Chapter Twenty.Winged Hours.Sheltered from the blazing afternoon sun, Trethowen and Valérie were seated together under one of the ancient elms in the picturesque Promenade de Sept Heures. It was the hour when visitors lounge in the glade listening to the band and sip absinthe, while their children amuse themselves on the asphalte of the great covered promenade. The end of the long, shady avenue is quiet and secluded at this time of the day, as the exit is only a footpath ascending the steep hillside, and few persons come that way, the majority being attracted towards the music pavilion.Valérie, always daintily attired, looked charming in a cool light dress of some soft material, which clung in graceful folds about her, and a large drooping hat composed entirely of flowers. She was serious, hesitating, and scraped the gravel aimlessly with the ferrule of her sunshade.“Ah, you don’t know, Hugh,” she exclaimed, with a sigh, in reply to a question. “I—I’ve been horribly unhappy.”“Unhappy,” he repeated in astonishment. “Why, what’s the cause? You have life, gaiety, freedom—everything conducive to contentment.”“That’s true,” she answered. “But the past—I must strive to forget it. My whole life has been a series of dire misfortunes—an existence wasted because, until the present, I have never found one whom I could love.”“You really care for me, then?” he asked, looking earnestly into her fine eyes. “You will marry me at once, as you promised a moment ago?”“Yes, dear,” she said, her face relaxing into a glad smile. “I feel that, however unpropitious the past may have been, this is the turning-point in my life. Men I have hitherto known have all been hard-hearted and ready to hear me maligned, but you have sympathised with me in my unloved and defenceless position, and I cannot doubt that we shall be happy together.”“Why, of course we shall,” he declared, drawing her closer to him, and kissing her through her flimsy veil. “I’m growing impatient to return to Coombe and settle down comfortably. The hollowness of life in a place like this palls upon one.”“Yes; I, too, am getting tired of it. I shall be pleased to go with you to your home. From the photographs it must be a lovely old place.”“Its antiqueness is its greatest charm,” he replied. “But tell me why are you so unhappy?”“Well, would you like to know the truth?” she asked, with a nervous little laugh.“Of course I should.”“Then it was because I half-feared you did not care for me sufficiently to make me your wife,” she said hesitatingly.“And that caused you all this unhappiness? Well, now you know the truth,” he added gayly, “there need be no more fear on that score. We will return to England and be married as soon as possible. Are you agreeable?”Replying in the affirmative, she raised her face to his and kissed him affectionately, almost sadly.As she withdrew her lips her teeth were firmly set, for, after all, she thought, was she not participating in a base plot and acting in a vile, despicable character? Yet, notwithstanding, she had caught herself actually imbued with genuine affection for this man she was pretending to love. She, a butterfly of fashion, who had been the evil genius of more than one man who had fallen victim to her charms, actually struggled with her conscience.Drawing a deep breath between her teeth, she hesitated. Hugh attributed it to agitation; he little suspected that it was an effort to remain firm and carry out a nefarious scheme.He was weak and captivated by her pretty face, she knew; still, after all, she could not deny that she, too, loved him, and for the moment she hated herself for practising such vile deception.Although a cunning, crafty woman, recognising no law, either of God or man, all sense of honour had not yet been quite obliterated by the many clever plots and base schemes in which she had participated. All her youthful enthusiasm came to life again; the heart which she had thought dead, beat as it had never before done at the voice and smile of this strong, gentle, loyal-hearted man. Her love for him was silent but passionate; she adored him without telling herself that her right to love had long ago been forfeited.Her beautiful oval face was calm and pale, faultless as that of an Italian Madonna, while her brilliant eyes received additional radiance from the lustre of her dark hair. She forgot her past; she felt as if she never had but one name upon her ruddy pouting lips—that of Hugh.And he sat beside her, saying—“I love you—I love you!”On both sides it was a blind infatuation. Agony and torture she underwent as she put to herself the momentous question—Was she justified in accepting, when acceptance meant ruin? Was it just? Was it natural? Were the horrible passages of her life to haunt her, sleeping and waking, to madden her with their hideous vividness? Had her past deprived her of her right to live—of her right to love?Hugh told himself that he had found his very ideal: his dreams, his faith, and love in all that is noble and upright in Valérie’s mind, heart, eyes, and tone. She seemed to promise him the commencement of a new existence. With her he might again be happy; he would have some one to enter into his feelings, stand by him, and bestow on him that true affection that all men seek, but few, alas! find. He loved her with all the strength of his being.Suddenly a thought flashed across Valérie’s mind, and her resolution became concentrated on it. These were different manifestations of her dual nature. In a moment her lips were set firmly, and seemed silently to defy the feelings of affection that had just been stirred so strangely within her. She was contracting a debt to be paid for by a terrible penalty.A glowing sunbeam, penetrating the thick foliage overhead, bathed the handsome Frenchwoman’s light dress and olive cheeks with light, flecking the warm-tinted gravel on the walk. The distant band had paused. The deep silence of the avenue was broken only now and then by the low murmur of the trees. She revelled in the warm atmosphere, and felt lulled by the faint music of the rustling leaves. He, too, was lost in contemplation. In this green nook, with its gnarled trunks and fragments of blue sky revealed through the foliage, he felt far away from the world, as dreamy as if floating on a lake, as he abandoned himself to the enjoyment of the splendid afternoon.“Then it is settled,” he said, at last. “We will be married in London as soon as you can obtain your trousseau.”Had they not been so oblivious of their surroundings, it is probable they would have observed a man, half concealed behind a neighbouring tree, who had been keeping a close watch upon them. Creeping cautiously from his hiding-place, he drew himself up, and walked towards them with a pleasant smile on his face. It was Adolphe Chavoix.“Ah,” he exclaimed, as they looked up and recognised him, “I’ve been hunting for you everywhere. The Count wants us to drive to the Cascade. Come along, there’s not a moment to lose, or we shan’t be back in time fortable d’hôte. Why, you’ve hidden yourselves all the afternoon.”“We plead guilty to the indictment, old fellow,” Hugh replied, jumping to his feet enthusiastically. “The fact is, I’ve spent the afternoon very profitably, for I’ve won a wife.”“Oh!” he exclaimed in surprise, raising his eyebrows, and exchanging a quick glance with mademoiselle.“Yes, Valérie has consented to marry me. We leave this place to-morrow, and shall be married in London within a month.”“Bravo! I congratulate you both,” he said, grasping Trethowen’s hand, and raising his hat politely to mademoiselle.“Thanks, Adolphe,” replied Hugh. “All I desire is that our future may be as bright and cloudless as to-day.”“What can mar it? Why, nothing! You and Valérie love one another—I suspected it from the first,” he remarked, laughing. “You will marry, settle down in comfort and happiness, and grow old and grey, like—like the couple in your English song—Darby and Joan.”They laughed merrily in chorus.“I don’t much admire your prophecy. It’s bad form to speak of a woman growing old,” observed Valérie reprovingly. “Nevertheless, I’m confident we shall be as happy as the pair in the song. And when we’re married, I’m sure Hugh will welcome you as one of our dearest friends.”“Of course,” answered Trethowen. “Adolphe and the Count will always be welcome at Coombe. By Jove, when I get them down there I’ll have my revenge at baccarat, too.”“Why, look, here’s the Count coming after us,” exclaimed Valérie, suddenly catching sight of a distant figure in a grey tweed suit and white waistcoat. “Come, let’s go and meet him.”So the trio started off in that direction.After meeting him they emerged from the avenue into the Place Royale, and Trethowen left them for a moment to purchase some cigars.“I’ve had a visitor to-day,” mademoiselle exclaimed, as she strolled on with Victor and Pierre; “some one you both know.”“Who?” asked the men eagerly.“Willoughby.”“Willoughby!” gasped Bérard, halting in amazement. “Then he has tracked us! He must be silenced.”“Don’t act rashly,” remarked Valérie coolly. “You forget there’s a bond between us that renders it extremely undesirable that he should divulge anything. For the present, at least, we are quite safe. I’ve effected a compromise with him which is just as binding on one side as on the other. After all, when everything is considered, our prospects have never been rosier than they are at this moment.”“But Willoughby. He can ruin us if he chooses. He knows of the affair at Carqueiranne.”“And what if he does? How could he prove who did it? If he knew, don’t you think he would have had the reward long ago?” she argued.“Has he seen Trethowen?”“No; if he had, the circumstances might be different,” she replied coolly.“Keep them apart. They must not meet, for reasons you well understand,” he said significantly; for, truth to tell, he feared the captain more than he did his Satanic Majesty himself.“Of course, a recognition would be decidedly awkward,” she admitted; “but they are not likely to see one another—at least, not yet. Up to the present my diplomacy has proved effectual. With regard to the ugly incidents which you mentioned, have I not coerced Jack Egerton into silence, and my husband, he is—”“Here, by your side, dearest,” a voice added, finishing the sentence.Starting, she turned, to find to her dismay and embarrassment that Hugh had returned unnoticed, and was standing at her elbow.“Why, you really frightened me,” she said nervously, with a forced, harsh laugh. “I was explaining to the Count the reason I prefer living in England after our marriage. He says we ought to live in Paris.”“Oh,” Hugh said indifferently, but made no further remark.Mademoiselle and her companion were serious and apprehensive lest he had overheard their conversation.Crossing the Place, they continued their walk in silence.As they entered the hotel a letter from Egerton was handed to Hugh. When alone in his room he opened it, and found it was dated from London, and that it had been forwarded from Brussels.“I suppose you are enjoying yourself thoroughly in the company ofla belleValérie,” he wrote, after the usual greetings, and upbraidings for not answering a former note. “Well, you know my sentiments,” he continued; “I need not repeat them. But, by the way, I have since thought that is perhaps because I once spoke harshly of her that you have been annoyed. I only had your welfare at heart, I assure you, and, as we are old friends, if I have said anything to vex you, pray forgive me.”“Bosh!” ejaculated Hugh savagely. “He tries to set me against her because he wants her himself. He gives no reason for his absurd warnings, but acts the sentimental fool.”He was about to toss the letter into the fire impatiently without reading further, when a name caught his eye.The remainder of the letter was as follows:—I am in sore trouble, and want your advice. Dolly has mysteriously disappeared. One night, three weeks ago, she left the studio and went home. After dressing she again went out, and since then nothing has been seen or heard of her. I have searched everywhere, and made strenuous efforts through the police and by advertisements to find some trace of her, but all seems futile. She has disappeared completely. Yet somehow I cannot think her silence is intentional, or that she has run away with some male companion, for she was not addicted to flirtation. You are one of her admirers, I know, so I want your advice as to the best course to pursue. I’m at my wits’ ends, old fellow. Write and tell me what to do. I must find her; I shall never rest until I ascertain definitely what has become of her.“Good heavens! What an extraordinary thing,” ejaculated Trethowen, when he had concluded reading.“Dolly missing! She might be dead for aught we know; yet such a fate cannot have befallen her. She cared for me a little, I know,” he soliloquised. “Perhaps she had hoped that I should ask her to become my wife. Why,” he gasped, as a thought suddenly occurred to him, “suppose she has committed suicide because I did not reciprocate the love she offered. Good God! if such were the case, I should never forgive myself—never.”Pausing, he gazed blankly at the paper in his hand.“Yet—yet, after all,” he continued thoughtfully, “I love Valérie, and shall marry no woman but her. There can be no reason why I should be miserable or bother my head over the mystery.”
