of the wind.</p> - -<p>Gabrielle is one part Belgravian and three parts French, and has the -faults of both. Honour and loyalty are dead letters to such women. -Strong and practical of nature, animal in instinct and passion, savage -and cruel in greed of love, is it likely that women possessing such -qualifications can wage war and be beaten?</p> - -<p>Cunning, craftiness, deceit and falsity, ranged against truth, -innocence, purity and simple mindedness, form a very uneven contest, my -readers.</p> - -<p>And, in spite of the pleasant doctrine that goodness rears its head over -badness, it is a fact that human creatures of the Gabrielle Beranger -type have often a better time of it in this world than their purer -sisterhood.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a>{10}</span></p> - -<p>Gabrielle is not going to leave Lord Delaval in ignorance of her -sufferings, for she is not of the nature of a violet, or likely to let -concealment like a worm, &c., &c.</p> - -<p>“Are you going to marry Zai?” she asks abruptly. She has come face to -face with him—accidentally on purpose—in a walk that is out of sight -of the windows at Sandilands.</p> - -<p>Lord Delaval, Greek almost in indolence and love of rest and luxury, has -one habit to which most of our golden youth are not given—a habit of -rising early and going out early.</p> - -<p>So that Gabrielle has him all to herself this bright sunny morning, -while the Beranger family are still enjoying their slumbers.</p> - -<p>For an instant, surprise—and it must be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a>{11}</span> confessed irritation at -meeting her—keeps him silent, so she repeats—</p> - -<p>“Are you going to marry Zai?”</p> - -<p>He looks at her—to say that he quails would be perhaps going too -far—but he is unmistakably nervous. There is more moral cowardice in -men than in women as a rule.</p> - -<p>She stands like an image of Nemesis, right in the centre of the -path—immovable—a trifle formidable, her tall figure pulled well up to -its fullest height, her features rigid and white as a sheet, and only -her big black eyes burning with quite a hungry ferocious look as they -rest on the handsome blond face of the man who has made love to her.</p> - -<p>How remarkably sorry he is for it now! But there is no denying it; he -has certainly made love to her, under the cover of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a>{12}</span> some -incomprehensible doctrine all about “affinities,” in which he believes -no whit himself; he has beguiled her affections, or rather her passions, -by the sweet words that are as sweet now as when Adam whispered them to -his Eve in Paradise; he has beguiled her by soft treacherous kisses, in -which the beak of the cruel vulture is hid beneath the tender touch of -the dove, until this woman has paid him back by an enduring but terrible -love that is not only a nuisance but may be worse.</p> - -<p>Why Lord Delaval has made love to her, really not caring for her, is not -difficult to tell. He adores beauty, and Gabrielle has plenty of it; her -other attraction to him has been her intense contrast to the other women -of the London world, with whom his flirtations have been as numerous as -stars in a southern sky.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a>{13}</span></p> - -<p>With her big black gipsy eyes, her demonstrative manner, her <i>bizarre</i> -words and ways, and with the very vehemence and intensity of the passion -that has repelled him even while it attracted him, his erratic fancy has -been caught, but never enchained. He rather dislikes her now; and, after -this, what breath can fill and re-inspire a dead fancy?</p> - -<p>“Lord Delaval, is it true that you are going to marry Zai?” she asks for -the third time, in a quiet hushed voice, that yet teems with a keen -concentrated scorn that she means to cut like a whipcord, and from which -he recoils angrily, for he is a thorough Epicurean in his liking for -pleasantness, and a mental tussle disturbs his equanimity.</p> - -<p>“It is quite true!” he says, rather haughtily, but when he sees her -turn<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a>{14}</span> whiter than before, and her mouth quiver with pain, he relents. “I -should have told you before, but Zai wished it kept quiet!”</p> - -<p>“She did, did she? She knew she has acted a treacherous, deceitful part. -Good Heavens! what are you marrying her for?”</p> - -<p>“Because I love her!” he answers coolly, “and because she loves me!”</p> - -<p>“Loves you—you! Why all London knows of her love for Carlton Conway!”</p> - -<p>He shrinks a little from this, and the colour mounts hotly to his face, -but soon recedes again, leaving him quite pallid.</p> - -<p>“All London knows a good deal that does not exist!”</p> - -<p>“<i>Il n’y’a pas de fumée sans feu</i>,” she says sneeringly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a>{15}</span></p> - -<p>“Zai is too good, too pure, to deceive any man,” he answers quietly, but -the remark about Carl rankles in his mind. “You don’t understand your -sister, Miss Beranger, or you would not depreciate your own judgment of -human nature by believing her capable of deceit, or falsity, or evil of -any kind! If all women were like her the world would be a paradise!”</p> - -<p>“Fools’ paradise!” she cries contemptuously. “I certainly never gave -<i>you</i> credit for being hoodwinked by a few babyish ways and innocent -smiles! a man of <i>your</i> mind!” she goes on frankly—a frankness which is -the very essence of consummate flattery—but he is not to be taken in.</p> - -<p>“Thanks for the pretty compliment! it would turn my head if I was -younger, coming from such fresh scarlet lips,” he replies with a -Jesuitical smile; “but I am<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a>{16}</span> getting quite old, and as hard as adamant; -not even <i>your</i> approbation can make my mind rise to the height of folly -which would discover flaws in angels or paint a lily black.”</p> - -<p>“I really think you have begun to hate me!” she says passionately, with -tears welling up in her eyes; “Have you?”</p> - -<p>He looks at her for a moment steadily. He has thought her face, in spite -of its beauty, false, wicked, and meretricious. He sees it now lovely in -its creamy tints, its superb eyes, its chiselled features, and its waves -of dusky hair, and withal a soft and tender expression leavening the -whole.</p> - -<p>“No!” he answers slowly. “I don’t hate you at all. It depends on -yourself, Gabrielle, if I hate you later!”</p> - -<p>She marks at once the relenting in his features, and, like the busy bee, -improves the shining hour.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a>{17}</span></p> - -<p>“You’ll <i>never</i> hate me, for pity’s sake!” she cries, and flinging -herself down on the path she wreathes her arms round his knees, while -her fierce black eyes, with a good deal of the tiger-cat in their -depths, seem to devour greedily his handsome face. “Delaval! who will -love you as I do? who will hunger and thirst for your every word and -look like me? Oh if you were ever so poor and humble, but still -yourself, I would slave for you, <i>die</i> for you! only—only—I could not -bear that any other woman should cling to you like this!” and with a -sudden spring she throws herself on his breast, panting, breathless, -quivering from head to foot. “Delaval, you have pretended to love me. -You have kissed me, and you have made me love <i>you</i>, till I am mad with -misery, till I lose sight of all that women hold -dear—pride—reserve—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a>{18}</span>delicacy! For mercy’s sake don’t give me up, and -place an insuperable bar between us two!”</p> - -<p>But he coolly puts her aside—not roughly, but very determinedly.</p> - -<p>“So!” she says, standing tall and erect before him. “So! words are of no -avail. Love is a theme you have heard so often that its name has an -empty sound! You are an honourable man, Lord Delaval! Your conscience -can never prick you. For you have never acted basely, cruelly, to anyone -in your life!” she cries, with a sneer.</p> - -<p>He feels quite an aversion to her as he answers: “Men may be -dishonourable towards women, perhaps. But rely upon it, it is the -woman’s fault if they are so! Men may act cruelly, basely, but I’ll be -sworn baseness and cruelty have been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a>{19}</span> forced from them in order to check -a woman’s undisciplined feelings, in order to recall a woman to the -decorum which belongs to her sex! I think, Miss Beranger, since I am not -honoured by your good opinion, my best move will be to say ‘Good-bye!’ ”</p> - -<p>She feels that she has played her game wretchedly. The man is a vain -man; and instead of reaching his heart through fair means, she has lost -her temper, wounded his <i>amour propre</i>, and placed a further barrier -betwixt them. Once more she is down on her knees, her clasped hands -lifted, her face quivering with emotion. Gabrielle is a born actress; -but now her acting is supremely good, for there is a deal of genuine -feeling in it.</p> - -<p>“Delaval! Forgive! forgive! I was mad to speak as I did! Oh I could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a>{20}</span> -kill myself for it! Say you forgive me, Delaval!”</p> - -<p>But he stands motionless and impassive still.</p> - -<p>“You won’t? Have you grown utterly hard and cold and strange then to me? -Have you no mercy, no pity, no compunction? Can you face me like a stock -or a stone, and trample on my heart like this? Don’t you know that you -gave me the right to love you—by your kisses, by the specious words -that have fallen from your lips? And I believed in them! I believed that -some day I should be your wife! Oh Delaval! if I have showed an -undisciplined mind, a want of decorum, it is your fault. You are a man, -I but a poor weak loving woman. You are the stronger, I but the weaker -vessel. It is you who should have saved me from myself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a>{21}</span> It is you who -should have placed a dam against the sluice-gates of a love that is -going to wreck my whole life! Delaval, dearest, say, have you <i>never</i> -cared for me? Has it all been untrue, a hideous delusion, a chimera of -my own brain?—a device of the Devil to lull me in a slumber of Paradise -only to awake to a full sense of his tortures? Oh, if I could die! If I -could die! For I have nothing to live for now—nothing! I <i>shall</i> die; -for I could not live and see another come between my Heaven and me! I -could curse her!”</p> - -<p>Lord Delaval winces a little at this. Curses are hard words to come near -the soft little tender girl he is going to marry, and whose words to him -are as shy as the light of a star.</p> - -<p>But, just for once, he is taken rather aback. Shoals of women have loved -him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a>{22}</span> and reproached him, but never like this. It is the first time he -has evoked such a fierce tornado, and for a moment it staggers him. Then -he becomes conscious of a feeling of thankfulness that this woman, -beautiful and adoring, is not going to be his <i>wife</i>!</p> - -<p>“I can do nothing but regret!” he says gently. “My faith is pledged to -your sister, and—and—forgive me if I say that I do not wish to recall -it! It is kinder to you, and kinder to myself, to speak openly!”</p> - -<p>After this, nothing can be said, she feels.</p> - -<p>She rises slowly from her knees, and stands a little apart. After all, -she is not bad, she is not lost to shame; and it dyes her cheek crimson, -while her lids droop over the fire in her eyes, and her mouth -trembles—as much perhaps with wrath as sorrow.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a>{23}</span></p> - -<p>What man can look utterly unmoved on such a spectacle as this?</p> - -<p>“I feel so much for you,” he says quite softly, “but Fate has decreed -our paths to divide, and who can act against Fate? My faith, as I said, -is pledged to Zai; but there is no reason that you and I, Gabrielle, -should be foes. I shall always care for you, always take an interest in -you, always be glad to be a <i>brother</i> to you!”</p> - -<p>“A <i>brother</i>!” she mutters. “I am no hypocrite! I could never feel like -a sister towards you, and I will not pretend it! But we’ll part in -peace! Only—only—!”</p> - -<p>She flings her arms round him, and lifts up wild wet eyes, their fire -and wrath all quenched in the passion that floods her whole being, “Say -that you <i>have</i> loved me, if you do not love me now!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a>{24}</span></p> - -<p>It takes not only a perfect man, but a strong one, to reject a pleading -woman, especially if her prayer is for Love, and the lips with which she -utters it are fresh and tempting; and Lord Delaval is an imperfect man, -assuredly.</p> - -<p>So he stoops; and while her flushed stormy face lies against his breast, -he kisses her, but only on the cheek, with the comfortable conviction -that he has preserved his loyalty to Zai intact by avoiding Gabrielle’s -lips. Most men now a-days are so addicted to splitting hairs!</p> - -<p>“Good-bye!” she whispers, “I cannot stay here and see you and her -together!”</p> - -<p>She says it so tragically, that he half smiles. He has always thought -her an excellent actress, but now she excels herself.</p> - -<p>“Nonsense, Gabrielle!” he answers carelessly. “For God’s sake don’t make -a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a>{25}</span> scandal whatever you do! If we <i>have</i> made love—how many men and -women do the same—without one or the other bringing the house down -about their ears. You are not the only girl I have kissed and vowed all -sorts of things to, but no one else has made me repent my folly as you -have done. Come, kiss me—a kiss of peace—and forget that a kiss of -love has ever been exchanged between us. We must all bow to the -inevitable, and you cannot expect to be exempt.”</p> - -<p>“But the inevitable in this case does not come from the hand of -Providence, but from the hand of the man who ought to be the last to -hurt me!” she says, passionately. “I <i>will</i> kiss you—ay, kiss you a -dozen times; but, Delaval, they will be the kisses that one gives to the -man one loves best, and upon whom one will never look again!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a>{26}</span></p> - -<p>She kisses him as she speaks—kisses him on his brow, and eyes, and -lips, wildly, fiercely; then she almost pushes him from her.</p> - -<p>“Good-bye!”</p> - -<p>“Good-bye!” he answers quietly, “since you will have it so; and when we -meet again——”</p> - -<p>“We shall <i>never</i> meet again!” she says, abruptly.</p> - -<p>“What folly!” he exclaims, impatiently. “I hope we never shall, until -you have regained your senses, and don’t act like a mad woman.”</p> - -<p>“If I am a mad woman, you are the man who has made me so!” she retorts, -impetuously.</p> - -<p>“God forgive you for it, for I cannot!” and turning on her heel, she is -soon out of view.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a>{27}</span></p> - -<p>He shrugs his shoulders, and forgetting all about her, saunters back to -the house whistling an opera bouffe air.</p> - -<p>But though the opera bouffe air runs in his head, in his mind there is -an unpleasant conviction that Gabrielle will make a scandal of some -sort.</p> - -<p>“These hot-headed, hot-hearted women are the very devil,” he mutters -angrily to himself; “and I should not be surprised if she goes and -peaches to old Beranger and her Ladyship—but no matter—a coronet, and -a good-looking fellow like myself, to say nothing of the tin my dear -miserly old dad hoarded up, are proof against any back-biters, and I’ll -marry Zai yet, dear little thing. I do believe she is beginning to love -me!”</p> - -<p>But even with this comforting reflection, he gives a little start at -luncheon when he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a>{28}</span> sees one chair empty, and hears Trixy whisper to her -sister, “Gabrielle is so queer to-day, queerer than usual. I really -think she’s going off her head.”</p> - -<p>Later on, at dinner, come Miss Beranger’s excuses.</p> - -<p>“Gabrielle is not very well, and cannot come down,” Lady Beranger -remarks indifferently, going on with her <i>potage à la Reine</i>, and Lord -Delaval makes a tolerable meal—drinks a little more than usual, but not -too much (wine bibbing is not one of his faults), laughs and talks a -little nervously, and even is slightly <i>distrait</i>, while Zai sings in -her fresh sweet soprano a bit of Swinburne, set to pathetic music—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“If I could but know after all,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">I might cease to hunger and ache,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Though your heart were ever so small,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">If it were not a stone or a snake.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a>{29}</span></p> - -<p>He seems to look past her dainty chesnut-crowned head, as he listens to -these words, at Gabrielle—Gabrielle, with her wild wet eyes, her white -passion-tossed features, her clinging arms and bitter reproach.</p> - -<p>All night long, through his sleep, they come back to him, and will not -be thrust away.</p> - -<p>Once more, at breakfast, the empty chair faces him, and in spite of -himself he says to his hostess, “I hope Miss Beranger is better to-day?”</p> - -<p>“Yes! I think so,” Lady Beranger answers; “at any rate, well enough to -travel. Gabrielle went off by the early train to Southampton, I believe, -didn’t she, Trixy?”</p> - -<p>“I think so, mamma; at least, Fanchette told me. She has gone, but she -never said good-bye.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a>{30}</span></p> - -<p>“Ah! just like her,” Lady Beranger observes, carelessly. “Gabrielle is -so queer, so <i>bizarre</i>, you know.” And she takes another help of <i>fillet -de sole</i>, and gives no further thought to her stepdaughter.</p> - -<p>“Will you come out on the lawn, the morning is perfect?” Lord Delaval -says to Zai, when they make a move from the table, and she, who has -determined to love him and obey him, turns up a fair sweet face, and -smiling, runs away for her hat.</p> - -<p>He looks after her slender figure with visible admiration in his eyes. -Zai is his beau ideal, <i>pro tem.</i> of womankind.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be long away,” he calls, softly; and he longs to have her with -him, where, sending the <i>convenances au diable</i>, he can gaze his fill on -her beauty, and kiss her to his heart’s content.</p> - -<p>“A letter for you! my lord.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a>{31}</span></p> - -<p>He starts and stammers as he asks:</p> - -<p>“For me?”</p> - -<p>And, as he takes the sealed missive in his hand, a sort of foreboding -makes him pale and shrink from opening it.</p> - -<p>He even forgets to wait for Zai, but walks out of the house, and down -towards the far end of the grounds, before he breaks the seal.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“When you read this, Delaval, I shall be dead. ‘What folly!’ I hear -you say. But folly or not, it is the truth. Oh, Delaval, I wonder I -did not die yesterday! when you killed me with your hard words and -looks. I cannot, I say, live and know that the love and caresses -that are all the world to me are given to another woman. I have no -home, no friends, no money. What then is left to me but death! -Good-bye! my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a>{32}</span> love! my love! My last prayer will be that some day -you will say to yourself, ‘She loved me best of all.’ Good-bye!”</p> - -<p class="r"> -“<span class="smcap">Gabrielle.</span>”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>When he has read it all, his first thought is, “What a very unpleasant -state of affairs.”</p> - -<p>He cannot show the letter to his future wife or her people. He cannot -give a hint that Gabrielle may have committed the atrocious folly of -putting an end to herself. True, the uncertainty of her fate does not -conduce to his comfort or his equanimity of mind, but it is not to be -thought of that he should cut his own throat by showing her letter.