Sheltered from the blazing afternoon sun, Trethowen and Valérie were seated together under one of the ancient elms in the picturesque Promenade de Sept Heures. It was the hour when visitors lounge in the glade listening to the band and sip absinthe, while their children amuse themselves on the asphalte of the great covered promenade. The end of the long, shady avenue is quiet and secluded at this time of the day, as the exit is only a footpath ascending the steep hillside, and few persons come that way, the majority being attracted towards the music pavilion.
Valérie, always daintily attired, looked charming in a cool light dress of some soft material, which clung in graceful folds about her, and a large drooping hat composed entirely of flowers. She was serious, hesitating, and scraped the gravel aimlessly with the ferrule of her sunshade.
“Ah, you don’t know, Hugh,” she exclaimed, with a sigh, in reply to a question. “I—I’ve been horribly unhappy.”
“Unhappy,” he repeated in astonishment. “Why, what’s the cause? You have life, gaiety, freedom—everything conducive to contentment.”
“That’s true,” she answered. “But the past—I must strive to forget it. My whole life has been a series of dire misfortunes—an existence wasted because, until the present, I have never found one whom I could love.”
“You really care for me, then?” he asked, looking earnestly into her fine eyes. “You will marry me at once, as you promised a moment ago?”
“Yes, dear,” she said, her face relaxing into a glad smile. “I feel that, however unpropitious the past may have been, this is the turning-point in my life. Men I have hitherto known have all been hard-hearted and ready to hear me maligned, but you have sympathised with me in my unloved and defenceless position, and I cannot doubt that we shall be happy together.”
“Why, of course we shall,” he declared, drawing her closer to him, and kissing her through her flimsy veil. “I’m growing impatient to return to Coombe and settle down comfortably. The hollowness of life in a place like this palls upon one.”
“Yes; I, too, am getting tired of it. I shall be pleased to go with you to your home. From the photographs it must be a lovely old place.”
“Its antiqueness is its greatest charm,” he replied. “But tell me why are you so unhappy?”
“Well, would you like to know the truth?” she asked, with a nervous little laugh.
“Of course I should.”
“Then it was because I half-feared you did not care for me sufficiently to make me your wife,” she said hesitatingly.
“And that caused you all this unhappiness? Well, now you know the truth,” he added gayly, “there need be no more fear on that score. We will return to England and be married as soon as possible. Are you agreeable?”
Replying in the affirmative, she raised her face to his and kissed him affectionately, almost sadly.
As she withdrew her lips her teeth were firmly set, for, after all, she thought, was she not participating in a base plot and acting in a vile, despicable character? Yet, notwithstanding, she had caught herself actually imbued with genuine affection for this man she was pretending to love. She, a butterfly of fashion, who had been the evil genius of more than one man who had fallen victim to her charms, actually struggled with her conscience.
Drawing a deep breath between her teeth, she hesitated. Hugh attributed it to agitation; he little suspected that it was an effort to remain firm and carry out a nefarious scheme.
He was weak and captivated by her pretty face, she knew; still, after all, she could not deny that she, too, loved him, and for the moment she hated herself for practising such vile deception.
Although a cunning, crafty woman, recognising no law, either of God or man, all sense of honour had not yet been quite obliterated by the many clever plots and base schemes in which she had participated. All her youthful enthusiasm came to life again; the heart which she had thought dead, beat as it had never before done at the voice and smile of this strong, gentle, loyal-hearted man. Her love for him was silent but passionate; she adored him without telling herself that her right to love had long ago been forfeited.
Her beautiful oval face was calm and pale, faultless as that of an Italian Madonna, while her brilliant eyes received additional radiance from the lustre of her dark hair. She forgot her past; she felt as if she never had but one name upon her ruddy pouting lips—that of Hugh.
And he sat beside her, saying—
“I love you—I love you!”
On both sides it was a blind infatuation. Agony and torture she underwent as she put to herself the momentous question—Was she justified in accepting, when acceptance meant ruin? Was it just? Was it natural? Were the horrible passages of her life to haunt her, sleeping and waking, to madden her with their hideous vividness? Had her past deprived her of her right to live—of her right to love?
Hugh told himself that he had found his very ideal: his dreams, his faith, and love in all that is noble and upright in Valérie’s mind, heart, eyes, and tone. She seemed to promise him the commencement of a new existence. With her he might again be happy; he would have some one to enter into his feelings, stand by him, and bestow on him that true affection that all men seek, but few, alas! find. He loved her with all the strength of his being.
Suddenly a thought flashed across Valérie’s mind, and her resolution became concentrated on it. These were different manifestations of her dual nature. In a moment her lips were set firmly, and seemed silently to defy the feelings of affection that had just been stirred so strangely within her. She was contracting a debt to be paid for by a terrible penalty.
A glowing sunbeam, penetrating the thick foliage overhead, bathed the handsome Frenchwoman’s light dress and olive cheeks with light, flecking the warm-tinted gravel on the walk. The distant band had paused. The deep silence of the avenue was broken only now and then by the low murmur of the trees. She revelled in the warm atmosphere, and felt lulled by the faint music of the rustling leaves. He, too, was lost in contemplation. In this green nook, with its gnarled trunks and fragments of blue sky revealed through the foliage, he felt far away from the world, as dreamy as if floating on a lake, as he abandoned himself to the enjoyment of the splendid afternoon.
“Then it is settled,” he said, at last. “We will be married in London as soon as you can obtain your trousseau.”
Had they not been so oblivious of their surroundings, it is probable they would have observed a man, half concealed behind a neighbouring tree, who had been keeping a close watch upon them. Creeping cautiously from his hiding-place, he drew himself up, and walked towards them with a pleasant smile on his face. It was Adolphe Chavoix.
“Ah,” he exclaimed, as they looked up and recognised him, “I’ve been hunting for you everywhere. The Count wants us to drive to the Cascade. Come along, there’s not a moment to lose, or we shan’t be back in time fortable d’hôte. Why, you’ve hidden yourselves all the afternoon.”
“We plead guilty to the indictment, old fellow,” Hugh replied, jumping to his feet enthusiastically. “The fact is, I’ve spent the afternoon very profitably, for I’ve won a wife.”
“Oh!” he exclaimed in surprise, raising his eyebrows, and exchanging a quick glance with mademoiselle.
“Yes, Valérie has consented to marry me. We leave this place to-morrow, and shall be married in London within a month.”
“Bravo! I congratulate you both,” he said, grasping Trethowen’s hand, and raising his hat politely to mademoiselle.
“Thanks, Adolphe,” replied Hugh. “All I desire is that our future may be as bright and cloudless as to-day.”
“What can mar it? Why, nothing! You and Valérie love one another—I suspected it from the first,” he remarked, laughing. “You will marry, settle down in comfort and happiness, and grow old and grey, like—like the couple in your English song—Darby and Joan.”
They laughed merrily in chorus.
“I don’t much admire your prophecy. It’s bad form to speak of a woman growing old,” observed Valérie reprovingly. “Nevertheless, I’m confident we shall be as happy as the pair in the song. And when we’re married, I’m sure Hugh will welcome you as one of our dearest friends.”
“Of course,” answered Trethowen. “Adolphe and the Count will always be welcome at Coombe. By Jove, when I get them down there I’ll have my revenge at baccarat, too.”
“Why, look, here’s the Count coming after us,” exclaimed Valérie, suddenly catching sight of a distant figure in a grey tweed suit and white waistcoat. “Come, let’s go and meet him.”
So the trio started off in that direction.
After meeting him they emerged from the avenue into the Place Royale, and Trethowen left them for a moment to purchase some cigars.
“I’ve had a visitor to-day,” mademoiselle exclaimed, as she strolled on with Victor and Pierre; “some one you both know.”
“Who?” asked the men eagerly.
“Willoughby.”
“Willoughby!” gasped Bérard, halting in amazement. “Then he has tracked us! He must be silenced.”
“Don’t act rashly,” remarked Valérie coolly. “You forget there’s a bond between us that renders it extremely undesirable that he should divulge anything. For the present, at least, we are quite safe. I’ve effected a compromise with him which is just as binding on one side as on the other. After all, when everything is considered, our prospects have never been rosier than they are at this moment.”
“But Willoughby. He can ruin us if he chooses. He knows of the affair at Carqueiranne.”
“And what if he does? How could he prove who did it? If he knew, don’t you think he would have had the reward long ago?” she argued.
“Has he seen Trethowen?”
“No; if he had, the circumstances might be different,” she replied coolly.
“Keep them apart. They must not meet, for reasons you well understand,” he said significantly; for, truth to tell, he feared the captain more than he did his Satanic Majesty himself.
“Of course, a recognition would be decidedly awkward,” she admitted; “but they are not likely to see one another—at least, not yet. Up to the present my diplomacy has proved effectual. With regard to the ugly incidents which you mentioned, have I not coerced Jack Egerton into silence, and my husband, he is—”
“Here, by your side, dearest,” a voice added, finishing the sentence.
Starting, she turned, to find to her dismay and embarrassment that Hugh had returned unnoticed, and was standing at her elbow.
“Why, you really frightened me,” she said nervously, with a forced, harsh laugh. “I was explaining to the Count the reason I prefer living in England after our marriage. He says we ought to live in Paris.”
“Oh,” Hugh said indifferently, but made no further remark.
Mademoiselle and her companion were serious and apprehensive lest he had overheard their conversation.
Crossing the Place, they continued their walk in silence.
As they entered the hotel a letter from Egerton was handed to Hugh. When alone in his room he opened it, and found it was dated from London, and that it had been forwarded from Brussels.
“I suppose you are enjoying yourself thoroughly in the company ofla belleValérie,” he wrote, after the usual greetings, and upbraidings for not answering a former note. “Well, you know my sentiments,” he continued; “I need not repeat them. But, by the way, I have since thought that is perhaps because I once spoke harshly of her that you have been annoyed. I only had your welfare at heart, I assure you, and, as we are old friends, if I have said anything to vex you, pray forgive me.”
“Bosh!” ejaculated Hugh savagely. “He tries to set me against her because he wants her himself. He gives no reason for his absurd warnings, but acts the sentimental fool.”
He was about to toss the letter into the fire impatiently without reading further, when a name caught his eye.
The remainder of the letter was as follows:—
I am in sore trouble, and want your advice. Dolly has mysteriously disappeared. One night, three weeks ago, she left the studio and went home. After dressing she again went out, and since then nothing has been seen or heard of her. I have searched everywhere, and made strenuous efforts through the police and by advertisements to find some trace of her, but all seems futile. She has disappeared completely. Yet somehow I cannot think her silence is intentional, or that she has run away with some male companion, for she was not addicted to flirtation. You are one of her admirers, I know, so I want your advice as to the best course to pursue. I’m at my wits’ ends, old fellow. Write and tell me what to do. I must find her; I shall never rest until I ascertain definitely what has become of her.
“Good heavens! What an extraordinary thing,” ejaculated Trethowen, when he had concluded reading.
“Dolly missing! She might be dead for aught we know; yet such a fate cannot have befallen her. She cared for me a little, I know,” he soliloquised. “Perhaps she had hoped that I should ask her to become my wife. Why,” he gasped, as a thought suddenly occurred to him, “suppose she has committed suicide because I did not reciprocate the love she offered. Good God! if such were the case, I should never forgive myself—never.”
Pausing, he gazed blankly at the paper in his hand.
“Yet—yet, after all,” he continued thoughtfully, “I love Valérie, and shall marry no woman but her. There can be no reason why I should be miserable or bother my head over the mystery.”
Chapter Twenty One.Purely Fin de Siècle.“Why are you so glum this morning, Jack? Hang it, you look as if you were going to attend my funeral instead of my wedding.”“Do I?” asked Egerton, yawning, and stretching himself out lazily in his chair. “I didn’t know my facial expression was not in keeping with the joyousness of the occasion.”“Look here, old fellow,” continued Hugh, walking over to his companion, and looking him earnestly in the face. “Now, before we start, tell me why you are so strangely indifferent. It seems as if you still entertain some curious antipathy towards Valérie.” Egerton knit his brows, and, rising, assumed an air of utter unconcern.“It’s a matter I would rather not discuss, old chap,” he said. “At your request I’ve consented to assist at your wedding, otherwise I should not have been here at all.”“Your very words betray you. Why should you have been absent, pray?”“For certain reasons,” the other replied briefly. Trethowen regarded his friend with surprise, not unmingled with annoyance.“Ah!” he exclaimed, after a few moments’ silence, “I see. You have not finished those mysterious warnings of yours. Why the deuce don’t you speak right out and tell me what you mean?”“I have no intention to malign the woman who is to be your wife, Hugh,” the artist answered quietly. “I’ve given you certain hints already, and—”“Enough of that,” cried his companion, with some asperity. “Though you are an old friend, it gives you no right to interfere with my private affairs.”“That’s true,” Jack admitted hastily. “Don’t for a moment think I desire to intrude unwarrantably. It’s merely friendly advice I’ve given you.”“Friendly advice—bosh!” Trethowen said in disgust. “Whatever you know detrimental to Valérie, you’ll oblige me by keeping in future to yourself.”The man addressed muttered something in an undertone, and, turning, gazed abstractedly out of the window.They were in Hugh’s sitting-room in St. James’s on the morning fixed for the marriage. It was almost a month since Trethowen had left Spa, and the time had been pleasantly spent with Valérie at Brussels and Ostend. Now that they had returned to London, she had again taken up her abode in her little flat in Victoria Street, while the arrangements for the marriage were completed.Jack Egerton, dressed more sprucely than usual, and wearing the orthodox lavender gloves and a flower in his coat, had called upon his friend half an hour before, and was waiting to accompany him to the church. His task he regarded with abhorrence. He would rather have done anything than assist at the ceremony, and see his friend bind himself to that dark-eyed Circe. Yet he, helpless and under the merciless thrall of the woman, was there by sheer compulsion. A fortnight ago he had received a letter from her. She did not ask or entreat, but commanded him to be present and act as Hugh’s best man.“I know,” she wrote in French, “the task will be scarcely congenial, but your presence will inspire him with confidence. He has promised me he will ask you, and if you refuse, he will suspect that it is repugnant to you. Understand, he must know nothing of my affairs. When we last met at Laroche you threatened me, but I need hardly impress the necessity of silence upon you, having regard to the fact that the reward of your zealousness on your friend’s behalf would be a life sentence. Accept his offer and attend the wedding, otherwise I shall know you are playing against me. If you do, beware! for I shall win. I have all the honours in my hand.”He was reflecting upon this last sentence as he stood staring aimlessly down into the street. She possessed the dark secret of his life, and held him in her power, so that he was compelled to do her bidding, to dance attendance upon her, and to witness her triumph at the expense of his dearest friend.Grinding his teeth, he uttered an imprecation, as he realised how complete was her mastery, and perceived that his own ruin would be the only reward for saving Hugh.The latter, who was watching him, misconstrued this outburst of impatience and went over and grasped his hand, saying:“Forgive me, old fellow, for what I’ve just said. We ought not to quarrel, more especially to-day. I was rather hasty, but I love Valérie, and anything hinted against her excites my anger. Come, let’s forget it.” His companion succumbed to fate, having done all he could in the way of resistance. Laughing a trifle sadly, he replied—“There’s nothing whatever to forgive. I shall go with you to the church, and I hope—well, I hope your marriage will bring you nothing but happiness. Nevertheless, whatever is the result, remember I am still your friend.”Trethowen thanked him, although astonished at his friend’s tone, and inwardly tried to account for his apparent sadness.Could it be, that he entertained affection for Valérie himself? Or was it that their conversation that morning had brought back to his memory thoughts of the lost woman who, although his friend, assistant, and critic, was not his mistress? He had spoken very little of her, with the exception of describing the strange circumstances in which she disappeared. Still, any mention of her seemed to cause him sorrowful reflections.Walking to a side-table whereon stood a bottle of champagne and some glasses, Hugh uncorked the wine, at the same time touching the gong.In answer to the summons old Jacob appeared. He wore a large wedding-favour, and his scanty hair was parted and brushed with unusual care.Having filled three glasses, his master turned to him, saying—“Take a glass with us, Jacob, to celebrate the event. Come, Jack, here you are. It’s no innovation to drink with a servant like my trusty old fossil here!”The artist took the glass, and, as he did so, Hugh, holding up his own, gave the toast.“Here’s to the last hour of bachelorhood.”