</p> - -<p>“Here goes!” he says, at last, with a sigh of relief, as the torn -fragments of Gabrielle’s last words scatter to the four winds, and he -turns with a tender smile to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a>{33}</span> meet his betrothed, who comes slowly and -sadly, as it seems to him, up the garden walk.</p> - -<p>“I thought you were never coming, darling,” he whispers in his softest -voice, while his ultramarine eyes look into her own longingly, -yearningly.</p> - -<p>But Zai’s grey eyes do not respond, and her face is very grave as she -falters:</p> - -<p>“Gabrielle! oh, how shall I tell you Gabrielle——?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he questions feverishly, staring at her in his bewilderment.</p> - -<p>“<i>Poor Gabrielle is dead!</i>”</p> - -<p>“Dead?”</p> - -<p>“Yes! We thought she had gone to Southampton, but she hasn’t—for—oh! -<i>what</i> could have made her do it?” she cries, looking up with piteous -eyes into his white face. “She has drowned herself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a>{34}</span> in the river! <i>What</i> -could have made her do such a terrible thing?”</p> - -<p>“God knows!” he says.</p> - -<p>It is quite true what Zai has told him.</p> - -<p>Close to the brink of the Urling river that runs through the Sandilands -estate they have found Gabrielle’s hat. How well they know it, the -dainty hat with its pompon of vivid scarlet and black!</p> - -<p>For five days they drag the river without success, but on the sixth day -a human form is brought and laid on the silvery bed of sand.</p> - -<p>A woman’s form, tall and slender like Gabrielle’s, yet so unlike, for it -is terrible to look upon. The light summer dress she wore is tattered -and draggled and discoloured beyond recognition, and the face,—but none -who have known her can look twice on the fearful lineaments that the -water have so cruelly caressed and changed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a>{35}</span></p> - -<p>Not even her own father can believe that this awful thing lying at his -feet can be all that is left of his beautiful daughter, Gabrielle -Beranger.</p> - -<p class="ast">* * * * * </p> - -<p>Again Lady Beranger has to mourn like her fellow “quality” in “deep -kilts”—procured on credit—but this time she has a certain satisfaction -in it, which she salves down her conscience with by saying:</p> - -<p>“Gabrielle was such a queer girl that she <i>must</i> have come to an -out-of-the-way end. She was so fast, so <i>bizarre</i>, so dreadfully -indifferent to the <i>bienséances</i> and the <i>convenances</i>, you know, and, -dear Marchioness, is it not far better to have drowned herself than to -have gone to the bad?”</p> - -<p>The Marchioness, who has had a <i>jeunesse orageuse</i> herself, shakes her -dyed curls solemnly and virtuously.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a>{36}</span></p> - -<p>“Very true, dear Lady Beranger. Once a girl has got the bit between her -teeth, she is <i>sure</i> to ride to the Devil, and poor dear Gabrielle -always struck me as the sort that go the fastest. Well! well! we must -console ourselves by the hope that the best thing possible has happened -to her. And how long are the weddings put off for?”</p> - -<p>“Till November. This is not the first time Gabrielle has inconvenienced -me, but I suppose we <i>must</i> delay the marriages for two months, or -people will talk. All these sort of things entail so much expense too; -no sooner has one gone into half-mourning for my dear lost Baby, but -there’s the deep black for Gabrielle again. It really seems to me that -she only thought of herself, and did not care a bit for the annoyance -and inconvenience she caused to others!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a>{37}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.<br /><br /> -<small>CARLTON CONWAY.</small></h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“But love so lightly plighted,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Our love with torch unlighted,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Paused near us unaffrighted,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Who found and left him free.<br /></span> -<span class="i1">None seeing us cloven in sunder,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Will weep, or laugh, or wonder,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Light love stands clear of thunder,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">And safe from winds at sea.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">November</span> has set in with its yellow fogs and gloom, and the Berangers -are back in Belgrave Square, for the dual weddings come off in another -ten days, and the <i>trousseau</i> requires her ladyship’s taste and personal -supervision in the finishing touches.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a>{38}</span></p> - -<p>Trixy, whose nature is made up of frivolity and bagatelles, and to whom -the colour of a dress or the shape of a bonnet are solemn subjects for -reflection and consideration, is an enthusiastic shopper, but not so -Zai.</p> - -<p>It is seldom that she can call up courage enough to wade through Elise’s -and Worth’s establishments, to devote her whole and sole attention to -the important point as to whether her chemisette shall be edged with -Valenciennes or Honiton.</p> - -<p>Zai is studiously learning to care for the man she is going to marry in -a few days, and this subject engrosses her to the expulsion of all -extraneous matter.</p> - -<p>Down on her knees beside her little white curtained bed she prays that -the gift of “loving” Lord Delaval may be given her. Downstairs, while he -sits beside her, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a>{39}</span> same prayer goes on in her heart, for, born and -bred in Belgravia, Zai is the best little thing that ever tried to do -her duty towards God and man.</p> - -<p>This much has been vouchsafed her, that Carlton Conway, who has been the -stumbling block in her path to reaching the goal she desires, has never -turned up on the scene to open by his presence the old wound, which Zai -firmly believes now is closed for always.</p> - -<p>Once she has heard him mentioned at an afternoon tea, but it was only to -the effect that his marriage with Miss Meredyth was put off for a while.</p> - -<p>Zai has never forgotten, never will forget perhaps, the days when Carl -was all in all to her. She lived an enchanted life during the time, for -all the love her girl’s heart knew swept into one great channel and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a>{40}</span> -poured itself out at his feet. Paradise had opened for her out of the -dull monotony of Belgravian life and moments—golden with the light of -romance—had shone on her with a radiance like unto no other radiance of -time. And she certainly had not stayed then to count the cost of the -bitter desolation that followed.</p> - -<p>After all Eve herself would hardly have surrendered the memory of Eden -for all the joys to be found on earth, and she must have dreamed of it -full many a time and waked to weep such tears of unavailing regret as -have watered this sad planet of ours most plenteously.</p> - -<p>The London world outside is full of fog and gloom, with a few feeble gas -lamps struggling through it, but inside the drawing-room in Belgrave -Square with its firelight<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a>{41}</span> and luxury is conducive enough to “dreaming.”</p> - -<p>So Zai gives herself up to this delicious pastime, and, strangely -enough, Carl does not appear as central figure. Possibly her earnest -prayers for oblivion of him and his falsity have been answered; anyway -it is a blond face with deep blue eyes and hair that shines up like gold -under the sunbeams, that her mind’s eye sees, while her broad white lids -are closed.</p> - -<p>“Dreaming, my sweet! Is it of me?”</p> - -<p>Some one bends over her. Some one’s hand drops softly on her shoulder, -and when she looks up, some one’s handsome face is very close to her -own. Suddenly—Zai blushed furiously afterwards when she thought of -it—she slips her arm round his neck and draws down his head till his -lips rest upon her own.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a>{42}</span></p> - -<p>It is the first voluntary caress she has given him.</p> - -<p>To say that Lord Delaval is amazed, bewildered, enchanted, all in the -same moment, would be to say very little indeed. A great joy and wonder -take possession of him, and for a second he is almost an unresponsive -party, but in the next instant he has her in his arms, close against his -heart, and to indemnify himself for loss of time, he rains down kisses -on her charming face from brow to chin.</p> - -<p>Kisses that come so fast—so fast, so eagerly, so fiercely even, that -Zai stands almost stunned with all that her first demonstration of love -for him has called down on her.</p> - -<p>Then he sits down on the sofa beside her and, putting his arm round her, -draws her near him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a>{43}</span></p> - -<p>He had felt that kiss she gave him go through him like an electric shock -that sent the blood rushing through his veins, and made his pulses throb -hard.</p> - -<p>Scores of women had offered him kisses before, and he had accepted them -or rejected them according to his mood, but this kiss, that the girl he -is going to marry had volunteered of her own accord, seemed quite -different to the rest. Then a sudden thought came like a stab.</p> - -<p>“Zai,” he asks gravely, “are you sure—<i>quite</i> sure—that you are acting -according to your feelings in marrying me?”</p> - -<p>She looks up at him in surprise. His face is quite pale, but his eyes -seem to burn strangely.</p> - -<p>“Quite sure,” she answers quietly, convinced in her own mind that she -<i>is</i> sure—perfectly sure of the fact.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a>{44}</span></p> - -<p>“Darling Zai! You have never given me a chance before to tell you how I -love you—love you with all my heart! to tell you that I will strain -every nerve to make you care for me as I care for you! But there is one -thing you must confess to me. Loving you as I do I shall be a very -lenient judge, my child. Do you love me enough to be true to me always?”</p> - -<p>She knows she does not love him as she had loved Carl. That had been a -mad phantom, possessing her heart and her brain. But she knows if she -marries this man she will make him a good and true wife.</p> - -<p>She is <i>sure</i> that, in deed and word, and even thought, she will be -loyal and faithful to him always.</p> - -<p>The fitful pink colour comes and goes on her cheek, the big grey eyes -droop as they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a>{45}</span> have a habit of doing, but a smile—a little ghost of a -smile, hovers round her pretty red lips.</p> - -<p>“I love you, and I shall be true to you always!” she says, and Lord -Delaval, cynical as he is—sceptical of all things, <i>feels</i> that her -words are genuine, and he starts and his face grows radiant.</p> - -<p>“Zai!” he cries breathlessly.</p> - -<p>And bending, he puts his hand under the rounded chin and lifts up the -little drooping face towards him. Zai’s eyes are still downcast, but he -manages to read their language pretty well, and he sees the lips part in -something between a quiver and a laugh.</p> - -<p>“Is it so—say?” he whispers passionately, throwing his arms round her -and gathering her close until her face rests against his. “Zai, for -God’s sake, is it so?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a>{46}</span> Don’t—<i>don’t</i> take away my new-born hope, but -tell me that you really love me and only me!”</p> - -<p>“I love only you.”</p> - -<p>And when she says this Zai feels that her prayers are answered, and the -old love for Carlton Conway is conquered.</p> - -<p>“Look at me, my darling child!”</p> - -<p>She looks up, and in the soft grey eyes he reads honesty and truth, and -on the impulse of the moment he stoops, and his lips cling feverishly, -almost fiercely, to hers.</p> - -<p>Zai starts away from him then, and for a second she seems scared, white, -trembling.</p> - -<p>His wild, fierce kiss has sent the blood back from her cheek to her -heart, that throbs with a pain that makes her faint and sick. Then the -pretty pink colour creeps slowly back, and of the passionate caress that -has lingered on her mouth<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a>{47}</span> there is born a new feeling for her betrothed -husband.</p> - -<p>“Zai, you hated me once, I believe,” he says reproachfully. “I wonder -why?”</p> - -<p>“Never mind, since I love you now,” she replies.</p> - -<p>“You hated me when you cared for Conway, Zai!”</p> - -<p>He looks at her keenly as he deals what she thinks a random shot, but -which is really a premeditated speech, for ever since Gabrielle’s words, -Lord Delaval has been jealous for the very first time in his life.</p> - -<p>Never before has he felt the pangs of the green-eyed monster. It may be -because he has never before perhaps felt a true and pure love.</p> - -<p>Zai laughs, but the laugh is a little forced.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a>{48}</span></p> - -<p>“You see, Delaval, if you did not care about me you would not be -jealous! The past belongs to me, you know, but the future is -yours—won’t that content you?” she asks softly. “Shall I promise that -it is only you that I shall love for the rest of my life?”</p> - -<p>“Suppose you couldn’t keep your promise, Zai. Suppose an old influence -was too strong for you—what then?”</p> - -<p>“An old influence! No one could have any influence over me now but you, -Delaval!”</p> - -<p>“Will you swear that you will stick to me through thick and thin? Will -you swear that no other man shall come between us ever?”</p> - -<p>She does not answer.</p> - -<p>A feeling a little rebellious creeps up in her heart. It is hard—so -hard—to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a>{49}</span> doubted like this, when she has so bravely cast from her -all sentiment for her old lover—when she is “really and earnestly -caring” for this man.</p> - -<p>“You can’t answer for yourself, Zai!” he exclaims angrily. “Or perhaps -you <i>won’t</i> answer?”</p> - -<p>Still she does not say a word, but hides her face against his arm.</p> - -<p>So he moves away from her and faces her, his arms crossed over his -chest, and speaks slowly and deliberately:</p> - -<p>“Zai, when you know that a man is hungering and thirsting for a word of -reassurance—when you <i>must</i> feel that it kills me to be in uncertainty -of your <i>real</i> feeling you keep that word locked up in your bosom—you -put a seal on your lips—you are thinking what a happier fate would have -been yours as Conway’s wife.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a>{50}</span></p> - -<p>The suddenness of these last words sends a thrill through her, and -involuntarily she starts.</p> - -<p>“Delaval, Mr. Conway is probably a married man by this time, and I -really think you forget that I am just going to be <i>your</i> wife.”</p> - -<p>“Will you always remember you are my wife?” he asks.</p> - -<p>“I am not likely ever to let the fact escape my notice,” she answers -gravely. “Mr. Conway is nothing to me but an acquaintance; as far as -<i>love</i> is concerned, he and I are as far removed from one another as if -he or I were <i>dead</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Bah!” he says roughly, “don’t think all that goody-goody sentiment is a -safeguard for errant fancies. Morality now-a-days is at a very low ebb, -and marital obligations go a precious little way against<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a>{51}</span> -inclination—certainly where <i>men</i> are concerned. On your honour, Zai, -if Conway was free and could marry you, would you still have me?”</p> - -<p>“On my honour I would have you and no one else—if I <i>may</i>?” she asks -with a deprecatory smile.</p> - -<p>Whereupon he catches her once more in his arms.</p> - -<p>“Now,” he says, “while I hold you like this—heart to heart, hand in -hand, and lip to lip—come, Zai! give me your lips—there!—I will put -your love to a test! Zai, Zai!—for God’s sake—don’t you fail me now!”</p> - -<p>“I shall never fail you,” she answers in a low voice.</p> - -<p>“Not if I tell you that——”</p> - -<p>He pauses. He really dreads to see her start and shrink away from him -perhaps—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a>{52}</span>he dreads to see the sweet lovelight in her grey eyes fade -into coldness or hardness—he dreads to lose the delicious guerdon of -these soft, delicious lips.</p> - -<p>“Not if you tell me <i>anything</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Zai, Conway <i>is</i> a free man. His marriage with Miss Meredyth is broken -off entirely. Her people found out something about Flora Fitzallan, of -the Bagatelle Theatre. I know for a fact that he will never be allowed -to marry her. Well?”</p> - -<p>“I think,” she says, and putting her arms around his neck she lifts up a -pair of sweet, soft eyes, “I think that it is a very bad thing for Mr. -Conway to have lost a rich wife, and that his misfortune is my gain, for -<i>now</i> you will believe that——”</p> - -<p>“That what?” he asks eagerly.</p> - -<p>“That who he marries is no concern of mine so long as I—-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a>{53}</span>-“</p> - -<p>“Well?”</p> - -<p>“Marry—<i>you</i>!” she says, and as she clings to this man who is to be her -husband, she thanks God that she can go down on her knees beside him and -swear to love, honour, and obey him so long as they both shall live.</p> - -<p>“My darling! my own, own darling!” he whispers, in his most melodious -voice, and his voice can be not only melodious but <i>séduisante</i> when he -likes. “Listen, Zai. I have never been a good man; but I swear that the -day of our marriage I’ll commence a new life. You will never regret that -you have taken me, Zai. So help me Heaven!”</p> - -<p>The recording angel carried up this oath, but the other angels blotted -it out with tears.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a>{54}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.<br /><br /> -<small>ANTEROS.</small></h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Shall we not laugh, shall we not weep?<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Not we, though this be as it is;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">For love awake or love asleep<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Ends in a laugh, a dream, a kiss!”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Twelve</span> months wedded, Lady Delaval yet leads a charmed life. Her cup of -bliss overflows, and under its influence her lovely face is tenfold -lovelier, with the sunshine of her soul illuminating it.</p> - -<p>She has made her curtsey to the Queen on her marriage, and her train, -her coiffure, and her beauty have been the talk of town. She looks so -good and pure too, with no fast proclivities, and to the satiated eyes -of town men these things have vast attraction.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a>{55}</span></p> - -<p>Lord Delaval has shunned all his old haunts, turned the cold shoulder to -his numerous loves, avoided even looking at the professional and other -beauties, and evinced an utter devotion to one woman—his wife—a fact -which has amazed Society, amongst whom his fickleness has been a by-word -hitherto.</p> - -<p>Prophecies as to the duration of such strange and praiseworthy conduct -are rife.</p> - -<p>Will he stick to it?</p> - -<p>The “No’s” preponderate considerably over the “Yes’s,” but time will -reveal which of the gossips are the best judges of human nature.</p> - -<p>When the season is over, they come down to Delaval Court—a magnificent -place in Hampshire—and here among the beautiful sylvan shades, Zai -discovers that she has really fallen over head and ears in love with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a>{56}</span> -her handsome husband, but with a graver, even tenderer, sentiment than -mere being “in love.” She is grown so fragile that she looks as if a -breath of wind would blow her away, but her heart beats stronger than -ever with two feelings—love for the man she has married, and love for -the child which is to perfect her life; and Lord Delaval, about whom is -a deal of indolent sybaritical self-indulgence, has his “mystic” summer -too.