“Long life and prosperity to Hugh Trethowen!” Egerton exclaimed.“And may they always lead happy lives!” added the old servant, in a weak broken voice.“Hurrah! Let’s hope so,” remarked the bridegroom, and the trio tossed off their wine.“And now we must be going,” he added, a few minutes later. “You know my instructions, Jacob. You’ll follow to Coombe at the end of the week. If any one calls, tell them—tell them I shan’t be back in town for six months at least.”“Very well, Master Hugh,” the feeble old man replied, smiling at his master’s humour. “May God bless you both, sir!”“Thank you, Jacob, thank you,” Hugh replied heartily, as his man withdrew. “He can’t make it out, I think,” he remarked to Jack, with a laugh. “It’ll be a fresh experience for him to have a mistress. But I feel sure she’ll be kind to him.”Then they both finally examined themselves in a long mirror in the corner of the room, and, putting on their gloves, left the house.An hour later the bell of the outer door of the chambers rang, and Jacob, still wearing his white satin rosette, answered.On throwing open the door he was confronted by an unkempt wretchedly clad young woman, with tousled hair poking from under a battered crape bonnet, and a ragged shawl about her shoulders.“Is Mr Trethowen in?” she inquired, in a voice that was refined, and certainly not in keeping with her habiliments.“No, he’s not,” the old man replied sharply, for a woman of that class was not a desirable visitor.“Where can I find him?” she asked anxiously. “I must see him, and at once.”“I tell you he’s not here.”“Then where is he?”Jacob, always a discreet and discriminating servant, did not like the look of this ill-attired stranger. He was particularly distrustful of females.“I want to see him—to tell him something for his own advantage. It’s imperative that I should see him immediately,” she continued.“Well,” remarked Jacob, hesitating, and reflecting that it might possibly be to his master’s advantage. “The fact is, he’s gone to be married.”“To be married!” she echoed, staggering as if she had been dealt a blow.“Yes; he and the French lady were to be married at twelve o’clock at St. James’s. He’s gone there to meet her.”“Where’s the church? Quick, I must go there,” she cried anxiously.“In Piccadilly. Go to the top of the road here, turn to the right, and you’ll come to it.”“Will he return here?”“No; he goes to Cornwall to-night.”Turning suddenly, she ran hurriedly down the stairs. “Well, well,” remarked the aged retainer aloud, as he closed the door and re-entered the sitting-room. “Now, I wonder what she wants? It’s very strange—very; but, somehow, I believe I’ve seen a face something like hers before somewhere, only I can’t recollect. Ah, well,” he added, sighing, “I’m not so young as I was, and my memory fails me. After all, I suppose it’s only fancy.”Then he helped himself to a glass of his master’s old port in celebration of the happy occasion.Meanwhile the slipshod female had turned from Piccadilly up the paved courtyard leading to St. James’s church. She hurried, with wearied eyes and pale, anxious face, almost breathless.At the door she was met by the pew-opener—a stout elderly female in rusty black—who, seeing her haste asked what she wanted.“Is Mr Trethowen to be married here to-day?” she inquired.“Trethowen! Yes. I think that’s the gentleman’s name. What do you want to know for?” she asked, regarding her suspiciously.“I must see him. Is he inside?”“No, he ain’t. The party left a quarter of an hour ago.”“Gone!” she cried in dismay.“Yes, they’re married,” remarked the woman. “Did you come to congratulate them?” she asked with a sneer.“Married!” the other echoed, her face ashen pale. “Then, I’m too late! He’s married her—and I cannot save him.”“You seem in rather a bad way over him,” observed the woman, with an amused air.“Where have they gone? Tell me quickly.”“How should I know? As long as the parties give me my fee, I don’t ask no questions.”“Gone?” she repeated.Reeling, she almost fell, but with an effort she recovered herself and shuffled with uneven steps down to the gateway, and in a few minutes was lost in the crowd in Piccadilly.The woman who acted so strangely, and upon whom suspicions were cast as, with bowed head, she dragged her weary limbs slowly toward Hyde Park Corner, was Dolly Vivian.Weak and ill, she was dazed by the bustle and noise surrounding her. Months of confinement, consequent upon a dangerous wound, had had their effect upon her, leaving her but the shadow of her former self. As she walked through the busy thoroughfare, it seemed to her an age since the night she had been decoyed and entrapped. Her experiences had been horrible, and she shuddered as she thought of them.When she had recovered consciousness after being left by her allurer, she found an old and repulsive-looking woman bending over her holding a cup to her lips. Her mouth was fevered and parched, and she drank. Then, for the first time, she discovered that she had an ugly and painful wound in her neck. She had been stabbed, but not fatally, and the wound had been bandaged while she was insensible. Ignorant of where she was or how she had been brought there, she lay for weeks hovering between life and death. The lonely house, she found, was occupied by two persons—the woman who attended upon her and a rough-looking man. They treated her harshly, almost brutally, refusing to answer any questions, and never failing to lock the door of her room when they left.The solitary confinement, added to the pain she suffered, both mental and physical, nearly deprived her of reason. Days, weeks, months passed; she led an idle, aimless existence, kept a close prisoner, and debarred from exercise that was essential to life. The window had been nailed up, and even if it would open it was too high from the ground to admit of escape. Each day she sat before it, gazing down into the orchard which surrounded the house and the wide stretch of market garden beyond.One day, however, just as she was about to relinquish hope of assistance being forthcoming, and was sitting, as usual, at the window, she saw both of her janitors leave the house together, attired as if they meant to be absent several hours.Her chance to escape had arrived. Rushing to the door, she tried it. Her heart gave a bound of joy as the handle turned and it opened. The woman had, by a most fortuitous circumstance, forgotten to lock it.Nevertheless, there was still another point that required careful consideration. Her clothes had been taken from her, and the only garment she wore was a dirty, ragged flannel dressing-gown. Descending the stairs, for the first time since her abduction, she explored the place in an endeavour to find some clothes. In a bedroom on the ground floor she found an old dress, with a shawl, bonnet, and pair of worn-out boots—all of which had evidently belonged to the woman who had kept her prisoner. Attiring herself in them in almost breathless excitement, lest she should be discovered ere she could effect her escape, she opened the door and stole out.Passing through the orchard, she followed a path down to a by-road, at the end of which she gained a broad highway, and presently came to a small town. On inquiry she found this was Twickenham. A lad told her the way to London, and she plodded onward, notwithstanding that lack of exercise caused her to quickly become exhausted. Through Richmond and Kew she passed, then along the straight broad road leading through Chiswick, Hammersmith, Kensington, and Hyde Park, until, in an almost fainting condition, she found herself at the corner of Jermyn Street, and sought out the house wherein Hugh Trethowen lived.During her imprisonment she had made a strange discovery, but, alas! she had come too late, and now she turned away from the church disappointed and heartbroken. The mainspring of her life had snapped; nevertheless, she was determined to wait and obtain a revenge which she knew would be terrible and complete.
“Why are you so glum this morning, Jack? Hang it, you look as if you were going to attend my funeral instead of my wedding.”
“Do I?” asked Egerton, yawning, and stretching himself out lazily in his chair. “I didn’t know my facial expression was not in keeping with the joyousness of the occasion.”
“Look here, old fellow,” continued Hugh, walking over to his companion, and looking him earnestly in the face. “Now, before we start, tell me why you are so strangely indifferent. It seems as if you still entertain some curious antipathy towards Valérie.” Egerton knit his brows, and, rising, assumed an air of utter unconcern.
“It’s a matter I would rather not discuss, old chap,” he said. “At your request I’ve consented to assist at your wedding, otherwise I should not have been here at all.”
“Your very words betray you. Why should you have been absent, pray?”
“For certain reasons,” the other replied briefly. Trethowen regarded his friend with surprise, not unmingled with annoyance.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, after a few moments’ silence, “I see. You have not finished those mysterious warnings of yours. Why the deuce don’t you speak right out and tell me what you mean?”
“I have no intention to malign the woman who is to be your wife, Hugh,” the artist answered quietly. “I’ve given you certain hints already, and—”
“Enough of that,” cried his companion, with some asperity. “Though you are an old friend, it gives you no right to interfere with my private affairs.”
“That’s true,” Jack admitted hastily. “Don’t for a moment think I desire to intrude unwarrantably. It’s merely friendly advice I’ve given you.”
“Friendly advice—bosh!” Trethowen said in disgust. “Whatever you know detrimental to Valérie, you’ll oblige me by keeping in future to yourself.”
The man addressed muttered something in an undertone, and, turning, gazed abstractedly out of the window.
They were in Hugh’s sitting-room in St. James’s on the morning fixed for the marriage. It was almost a month since Trethowen had left Spa, and the time had been pleasantly spent with Valérie at Brussels and Ostend. Now that they had returned to London, she had again taken up her abode in her little flat in Victoria Street, while the arrangements for the marriage were completed.
Jack Egerton, dressed more sprucely than usual, and wearing the orthodox lavender gloves and a flower in his coat, had called upon his friend half an hour before, and was waiting to accompany him to the church. His task he regarded with abhorrence. He would rather have done anything than assist at the ceremony, and see his friend bind himself to that dark-eyed Circe. Yet he, helpless and under the merciless thrall of the woman, was there by sheer compulsion. A fortnight ago he had received a letter from her. She did not ask or entreat, but commanded him to be present and act as Hugh’s best man.