</p> - -<p>He really finds it quite delicious to talk of the future as he lies -stretched at full length on the cool green velvety sward at his wife’s -feet, in the twilight and the starlight, with the subtle fragrance of a -myriad flowers pervading their senses, and the Channel sweeping before -them like a great phantom sea.</p> - -<p>Somehow the stars seem to shine with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a>{57}</span> holier, tenderer radiance; the -roses sigh out greater sweetness; the waters murmur more gladly to him -than they have ever done before in his life.</p> - -<p>True, that in these charmed moments he talks principally of town topics; -and she scarcely comprehends the gist of the gossip. Belgravian born and -bred as she is, she has never in fact really comprehended the world of -London well, but she likes to hear her husband tell about it, simply -because it is the world in which <i>he</i> has lived so much.</p> - -<p>But somehow, to Zai, the theatres, the balls, Hurlingham, the -fashionable resorts, the feverish dissipation among which she passed -nineteen years seem distant and even myths now. She cares nothing for -town, save the Park, and even that cannot vie, in her eyes, with the -delightful green<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a>{58}</span> shades and sunlit bits that Delaval Court owns.</p> - -<p>She does not feel the least interested in the new professional beauties -or the American stars that crop up, to make themselves nine days’ -wonders at the risk of a life-long reputation. Zai has, in fact, a -foolish horror of women being held up to public view and subjected to -public admiration and criticism. Her notions are a little obsolete, -perhaps, for neither Lord nor Lady Beranger are good, simple folk, and -have plenty of the “go-ahead” sentiments of their fellow aristocrats, -and their daughters have certainly not been brought up as quietly and -carefully as they might have been.</p> - -<p>But, after all, Zai’s goodness and purity to a certain extent is a -disadvantage to her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a>{59}</span></p> - -<p>Men of the Lord Delaval type are not likely to be long attracted by -rustic wax-work when passionate, demonstrative human nature comes in -their way to appeal to their feelings or senses, and even in these palmy -days, Lord Delaval, when he finds his wife uninterested in the talk that -his lips are mostly accustomed to utter, feels rather injured and -inclined to be silent or sullen. But he is quite enough enamoured of her -still, not to seek for other audiences, at any rate, just yet. So the -summer flies quickly by, and autumn is waning, and Zai, as she opens her -sweet grey eyes on a dull November morning, remembers that to-day is the -anniversary of her marriage, and thanks God for the happiness He has -granted her. But the autumnal days are dark and dreary, and the presence -of outsiders, which would have seemed a terrible nuisance to Lord<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a>{60}</span> -Delaval a few weeks ago, would now be a blessing. He feels as if he -would gladly welcome anybody, whose advent would put a little spice, a -little zest into his daily routine. It is easier for an Ethiopian to -change his skin and a leopard his spots than for a worldling to alter -his nature.</p> - -<p>Lord Delaval does not acknowledge to himself even, with that utter -self-delusion that comes so easily to most men—that there was something -in poor Gabrielle’s feverish passion that appealed to him, gratified -him, soothed him. He does not guess himself how deliciously sweet to his -heart are the voice of flattery and the yield of worship. There are men -and <i>men</i>.</p> - -<p>To some, the self-abnegatory passion of women is no doubt distasteful, -even repellant. To others—to those of Lord Delaval’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a>{61}</span> temperament -especially—it is a poisonous incense—intoxicating, subtle, pleasant, -and nearly always irresistible.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, Zai has no wish ungratified, no desire unsatisfied. To her -the world contains but one man, and this is—her husband. Now and then -she remembers the existence of Carlton Conway, but only with wonder -filling her that she ever could have exalted him into a creature to -adore, when he is so different—personally, mentally, in every way—to -Delaval. She is flung, as it were, on her husband entirely for all the -pleasure, enjoyment, and amusement of life. Gabrielle is drowned; Baby -is dead; her father and mother, left to themselves, live in the London -world and for the London world. There is no one, then, of her people, -save Trixy, from whom she can hear of the old life, the old haunts,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a>{62}</span> the -old faces, and Trixy, with her grand house in Park Lane, her dresses, -her jewels, her millions, is strangely silent. “She has no time, amid -the pomps and vanities, to think of me, I suppose,” Zai says, after a -couple of months have elapsed since Trixy’s last hurried scrawl. “Did -you hear of her, Delaval, yesterday in town?”</p> - -<p>“Yes!” he answers rather gravely. Lax as he is in morals himself, he -objects utterly to his wife’s ears being sullied with scandal. After -all, though Zai’s innocence rather palls on him, he would not have it -otherwise for all the world. But he has heard so much of Trixy from -Percy Rayne that he feels it his bounden duty to do his best to keep the -mire off the family he has married into.</p> - -<p>“You did not tell me you had heard about her,” Zai says, rather -reproachfully, “perhaps you even saw her!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a>{63}</span></p> - -<p>“No, I didn’t, my darling; but I am going to see her! and that -to-morrow. Your sister is a giddy, frivolous little woman, and poor old -Stubbs hasn’t much influence over her, I am afraid.”</p> - -<p>“Why, what has Trixy been doing, Delaval?” Zai asks hastily, lifting up -a pair of anxious grey eyes, that are so pretty that he draws their -owner down on his knee and kisses her.</p> - -<p>“Never mind what she has been doing, my own! I’m not going to tell you -all the naughty things women do, or you will be following their bad -example!”</p> - -<p>“Delaval!”</p> - -<p>Zai flings her arm round her husband’s neck, and kisses him in return. -Like Cæsar’s wife, she renders unto Cæsar all that is his due—with -interest.</p> - -<p>“Well?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a>{64}</span></p> - -<p>“You don’t really believe I would ever do anything wrong, do you?” she -whispers.</p> - -<p>“I believe you are an angel!” he says truthfully, “and that is why I -won’t let anything of the earth—earthy, come near you!”</p> - -<p>But Zai, angel though she may be, has some of Eve’s curiosity in her.</p> - -<p>“I know Trixy did not like Mr. Stubbs when she married him. But she -always said she did not want love or affection so long as she had a fine -house and lots of diamonds,” she says, after a moment, and he reads in -her face a longing to hear more.</p> - -<p>“Fishing!” he laughs. “No use, little one, to fish in shallow water, you -know! I’m <i>not</i> going to tell you anything about Trixy’s shortcomings -now, and I hope I shall not have anything to tell you later.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a>{65}</span> Never mind -about Trixy, darling. Think about your husband. Will you miss him? I -shall be away three or four days, I am afraid, for I have a lot of -business to do. I have been living in Dreamland here so long that I have -neglected everything—but you!”</p> - -<p>“Going to London for three or four days, Delaval?” she asks, with -positive tears in her eyes. “Oh! I am so sorry.”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense, Zai. We can’t always be tied together, or we <i>may</i> get tired -of one another, you know!” he replies, with a careless smile. The little -change to Town is quite an event to him, and he would not give it up for -the world.</p> - -<p>“Tired of one another?” she says, with a little quiver of her lip. “You -may be tired of me, but I shall <i>never</i> be tired of you—<i>never</i>, so -long as I live!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a>{66}</span></p> - -<p>And he believes her. For loads of women have never tired of him, -although he has treated them cruelly, and flung them aside, like old -gloves or withered flowers.</p> - -<p>“My little darling!” he murmurs, quite softly, pleased at her open -adoration of his irresistible self, “I shall never be tired of you, as -far as I can see. But you must not tax me too much. Men love variety, -you know! This Darby and Joan sort of life is very delightful, my pet, -but <i>ne quid nimis</i>—translated in English, ‘Too much of a good thing is -as bad as nothing!’ We must not let our happiness pall on us, Zai!”</p> - -<p>She turns away her head, and answers not a word. What can she say? If he -could see her face, it might bring him to a knowledge of the true and -enduring love he has inspired in the soft, loving, girlish<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a>{67}</span> heart. But -he doesn’t trouble to see it. Perhaps he thinks it is best to ignore -reproach or pathos, rather than let them prove hindrances to his -pleasure and amusement.</p> - -<p>And Zai neither asks him to curtail his visit to London, nor to speak -differently to her. For his indifferent words have cut her to the heart. -And for the first time since her marriage, directly his back is turned, -she sheds a perfect torrent of tears, and during his absence wanders -like a little ghost about the big house, with white cheeks, and great -pitiful eyes, and a load on her spirits that she cannot shake off.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, Lord Delaval, driving from Waterloo to his club, espies, -standing at a shop, a brougham he knows; and stopping his hansom, walks -up to it just as its occupant is getting in.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a>{68}</span></p> - -<p>She is a lovely, golden-haired woman, but he scarcely recognises her. -For all the old delicious pink colour has left her cheeks, and she looks -wan and haggard, and years older than she did two months ago.</p> - -<p>“How do you do, Trixy?” he says, startling her evidently, for she drops -a tiny parcel on the pavement. “I wanted to see you. In fact, I came up -to Town on purpose.”</p> - -<p>“On purpose to see <i>me</i>, Delaval! What for?” she asks nervously. “I -can’t stay now to talk, anyhow. Piccadilly isn’t exactly the place for a -confab, you know. Especially as everyone doesn’t know you’re my handsome -brother-in-law!”</p> - -<p>“And you are so very particular as to what people think—eh, Trixy?” he -asks, drily.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a>{69}</span></p> - -<p>“Of <i>course</i>, I wish to adhere to the <i>convenances</i>!” she answers, -rather sullenly.</p> - -<p>“Well, we won’t talk now. When may I call and see you?”</p> - -<p>She hesitates, evidently. It may be that her time is not her own. Then -suddenly she changes her mind.</p> - -<p>“Come with me now, Delaval! I am sure you were only going for a prowl -down Regent Street, and I am rather curious to hear what you want to -talk about—come in.”</p> - -<p>He puts a foot on the step, then pauses.</p> - -<p>“But how about the <i>convenances</i>? Everyone doesn’t know that I am not -one of your lovers!”</p> - -<p>“Bother the <i>convenances</i>,” she cries, impatiently, “and everyone knows -I have <i>no</i> lovers.”</p> - -<p>He enters the brougham, and a few in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a>{70}</span> the crowd, who know the lovely -golden-haired woman by sight as one of the London belles, begin to -chatter about her. Different versions and interpretations of the matter -fly from lip to lip, the favourite rendition being a modified version of -“Auld Robin Gray.”</p> - -<p>“She married old Peter Stubbs, the millionaire, against her will, you -know,” Bevan, a man in the Coldstreams, tells a pretty coquettish little -woman who stands beside him on the steps of the Burlington Arcade. “She -was over head and ears in love with Conway, the actor.”</p> - -<p>“I know Carlton Conway,” little Mrs. De Clifford answers. “I met him -last night at Flora Fitzallan’s supper. He was quite the host there. -Flora has loved him slavishly for years, and though he spends all her -money, he tyrannises over her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a>{71}</span> awfully. I suppose that wonderfully -handsome fellow is another lover of Mrs. Stubbs’,” she adds, with a -lingering look at Delaval’s undeniable beauty.</p> - -<p>“It happens to be her brother-in-law, Lord Delaval, <i>this</i> time,” the -man replies, in the tone that flings away a woman’s reputation in the -twinkling of an eye.</p> - -<p>“And is Lady Delaval alive?” Mrs. De Clifford asks carelessly, but with -a mind to find out if Lord Delaval’s agreeability equals his good looks.</p> - -<p>Bevan, who has rather a weakness for his companion, awakens at once to a -suspicious condition.</p> - -<p>“Very much alive, I hope! Lady Delaval is the most beautiful woman I -have ever seen, and her husband adores her,” he says, with <i>malice -prepense</i>.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile the brougham, “dark green,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a>{72}</span> <i>very</i> dark green, and by Peters,” -as Trixy had ordained, has disgorged its occupants at a house which is -as exquisite within as it is big and stately without, and even Lord -Delaval, who is habituated to luxury, is struck forcibly by the -judicious manner in which the ethereal inspiration of poets and -painters, Trixy Stubbs, has so ably contrived to feather her nest.</p> - -<p>“I am inclined to believe, after all, Trixy, that you made a very wise -choice,” he remarks, a little sardonically, as he follows her into a -dim, flower-scented, rose-hung, mirror-embellished room, which the -Honourable Mrs. Stubbs calls her boudoir, and is told to sit down in a -chair that might tempt an anchorite into a fondness for luxury and -repose. “Love sometimes flies out of the window, my dear Trixy; but -statues, and mirrors, and French furniture<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a>{73}</span> are not disturbed by any -such freaks of passion. One’s heart might be in a fair way to break, but -such a delicious chair as this would be a comfort all the same.”</p> - -<p>“I am not so sure of that,” says Trixy, in her “Mary Anderson” voice, -full of pathos and tragedy, as she flings her dainty bonnet of pale blue -velvet, with its high silver aigrette, on the marquetrie floor, and -sinks into a corresponding chair, with a wealth of bright amber hair -crowning her like the halo of a saint.</p> - -<p>“Sometimes I should not care if it <i>did</i> all fly through the window,” -she goes on, moodily. “Sometimes, Delaval, I cannot help thinking I have -paid a little too dear for—for everything.”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean?” he asks, bluntly. “Did you not choose to marry -Stubbs? That being the case, what right have you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a>{74}</span> to complain because -your bargain may not be exactly to your taste? If you had not married of -your own free will, of course no one could have forced you into it.”</p> - -<p>“My own free will!” repeats Trixy, scornfully, curving down the corners -of her red lips. “I wonder when a man—a man like you—ever comprehends -that a woman’s free will, from her very cradle to her grave, means just -nothing. No right to complain, haven’t I? Well, I am not complaining. My -husband is kind and good to me, better and kinder by far than I deserve; -but none the less I suffer more than you would believe I do, if I were -fool enough to tell you everything.”</p> - -<p>Tears rise up in her lovely blue eyes—hot, angry, scorching tears, but -she chokes them back.</p> - -<p>Life is beginning to teach even this little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a>{75}</span> spoiled butterfly some -self-control, and that wisdom which is learned only through sad -experience. Lord Delaval, susceptible always, is touched even by the -beauty and evident unhappiness of his sister-in-law. He leans forward, -takes gently the white hand that has dashed away the rebellious tear -drops.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be vexed, Trixy, if I spoke a little roughly just now,” he says, -in his pleasantest accents. “You used to like me years ago when you were -a child, and although you have out-grown the fondness, I am sure you -know that I like you awfully, if it is only for Zai’s sake.”</p> - -<p>“Delaval, I want you to answer me a question—on your honour, you know. -Does Zai love you?”</p> - -<p>“Love me? My dear Trixy, your question makes me answer rather -conceitedly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a>{76}</span> perhaps; but on my honour I don’t believe any woman loves -her husband better than my wife loves me.”</p> - -<p>“Thank God for that!” she exclaims passionately.</p> - -<p>He stares at her in surprise. Trixy is not of a devout nature, and it -seems to him a little strange also that she should trouble herself -earnestly about a sister with whom she has nothing in common, or -apparently much affection for. There must be an <i>arriére pensèe</i> in her -ejaculation.</p> - -<p>“Why should you be so thankful that Zai cares for me?” he asks, -carelessly, amazed to see her colour come and go swiftly, and the hand -he still holds tremble in his.</p> - -<p>But Trixy drags away her fingers and shrinks back into the furthest -corner of her fauteuil.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a>{77}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh! I don’t know!” she says, nervously. “I just wanted to hear if she -was happy and loved you only.”</p> - -<p>“Loved me <i>only</i>! Why, who <i>should</i> she love else?” he demands, gravely.</p> - -<p>“No one, of course. You always make me nervous, Delaval, when you turn -inquisitor. As a child I hated your questioning propensities.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; but you know you always found I was to be trusted; so tell me your -troubles now. It will be a relief to you, and let us see—two heads, -being better than one—if we cannot find a remedy for them.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t bother me, Delaval, I cannot.”</p> - -<p>“You mean that you cannot speak of your troubles?”</p> - -<p>“Yes! I mean just that. I can’t talk of them, at least to <i>you</i>.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a>{78}</span></p> - -<p>“It would be better to talk of them to me, Trixy, than to Lady Smiles. -She is a chattering, double-faced woman.”</p> - -<p>“Lady Smiles! Why, what has she been saying? What <i>dare</i> she say of me?” -Trixy asks feverishly, lifting up a flushed face.</p> - -<p>“Only letting out a few foolish confidences. You see Lady Smiles may -possibly fancy the same man as you may do; and women are horribly -spiteful to one another when a man comes between them!”</p> - -<p>“I don’t understand what you mean?” she stammers, growing quite white; -“and as for my troubles, you must not think that I have any complaint to -make against Mr. Stubbs,” she goes on with curious eagerness: “He is -really devoted to me, anticipating my wants, lavishing costly things on -me, caring for me ten times more than I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a>{79}</span> merit, as I cannot help -thinking when I recollect that I married him, hating and despising him!”</p> - -<p>“But you care a little for him now, don’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I care for him a little more now,” she replies very doubtfully. -“It is true that I ought to care for him, for he is kindness itself, -but——”</p> - -<p>Here the blue eyes fill with large tears again, and Lord Delaval frowns -as he realises that Lady Smiles—Trixy’s bosom friend and -<i>confidante</i>—has not been untruthful in her insinuations. Percy Rayne -is one of her admirers, and it is to him, as a connection of the -Berangers, that she has confided her fears that Trixy is a <i>leetle</i> -imprudent in her conduct.</p> - -<p>“Trixy! I know you once had a foolish fancy for—for——” he hesitates -at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a>{80}</span> name, he hates it so! struggles with himself, and at last -wrenches the words out and almost flings them at her. “For—Carlton -Conway! but it is of course impossible that you can still waste a -thought or feeling on such an unmitigated scoundrel, a fellow who plays -fast and loose with every woman he comes across—a hypocrite, a -scoundrel!”</p> - -<p>But Trixy springs up from her chair and faces him; two scarlet spots -burn in her cheeks, her eyes blaze, and she looks like a beautiful -virago.</p> - -<p>“How <i>dare</i> you speak of my friend like this, Lord Delaval! I forbid you -to do it; I forbid you to say behind Mr. Conway’s back what you would -not <i>presume</i> to do before him! <i>Presume</i>, I say it again, for though he -is an actor and you are an Earl, there is more to be respected in his -little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a>{81}</span> finger than in your whole body! He would not lower himself to -abuse a man, just because that man had been loved better than himself!”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean?” Lord Delaval demands sternly. He is standing too -now, with anger in his eyes, and wounded vanity in his breast.</p> - -<p>“I mean that your spite towards Mr. Conway only emanates from the -knowledge that your wife loved him as she will never care for any other -man in her life!” Trixy says defiantly, though her blue eyes quail a -little as they meet his. “And you may tell her from me, that the sooner -she forgets him the better, for he does not care for her—<i>that</i>,” and -she snaps her finger scornfully.</p> - -<p>“He cares for <i>you</i>, no doubt!” Lord Delaval answers quietly, though his -whole<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a>{82}</span> frame trembles with outraged pride and mortification. “But mark -my words, his love will drag you down to the lowest depths, and——” he -pauses, lays a hand on her shoulder, and speaks slowly and deliberately; -“when he has got hold of the money poor old Stubbs was fool enough to -settle on you, my dear Trixy, he will fling you to the devil!”</p> - -<p>And without another word he leaves the room.</p> - -<p>But Trixy’s words have raised up a feeling in his heart about his wife -which cannot fail to build up a wall of reserve and suspicion.</p> - -<p>It is in the dusk of the evening when he returns after two days’ -absence, but the firelight is bright enough to show him the gladness in -Zai’s face as he enters the room. Lavater himself could not find any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a>{83}</span> -guile in it, but jealousy and suspicion know no reason.</p> - -<p>“My darling! my darling!” she cries, throwing herself into his arms, and -holding up her sweet lips for his kiss, but he puts her aside quietly, -and, amazed at his manner, she stands a little apart.</p> - -<p>“What are you doing in the dark here?” he asks, in a cold, cutting -voice. “Dreaming of the old days?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t understand what ails you!” she falters. “I was sitting here, -wondering when you would come back, for it has been so dull, so -miserable without you! but now you <i>have</i> come back, you are so strange, -Delaval!”</p> - -<p>“Light those candles,” he orders abruptly.</p> - -<p>She goes up to the mantel-piece and obeys him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a>{84}</span></p> - -<p>The tapers shine down full on her chesnut hair, her pure sweet face, her -pathetic grey eyes.</p> - -<p>“Now I can see you,” he says curtly, inwardly moved by her exceeding -fairness, but outwardly cold and stern. “Well, why don’t you ask for -news of Trixy?”</p> - -<p>“I forgot about her,” she answers gently. “I was thinking about you.”</p> - -<p>“About <i>me</i>! as if you ever gave me a thought!” he sneers. “I hate to be -fooled.”</p> - -<p>“Fooled!” she repeats. “Oh! Delaval, what have I done to make you say -such things?”</p> - -<p>“Done! why you have married me, loving that scoundrel Conway!” he blurts -furiously. “Nice thing it is for a man to know every day and night of -his life that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a>{85}</span> his wife is eating her heart out for a fellow like that!”</p> - -<p>She has slid down on the floor by this time, and looks up at him with a -blanched, scared face, and piteous eyes.</p> - -<p>It seems to her that in this moment the love she has learned to look -upon as her dearest, <i>dearest</i> possession is gone out of her grasp.</p> - -<p>Delaval <i>must</i> hate her, or he could not glare at her like this, he -could not say such awful, <i>awful</i> things.</p> - -<p>“Well?” he asks, “have you nothing to answer in self-defence? How dared -you come to an honest man’s home with infidelity in your heart, lies on -your lips. Don’t you know that you are a wicked——”</p> - -<p>“For God’s sake Delaval! For God’s sake! don’t say such things to me!” -she interrupts hastily. “If you believe me to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a>{86}</span> be so false—so bad—send -me away from you, but I cannot live with you and learn that I have lost -your love!”</p> - -<p>“Poor little woman!” he says, half relenting; “we cannot control our -affections, so why should I blame you after all?”</p> - -<p>“Won’t you believe me if I swear, Delaval?”</p> - -<p>“I thought you never took an oath,” he says harshly.</p> - -<p>“I do not like to swear, but I will now, <i>now</i> that all I hold most -precious on earth is in the balance!” she sobs through her tears.</p> - -<p>“Swear then! Say ‘I love you and you only, so help me God!’ ”</p> - -<p>“I love you, Delaval, and only you, so help me God!” she says solemnly. -“Oh! you believe me now, don’t you?”</p> - -<p>He looks at her. As has been said before<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a>{87}</span> in the olden days Phryne’s -face and form moved her judges to mercy—so this fair face and form move -him to belief.</p> - -<p>It is not possible that deceit can lurk behind her candid brow, her -limpid eyes!</p> - -<p>“Come to me, little one!”</p> - -<p>In a moment she is in his arms, her white face pillowed on his breast, -her lips smiling. “Ah! you believe me, Delaval, or you would not take me -in your arms! you know I love you—darling—my own, own darling!—love -you with <i>all</i> my heart. I never, never think of any one else.”</p> - -<p>“Not even of—Conway?”</p> - -<p>But she does not shrink or blush at the name.</p> - -<p>“I do—sometimes,” she whispers, “but only to wonder how I could ever -have cared about him at all.”</p> - -<p>Truth is stamped on every feature of her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a>{88}</span> face. Truth shines in her -glance. He would be more the man if he could resist this evidence.</p> - -<p>So, though he will not humiliate himself to his wife by acknowledging -himself in the wrong, he gathers her closer to him and kisses her with -the ardour of their honeymoon days.</p> - -<p>And she is content, she wants no more than this.</p> - -<p>“You have not asked about Trixy?” he says presently; “and I have -something to tell you that will grieve you, my pet.”</p> - -<p>But she is nestling in his clasp, and it seems to her that nothing can -grieve her very much <i>now</i>.</p> - -<p>“Is Trixy ill?”</p> - -<p>“No!”</p> - -<p>“Is she—but no—Delaval! it can’t be that Trixy is—dead!” she cries.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a>{89}</span></p> - -<p>“Dead to <i>you</i>—Zai—but not really dead, unfortunately for herself. -Trixy left her husband yesterday and has gone away,”—he hesitates.</p> - -<p>“Where?”</p> - -<p>“With—<i>Carlton Conway</i>!”</p> - -<p>Gone away with Carlton Conway!</p> - -<p>For a second Zai looks at her husband as if she was stunned, and does -not even realise the fact that he is watching her face with a keen -searching glance.</p> - -<p>“Poor Trixy!” she says at last, but beyond an expression of pity on her -mobile features, Lord Delaval fails to discover any regret. Still he -remarks perversely, “<i>Lucky</i> Trixy! you mean!”</p> - -<p>“Oh! Delaval! isn’t it terrible!” Zai says, as if his last words had -fallen unheard. “Trixy <i>must</i> awake some day to the consciousness of her -conduct to her husband.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a>{90}</span> He isn’t loveable or lovely of course, but he -was awfully kind to her, you know. What will become of her, for I am -afraid Mr. Conway is not a good man, and unless she had money, he -wouldn’t care to be tied to her, I think!”</p> - -<p>“She <i>has</i> money, old Stubbs settled £40,000 on her, and so long as it -lasts Conway will stick to her like a leech, you may be sure; but when -it’s gone, then Trixy will be sent to the devil!”</p> - -<p>“But he’ll marry her of course, directly the divorce is given! I hope -and pray he will! for after all she has given up for him, it will be -dreadful for Trixy to find out what he is! Papa can <i>make</i> him marry -her, can’t he, Delaval!”</p> - -<p>“No one can <i>make</i> him marry her—except his conscience—but I doubt his -having one. I say Zai, don’t you feel a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a>{91}</span> little sorry that he has gone -over to your sister? Women hate defection in men you know!”</p> - -<p>“I <i>am</i> sorry for Trixy! I don’t understand what you mean by women -hating defection in men, but if you think that it matters to me who Mr. -Conway runs away with, you are quite wrong! I would rather it was anyone -though but my sister, for of course I wish her to be happy.”</p> - -<p>“Which Mr. Conway’s noble presence ought to make her.”</p> - -<p>“Which it won’t make her. If I thought you would not call me -spiteful—Delaval—I would tell you what I think!”</p> - -<p>“Tell away—child.”</p> - -<p>“Well, mamma said he was a cad, and though I don’t quite know the exact -meaning of the word, I am afraid he is something of the sort!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a>{92}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br /><br /> -<small>LA BLONDE AUX YEUX NOIR.</small></h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Your lithe hands draw me—your face burns through me,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">I am swift to follow you, keen to see,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">But love lacks might to redeem or undo me,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">As I have been—I shall surely be.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">So</span>, while all London talks of Trixy’s elopement with Carlton Conway, -Lord Delaval carries his wife off to Paris, and, in sumptuous apartments -at the Bristol, little Lord Vernon makes his appearance on the arena of -life.</p> - -<p>Zai adores her first-born to absurd adoration, but she has not the very -faintest idea how to take care of him, or the smallest conception what -to do with him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a>{93}</span></p> - -<p>She loves to hear, as well as to know, that God has given her a living -child, and little Vernon does not disappoint her, for he screams away -the first weeks with a pertinacity which is fortunately rather rare.</p> - -<p>He seems to have not only the germ of a lachrymose disposition, but is -in actual fright at the new world in which he finds himself.</p> - -<p>According to the tenets of ideality and poetry, he ought to be like his -father, a large, fair, serene-eyed boy, born out of mystic hours and -moonlight dreaming. In reality he is the antipodes of serene, and is -acutely organised. He is tiny, and timid, and tearful too, but Zai, -after the fashion of most young mothers, considers him a cherub, a lump -of perfection.</p> - -<p>Whether he screams or whether he crows, she fancies they are warblings -of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a>{94}</span> angelic choir, but notwithstanding half the time she does not -know what to do for him. Long before she can manage to hold him tight in -her slender arms, without letting him drop on the floor, her big, -wistful grey eyes follow the obese proportions of the French nurse from -hour to hour to learn what she does to keep “Baby” quiet. And when at -last nature overpowers her prudence and she rashly insists on taking -charge of him herself, her fear lest he should come to grief gives him a -feeling of insecurity which makes him scream louder than ever.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless mother and child make such a charming Madonna-like picture -that Lord Delaval, who has always gone in for lust of the eye, likes to -look upon it. Nothing, in fact, can exceed his devotion for the first -six weeks of paternal experience.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a>{95}</span> He may have been fickle and unstable, -but he now spends his whole time with his wife, his strong arms carry -her about, he reads to her, and gazes on her with eyes through which the -passionate fervour of the honeymoon shines out.</p> - -<p>Never has Zai had him so completely to herself. Never has he been so -gentle, so unselfish, so loving. And no matter what happens, she has -this period to look back upon with unmarred sensations of content. Maybe -if wrong or trouble come to her, these hours will be green oases in -life’s desert, landmarks in memory, which will soften resentment into -regret. But when a couple of months have gone by, Paris has begun her -season, and it is at Zai’s own solicitation that her husband begins to -go and look about him a little.</p> - -<p>“You’ll get quite ill, darling, unless you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a>{96}</span> have a little distraction,” -she says, tenderly, as her white hand, smaller and thinner than ever, -plays with his fair hair. “And you need not mind leaving me, for I -shan’t be dull now I’ve got Baby.” Yes, she has got Baby to keep her -company and to take up all her attention, and he is not at all loth for -a little distraction, especially as she urges it.</p> - -<p>The next evening, sauntering down the Boulevard des Italiens, he runs -against old London pals, men of the same rank, and something of the same -calibre as himself, Shropshire and Silverlake, men who have formed -<i>mésalliances</i>, and whose morals are not too strict for a “spree.”</p> - -<p>“Hallo, Delaval, come over on French leave?” Shropshire asks. “There are -a lot of pretty women at the theatres now. Silverlake and I are off to -the Alcazar presently,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a>{97}</span> and you might as well join us.” He -hesitates—the Alcazar—it does not sound so respectable as the Folies -Dramatiques, or the Opera Lyrique. Delaval has a dim sense that -music-halls in London are not quite the thing for newly married men, but -he salves his conscience by the thought that in Paris these kind of -places are on a more respectable footing.</p> - -<p>So after an excellent dinner at Bignon’s, washed down by Röederer, the -trio stroll to the Alcazar.</p> - -<p>“It’s a long time since I’ve been at a place like this,” Delaval says, -“but I suppose I must try and do some of the Parisian things, unless I -want to be taken for a regular savage.”</p> - -<p>“Things are rather changed since you were here, eh,” Silverlake asks.</p> - -<p>“Well, yes. It’s incredible how a year<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a>{98}</span> or so changes all the people and -places in Paris. I have scarcely seen one of the faces that used to be -familiar in the Bois two winters ago.”</p> - -<p>“Paris isn’t as bad as London for change,” Silverlake remarks. “In town -there’s a lot of cads who suddenly appear—no one knows whence—make a -great flare up with carriages, horses, opera boxes, powdered footmen, -and as suddenly disappear, goodness knows where, and sink into utter -oblivion. Cads who speculate, you know, make fortunes by some species of -swindling, and then lose them again.”</p> - -<p>“People who are not cads manage to get through their money pretty well,” -drawls Shropshire.</p> - -<p>At which Delaval laughs.</p> - -<p>“Does it hit home, Silverlake?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a>{99}</span></p> - -<p>“Well, it’s a consolation he and I are in the same coach!”</p> - -<p>And then the three men enter a box, the next but one to the stage.</p> - -<p>The Alcazar is crowded to suffocation, there is no moving in the body of -the house, where they sit at the little tables smoking and drinking, and -as Delaval looks round, he says—</p> - -<p>“What on earth do the people flock here for like this?”</p> - -<p>“For Marguerite Ange. Her singing has made this place an unheard of -success, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Marguerite Ange! I haven’t even heard of her!”</p> - -<p>“Don’t say so, my dear fellow, unless you want to argue yourself -unknown! Hi!”</p> - -<p>This last ejaculation is to a pretty coquettish<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span> little Marchande des -Fleurs, and Shropshire invests in a bouquet of Parma violets, as big as -his own head.</p> - -<p>“What a monster posy, who’s that for?” asks Delaval. “I pity its -recipient, it will almost crush her I should think.”</p> - -<p>“It’s for Mademoiselle Ange, of course,” Silverlake joins in, searching -in his pocket for a five-franc piece to buy a bunch of camellias, but -without success, “everyone throws the Ange a bouquet, it’s <i>la mode</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Wonder she isn’t like the fellow, you remember? the Roman fellow, who -was smothered by a shower of cloaks,” Delaval says, with a feeble -reminiscence of some old story learnt long ago in his cramming days. -“Eh, what?” Silverlake asks, “No! don’t know any Roman fellows, know -plenty of Jews, I am sorry to say.”</p> - -<p>“There’s an awful Jew fellow in that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span> stage-box opposite,” whispers -Shropshire, “fingers blazing with diamonds, and all that sort of thing. -He’s after the Ange, comes here every night and ogles her. I wouldn’t -touch him for all the world.”</p> - -<p>“I shouldn’t mind touching his shekels of gold. I——”</p> - -<p>But Silverlake stops short, for just at this moment the shouts and -thunder of applause, the cries and calls for “Marguerite” grow terrific, -and Delaval, raising his glass, curiously eyes a woman advancing slowly -towards the footlights. It is Marguerite Ange, the woman who has turned -the heads of all Paris.</p> - -<p>She is beautiful, this Marguerite Ange, this singer at the Alcazar, this -child of the people, beautiful with a regal beauty any queen might envy.</p> - -<p>The patrician carriage of her grand head,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span> the pride of her bearing, her -slow and stately step, the very swirl of her skirt as she sweeps -forward, all strike Delaval, who gazes at her with a momentary -astonishment that is not altogether born of her loveliness. “Is she an -empress in disguise,” he wonders; but at the second glance, he takes in -the whole splendid physique, the flesh and blood magnificence of -Mademoiselle Ange, and decides that she is of the earth, earthy, that -there is no semi-divine light in the slumbrous eyes over which droop -heavy white lids, no purity about the make of the warm full blooded -lips, no unfleshly refinement about her face and figure; but there is -rare perfection of form, and tropical brilliance of colouring about her, -and her vivid pink and white tints, her rich masses of golden hair form -a strange and almost <i>bizarre</i> contrast to her immense<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span> eyes, black as -midnight skies, and of a velvety softness.</p> - -<p>Delaval remarks the peculiarity just as an inflammable French officer -near him remarks with enormous enthusiasm:</p> - -<p>“<i>Elle est belle à faire peur, cette blonde aux yeux noir!</i>”</p> - -<p>Strangely enough, the more Delaval looks at her the more he is reminded -of someone he has seen. To a certain extent her face appears really -quite familiar to him—but only to a certain extent—beyond this he is -quite in a fog, and searches vainly in the caverns of memory for an -elucidation of the mystery.