“I know,” she wrote in French, “the task will be scarcely congenial, but your presence will inspire him with confidence. He has promised me he will ask you, and if you refuse, he will suspect that it is repugnant to you. Understand, he must know nothing of my affairs. When we last met at Laroche you threatened me, but I need hardly impress the necessity of silence upon you, having regard to the fact that the reward of your zealousness on your friend’s behalf would be a life sentence. Accept his offer and attend the wedding, otherwise I shall know you are playing against me. If you do, beware! for I shall win. I have all the honours in my hand.”
He was reflecting upon this last sentence as he stood staring aimlessly down into the street. She possessed the dark secret of his life, and held him in her power, so that he was compelled to do her bidding, to dance attendance upon her, and to witness her triumph at the expense of his dearest friend.
Grinding his teeth, he uttered an imprecation, as he realised how complete was her mastery, and perceived that his own ruin would be the only reward for saving Hugh.
The latter, who was watching him, misconstrued this outburst of impatience and went over and grasped his hand, saying:
“Forgive me, old fellow, for what I’ve just said. We ought not to quarrel, more especially to-day. I was rather hasty, but I love Valérie, and anything hinted against her excites my anger. Come, let’s forget it.” His companion succumbed to fate, having done all he could in the way of resistance. Laughing a trifle sadly, he replied—
“There’s nothing whatever to forgive. I shall go with you to the church, and I hope—well, I hope your marriage will bring you nothing but happiness. Nevertheless, whatever is the result, remember I am still your friend.”
Trethowen thanked him, although astonished at his friend’s tone, and inwardly tried to account for his apparent sadness.
Could it be, that he entertained affection for Valérie himself? Or was it that their conversation that morning had brought back to his memory thoughts of the lost woman who, although his friend, assistant, and critic, was not his mistress? He had spoken very little of her, with the exception of describing the strange circumstances in which she disappeared. Still, any mention of her seemed to cause him sorrowful reflections.
Walking to a side-table whereon stood a bottle of champagne and some glasses, Hugh uncorked the wine, at the same time touching the gong.
In answer to the summons old Jacob appeared. He wore a large wedding-favour, and his scanty hair was parted and brushed with unusual care.
Having filled three glasses, his master turned to him, saying—
“Take a glass with us, Jacob, to celebrate the event. Come, Jack, here you are. It’s no innovation to drink with a servant like my trusty old fossil here!”
The artist took the glass, and, as he did so, Hugh, holding up his own, gave the toast.
“Here’s to the last hour of bachelorhood.”
“Long life and prosperity to Hugh Trethowen!” Egerton exclaimed.
“And may they always lead happy lives!” added the old servant, in a weak broken voice.
“Hurrah! Let’s hope so,” remarked the bridegroom, and the trio tossed off their wine.
“And now we must be going,” he added, a few minutes later. “You know my instructions, Jacob. You’ll follow to Coombe at the end of the week. If any one calls, tell them—tell them I shan’t be back in town for six months at least.”
“Very well, Master Hugh,” the feeble old man replied, smiling at his master’s humour. “May God bless you both, sir!”
“Thank you, Jacob, thank you,” Hugh replied heartily, as his man withdrew. “He can’t make it out, I think,” he remarked to Jack, with a laugh. “It’ll be a fresh experience for him to have a mistress. But I feel sure she’ll be kind to him.”
Then they both finally examined themselves in a long mirror in the corner of the room, and, putting on their gloves, left the house.
An hour later the bell of the outer door of the chambers rang, and Jacob, still wearing his white satin rosette, answered.
On throwing open the door he was confronted by an unkempt wretchedly clad young woman, with tousled hair poking from under a battered crape bonnet, and a ragged shawl about her shoulders.
“Is Mr Trethowen in?” she inquired, in a voice that was refined, and certainly not in keeping with her habiliments.
“No, he’s not,” the old man replied sharply, for a woman of that class was not a desirable visitor.
“Where can I find him?” she asked anxiously. “I must see him, and at once.”
“I tell you he’s not here.”
“Then where is he?”
Jacob, always a discreet and discriminating servant, did not like the look of this ill-attired stranger. He was particularly distrustful of females.
“I want to see him—to tell him something for his own advantage. It’s imperative that I should see him immediately,” she continued.
“Well,” remarked Jacob, hesitating, and reflecting that it might possibly be to his master’s advantage. “The fact is, he’s gone to be married.”
“To be married!” she echoed, staggering as if she had been dealt a blow.
“Yes; he and the French lady were to be married at twelve o’clock at St. James’s. He’s gone there to meet her.”
“Where’s the church? Quick, I must go there,” she cried anxiously.
“In Piccadilly. Go to the top of the road here, turn to the right, and you’ll come to it.”
“Will he return here?”
“No; he goes to Cornwall to-night.”
Turning suddenly, she ran hurriedly down the stairs. “Well, well,” remarked the aged retainer aloud, as he closed the door and re-entered the sitting-room. “Now, I wonder what she wants? It’s very strange—very; but, somehow, I believe I’ve seen a face something like hers before somewhere, only I can’t recollect. Ah, well,” he added, sighing, “I’m not so young as I was, and my memory fails me. After all, I suppose it’s only fancy.”
Then he helped himself to a glass of his master’s old port in celebration of the happy occasion.
Meanwhile the slipshod female had turned from Piccadilly up the paved courtyard leading to St. James’s church. She hurried, with wearied eyes and pale, anxious face, almost breathless.
At the door she was met by the pew-opener—a stout elderly female in rusty black—who, seeing her haste asked what she wanted.
“Is Mr Trethowen to be married here to-day?” she inquired.
“Trethowen! Yes. I think that’s the gentleman’s name. What do you want to know for?” she asked, regarding her suspiciously.
“I must see him. Is he inside?”
“No, he ain’t. The party left a quarter of an hour ago.”
“Gone!” she cried in dismay.
“Yes, they’re married,” remarked the woman. “Did you come to congratulate them?” she asked with a sneer.
“Married!” the other echoed, her face ashen pale. “Then, I’m too late! He’s married her—and I cannot save him.”
“You seem in rather a bad way over him,” observed the woman, with an amused air.
“Where have they gone? Tell me quickly.”
“How should I know? As long as the parties give me my fee, I don’t ask no questions.”
“Gone?” she repeated.
Reeling, she almost fell, but with an effort she recovered herself and shuffled with uneven steps down to the gateway, and in a few minutes was lost in the crowd in Piccadilly.
The woman who acted so strangely, and upon whom suspicions were cast as, with bowed head, she dragged her weary limbs slowly toward Hyde Park Corner, was Dolly Vivian.
Weak and ill, she was dazed by the bustle and noise surrounding her. Months of confinement, consequent upon a dangerous wound, had had their effect upon her, leaving her but the shadow of her former self. As she walked through the busy thoroughfare, it seemed to her an age since the night she had been decoyed and entrapped. Her experiences had been horrible, and she shuddered as she thought of them.
When she had recovered consciousness after being left by her allurer, she found an old and repulsive-looking woman bending over her holding a cup to her lips. Her mouth was fevered and parched, and she drank. Then, for the first time, she discovered that she had an ugly and painful wound in her neck. She had been stabbed, but not fatally, and the wound had been bandaged while she was insensible. Ignorant of where she was or how she had been brought there, she lay for weeks hovering between life and death. The lonely house, she found, was occupied by two persons—the woman who attended upon her and a rough-looking man. They treated her harshly, almost brutally, refusing to answer any questions, and never failing to lock the door of her room when they left.
The solitary confinement, added to the pain she suffered, both mental and physical, nearly deprived her of reason. Days, weeks, months passed; she led an idle, aimless existence, kept a close prisoner, and debarred from exercise that was essential to life. The window had been nailed up, and even if it would open it was too high from the ground to admit of escape. Each day she sat before it, gazing down into the orchard which surrounded the house and the wide stretch of market garden beyond.
One day, however, just as she was about to relinquish hope of assistance being forthcoming, and was sitting, as usual, at the window, she saw both of her janitors leave the house together, attired as if they meant to be absent several hours.
Her chance to escape had arrived. Rushing to the door, she tried it. Her heart gave a bound of joy as the handle turned and it opened. The woman had, by a most fortuitous circumstance, forgotten to lock it.
Nevertheless, there was still another point that required careful consideration. Her clothes had been taken from her, and the only garment she wore was a dirty, ragged flannel dressing-gown. Descending the stairs, for the first time since her abduction, she explored the place in an endeavour to find some clothes. In a bedroom on the ground floor she found an old dress, with a shawl, bonnet, and pair of worn-out boots—all of which had evidently belonged to the woman who had kept her prisoner. Attiring herself in them in almost breathless excitement, lest she should be discovered ere she could effect her escape, she opened the door and stole out.
Passing through the orchard, she followed a path down to a by-road, at the end of which she gained a broad highway, and presently came to a small town. On inquiry she found this was Twickenham. A lad told her the way to London, and she plodded onward, notwithstanding that lack of exercise caused her to quickly become exhausted. Through Richmond and Kew she passed, then along the straight broad road leading through Chiswick, Hammersmith, Kensington, and Hyde Park, until, in an almost fainting condition, she found herself at the corner of Jermyn Street, and sought out the house wherein Hugh Trethowen lived.