</p> - -<p>Mademoiselle Ange stands for a moment or two perfectly motionless, with -her eyes fixed on the ground, while the clapping of hands and yelling -applause goes on, and the bright light falls full on a face of -marvellous,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span> almost weird beauty, on perfectly moulded round white -limbs, revealed rather than hidden by clouds of diaphanous drapery, on a -shapely arm supporting a much ornamented guitar—(which by the way she -does not use).</p> - -<p>Then amidst a hush, in which the fall of a pin could be heard, she -begins her song in a deep rich contralto.</p> - -<p>There is none of the noise, or clap-trap, or glitter of the Alcazar -about her or her vocalisation.</p> - -<p>She sings her two first verses, without the quiver of a long black lash, -or the falter of a note, poetically, dreamily, entrancingly. Then she -pauses a second, stretches out one arm tragically towards the audience, -and commences the last verse in a soft, low, thrilling voice that -appeals to the roughest man there, while her huge<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span> black eyes seem to -burn and scintillate, firing the manly bosoms under broadcloth and -blouse with irrepressible ardour.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Je vis le lendemain non plus au bord de l’onde<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Mais assise au chemin la jeune fille blonde!<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Je vis qu’ils étaient deux—A! deux âmes sont joyeuse!<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Comme il était heureux! Comme elle était heureuse!<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Et moi, dans mon bonheur—de les voir si content<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Je me mis a pleurer! Comme on pleure à vingt ans!<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Et moi! dans mon bonheur—de les voir si content<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Je me mis a pleurer! Comme on pleure à vingt ans!”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Lord Delaval</span>—<i>fanatico per la musica</i>—listens enthralled as the last -sweet, sad, soft notes die away on his ear.</p> - -<p>Once more shouts of “Marguerite <i>la Blonde aux yeux noir</i>!” fill the -house with deafening roar, and coming closer to the footlights with a -beaming smile on her scarlet lips, for the first time her eyes fall<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span> on -the box where Delaval sits leaning forward.</p> - -<p>Her glance rests an instant upon him. She utters a sharp cry, her face -through its rouge turns ghastly white, and Marguerite Ange drops -senseless on the floor.</p> - -<p>In a moment, however, the curtain falling, hides her from view.</p> - -<p>“What ails her?” cries Shropshire, as much concerned as if he had not -his Countess—(for whom he has gone through a good deal)—demanding his -allegiance and fidelity.</p> - -<p>“It’s the infernal excitement of all the noise that’s done her up,” -Silverlake says. “Isn’t she more like a witch than a woman? She’d take -the heart out of a man whether he would or no!”</p> - -<p>But Delaval answers nothing. His face is very pale, and there is a queer -dazed look<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span> in his eyes which is foreign to them, and a shiver passes -over his whole frame as the manager comes forward, announcing that -Mademoiselle Ange having recovered her indisposition, will sing again.</p> - -<p>After a few minutes she comes forward and sings a short but passionate -love song, in which her voice falters, and tears glitter in her -magnificent eyes.</p> - -<p>The cheers and cries from the motley audience would have gladdened the -ears of the greatest Diva that ever lived. And they bring triumph to the -heart of this woman, a mighty triumph that gleams from her glance as she -fixes one long look on Delaval’s face when she makes her final curtsey -and retires.</p> - -<p>“What sort of a woman is this Marguerite Ange?” Lord Delaval asks -carelessly, though he is conscious that his heart<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span> throbs a little -faster than usual as he awaits the answer. “She’s not over particular, -is she?”</p> - -<p>“Particular,” laughs Shropshire, “did you ever know an Alcazar -songstress particular? You might as well expect prudery from Rose -Stanley at the Holborn, or from little Kitty Mortimer at the Pavilion. -Do you imagine her salary at the Alcazar pays for her charming <i>au -premier</i> in the Rue Tronchet, her carriage and <i>haute ecole</i> cattle, the -jewels and laces and velvets that are the very soul and essence of the -beautiful Marguerite. Sapristi! You must have forgotten the world and -its ways.”</p> - -<p>“And the parable of the lamb and the wolves,” Silverlake adds. “I defy -any woman making head against the current of lovers that Marguerite -has.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span></p> - -<p>“I might have known it! They are all alike, these women,” Delaval -mutters savagely through his set teeth.</p> - -<p>“Understand, I don’t mean to hint a word against her morals, in fact, -the Ange is extra proper. She always goes about with the most hideous of -duennas. But she’s the very devil with men—twists them round her -fingers—fools them to any extent—cleans them out and then throws them -overboard. Young Valentin de Brissac blew his brains out about her last -week, and not very long ago Jules de Grammont Charleville, a capital -fellow, and one of the Faubourg St. Germain Charleville’s, went to the -bad—took to drinking like a madman—tried to shoot her, and has got -five years for it. The Ange is as hard as granite, as calculating as a -Jew, and as vain as—well—I really<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span> can’t find anything to compare with -her vanity.”</p> - -<p>“Where did you say she lived, Shropshire?”</p> - -<p>Shropshire looks at him and elevates his eyebrows, while Silverlake -bursts out laughing.</p> - -<p>This is the model Benedict all London has talked about!</p> - -<p>“I thought you’d soon tire of domestic bliss and look out for pastures -new,” Shropshire says. “Well—well—Marguerite won’t have anything to -say to me, so I won’t be a dog in the manger, but wish you success. She -lives at Number 17 Rue de Tronchet, just close to the Madelaine, you -know.”</p> - -<p>“Thanks.”</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>And Delaval, leaving his companions,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span> saunters towards the Champs -Elysèes instead of going home.</p> - -<p>It is a lovely night. There is no moon, but myriads of stars cluster -overhead, and somehow the quiet and the stillness of midnight are -pleasant to him. He has quite made up his mind to see Marguerite Ange -again.</p> - -<p>It is not because he has fallen in love with her, far from it. The -feeling she has inspired in him has at present, at any rate, no particle -of love in it, but something draws him on to seeing her—to speaking to -her—to saving her from a path that <i>must</i> lead to perdition.</p> - -<p>And he smiles almost bitterly at such a feeling possessing him about a -singing woman at the Alcazar!</p> - -<p>By and by, when the air has cooled his hot temples a little, and the -oppressive sort<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span> of spell this evening has brought him disperses -somewhat, he goes back to the hotel and enters the room where Zai lies -fast asleep. How pretty she looks to his feverish eyes! The purity and -sweetness of her face come like a glimpse of blue sky after a storm. She -is happy, too, for her red lips part in a smile as she clasps her child -close to her heart.</p> - -<p>Lord Delaval stoops down and kisses her so softly that she never stirs. -He is a worshipper of female beauty, and here before him—within his -grasp—lies as fair a woman as ever was made to please the eyes of man. -His wife—his own! a legitimate object for love and passion and -admiration.</p> - -<p>But men’s hearts are perverse things.</p> - -<p>Noiselessly as he entered he steals away again to the adjoining room, -and without<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span> undressing, flings himself into an armchair.</p> - -<p>Here the break of dawn finds him—still sleepless, but lost in a waking -dream of “<i>La Blonde aux yeux noir</i>.”</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_113.png" width="100" height="25" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.<br /><br /> -<small>DRIFTING.</small></h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“A year divides us—love from love,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Though you love now, though I loved then,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">The gulf is straight, but deep enough,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Who shall recross—who among men<br /></span> -<span class="i5">Shall cross again?”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">“<span class="smcap">You</span> came in very late last night, darling,” Zai says, a little -reproachfully, as she sits <i>en peignoir</i>—but a <i>peignoir</i> daintily got -up, with Valenciennes and pink ribbons, and looks divinely fair at the -head of the breakfast-table.</p> - -<p>“There was a carriage accident on the Boulevard, and I helped the -occupants to get out,” he answers.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span></p> - -<p>It is the first falsehood he has uttered to his wife, and in spite of -him a tinge of red sweeps across his fair skin, to hide which he buries -his face in his coffee-cup.</p> - -<p>“Were the occupants <i>ladies</i>?” Zai asks, with a sensation of incipient -jealousy.</p> - -<p>She has learned to think this husband of hers so superbly handsome and -irresistible that she believes all other women must consider him so -likewise.</p> - -<p>“Yes, ladies—<i>old</i> ladies, going home from some concert. They were -terribly frightened, poor old girls,” he says, coolly.</p> - -<p>“And how did you amuse yourself, darling?—and did you talk to anyone?”</p> - -<p>“Why, you’ve grown into the Grand Inquisitor, my pet! I went to the -theatre and I talked to Shropshire and Silverlake.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Those</i> men!” she says with a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span> <i>moue</i>. “They are dreadfully -fast, are they not, Delaval?”</p> - -<p>“So so!”</p> - -<p>“Were Lady Shropshire and Lady Silverlake there?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no!—the husbands are doing Paris <i>en garçon</i>.”</p> - -<p>“How very horrid!” she decides. “<i>You</i> wouldn’t care to go about <i>en -garçon</i>, would you, my own?”</p> - -<p>“<i>Certainly</i> not,” he answers fervently.</p> - -<p>But he has made up his mind to go out <i>en garçon</i> all the same.</p> - -<p>“And how’s baby?” he inquires unctuously, in the hope of turning the -subject.</p> - -<p>“He’s very well. I am sure he has grown half-an-inch in the last few -days, and I really think he tried to say ‘pa—pa’ this morning, -Delaval!”</p> - -<p>“Did he really! Dear little chap!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span></p> - -<p>“Yes! and Madame Le Blanc tells me that she has been a monthly-nurse for -thirty years, and that its the first time she has ever heard a child of -two months-and-a-half pronounce so plainly!”</p> - -<p>“Why the little chap must be the infant prodigy! Pity he’s so beastly -red!”</p> - -<p>“<i>Red</i>, Delaval! Why he’s exactly like Dresden China!” she replies, with -intense mortification.</p> - -<p>He gives a forced laugh. Then he pushes his plate away, with the -devilled kidneys untouched, for he has no appetite. And leaning back in -his chair, looks at his wife.</p> - -<p>And he comes to the conclusion that he ought to be thoroughly ashamed of -himself.</p> - -<p>There she is, facing him. Could any creature of mortal mould be sweeter, -lovelier, purer, more adorable?</p> - -<p><i>And yet!</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span></p> - -<p>These are two little words that carry more meaning in them than all the -long, grandiose phrases in the Queen’s English. These two little words, -indefinite as they seem, show exactly what a man’s mind is when it -oscillates ’twixt right and wrong. Zai is undeniably charming, but she -is not—<i>la Blonde aux yeux noir</i>!</p> - -<p>She lacks the power to inflame the heart of the million. Her soft, -dove-like eyes, cannot burn into men’s brains and souls like the -dangerous but glorious black ones of Marguerite Ange!</p> - -<p>“What piece did you see last night, Delaval?”</p> - -<p>It is a poser. For one moment Lord Delaval, with the impatience and -dislike of being catechised, which is natural to him, has a mind to -speak the truth, and tell his wife that this morning he is not up to -small<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span> talk. But he thinks better of it, and is equal to the occasion.</p> - -<p>“A piece called <i>La Tentation</i>, darling! A thing in which there was a -lot of love-making and smiling and bowing, and a woman, supposed to be -an angel—but probably she is a devil,” he adds, almost <i>sotto voce</i>.</p> - -<p>“Was she pretty?”</p> - -<p>“Tol lol! You can’t tell what an actress is like on the stage, you -know!”</p> - -<p>“I hope you won’t find out what she is like off the stage!” Zai says -earnestly. “Actresses are such bad, dangerous women, sometimes!”</p> - -<p>“And how about <i>actors</i>?”</p> - -<p>The shot goes home, for she flinches and flushes a little, and he is -rather sorry he has said this. It was snobbish, perhaps! But when a man -wishes to stop his wife’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span> mouth, he must do it the best way he can. Zai -will not pursue the subject of Theatres and Thespians after his cut, he -thinks. But he is wrong. She flushed more from a wounded feeling at his -manner and tone than from the reference to her old lover, for whom she -has the most profound indifference now.</p> - -<p>“Have you heard anything about Trixy, Delaval?” she asks, in a low, -humble voice. She is very much ashamed of this sister of hers, and -scarcely likes mentioning her name before the man she not only loves but -honours.</p> - -<p>“Yes. Stubbs has got a divorce. Poor old chap! It appears that he was -awfully cut up; had a fit, and nearly died. He wanted her to go back to -him, and promised never to breathe a word of recrimination; but when he -found she wouldn’t, he got a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span> divorce, and gave that scoundrel Conway a -bill at six months for ten thousand pounds provided he married her! Of -course, the money was too much for the fellow; so the marriage will come -off by-and-by.”</p> - -<p>“And where is Trixy now?”</p> - -<p>“Living at Hammersmith; dining at Richmond and the Orleans with all the -fast men; dressing to the nine, and making herself the talk of town. She -has quite forgotten the word more familiar to her youth than her -Bible—<i>convenances</i>; but what can be expected? If a girl is innately -bad, no power on earth can keep her straight.”</p> - -<p>“But Trixy was not innately bad,” Zai murmurs, deprecatingly. “She -married a man she could not love, and then—she yielded to——”</p> - -<p>“The fascinations of Mr. Conway! Joy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span> go with her! Men are not fair -judges of their own sex, but if I was a woman, I should prefer old -Stubbs to a dozen Conways!”</p> - -<p>“And so should I—<i>now</i>,” Zai confesses meekly. “What a pity women have -not the gift of <i>clair-voyance</i>!”</p> - -<p>“Thank God, they haven’t!” he says to himself, as he rises, and walking -up to the mirror on the mantel, looks at himself. “I wonder what -Mademoiselle Ange saw in me to make her faint? It could not have been my -<i>ugliness</i>!” he thinks, as the glass reflects back his handsome face—a -face which he <i>knows</i> to be handsome and irresistible to most women.</p> - -<p>Then he turns away carelessly—for he is not a vain man—and going up to -his wife kisses her on her forehead.</p> - -<p>But Zai is not satisfied with this.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span></p> - -<p>“Won’t you kiss me properly, darling?” she says, holding up her fresh, -red lips.</p> - -<p>And her darling kisses her “properly,” though all the while he is -wronging her in his heart, on the principle that sins of <i>omission</i> are -as bad as sins of <i>commission</i>!</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_123.png" width="100" height="39" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br /><br /> -<small>IN THE MESHES.</small></h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Take hands and part with laughter,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Touch lips and part with tears,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Once more, and no more after,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Whatever comes with years.<br /></span> -<span class="i1">We twain shall not remeasure<br /></span> -<span class="i3">The ways that left us twain,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Nor crush the lees of pleasure<br /></span> -<span class="i3">From sanguine grapes of pain.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Lord Delaval</span> has never let a desire of his remain ungratified in his -life, so now, haunted by the beauty of a woman for the space of -twenty-four hours, he resolves to make her acquaintance.</p> - -<p>“Her sort are not very particular about the <i>convenances</i>,” he says to -himself as he approaches <i>Numèro 17 Rue de Tronchet</i>,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span> but it must be -confessed that his courage does not rear its crest much aloft as he -rings the bell, and hears from the <i>concierge</i> that “Mademoiselle Ange -<i>est chez elle</i>.”</p> - -<p>Still, though his mind is perturbed, his pulses throb, and there is a -mingling of expectation and trepidation in his breast, if his <i>real</i> -feelings were finely analysed, it would be found that Mademoiselle’s -beauty repels even while it attracts him to the point of looking on it -closer.</p> - -<p>Possibly the daylight may dissipate his delusion, he thinks. And he is -conscious of a sort of half-hope, half-regret, that it may be so.</p> - -<p>The apartment, into which he is ushered by Mademoiselle’s own smart -<i>soubrette</i>, disappoints him at once.</p> - -<p>The decorations are florid and over-done. The big mirrors gleam too -brightly on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span> sea-green of the walls, the vivid scarlet of the -ottomans, the chairs, the velvet cushions, the too heavily perfumed -atmosphere, the curious medley of <i>objets d’art</i>, individually costly, -but making a strange and heterogeneous whole, all seem to his fastidious -eyes as redolent of the Alcazar.</p> - -<p>The sunbeams that fall through the rose-tinted blinds are studiously -toned down to a pale mystic light, fit for the languor of magnificent, -heavy-lidded eyes—a Marie Antoinette fan with a jewelled handle, a -flacon of <i>esprit des millefleurs</i>, a tiny handkerchief with a Chantilly -border, a volume of De Musset’s poems, lie together, and <i>bric-à-brac</i>, -rococo, ormolu, and Sèvres are heaped everywhere in picturesque -confusion. If Mademoiselle Ange has ever desired to be grand, she has -gained her desire.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span></p> - -<p>While he waits, he wonders if the woman is really content, and whether -these things are worth possessing at the price she has to pay for them.</p> - -<p>“Gratified vanity goes a precious long way, so I suppose she is happy -and satisfied,” he thinks with a sneer, and a sort of savage sensation -in his heart, that he has not found her in a barely furnished room, -devoid of luxury, and indicative of high moral worth.</p> - -<p>It certainly is not marvellous that <i>La Blonde aux Yeux Noir</i> has -created a regular furore in Paris.</p> - -<p>As the heavy red velvet portières are pushed aside, and she comes into -the room, the sneer dies right away from his mouth, and he confesses -that this woman is a thing to wonder at.</p> - -<p>If she had struck him as beautiful in her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span> diaphanous robes, in her -semi-nudity, with manacles of gold on her neck and arms, fit for an -Eastern Satrap’s love, she strikes him as ten times more attractive in -her day attire.</p> - -<p>She wears a deep wine-coloured satin, covered with a profusion of lace; -the bodice is cut square and the sleeves are open and hanging. Her -throat and slender wrists gleam like the purest alabaster under the -delicious rose-tinted light, and wine-coloured bands, studded with small -but rare brilliants, go round them. Her hair, perfectly golden, falls in -light bright curls above her dark straight brows, and is knotted -carelessly, but artistically, in thick glossy coils at the back of her -well-shaped head.</p> - -<p>She is thoroughly well got up, she has made the most of herself in every -particular,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span> and yet she has the art of letting her magnificence seem -part and parcel of herself, as if it belonged to her and was not a -studied effect.</p> - -<p>And one of Marguerite Ange’s attractions is that she looks so young; she -cannot have reached one score to judge by her flawless face and her -slender figure, which is all bends and curves without an angle in it.</p> - -<p>“I scarcely dared to hope that you <i>would</i> come and see me,” she says in -French that is true Parisian, though Delaval has heard that she comes -from Arles, the birth-place of beauty; and she holds out, rather -deprecatingly, a slim white hand, which, of course, he clasps eagerly, a -sharp thrill going through him as he does so.</p> - -<p>“Why not?” he asks in as excellent<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span> French as her own. “Could I be the -only man to resist the Queen of—<i>Hearts</i>?”</p> - -<p>And his voice has certainly a fervour and a ring of truth about it, -which perhaps gratifies her, for a little smile, savouring of triumph, -crosses her lips.</p> - -<p>She throws herself back among her vivid scarlet cushions, and makes a -gesture to him to sit down beside her.</p> - -<p>Then, for the first time, he grows conscious of the presence of a third -person, an old woman, hideous as Hecuba, who has seated herself close to -the portière.</p> - -<p>“That’s the sheep-dog Shropshire spoke of,” he thinks.</p> - -<p>“Madame Perchard, you can go for a walk if you like. It is a charming -day, and it will do you good. Stay! you might call at the costumier’s, -and desire<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span> them to send the domino and mask for the <i>Bal de l’Opera</i> -to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>Madame Perchard, who looks as if she were well paid and well fed, smiles -feebly and goes on her way, and the others are left <i>tête-à-tête</i>.</p> - -<p>If anyone had suggested two months ago that he would be seated in a -dimly-lit room, side by side with a music-hall singer, Lord Delaval -would probably have scouted the notion, and resented the speaker’s -impertinence; but now it seems to him as if it is the most natural thing -in the world that he should be here, at Marguerite Ange’s feet -(mentally).</p> - -<p>He turns, and looks into her beautiful eyes long and steadfastly, -without speaking, until she, who has grown hardened to the boldest -stare, reddens a little.</p> - -<p>“<i>Eh bien?</i>” she says smiling, and her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span> voice startles him out of a -reverie. He is not only thinking how exquisitely lovely she is, but -taxing his brain once more to find out <i>who</i> she resembles.</p> - -<p>“I was dreaming, I believe, Mademoiselle Ange! Will you forgive me for -coming here like this? My only excuse is that my heart was stronger than -myself,” he says, in a low, passionate voice.</p> - -<p>“I forgive you!” she answers. “Ah! you don’t know what I felt the other -night when I first saw you. You are very like someone I once -knew—someone I loved as women only love once in their lives!—someone -who is dead to me, and when I saw you I fainted.”</p> - -<p>So, this is why she fainted at sight of him—simply because he happens -to resemble some sweetheart of other days. The idea is not flattering, -and irritates him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span> Somehow, he had fancied that his own irresistible -attractions had had an effect on her; but he cannot gaze on her and not -soften at once.</p> - -<p>“Mademoiselle Ange, why do you live this life?” he says abruptly.</p> - -<p>“What harm is there in my life?” she asks. “It suits me!”</p> - -<p>“It suits no woman to forfeit respect for admiration—modest life for -public display; but what right have I to talk to you so? To what good -can I talk? For, <i>is it not a little too late</i>?”</p> - -<p>“You are very hard on me,” she falters. “Ah! I see you will <i>never</i> like -me—for you are prejudiced!”</p> - -<p>“What does it matter to you if I am prejudiced? After all, you could -only care for my liking as you care for the liking of a dozen other men. -Come—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span>strangers almost though we are—tell me who is the most favoured -amongst your worshippers! For, in spite of being prejudiced, I have felt -a great interest in you ever since I first looked on your face.”</p> - -<p>She glances up at him, and the colour deepens on her cheek.</p> - -<p>“Why should you take an interest in me? I am only a poor artist, and -quite below <i>your</i> notice,” she answers, with a sort of proud humility.</p> - -<p>“You would not say that if you knew how much I have thought about you, -<i>how</i> your face has haunted me. It has bewitched me—<i>malgre moi</i>—I -think. Do you know, Mademoiselle Ange, that if I am like someone you -knew, you are strangely like someone I have seen; someone who certainly -was not so beautiful as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span> you are, or I should remember her to my cost,” -he adds softly.</p> - -<p>She flushes still deeper as she listens, then turns the subject by -saying lightly:</p> - -<p>“And what am I to tell you about myself? Only that I have a great deal -of admiration and very little love! Perhaps you will think that is all I -ought to expect, being myself! But really I don’t believe anyone has -ever <i>loved me</i>!”</p> - -<p>“It would indeed, be strange if they hadn’t,” he replies, unable to -remove his gaze from her. “You are deceiving yourself or deceiving <i>me</i>. -You are not one to be seen and not loved—<i>madly loved</i>! No matter the -dire results of it!” he cries eagerly, and her lids droop under the -infinite passion of his eyes.</p> - -<p>“It is very hard to tell the real from the sham in love, and in -everything else<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span> I don’t take the trouble to try; I class them all -together, and value them at just as much as they are worth,” she says -with a low laugh. “You asked me which of them I liked best—no <i>one</i>; -but somehow, though I only saw you two nights ago, <i>you</i> seem to stand -apart from the rest, you are different <i>to me</i>! You won’t be ashamed to -come here now and then? I am not a <i>grande duchesse</i>, but still——”</p> - -<p>“I’ll come till you tire of me. I am afraid that will be <i>too soon</i>. You -women are so capricious, especially lovely ones.”</p> - -<p>“To everyone else, perhaps, but <i>never to you</i>!” she almost whispers, -looking right into his eyes now with a yearning, wistful look that might -make him lose his head, and he feels already that the best thing he can -do is not to see Mademoiselle Ange again.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span></p> - -<p>But what man has the strength of mind to resist a sudden and violent -passion like this? He thinks, as he gazes infatuated on her, of some -splendidly plumaged bird, of a mirage in the desert, of heavily scented -exotics, of burning skies, or rather he <i>feels</i> all this, for her -prerogative is to inspire sensation. To look at her is a species of -moral dram drinking, and she stands in comparison to better, purer -women, women like Zai, as brandy stands to weak wine and water.</p> - -<p>“If Rubens had seen this girl,” Delaval says to himself, “he would not -have sent down for all time a burlesque upon this splendid red and -white, this fleshly magnificence!”</p> - -<p>“Do you know I had an instinct when I saw you the other night? I -believed you were my fate,” she says in a dreamy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span> voice, but so suddenly -that he starts a little.</p> - -<p>It <i>is</i> startling to think that he should in any way be connected with -the fate of this exquisite woman.</p> - -<p>As she sits here before him, her hands clasped loosely together, a sort -of abandon in her lovely figure, the light throws up richer gold on her -hair, the soft folds of her satin gown fall round her moulded form like -the robes of an empress, and he almost groans as he realises how -impossible it would be to choose a life for one gifted with such rare -physical beauty, that would not be hedged round with ten thousand -dangers.</p> - -<p>He shudders as he feels that this gift of beauty <i>must</i> be a curse, -dragging her downwards.</p> - -<p>“<i>I</i> your fate? God knows <i>what</i> your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span> fate will be! You must have been -mad to choose such an awful life.”</p> - -<p>“Because you think me pretty, you say that! What is the use of being -good-looking if it can bring me none of the nice things I desire? I -might as well be ugly and old and senseless, if I had to be shut up -within the narrow limits of most women’s lives. How could I gain power, -the appreciation which is my due, if the public do not see me and judge -for themselves? I wanted to be rich and I am so; I wanted to ride in -carriages like I have seen women do, whose beauty has paled beside mine. -What women care to live always in insignificance, obscurity, and, worst -of all, in <i>poverty</i>?” she asks simply.</p> - -<p>Lord Delaval is too much <i>homme du monde</i> to shrink from her when she -says all this—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span>when she breathes a creed utterly antagonistic to the -training of <i>good</i> women. He does not revolt even from the evidently -hard realism of her nature; the manner in which she seems to appraise -and value her own attractions, setting no store on the beauty which -womanly women hold as a gift beyond price, but only as a means of -winning money, makes him regard her with a curious feeling that has no -repulsion in it.</p> - -<p>“Marguerite,” he says—he has already come to her Christian name, but -among her class this is so common that she probably never even notices -it. “Tell me, have you no heart, no feeling, that you talk so -strangely?”</p> - -<p>“<i>Do</i> I talk strangely?” she asks with a bewildering smile. “Do I differ -so much in my words and ways from your high-born<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span> English misses—the -women who live in what you call your May Fair, your Belgravia, who sell -themselves for gold? I have heard that it is the trade, the profession, -of those ladies very often to lay themselves out to win some man, no -matter how old he is, how ugly he is, so that he is rich! And then they -give themselves in exchange for money or title. But it is a fair -bargain, is it not so? So much flesh and blood for so much gold, and -your aristocratic world smiles on them and honours them, while it and -you condemn such poor girls as I, who only use my youth and good looks -in the pursuit of my profession. There is only one difference you see, -the matrimonial market is not open to such as me with my soiled name, so -I am obliged to try and make a name and reputation for myself.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span></p> - -<p>As he listens to her he wonders how a music-hall singer has learned the -astute wisdom of the world, how words flow to her lips so easily, how, -in spite of the surroundings of her daily life, her voice is so sweet -and low and soft, her manner so well-bred, her language so refined.</p> - -<p>“You say I have no heart, no feeling?” she goes on, drawing nearer him -and placing her hand upon her breast with a melo-dramatic air, “but what -have I to do with such things? Who has ever taught me what love means? -Cruelty and insult I have suffered. Once—ah! I nearly died because he -whom I adored, trampled on my heart as if it had been dust beneath his -feet! But that is past and gone. I forgive him and I do not resent it, -but love him still. Love, you know, like one gives to the dead. No! -Respect and tenderness to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span> me are just empty sounds. Who in all this -world ever cared whether I suffered, whether I lived or—died? <i>No -one!</i>”</p> - -<p>Her face glows with emotion, and he, as her wild, reckless words sweep -over his ear, feels as if some spell was at work; the room seems to -stifle him, and Marguerite’s great black eyes seem to blaze and burn -into his brain.</p> - -<p>“You see I am quite removed from the pale of men’s sympathy. I cannot -find any happiness in the way other women find it. I am only a -pariah—an outcast.”</p> - -<p>“You say that you have no chances of happiness like other women have, -that there are none who would care to marry you! You will find out your -mistake some day, Marguerite. You will find that such a face as yours -can win, not only admiration and love, but a husband,” he answers. And<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span> -he actually believes that, if the Gordian knot was not already tied, -there is no knowing what imprudence he might not commit for a creature -as rarely lovely as this!</p> - -<p>“Is that true?” she asks, lifting her head with a strange light in her -eyes. “Would men who are far above me—like you, for instance—ever -stoop to me?”</p> - -<p>He half turns away from her. Perhaps his good angel is hovering near, -for he comes to the conclusion that it may be best for her and best for -himself if this interview comes to an end.</p> - -<p>She seems to have the power of drawing him nearer and nearer to her -every moment.</p> - -<p>“When you know more of the world,” he says quietly, “<i>my</i> greatness will -diminish very greatly in your eyes, if it does not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span> cease altogether. -Why, you have raised me aloft, Marguerite, when you don’t even know my -name or the class I belong to!”</p> - -<p>She smiles rather bitterly, and a bright pink surges over her face.</p> - -<p>“I know who you are—you are Lord Delaval!” she answers in a very low -voice, that lingers a little over his name. “Your friends who were with -you the other night told me.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” he says, “and did they tell you more about me than my name?” he -asks eagerly, for somehow he is very averse to her knowing that he is -married.</p> - -<p>“No,” she replies. “Nothing. Wait! They did say that you were not -married.”</p> - -<p>He flushes and is silent a second.</p> - -<p>“They told you the truth,” he says calmly, but, lax as he is, his -conscience gives a throb of compunction at denying<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span> the existence of -Zai—Zai, who loves him with every inch of her heart. “But I <i>must</i> go -now. I have been here too long already, Marguerite,” he adds rather -abruptly.</p> - -<p>“You are going?” she asks regretfully, and a tear glistens on her lash. -“Do you know I believe I shall <i>never</i> see you again. Is this the only -time—tell me the truth, it will be kinder!—that my eyes will look on -your face?”</p> - -<p>“No. Of <i>course</i> we shall meet again.”</p> - -<p>“When?” she asks fervently.</p> - -<p>“When? In a very few days, I trust.”</p> - -<p>“Will you come here on Wednesday night to supper? Ah, <i>do</i>! Let me have -some date to look forward to! Yet, no! Do not come! What use is it for -us to meet again? Are you not as far removed from me as heaven from -earth? as respectability<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span> from unrespectability? Say, is there not an -obstacle between us two that we cannot surmount?”</p> - -<p>Her lips are quivering. Her heart beats so loudly that he can almost -count its throbs. Truly there is no acting in this. Marguerite has -fallen in love with him at first sight, as he has done with her.</p> - -<p>“There is no obstacle between us,” he whispers, once more denying his -wife. “I will come on Wednesday.”</p> - -<p>“You will?”</p> - -<p>She holds out her hands to him, and as he clasps them closely, he bends -his head and his lips nearly rest upon hers.</p> - -<p>But it is only a passing madness. He is not quite lost yet. And -Marguerite, as she looks up at him hastily, sees no trace of passion in -his face.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span></p> - -<p>When she is alone she kisses eagerly the hands he has held in his.</p> - -<p>“He will come again, and again!” she says aloud. “He is not a man to -stop at anything if inclination leads him. He spoke of my <i>beauty</i>. Oh! -how I thank Heaven for it now—<i>now</i> that I know it will give me my -heart’s desire yet!”</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_148.png" width="100" height="39" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br /><br /> -<small>DEEPER AND DEEPER STILL.</small></h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“If one should love you with real love—<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Such things have been—<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Things that your fair face knows nothing of<br /></span> -<span class="i3">It seems—Faustine?<br /></span> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">. . . . . . . . . .</span><br /> -<span class="i0">“Curled lips, long since half kissed away,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Still sweet and keen,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">You’d give him poison, shall we say?<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Or what—Faustine?”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">They</span> are much sought after, the little suppers that Mademoiselle Ange -gives on Wednesday nights.</p> - -<p>Dainty, <i>récherché</i> feasts, where the guests are chosen more for social -than moral worth, and the <i>cuisine</i> is irreproachable.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span></p> - -<p>Mademoiselle, with the tact of a hostess to the manner born, and the -<i>savoir-faire</i> that she has learned goodness knows how, is careful that -these small feasts shall savour rather of gay Bohemianism than the -conventional dullness that some people deem inseparable from propriety.</p> - -<p>But while she regulates the social element, she does not ignore sympathy -between mind and body, and knowing that the nearest way to men’s hearts -is through their palates, secures the services of a noted <i>chef</i>, who -drives to the Rue Tronchet in his own <i>chic</i> brougham, and disburses -himself of a hundred-guinea diamond ring before he commences the -momentous operation of trussing an ortolan.</p> - -<p>This Wednesday night most of the guests are assembled in the <i>salon</i>.</p> - -<p>Lounging on a sofa is a superb brunette,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span> perfectly dressed and -bejewelled. She is Leonide Leroux, a dramatic star both in Paris and -London. By her side, languidly stroking his moustache, sits Ivan -Scoboloff, a Russian baron with more money than brains. Beside these are -little Rose Marigny, soubrette at the Theatre des Galléries, Monsieur -Chavard, dramatic critic and author, and Louis, Marquis de Belcour, a -good-looking giant and as rich as Crœsus.</p> - -<p>Mademoiselle Ange is not herself to-night. Lovely, of course, but with -the sparkle of her beauty lacking, as she reclines in a red velvet -chair, in an artistic pose, and gives small heed to the little -tittle-tattle around.</p> - -<p>The last Parisian scandal is discussed, the last <i>mot</i> of the coulisses -related, but, contrary to her usual habit, Marguerite is evidently -<i>distraite</i>, and every now and then<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span> she throws anxious glances towards -the door.</p> - -<p>The full light of the crystal chandelier falls upon the snowy white of -her skin, the exquisite rose and opal tints of her lips and cheeks, and -her large black eyes full of passion and fire.