During her imprisonment she had made a strange discovery, but, alas! she had come too late, and now she turned away from the church disappointed and heartbroken. The mainspring of her life had snapped; nevertheless, she was determined to wait and obtain a revenge which she knew would be terrible and complete.
Chapter Twenty Two.The Pretty Artist’s Model.“I’ve a good mind to burn them, and so put an end to all this confounded mystery; yet—”Hugh Trethowen hesitated.Standing pensively before the fire in his own den at Coombe a fortnight after his marriage, he was examining the photograph and partially destroyed letters, the unaccountable presence of which among his brother’s possessions had caused him so much perturbation. As he held the photograph in his hand the pictured face of Valérie seemed to smile with tantalising seductiveness, and, with a fond husbands admiration, he told himself that in no way had her beauty deteriorated, but, on the contrary, she had grown handsomer.Nevertheless, the fact that it had, together with the letters, been carefully concealed by his brother, was a problem which frequently caused him a good deal of uneasy speculation. The wording of the missives was strangely ominous, and there was no disguising the fact that they were in his wife’s handwriting.“I’m half inclined to tear them up and burn them. If I did, they certainly would worry me no longer,” he argued, aloud. “I wish I could let her see them, and ask for an explanation. But I cannot; it would show mistrust.”He lifted his eyes from the photograph and gazed perplexedly around the apartment. More than once he had been sorely tempted to destroy the carefully-preserved documents; still the mystery surrounding them was fascinating, and he vaguely hoped that some day he might elucidate it.Suddenly he turned and crossed the room resolutely, saying—“No, I’ll keep them; by Jove, I will! I must master these absurd apprehensions. What does it matter? The communications certainly relate to something which looks suspiciously like a mystery; nevertheless, it’s probable that, after all, they only refer to some very commonplace affair.”Laughing sardonically, he paused for a moment to glance at the photograph under the stronger light shed by the lamp upon the table; then he opened the bureau and replaced them in a drawer.“Bah! I’m a fool to think about them,” he added, as he locked the flap and turned away. “Yet, why should they constantly recur in my thoughts, interfering with my happiness, and rendering me almost miserable? Even Jack’s semi-prophetic utterances seem to convey some meaning when they are before me. Still, most people harbour a family skeleton in their cupboard, and I suppose this is mine. But there’s no reason why I should bother my head over it; the solution will come some day, and until then I can wait.”He flung himself into a roomy armchair in a less thoughtful mood. That afternoon Valérie had driven to Bude to call upon the vicar’s wife, whom she had met on several occasions in London, and, although nearly seven o’clock, she had not returned. The cold November wind howled dismally in the chimney as Hugh sat by the fireside already dressed, and awaiting dinner. For the first time since his marriage he found himself alone, with time hanging heavily upon his hands, and had recognised how utterly unbearable his life would be without her fair presence and kindly smile. His love for her was unbounded; she was, indeed, his idol.While in this contemplative mood, a servant entered and handed him a letter on a salver. Taking it up, he glanced at the superscription. In was in a feminine hand which he did not recognise. Breaking open the envelope, he read and re-read the brief and almost incomprehensible message it contained. It ran as follows:—Dear Mr Trethowen,—It is imperative that I should see you as soon as possible upon a matter of the utmost importance. To commit to paper the object of the interview I desire would not be policy, nevertheless it is of great moment to yourself. Can you make an appointment to meet me in London? Please keep this letter a strict secret from any one, even including Mrs Trethowen.—Yours very truly, Dorothy Vivian.“I wonder what it can mean?” he reflected, with his eyes fixed upon the paper. “Evidently Dolly has turned up again, yet it’s strange Jack has said nothing of her reappearance in his letters. Where can she have been, and why does she send me such a curious request? What can she know that concerns me?”He re-read the letter silently, twisting his moustache in perplexity.“I suspect that, if the truth were known, she’s been on a holiday trip with some admirer. But I shouldn’t have thought it of her, she was so quiet and steady-going. A matter of great moment to myself,” he repeated. “It sounds mysterious, certainly.”Still holding her letter in his hand, he flung back his head on the cushion of his chair, and thought.“After all, many men would feel flattered by such a note,” he said aloud.“Why, Hugh, dear, how long have you been sitting here all alone? What’s that in your hand? A letter! In a girl’s handwriting, too!”The voice caused him to start from his chair and crush the letter hurriedly into his pocket. Valérie had opened the door noiselessly and crept up behind him mischievously, intending to startle him. She had been looking over his shoulder for several moments, vainly endeavouring to read the communication.“You made me jump, darling,” he said, laughing confusedly. “I’ve been waiting for you an hour.”“And been amusing yourself, it seems, by receiving a letter during my absence,” she added cynically.“I admit the letter came half an hour ago, but it contains nothing of which I am ashamed.”“Then I presume I may read it?” she suggested.“Unfortunately, no,” he replied, remembering Dolly’s injunctions as to secrecy. “Its contents are of a strictly private nature.”“Unless it be compromising, I should scarcely have thought that any letter received by a husband who wishes to preserve a wife’s confidence could contain secrets that she should not learn,” Valérie remarked in a tone of annoyance.“That is true, dearest,” he said earnestly, taking her hand. “It is through no fault of my own that I am unable to show it to you.”“May I not know who the writer is?” she asked, standing erect, and looking handsome in the dinner-gown which she had assumed before coming in search of him.Her husband shook his head gravely.It was the first difference of opinion they had had since their marriage, and he could not view it but with regret. He hastened to assure her that she need have no fear that he was practising duplicity, that he loved her too well. For her part, she had long ago gauged the extent of his affection, and, truth to tell, had but little misgiving when she discovered the open letter in his hand. Nevertheless, she was curious to learn the identity of his lady correspondent, and, in consequence of being met with a decisive refusal, was somewhat piqued.This, however, passed quickly. The unbecoming frown which clouded her brow soon gave way to an affectionate smile as she yielded herself to his embrace and returned his kiss.A moment later a servant entered and announced that dinner was served. Then she linked her arm in his, and they strolled along to the dining-room, laughing lightly, and discussing the merits of the obese and highly respectable lady she had been visiting.Valérie’s nature was fantastic to a degree. She invariably sacrificed her interests to her caprices.Thus the unpleasant episode passed, and in half an hour was entirely forgotten. Trethowen was as madly in love with his wife as on the first day his eyes fell upon her, and, surrounded by comfort and luxury, led a blissful, contented existence. Heedless of the future, and living only for the present, he adored her passionately, believing that the perfect felicity they now enjoyed would go on uninterruptedly and be of permanent duration.How strange it is that all of us, however philosophic, at one period or other in our lives entertain a foolish conviction that we have found perfect and lasting contentment! We never reflect. If we did, we should recognise that there is no such thing as perpetual happiness, that joy is at best but temporary pleasure, productive of bitter reaction, and that so-called domestic bliss is a fallacy, always anticipated, often feigned, yet, waning and fading with the honeymoon.On that day Dolly Vivian returned to Jack Egerton.In the morning she had walked unexpectedly into his studio where he was busy at work, and, laughing at his surprise and consternation, proceeded to divest herself of her hat and jacket in apparently an unconcerned manner, as though she had never been absent. To his questions as to the cause of her disappearance and long silence she was perfectly indifferent, merely remarking in a severe tone that she was mistress of her own actions, and that she did not require intrusion upon affairs which were of a purely private nature. A suggestion of his that she had been on an escapade with a male escort she strongly resented; indeed, she became so angry at the insinuation that, fearing lest she should again absent herself, the artist was compelled to abandon his cross-examination and welcome her return with all the sincerity of an old friend.“Then you won’t tell me why you went away so suddenly and left no address?” he asked again, when they had been in conversation some time, and he had told her of his doings in her absence.“No, Jack. Once for all, I refuse. My movements concern no one except myself.”“I, too, am an interested party,” he argued, smiling gallantly.“Well, yes. I suppose you haven’t yet finished ‘The Sultan’s Favourite’?”“No; there it is,” he replied, pointing to a canvas placed with its face towards the wall. “I have not touched it since you left. It has been awaiting your return before I could finish it.”“Am I to continue my sittings, then?” she asked coquettishly.“Why, of course,” he replied, lolling against his easel and regarding her amusedly. “You know well enough what crude daubs my figures would be if I did not have your model. I owe the greater part of my success to you, and since your absence I’ve done absolutely nothing that has satisfied me.”She was well aware that the words he spoke were the truth. Through several years of desperate struggle against adversity she had been his adviser and assistant, watching with gratification his steady progress. Each picture he completed was more natural and more perfect. He could work from no other model, she knew, therefore it did not surprise her when he announced his intention to resume without further delay what promised to be his masterpiece, “The Sultan’s Favourite.”In half an hour she had exchanged her dress for the filmy garments and velvet zouave of an Oriental beauty, and was lying half recumbent upon the silken divan in a careless, graceful attitude. When she had assumed exactly the same pose as before, with one naked foot dangling near the ground and the stray embroidered slipper beside her, she told him to commence.During the morning the artist worked on in the best of spirits. Delighted at the return of his companion andconfidante, whom he had despaired of seeing again, he chatted and laughed in a manner quite unusual to him, for he always preserved a rather morose silence when he had any difficult work in hand. One thing, however, was unaccountable, and caused him considerable surprise. When he had been painting about an hour he made a discovery. He was engaged in heightening the tone of the neck, and, finding her head cast rather too much shadow, asked her to turn a little more upon her side. She did so rather reluctantly, he thought—and then he noticed upon her neck, half-hidden by the heavy necklace of Turkish coins she wore, a long ugly scar.