</p> - -<p>The strongest glare can only show up her brilliance, and find no flaw or -blemish in the marvellous colouring that looks as if it was Nature’s own -handiwork.</p> - -<p>All that the best Parisian <i>modiste</i> can do has been done for her, and -she is exceptionally well got up this evening; for she has abandoned her -usual preference for gorgeous hues and costly heavy materials, and her -trailing skirts of purest white fall in cloud-like masses round her as -she leans back with the mien of a young empress. Opals and brilliants -fasten the laces on her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span> bosom, and a single tropical flower, with -blood-red petals, gleams near her slender throat.</p> - -<p>Suddenly a radiant light flashes in her restless eyes. The <i>portière</i> is -held back, and Lord Delaval enters.</p> - -<p>As he approaches, a vivid flush of pleasure surges over her lovely face, -and, as he takes her hand, she says, in a low, reproachful voice:</p> - -<p>“I feared so much you were not coming, but you have come! Will you take -me in?”</p> - -<p>He offers her his arm and at this moment catches sight of De Belcour, -who is looking at him with ill-concealed jealousy and vexation. He has -met this man before, a year or two ago, and nods recognition, then, -turning towards his companion, forgets his existence.</p> - -<p>The <i>portière</i> is drawn aside, and they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span> enter the supper-room. On the -table are antique silver tripods holding rare hothouse flowers and -richest fruit, vases of exquisite camellias of every colour are -interspersed between, and the whole are lit up by the soft light of -waxen tapers. The supper itself is one of those which has made Monsieur -Hector a king of <i>chefs</i>. Meats have lost their identity in the -elaboration of the flavouring, cunning dishes are ingeniously devised to -give zest to appetites already satiated. Rhenish of the rarest bouquet -and Comet claret, tribute from the cellar of a youthful Duc, contribute -to the hilarious enjoyment of the company.</p> - -<p>The talk is animated, bright sallies and sharp repartee and racy -anecdotes succeed one another, and amidst it all, pleasant as it is, -Lord Delaval’s conscience rather smites him for being where he is, while -De Belcour<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span> waxes momentarily more wrathful at Mademoiselle Ange’s -evident partiality for the comparative stranger—“<i>ce milord Anglais</i>!”</p> - -<p>“Are these to-night’s spoils, Mademoiselle,” asks Ivan Scoboloff, taking -a lovely red camellia bud from its vase and quietly putting it into his -button-hole. “I believe all the conservatories are pillaged for your -especial benefit, and you’ll turn Paris into a wilderness.”</p> - -<p>“I am afraid my reign will last too short a while for that!” Marguerite -laughs, but in a tone rather tinged with regret, as she carelessly -plucks an exquisite Sofrano rose to pieces, that lies by her plate. “I -am only the rage of an hour, the fashion of a season, you know!”</p> - -<p>“If you <i>did</i> lay Paris waste, what matter?” asks De Belcour, “and -while<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span> a laurel grows, you should have its tribute, for are you not the -Queen of—Hearts?”</p> - -<p>“I hate laurels, they are so gloomy, and I love flowers! though they are -not so lasting! still I prefer them, and as for tributes, of course the -praises of the public are for the singer and not for the woman! and I -like it so. I love to be applauded when I sing. It is life and soul to -me, but as for individual tributes, I don’t want them. I wonder why -people pester me with baubles and with <i>billets doux</i>. Heaven knows I -would rather be without them!” She speaks contemptuously, her eyes are -scornful, and it is easy to see that she is absolutely in earnest.</p> - -<p>“How inscrutable is woman!” Delaval remarks, with a little of his old -cynicism; “she despises the admiration she does all her best to inspire, -and repudiates the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span> passion she has taken an immense trouble to create!”</p> - -<p>“Inscrutable you call us?” Marguerite answers, her face sparkling with -animation. “And yet you affect to read us so easily! We are not -inscrutable, I think, but we are inconsistent perhaps—cold and -passionate, selfish and self-denying, tender and heartless, kind and -cold, a mixture of the serpent and the dove; gentle as a faithful hound -when we love, fierce and relentless as the hawk to the quarry when we -hate, or have cause for revenge!”</p> - -<p>“A list of contradictions that prove you <i>are</i> inscrutable, <i>ma belle</i>!” -observes Chavard, filling up his glass with Roussillion for the fifth -time.</p> - -<p>“I thought <i>you</i> knew us better; it is your trade,” Marguerite says -carelessly, peeling a peach whose bloom is less lovely<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span> than her own. “I -wonder when men who want to win our love will cease to woo us? The prize -beyond a woman’s reach is always the most coveted; it has been so since -Paradise; it will be so for all eternity!”</p> - -<p>Her voice sinks lower as she says this, and there is quite a wistful -look in her eyes as she turns them towards Delaval, that evinces them to -be no affectation, but a true echo of her heart.</p> - -<p>“Don’t let us talk of love, <i>ma chère</i>,” Leonide Leroux breaks in -brightly. “It is the wettest blanket in the world. Love may be a -charming companion, but we all know it is an intolerable master. It’s -like this absinthe, delicious but dangerous; once let it get hold of -you—<i>eh bien!</i>—the rest I know nothing about, but I have heard it is -too terrible!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span></p> - -<p>“I cannot think what the devil people fall in love for,” Ivan Scoboloff -murmurs languidly; “it’s an amusement that only suits boys and girls, -but after five-and-twenty no sane man would think of such folly.”</p> - -<p>“And yet I have seen you go in for it, although I fancy you have arrived -at a little beyond twenty-five,” Chavard says quietly, with a meaning -glance at Leonide Leroux.</p> - -<p>“I am a girl, but I have never gone in for love,” Rose Marigny cries in -her bird-like voice.</p> - -<p>“That’s well done, Mademoiselle Rose; mind you keep to that. No love is -half so sweet as <i>caramels à la vanille</i> or <i>marrons glacés</i>,” -Mademoiselle Leroux answers, as she piles the above comestibles on her -plate.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span></p> - -<p>Meanwhile De Belcour joins very little in either conversation or -laughter, and grows momentarily more ill at ease. Desperately jealous by -nature, it irritates him almost beyond endurance to see Marguerite -bestow her attention upon any other man.</p> - -<p>Hitherto he has hugged to his bosom the notion that she is invariably -cold—to him only she has been kind of late, and her kindness has made a -great impression on him, simply from its contrast to the capricious -manner she has towards others.</p> - -<p>Is the love which he had begun to persuade himself she bore him nothing -but a passing caprice after all—an <i>amourette</i> of an hour—to be -abandoned when it has lost the zest of freshness? Irritation, wounded -<i>amour propre</i>, fierce<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span> jealousy, all mingle together in his breast and -make a formidable whole when the fear creeps on him that the woman he -loves to fatuous stupidity sets so little value on his feelings that she -is ready to sacrifice it to the gratification of a passing whim, the -transient excitement of a new conquest.</p> - -<p>For what else, he argues, and not without reason on his side, can prompt -her to look and speak to Lord Delaval with eyes and lips that too truly -simulate a love she cannot possibly feel for him, stranger as he is?</p> - -<p>Every word, every glance she gives, tortures this impassioned, impetuous -Frenchman, and he determines to dog her steps and her house to find out -the mystery that drives him wild.</p> - -<p>“When’s the new play coming out,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span> Chavard?” Scoboloff asks, gloating, -<i>gourmet</i> as he is, on the lusciousness of an apricot before him.</p> - -<p>Chavard has written a play which his clique declare will take Paris by -storm, and, intolerably vain of his brains, he is of their opinion.</p> - -<p>“In about a month or two,” he answers.</p> - -<p>“Shocking bad time for that sort of thing, isn’t it? No one will be left -in Paris.”</p> - -<p>“No one at all to speak of—only about a couple of millions!”</p> - -<p>“Keep your smartness for your play, <i>mon cher</i>. Of course I meant no one -in Society.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t mind <i>that</i>. You swells are so phlegmatic, you see. The -<i>canaille</i> laugh, and clap, and hoot, and shout at my work, and -thoroughly appreciate my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span> pet points, but the golden youth sleep always, -snore even, through my best situations.”</p> - -<p>“Quite true!” cries Leonide Leroux. “I have often noticed them yawn when -I have been dying <i>so</i> beautifully in the Sphinx. What makes swells so -sleepy, I wonder?”</p> - -<p>“Affectation—a little <i>ennui</i>—and a great deal of dinner,” says -Chavard.</p> - -<p>“Let us go into the drawing-room and have some music,” Marguerite -suggests, feeling possibly that at the supper-table she and Lord Delaval -are too much <i>en evidence</i>.</p> - -<p>So they all go, and Leonide Leroux sings them <i>Il Bacio</i> deliciously in -a lovely soprano, while Marguerite lounges as usual in a large chair, -and her eyes glance frequently at a group near the window<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span> of smokers, -and which is composed of Scoboloff, Delaval and Rose Marigny, who puffs -away prettily at a dainty <i>Sultan doux</i>, and evidently is no novice in -the accomplishment.</p> - -<p>Presently De Belcour draws near his hostess—De Belcour, with half his -beauty spoiled by scowling eyes and a frown on his brow.</p> - -<p>“Why waste your glances on people who don’t appreciate them?” he asks, -in a low voice that has a sullen ring in it.</p> - -<p>She laughs, and does not answer, so he pulls viciously at his long -moustache to vent his anger on something, since he is afraid to vent it -on her.</p> - -<p>“You spoke the truth at supper to-night, Marguerite, when you said to -woo a woman was a sure way not to win her; and yet, poets rave about the -softness and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span> the tenderness of women, and call them the link that -unites earth with Heaven. <i>Sapristi!</i> for cold-blooded cruelty, for -passionless devilment, a woman is to a man what a hawk is to a dove, a -tigress to a tame cat!”</p> - -<p>Marguerite elevates her pencilled brows slightly.</p> - -<p>“I wish you would try and be less violent and abusive in your talk, -Monsieur le Marquis: if you <i>must</i> talk to me, let the talk be -endurable, anyway.”</p> - -<p>He clenches his teeth to suppress the oath that rises to his lips.</p> - -<p>“Marguerite! listen to me! Tell me, I implore of you, what spirit -possesses you to-night? Is it your vanity, your love of fresh victories, -that induces you to treat me like this? Marguerite, for the love of -Heaven!—for the sake of what we have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span> been to each other—do not make -me suffer like this.”</p> - -<p>But he might as well plead to a marble pillar.</p> - -<p>“I wish you would go and smoke, and not talk nonsense,” she says, almost -in a whisper, with a flush of annoyance on her cheek. “I only wish <i>I</i> -could smoke.”</p> - -<p>“If <i>that</i> is your only ambition, do it; most things <i>end in smoke</i>,” he -replies meaningly and savagely; and while all this is going on, Lord -Delaval watches her covertly, and it is dear incense to his vanity when -he marks that De Belcour moves away from the evident contest, foiled and -angry. “After all, perhaps Shropshire and Silverlake wronged her,” he -thinks, and rather than the Frenchman shall monopolise her, he throws -away his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span> half-smoked cigar and saunters towards her.</p> - -<p>Her eyes flash with pleasure as he approaches—her cheeks glow—and she -listens enraptured to his voice.</p> - -<p>Yes! It is evidently love at first sight with her, and to this man she -is certainly not acting a part. As her sweet warm breath sweeps past -him, he feels the sensuous delirium of a dream, he is intoxicated by the -power of her beauty; and she, hard and cold as she really is, deadly in -her revenge, cruel in her greed of love, relentless in her hate, her -heart yearns to him with quite a real feeling, a feeling which, though -wicked and worthless in itself, yet ennobles her to a certain extent, -for it makes her feel her own utter unworthiness.</p> - -<p>“Stay a few minutes,” she whispers, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span> he rises among the other guests -for his adieux.</p> - -<p>And so he stays, but in his mind’s eye he sees his wife’s face, and—man -of the world as he is, flirt, <i>vaurien</i>, lax to the last degree—his -deep blue eyes actually glisten with generous remorse.</p> - -<p>“Poor little woman!” he thinks. “By Jove! what an awful fool I was to -come here.”</p> - -<p>He calls himself a fool, but fool is a mild term to apply to a man who -deliberately seeks temptation, knowing himself to be uncommonly weak in -the flesh; nevertheless, he stays a little longer, and yet a little -longer.</p> - -<p>Marguerite Ange leans back in a pose that would drive a sculptor into a -phrensy of delight. The fragrance of her golden hair goes out to him, -and her charming red lips tempt dreadfully.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span></p> - -<p>How he anathematises inwardly the <i>convenances</i> so dear to his -mother-in-law’s heart!</p> - -<p>The conventionalities (he does not dream of calling them by any more -serious term) that bid him and her sit apart.</p> - -<p>“It is growing very late, I am afraid,” he says, after a little.</p> - -<p>“If it is, what matter?”</p> - -<p>“I am afraid!”</p> - -<p>“Afraid! Afraid of whom?”</p> - -<p>“Afraid of <i>myself</i>,” he answers.</p> - -<p>“Is that really true?”</p> - -<p>“Quite, <i>quite</i> true, so help me Heaven! Marguerite, you don’t <i>really</i> -doubt me! Have you lived till now, and never learnt that a man often -fears to try and climb to the highest pinnacle of his desire, be it for -fame, or fortune, or bliss, lest he fall before he has tasted it. Don’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span> -you know what your face can do to a man?”</p> - -<p>She shakes her head, and the bright light glistening on it seems to turn -each tress to living gold.</p> - -<p>“It can send him into a dream of Heaven! fire his soul with rapture, or -drive him mad with disappointment and regret!”</p> - -<p>He pauses, a little breathless. Sentiment is not a plant of common or -spontaneous growth in our aristocracy, and it is not at all in Lord -Delaval’s line.</p> - -<p>The age is far too practical for it, more’s the pity.</p> - -<p>He is, in fact, a little astonished at his flight of eloquence, mediocre -though it be, and a little silence ensues.</p> - -<p>Then Marguerite Ange leans forward, puts her white hand, all sparkling -with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span> gems, on his arm and looks up in his face.</p> - -<p>He is certainly the handsomest man she has ever seen.</p> - -<p>“The <i>last</i> would never be <i>your</i> fate,” she says, in a low, thrilling -tone; but he hears her, of course. Trust a man, even if he is partially -deaf, not to hear any sort of incense to his vanity, if he can hear -nothing else; and this man is especially vain, from the top of his blond -head to the sole of his well-made boot.</p> - -<p>His ultramarine eyes kindle at once into great fires, and the red spots -glow on his cheeks to match.</p> - -<p>“Do you know what your face has done to me, Marguerite?” he asks slowly.</p> - -<p>She does not reply, but somehow this face of hers seems to have come -nearer him, and through a bewildered haze he sees<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span> nothing but a pair of -lips, soft and maddening; a pair of eyes, black as midnight, lustrous as -two stars, with a depth of passion in their liquid depths that stirs his -pulse and makes his head whirl.</p> - -<p>It is a picture that brings oblivion of everything, save of dangerous -proximity.</p> - -<p>“I told you a falsehood the other day, Marguerite, when I said I was not -married. I <i>am</i> married! I have not been married two years, and I -married for <i>love</i>. My wife loves me with all her soul, and it would -break her heart to lose me, and yet—Heaven forgive me!—I feel to-night -as if I <i>hated her</i>! because she seems to rise up between you and me.”</p> - -<p>She averts her face, and a little smile passes quickly over her mouth—a -smile that has triumph in it, a smile that is absolutely <i>wicked</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span></p> - -<p>“When I entered this house to-night something told me of the end. It -seems utter folly for a man to go mad over a woman’s face like this, -doesn’t it? But, Marguerite, it <i>is</i> so. I <i>have</i> gone mad, I believe, -for, strangers as we were but three short days ago, I love you as I -<i>never</i> loved anyone before! I swear it, Marguerite!”</p> - -<p>She does not smile now at his rhapsody. She knows he is watching her, -and he sees nothing but the sweetest, tenderest light in the wonderful -eyes, a softer look on the perfect mouth.</p> - -<p>“Strange!” she says simply, “that we should have felt the same -to-night—that——”</p> - -<p>“<i>We?</i>” he interrupts. “Say that again, Marguerite!”</p> - -<p>“Yes! Did I not tell you the first time we spoke that you were—<i>my -fate</i>!” And<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span> Marguerite’s head is very close to his shoulder, and her -lips seem to seek his. But she starts away hastily as De Belcour, -unannounced, strides into the room.</p> - -<p>“Pardon, Mademoiselle!” he says through his set teeth, “I forgot my -gloves! I am sorry to have interrupted you.”</p> - -<p>And Marguerite, forgetting the conventional smile which is one of the -tricks of her trade, sits silent and a little uncomfortable.</p> - -<p>“We may as well walk a little way together,” Lord Delaval says quietly. -“Mademoiselle’s society is so charming, I really forgot the hour!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br /><br /> -<small>“DON’T YOU KNOW ME, DELAVAL?”</small></h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“And where the red was—lo! the bloodless white,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">And where truth was—the likeness of a liar,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And where day was—the likeness of the night,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">This is the end of every man’s desire!”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> world seems very dark to Lord Delaval to-day—a terrible chaos, in -fact, in which right is hopelessly, inextricably, mingled with wrong.</p> - -<p>He hates and scorns himself for this passion for Marguerite Ange, which -gives him neither rest nor peace.</p> - -<p>He swears he will leave Paris and never set eyes on her again; then he -believes it is Kismet, bows to the inevitable, and resolves not to -struggle against a feeling that is evidently stronger than himself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span></p> - -<p>Then comes a reaction once more.</p> - -<p>“There is nothing to be done but to go right away. There’s not much fear -she’ll break her heart, or that I have really inspired a <i>grande -passion</i>. <i>Her</i> sort are not much given to fretting after one man, when -a dozen are at her beck,” he says to himself sardonically. “But I will -go and wish her good-bye. That much will be but gentlemanly.”</p> - -<p>So he goes, a few days after the supper party, to the Rue Tronchet.