“Why, Dolly!” he exclaimed in consternation, leaving his easel and walking up to examine her more closely, “what’s the matter with your neck?”“Nothing,” she replied, somewhat embarrassed.“But you’ve had a fearful wound. How did it occur?”“It was a mere trifle. I—I fell down.”“Where?”“In the street. I slipped and fell upon the kerb.”“A fall couldn’t cause a cut like that,” he exclaimed incredulously.“It did. But don’t bother about it,” she replied, a trifle petulantly. “It has healed now, and I have no pain.”He looked at her steadily, and felt convinced that she was concealing the truth. Reassuming his former lightheartedness, however, he observed that the accident was most unfortunate, and, expressing a hope that she felt no evil effects from it, returned to his picture and continued to put in the lighter flesh tints.About two o’clock he suddenly remembered that he had made an appointment to call upon a man at Holland Park with regard to a commission, and that it would be imperative for him to leave her for at least an hour. She raised no objection, therefore he changed his coat and took his departure, promising to return with all possible haste, as he wanted to finish the portion of the picture upon which he was engaged before the light failed.When he had gone she rose languidly from her couch, and, shivering slightly, threw a wrap around her bare white shoulders, and seated herself by the fire. Soon Mrs O’Shea brought in her luncheon on a tray, and she ate with relish, chatting to the housekeeper meanwhile. After she had finished, and the old woman had retired, she rose and wandered round the studio in search of any fresh studies the artist might have made during her absence. She turned one which was hanging with its face to the wall, and discovered it was a likeness of the woman she hated—her rival, Valérie Dedieu. It was only a crayon drawing, but the features were lifelike, and the cruel, cold smile played upon the full red lips.“I wonder,” she said, aloud—“I wonder what secret tie there is between Jack and that woman? There is something, I feel certain, and I’ll not rest until I solve the mystery. Yet—yet she is Hugh’s wife—Hugh loves her!” she added bitterly.With a sigh she replaced the sketch in the position she had found it.“Yes, my precious mademoiselle,” she continued menacingly, “you may well hide your face. Some day you will curse the chance which brought you and Hugh together. You little suspect the revenge that I am waiting for.”Pausing in thought, she ran her fingers through her dishevelled hair.“And yet,” she cried in dismay, as the sudden thought occurred to her, “by unmasking you, Hugh would suffer, for he adores you! The discovery of your villainy would break his heart. You are his wife—his wife—and for me—for me he cares nothing!”A tear trickled down her cheek, but it was only for an instant; she brushed it away, and stood motionless for several minutes gazing disconsolately into the fire. Then she noticed that Jack’s secretaire bookcase, which stood close beside her, was open. Feminine curiosity at once asserted itself, and the thought crossed her mind that it was possible she might discover some clue to the secret between the Frenchwoman and the artist.At once she proceeded to search, at the same time listening attentively for any sign of the approach of Mrs O’Shea. Prying among the papers in the desk she could discover nothing which had any interest for her among the bills, letters, theatre programmes and memoranda it contained. Turning her attention to the small drawers above, her search was equally fruitless. One drawer she opened, however, contained nothing but an old newspaper folded small and lying along the bottom. A red mark upon it attracted her, and she took it out and unfolded it, but with disappointment she found herself unable to read it, as it was in French. Half a column on the front page had been marked round boldly with a red pencil, and was evidently some important report which had been carefully preserved. The heading was set in great capitals, and the type was larger than that in the body of the paper.She glanced down the lines of print, but they were unintelligible to her. The heading, which was the only sentence she could make out, was “Le Mystère du Boulevard Haussmann,” and the newspaper was the ParisGaulois. Truth to tell, it was the paper which Egerton had abstracted from the bureau at Coombe when Dolly and he had visited Trethowen.The “Sultan’s Favourite” carefully scanned each line in an endeavour to discover some word that was familiar, but found none. She knew it contained details of some mystery or other, and that was sufficient incentive for her to try and translate it. Soon, however, she found that all her efforts were futile; so, refolding it, she was about to replace it in its former position when she suddenly reflected that if she copied out a portion of it she might get it translated by a governess who lodged in the same house as herself, and with whom she was on friendly terms.Taking a seat at the desk, she spread out the paper before her, and carefully copied several sentences, taking heed to place the accents accurately, and scrupulously avoiding errors in orthography. Having covered two sheets of notepaper, she replaced the newspaper in the drawer, afterwards going into her dressing-room and putting her notes into the pocket of her dress.Once or twice she felt inclined to laugh at herself for attaching so much importance to a mere newspaper report which seemed to contain nothing to connect it with the persons in whom she was interested, nevertheless she felt convinced that no clue was too small or insignificant for her to investigate. One discovery, amazing yet incomprehensible, she had already made, and it had whetted her desire to know the whole truth in order that her revenge might be more complete.Egerton returned shortly afterwards. Handing her a bag of burnt almonds of a kind for which she had a particular weakness, he expressed a hope that she had not been dull, and quickly prepared to resume his work. With eyes sparkling like those of a spoiled child, she tasted the almonds, and gave him one, then, flinging aside her wrap, lay again upon the divan before him, laughing, and crunching her sweets.The artist was in a mood even more joyful than before he went out, the cause being that he had been given commission for a portrait that was at once easy and lucrative, a fact which he triumphantly announced to his model, and upon which she congratulated him.In November the light in London grows yellow early, and before four o’clock the artist had to lay down his palette for the day. Tea was brought in a few minutes later, and the pair sattête-à-têtebefore the blazing fire, Dolly listening to the painter’s technical description of the picture that he had been commissioned to execute.
“I’ve a good mind to burn them, and so put an end to all this confounded mystery; yet—”
Hugh Trethowen hesitated.
Standing pensively before the fire in his own den at Coombe a fortnight after his marriage, he was examining the photograph and partially destroyed letters, the unaccountable presence of which among his brother’s possessions had caused him so much perturbation. As he held the photograph in his hand the pictured face of Valérie seemed to smile with tantalising seductiveness, and, with a fond husbands admiration, he told himself that in no way had her beauty deteriorated, but, on the contrary, she had grown handsomer.
Nevertheless, the fact that it had, together with the letters, been carefully concealed by his brother, was a problem which frequently caused him a good deal of uneasy speculation. The wording of the missives was strangely ominous, and there was no disguising the fact that they were in his wife’s handwriting.
“I’m half inclined to tear them up and burn them. If I did, they certainly would worry me no longer,” he argued, aloud. “I wish I could let her see them, and ask for an explanation. But I cannot; it would show mistrust.”
He lifted his eyes from the photograph and gazed perplexedly around the apartment. More than once he had been sorely tempted to destroy the carefully-preserved documents; still the mystery surrounding them was fascinating, and he vaguely hoped that some day he might elucidate it.
Suddenly he turned and crossed the room resolutely, saying—
“No, I’ll keep them; by Jove, I will! I must master these absurd apprehensions. What does it matter? The communications certainly relate to something which looks suspiciously like a mystery; nevertheless, it’s probable that, after all, they only refer to some very commonplace affair.”
Laughing sardonically, he paused for a moment to glance at the photograph under the stronger light shed by the lamp upon the table; then he opened the bureau and replaced them in a drawer.
“Bah! I’m a fool to think about them,” he added, as he locked the flap and turned away. “Yet, why should they constantly recur in my thoughts, interfering with my happiness, and rendering me almost miserable? Even Jack’s semi-prophetic utterances seem to convey some meaning when they are before me. Still, most people harbour a family skeleton in their cupboard, and I suppose this is mine. But there’s no reason why I should bother my head over it; the solution will come some day, and until then I can wait.”
He flung himself into a roomy armchair in a less thoughtful mood. That afternoon Valérie had driven to Bude to call upon the vicar’s wife, whom she had met on several occasions in London, and, although nearly seven o’clock, she had not returned. The cold November wind howled dismally in the chimney as Hugh sat by the fireside already dressed, and awaiting dinner. For the first time since his marriage he found himself alone, with time hanging heavily upon his hands, and had recognised how utterly unbearable his life would be without her fair presence and kindly smile. His love for her was unbounded; she was, indeed, his idol.
While in this contemplative mood, a servant entered and handed him a letter on a salver. Taking it up, he glanced at the superscription. In was in a feminine hand which he did not recognise. Breaking open the envelope, he read and re-read the brief and almost incomprehensible message it contained. It ran as follows:—
Dear Mr Trethowen,—It is imperative that I should see you as soon as possible upon a matter of the utmost importance. To commit to paper the object of the interview I desire would not be policy, nevertheless it is of great moment to yourself. Can you make an appointment to meet me in London? Please keep this letter a strict secret from any one, even including Mrs Trethowen.—Yours very truly, Dorothy Vivian.
“I wonder what it can mean?” he reflected, with his eyes fixed upon the paper. “Evidently Dolly has turned up again, yet it’s strange Jack has said nothing of her reappearance in his letters. Where can she have been, and why does she send me such a curious request? What can she know that concerns me?”
He re-read the letter silently, twisting his moustache in perplexity.
“I suspect that, if the truth were known, she’s been on a holiday trip with some admirer. But I shouldn’t have thought it of her, she was so quiet and steady-going. A matter of great moment to myself,” he repeated. “It sounds mysterious, certainly.”