</p> - -<p>The lovely cause of so much heartburning leans back as usual among her -vivid scarlet cushions, doing nothing, as is her wont—like the lilies -of the field, she neither toils nor spins, but she looks in her shady, -luxurious room, provokingly cool and languid, and far away from the -troubles and perplexities of this work-a-day world.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span></p> - -<p>But the dreaminess of her eyes is lost in the radiant light that -transfigures her face as Lord Delaval enters, and starting up, she holds -out two hands without a word, but with a smile that is more than a -welcome.</p> - -<p>He takes them absently and seats himself beside her in rather an -abstracted way, and when he speaks, it is of the subject that is -uppermost in his mind.</p> - -<p>“I’ve come to say good-bye, Marguerite.”</p> - -<p>“Good-bye?” she repeats in a startled voice.</p> - -<p>“Yes. I am going away.”</p> - -<p>“Where?”</p> - -<p>Her accents tremble, her face blanches. It dawns upon her at once that -this is no ordinary leave-taking.</p> - -<p>“Oh, somewhere! Anywhere! What does it matter <i>where</i>, since it will be -where<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span> I shall not see <i>your</i> face?” he asks, and he bites his lip to -hide its quivering.</p> - -<p>Not a word falls from her at this speech. She sits quite still and as -white as snow, her hands clench together, and her breath comes quick and -hard.</p> - -<p>“But I <i>couldn’t</i> go away without coming to see you once more, -Marguerite—without carrying away with me one more glimpse of your -face.”</p> - -<p>In spite of him he falters, and with the perverse nature of his sex, is -angry with himself for rolling the stone to his own sepulchre.</p> - -<p>“Why must you go?” she pleads, looking up wistfully. “Why can’t you -stay? If you go I shall feel that I shall never, <i>never</i> see you again.”</p> - -<p>“Are you sorry to lose me, Marguerite?” he asks softly. “I believe you -<i>are</i>. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span> believe you really care for me just <i>a little</i>.”</p> - -<p>“A little! Oh, Heavens!” she murmurs with her face all set and drawn, -and her figure rigid, as if despair had turned her into stone. “You -<i>dare</i> to say that!” she cries suddenly and fiercely. “You <i>dare</i> to say -that, when you know—ay, <i>must</i> know—that all my life, all my love—ah! -what am I saying?”</p> - -<p>Then her passion, her bitterness, melts, and she wails out:</p> - -<p>“Have you no mercy, Lord Delaval? Am I so low—<i>so low</i>, that you cannot -even feel pity for me? See! I am praying here for clemency, for pity at -your hands! Praying you not to break my heart!—not to ruin my life for -ever and ever!” and she flings herself down on her knees and lifts up a -face still more wondrously beautiful<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span> through the emotion that lives in -every feature.</p> - -<p>“Marguerite! Oh! what have I said?” he cries in an agony of remorse. “I -would not give you a moment’s pain for the world. You say I deem you -‘low,’ Marguerite! Ah! if you could see into my heart, you would find -that it is because I not only love you, but <i>honour</i> you, that I have -come to say good-bye!”</p> - -<p>He tries to draw away the hands with which she has hidden her face—the -face that has undone him—but she droops her head, while her whole frame -trembles with uncontrolled passion.</p> - -<p>“You must not mind what I say,” she whispers, after a moment, in a low, -hoarse voice; “it’s only my own folly—only I cannot help—oh! <i>how</i> can -I <i>help</i> loving you? Listen to me!” she goes on, pouring<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span> out her words -in an eager, impetuous torrent. “I shall never see you again, you -say—shall never speak to you! I will tell you all the truth then, and -after that we shall part, and you will forget my madness, and I—never -mind what I shall do—anyway, I shall not blame you; it isn’t your fault -that you are <i>yourself</i>! and that I could not help loving you. You have -been the one man in all the world to me. Ah! you can’t imagine how I -have worshipped you, how you have seemed to me as the light of Heaven, -as a being of another world who had deigned to speak, to look, to smile -on me. It was idolatry I felt when I first looked on your face, the germ -of a love that was to wreck my whole life. It has been my one ambition -that you should do justice to the attraction I possess; you have been my -religion, my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span> conscience; and all I have wanted was to prove to you that -I was capable of winning men’s hearts, though yours might be denied me. -I have gloried in my beauty because I believed it had won you; I thanked -God only yesterday on my knees that my life was crowned with your love! -But it’s all over now! I have hung on every word you have spoken, I have -clung to every kindly look, believing, hoping, praying that at last—at -last!—no one could come between us two!”</p> - -<p>She drops his hand, and, springing up, stands opposite him, speaking -fast and almost incoherently now.</p> - -<p>“It has come to this now—<i>now</i>, that you have decided to part—that I, -who thought myself strong and brave, cry out in my weakness to you, -tearing open the wound that you may see me writhe under it. You<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span> may -scorn me, despise me, hate me if you will! I have been wicked, -treacherous, unscrupulous, but if you had loved me and stayed with me I -should have become a better woman. You have wrecked my whole life, but -through it all, through everything, through heartlessness, caprice, -falsity, dishonour, and even insult, I have loved you—loved you as no -woman will ever love you in this world! I have given you my life, my -soul, everything! Don’t you know me <i>now</i>, Delaval?”</p> - -<p>Dazed, almost stunned, he stares at her aghast, while his face grows -ashy white, even to his lips, from which no word issues, only—only, as -he gazes, in his mind dawns a misty memory, a doubt, <i>a repulsion</i>.</p> - -<p>“Is there so little of love’s instinct in your heart that a paltry mask -of pink and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span> white, a little Golden Wash, has hidden from you that I -am——?”</p> - -<p>“<i>Gabrielle!</i>”</p> - -<p>He almost shouts in a voice that has a sharp ring of pain and horror in -it, and he shrinks back from her, while the warmth and tenderness his -face had worn fade right away, and in their place comes a cold, hard, -pitiless, passionless look that stings her to the very core.</p> - -<p>She shivers from head to foot, with a dumb agony in her eyes that might -touch a heart of granite, but it does not touch this man, who only -cries:</p> - -<p>“Thank God!—Thank God! I have been saved in time!”</p> - -<p>She falls upon her knees once more, grovelling at his feet.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Delaval! my love!—my love!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span> don’t despise me! don’t loathe me! -Have you no pity for me?—<i>one word!</i>”</p> - -<p>But he spurns her from him with a rough gesture, and rising, she stands -a little apart.</p> - -<p>“No!” he says, in a hard, metallic tone, “I have no word for you—<i>not -one</i>! If there are things I hate, they are lies and deceit. If there is -a thing I never forgive, it is being made a fool of. Thank Heaven you -have told me now who you are. <i>What</i> you are, I do not care to know! -Under the mask of youth and guilelessness you had nearly made me your -slave, you had fired the train that was to bring me to everlasting shame -and disgrace. Oh! I could kill myself for my cursed folly, my credulity, -my utter blindness! But I am saved!—saved from being a dupe to a base -woman, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span> scruples at nothing, not even the ruin of her sister’s home -and life, just to salve a paltry wound to her vanity, to hold in her -chains a man who had set her aside long ago, knowing her to be—<i>what -she is</i>!”</p> - -<p>Clear and cutting, like a knife, his words fall on the shady, luxurious, -silent room.</p> - -<p>Silent for one moment only, while he goes towards the door without one -backward glance.</p> - -<p>Before he reaches it, however, a sharp click breaks the silence and Lord -Delaval falls across the threshold——</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p><i>Shot!</i></p></div> - -<p>Gabrielle Beranger stoops down and gazes at the face of the man who has -insulted her, then she kisses his lips, and,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span> closing the door after -her, steals noiselessly away.</p> - -<p class="ast">* * * * * </p> - -<p>The stars cluster thickly in the clear sky, and lights twinkle at each -other across the broad bosom of the Seine, when a woman comes slowly -and, pausing, looks down on the shimmering water.</p> - -<p>“Better to die <i>so</i>,” she mutters. “I am not good, neither was <i>he</i>, so -we two may yet meet again!”</p> - -<p>A dull sound like a break in the water, a glint of golden hair on the -edge of a ripple——</p> - -<p class="ast">* * * * * </p> - -<p>Her face is fair even in death, as she lies here, in the terrible -Morgue, among ghastly things that bring horror and shrinking to human -hearts.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span></p> - -<p>“<i>Sapristi! C’est Marguerite Ange! La Blonde aux Yeux Noir</i>,” a man in a -blouse says in a hushed voice, as he peers through the little glass -window.</p> - -<p>“<i>Elle est belle à faire peur!</i>” answers his companion.</p> - -<p>And this is her requiem.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_188.png" width="100" height="36" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br /><br /> -<small>THROUGH THE SHADOWS.</small></h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“It is not much that a man can save<br /></span> -<span class="i3">On the sands of life—in the straits of Time,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Who swims in sight of the third great wave,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">That never a swimmer shall cross or climb.<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Some waif washed up with the strays and spars<br /></span> -<span class="i1">That ebb-tide throws to the shore and the stars.<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Weed from the water—grass from a grave—<br /></span> -<span class="i3">A broken blossom—a ruined rhyme!”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Through</span> the mantle of dusk the lights shine brightly in the Place -Vendôme, but the room in the Hotel Bristol looks dark and dreary, save -for the fitful flame of the fire, when Zai, who has grown tired of her -own society, hears footsteps on the stairs.</p> - -<p>All the long afternoon she has been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span> alone; even “Baby,” her resource on -most occasions, has slept through the hours as sound as the Seven -Sleepers.</p> - -<p>So, when a human tread falls welcome on her ear, she forgets that it is -not quite the thing for a countess to rush out on the landing of a -hotel.</p> - -<p>“Is that you, Delaval?” she cries in a bright ringing voice, for she is -longing to see him again, longing with a great longing that will not -allow her to study the <i>convenances</i>. But she draws back as the figure -of a stranger, a tall, handsome man, with a face after Velasquez, -confronts her.</p> - -<p>“Pardonne, Madame!” he says in a very low voice—and there is a gentle -sympathetic ring in it, for De Belcour is a thorough gentleman by nature -as well as by birth—“I have a mission to fulfil, a mission which pains -me more than I can say,” he adds<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span> earnestly, as he looks on the fair -sweet young face of his rival’s wife.</p> - -<p>But Zai does not speak, something—a dreadful instinct—seems to gather -round her heart, like an iron band. She stands as white as an image of -marble and as motionless as if she were rooted to the ground—with the -glad laugh on her pretty lips hushed into an awful silence, and with a -terrible fear filling her big grey eyes, as, slowly passing her, they -bear their burden into the room, and place it upon the very couch where -she had lain this afternoon full of hope and happiness and with the -sunshine of life dancing in her eyes and breaking into smiles on her -mouth, for Zai is young and lovely and rich, and she adores her husband -and the child that God has given her.</p> - -<p>Not a word falls from her now, and she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span> never stirs from the spot where -she stands, but all the while she vigilantly watches the movements of -the men, and follows them with great piteous looks, and her little hands -clench and twist together in terror and despair.</p> - -<p>“He is not dead!” De Belcour whispers, “but—<i>dying</i>, I fear.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Not dead!</i>” The words break from her almost in a shout of joy, and she -springs past him and crouches down beside what they have brought -her—beside all that is left of <i>him</i>. Her eyes are quite dry, and -glitter, undimmed by a single tear, as she sways backwards and forwards -in the plenitude and abjectness of her suffering.</p> - -<p>Then she raises a white, forlorn face, and falters:</p> - -<p>“Is no one coming to him?”</p> - -<p>And De Belcour, who feels himself moved<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span> to a great compassion for this -slender bit of a girl, stricken down in the very beginning and flush of -her life, bows his head in answer.</p> - -<p>She forgets his presence then. Bending over her husband, she touches his -closed lids and his cold cheeks very softly and caressingly, as if her -little fingers loved to linger in their task. She puts her hand on his -heart, which beats, but so faintly as if each throb were its last, and -she keeps on murmuring tender words to the ears which do not hear them.</p> - -<p>“Delaval, darling, speak to me, only one word—one little word, Delaval, -that I may just hear your voice. Oh, God! won’t he speak to me again? -shall I never hear him speak kind, dear words as he did to-day—before -he went away to—die? Die! Oh! you won’t die, Delaval, darling, my own<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span> -darling, you have not left me—left me—<i>for ever</i>!”</p> - -<p>The last words go out from her in a wail loud enough, and piteous -enough, to reach the sky.</p> - -<p>Faint and dizzy with fear, she stretches out her trembling hands, like a -blind woman, towards the form lying before her with the rigidity of -death, but, before they reach it, she falls back and drops senseless on -the floor.</p> - -<p class="ast">* * * * * </p> - -<p>Maybe her piteous cry has reached beyond the sky, for he has not left -her “for ever.”</p> - -<p>The shot of a vengeful woman, wounded in her terrible love, driven to -the phrensy of a wild beast, has grazed the right lung, and for a long -time he hovers between life and death, while his wife nurses him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span> -unwearyingly night and day with a devoted unselfish love that is not -often to be found in the worldly daughters of Belgravia.</p> - -<p>Then, after a little, when they tell him he has crept slowly—slowly, -but surely—out of the shadows—and that life (not the old life, but one -twin with suffering perchance) yet lies before him, he feels that he -will regain health and strength sooner if the burden of a secret is -removed from him.</p> - -<p>It is very hard to face Zai as he makes a clean breast of it, but he -does it.</p> - -<p>“My pet,” he murmurs, in a low weak voice which is very unlike his old -accents, and the sound of which goes right to her heart, “I have -something to say to you.”</p> - -<p>So she kneels down beside him. It is the place she likes best now in the -world.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span></p> - -<p>“Do you love me very much, Zai?” he asks her, while his thin white hand -rests on her shining chesnut hair, and, looking up, she sees that there -is an actual mist of tears in his handsome ultramarine eyes.</p> - -<p>“Ah, don’t I?” she whispers, catching hold of his hand and kissing it -passionately, and he reads plainly enough the love that is patent on her -face.</p> - -<p>“But would you love me so much, Zai, if you knew that I had been -unfaithful—that I had forgotten you just for a little while?” he asks, -his lips quivering and his heart beating very fast. For somehow he holds -on to her love with a strange tenacity. It seems, in truth, to be the -only—only—thing worth living for.</p> - -<p>She does not answer for a moment, but she has his hand still clasped -close in her own, while her face grows deathly white,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span> and there is a -startled, stricken look in her grey eyes that cuts him to the heart.</p> - -<p>“It is <i>quite</i> true, Zai. For a little while I <i>did</i> forget you. Another -woman’s face came between us, and for the life of me I <i>couldn’t</i> shake -off its power over me, though I tried. Upon my soul I <i>tried</i>!”</p> - -<p>He pauses, breathless, and a pallor creeps over his face—a face as -handsome as Apollo’s, in spite of suffering.</p> - -<p>“Well, Zai, I saw her, not more than half-a-dozen times, perhaps, but -each time she seemed to draw me closer and closer to her, and -further—from—you—till the—<i>last time</i>.”</p> - -<p>Zai listens to it all—to this confession of sin and wrong—her gaze -never swerving from his face, and her heart full to bursting.</p> - -<p>“Did you <i>kiss</i> her, Delaval?” she whispers<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span> at last in a faint, scared -voice, and on the impulse of the moment she puts up her little fingers -to stop her ears, in dread of his saying “Yes.” Then she drops them -desolately.</p> - -<p>“No! thank God I never did!” he says quite heartily, and Zai breathes -more freely. And, the tension gone, she lays her head down on his arm -and cries like a child, but the tears are more of relief than of -bitterness, and the world does not look half as dreary to her as it did -a few minutes ago.</p> - -<p>“No! I thank God, that you have nothing to forgive on that score, though -I am bound to say that both the spirit was willing and the flesh was -weak; but a lucky fate prevented it. No! it was only my <i>heart</i>, Zai! -Pshaw! fancy my calling it my <i>heart</i>. It was only my senses, Zai!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span></p> - -<p>She ponders a moment. It is dreadful to know that he has been caring for -another woman; but still it is a great comfort—a very, very great -comfort—to know that he has not <i>kissed</i> her. So she lifts up her face -with a smile, half-piteous, half-glad, on her mouth, and her arm steals -round his neck.</p> - -<p>Poor fellow, he looks so thin and white and haggard, she could not be -angry with him for the world.</p> - -<p>“Well, my little one?” he says, but he knows quite well that she loves -him so much she will never be hard on him, and, after all, it was only a -venial sin, he thinks, with the self-indulgent complacency so common to -the style of man he is.</p> - -<p>“I forgive you!” she whispers between fond fervent kisses on his lips, -“for you know, darling, that ‘to err is human.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span> ”</p> - -<p>“Yes! my own, own love! And ‘to forgive—divine!’ ”</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>But there is one secret yet that Lord Delaval keeps religiously from his -wife’s innocent ears. It is, that the woman who tempted him -was—<i>Gabrielle</i>!</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p class="c">THE END.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/back-cover.jpg" width="331" height="500" alt="[Image -of the back cover unavailable.]" title="" /> -</div> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Daughters of Belgravia; vol 3 of 3, by -Mrs. Alexander Fraser - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAUGHTERS OF BELGRAVIA; VOL 3 OF 3 *** - -***** This file should be named 52606-h.htm or 52606-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/6/0/52606/ - -Produced by Larry B. 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