Still holding her letter in his hand, he flung back his head on the cushion of his chair, and thought.
“After all, many men would feel flattered by such a note,” he said aloud.
“Why, Hugh, dear, how long have you been sitting here all alone? What’s that in your hand? A letter! In a girl’s handwriting, too!”
The voice caused him to start from his chair and crush the letter hurriedly into his pocket. Valérie had opened the door noiselessly and crept up behind him mischievously, intending to startle him. She had been looking over his shoulder for several moments, vainly endeavouring to read the communication.
“You made me jump, darling,” he said, laughing confusedly. “I’ve been waiting for you an hour.”
“And been amusing yourself, it seems, by receiving a letter during my absence,” she added cynically.
“I admit the letter came half an hour ago, but it contains nothing of which I am ashamed.”
“Then I presume I may read it?” she suggested.
“Unfortunately, no,” he replied, remembering Dolly’s injunctions as to secrecy. “Its contents are of a strictly private nature.”
“Unless it be compromising, I should scarcely have thought that any letter received by a husband who wishes to preserve a wife’s confidence could contain secrets that she should not learn,” Valérie remarked in a tone of annoyance.
“That is true, dearest,” he said earnestly, taking her hand. “It is through no fault of my own that I am unable to show it to you.”
“May I not know who the writer is?” she asked, standing erect, and looking handsome in the dinner-gown which she had assumed before coming in search of him.
Her husband shook his head gravely.
It was the first difference of opinion they had had since their marriage, and he could not view it but with regret. He hastened to assure her that she need have no fear that he was practising duplicity, that he loved her too well. For her part, she had long ago gauged the extent of his affection, and, truth to tell, had but little misgiving when she discovered the open letter in his hand. Nevertheless, she was curious to learn the identity of his lady correspondent, and, in consequence of being met with a decisive refusal, was somewhat piqued.
This, however, passed quickly. The unbecoming frown which clouded her brow soon gave way to an affectionate smile as she yielded herself to his embrace and returned his kiss.
A moment later a servant entered and announced that dinner was served. Then she linked her arm in his, and they strolled along to the dining-room, laughing lightly, and discussing the merits of the obese and highly respectable lady she had been visiting.
Valérie’s nature was fantastic to a degree. She invariably sacrificed her interests to her caprices.
Thus the unpleasant episode passed, and in half an hour was entirely forgotten. Trethowen was as madly in love with his wife as on the first day his eyes fell upon her, and, surrounded by comfort and luxury, led a blissful, contented existence. Heedless of the future, and living only for the present, he adored her passionately, believing that the perfect felicity they now enjoyed would go on uninterruptedly and be of permanent duration.
How strange it is that all of us, however philosophic, at one period or other in our lives entertain a foolish conviction that we have found perfect and lasting contentment! We never reflect. If we did, we should recognise that there is no such thing as perpetual happiness, that joy is at best but temporary pleasure, productive of bitter reaction, and that so-called domestic bliss is a fallacy, always anticipated, often feigned, yet, waning and fading with the honeymoon.
On that day Dolly Vivian returned to Jack Egerton.
In the morning she had walked unexpectedly into his studio where he was busy at work, and, laughing at his surprise and consternation, proceeded to divest herself of her hat and jacket in apparently an unconcerned manner, as though she had never been absent. To his questions as to the cause of her disappearance and long silence she was perfectly indifferent, merely remarking in a severe tone that she was mistress of her own actions, and that she did not require intrusion upon affairs which were of a purely private nature. A suggestion of his that she had been on an escapade with a male escort she strongly resented; indeed, she became so angry at the insinuation that, fearing lest she should again absent herself, the artist was compelled to abandon his cross-examination and welcome her return with all the sincerity of an old friend.
“Then you won’t tell me why you went away so suddenly and left no address?” he asked again, when they had been in conversation some time, and he had told her of his doings in her absence.
“No, Jack. Once for all, I refuse. My movements concern no one except myself.”
“I, too, am an interested party,” he argued, smiling gallantly.
“Well, yes. I suppose you haven’t yet finished ‘The Sultan’s Favourite’?”
“No; there it is,” he replied, pointing to a canvas placed with its face towards the wall. “I have not touched it since you left. It has been awaiting your return before I could finish it.”
“Am I to continue my sittings, then?” she asked coquettishly.
“Why, of course,” he replied, lolling against his easel and regarding her amusedly. “You know well enough what crude daubs my figures would be if I did not have your model. I owe the greater part of my success to you, and since your absence I’ve done absolutely nothing that has satisfied me.”
She was well aware that the words he spoke were the truth. Through several years of desperate struggle against adversity she had been his adviser and assistant, watching with gratification his steady progress. Each picture he completed was more natural and more perfect. He could work from no other model, she knew, therefore it did not surprise her when he announced his intention to resume without further delay what promised to be his masterpiece, “The Sultan’s Favourite.”
In half an hour she had exchanged her dress for the filmy garments and velvet zouave of an Oriental beauty, and was lying half recumbent upon the silken divan in a careless, graceful attitude. When she had assumed exactly the same pose as before, with one naked foot dangling near the ground and the stray embroidered slipper beside her, she told him to commence.
During the morning the artist worked on in the best of spirits. Delighted at the return of his companion andconfidante, whom he had despaired of seeing again, he chatted and laughed in a manner quite unusual to him, for he always preserved a rather morose silence when he had any difficult work in hand. One thing, however, was unaccountable, and caused him considerable surprise. When he had been painting about an hour he made a discovery. He was engaged in heightening the tone of the neck, and, finding her head cast rather too much shadow, asked her to turn a little more upon her side. She did so rather reluctantly, he thought—and then he noticed upon her neck, half-hidden by the heavy necklace of Turkish coins she wore, a long ugly scar.
“Why, Dolly!” he exclaimed in consternation, leaving his easel and walking up to examine her more closely, “what’s the matter with your neck?”
“Nothing,” she replied, somewhat embarrassed.
“But you’ve had a fearful wound. How did it occur?”
“It was a mere trifle. I—I fell down.”
“Where?”
“In the street. I slipped and fell upon the kerb.”
“A fall couldn’t cause a cut like that,” he exclaimed incredulously.
“It did. But don’t bother about it,” she replied, a trifle petulantly. “It has healed now, and I have no pain.”
He looked at her steadily, and felt convinced that she was concealing the truth. Reassuming his former lightheartedness, however, he observed that the accident was most unfortunate, and, expressing a hope that she felt no evil effects from it, returned to his picture and continued to put in the lighter flesh tints.
About two o’clock he suddenly remembered that he had made an appointment to call upon a man at Holland Park with regard to a commission, and that it would be imperative for him to leave her for at least an hour. She raised no objection, therefore he changed his coat and took his departure, promising to return with all possible haste, as he wanted to finish the portion of the picture upon which he was engaged before the light failed.
When he had gone she rose languidly from her couch, and, shivering slightly, threw a wrap around her bare white shoulders, and seated herself by the fire. Soon Mrs O’Shea brought in her luncheon on a tray, and she ate with relish, chatting to the housekeeper meanwhile. After she had finished, and the old woman had retired, she rose and wandered round the studio in search of any fresh studies the artist might have made during her absence. She turned one which was hanging with its face to the wall, and discovered it was a likeness of the woman she hated—her rival, Valérie Dedieu. It was only a crayon drawing, but the features were lifelike, and the cruel, cold smile played upon the full red lips.
“I wonder,” she said, aloud—“I wonder what secret tie there is between Jack and that woman? There is something, I feel certain, and I’ll not rest until I solve the mystery. Yet—yet she is Hugh’s wife—Hugh loves her!” she added bitterly.
With a sigh she replaced the sketch in the position she had found it.
“Yes, my precious mademoiselle,” she continued menacingly, “you may well hide your face. Some day you will curse the chance which brought you and Hugh together. You little suspect the revenge that I am waiting for.”
Pausing in thought, she ran her fingers through her dishevelled hair.
“And yet,” she cried in dismay, as the sudden thought occurred to her, “by unmasking you, Hugh would suffer, for he adores you! The discovery of your villainy would break his heart. You are his wife—his wife—and for me—for me he cares nothing!”
A tear trickled down her cheek, but it was only for an instant; she brushed it away, and stood motionless for several minutes gazing disconsolately into the fire. Then she noticed that Jack’s secretaire bookcase, which stood close beside her, was open. Feminine curiosity at once asserted itself, and the thought crossed her mind that it was possible she might discover some clue to the secret between the Frenchwoman and the artist.
At once she proceeded to search, at the same time listening attentively for any sign of the approach of Mrs O’Shea. Prying among the papers in the desk she could discover nothing which had any interest for her among the bills, letters, theatre programmes and memoranda it contained. Turning her attention to the small drawers above, her search was equally fruitless. One drawer she opened, however, contained nothing but an old newspaper folded small and lying along the bottom. A red mark upon it attracted her, and she took it out and unfolded it, but with disappointment she found herself unable to read it, as it was in French. Half a column on the front page had been marked round boldly with a red pencil, and was evidently some important report which had been carefully preserved. The heading was set in great capitals, and the type was larger than that in the body of the paper.
She glanced down the lines of print, but they were unintelligible to her. The heading, which was the only sentence she could make out, was “Le Mystère du Boulevard Haussmann,” and the newspaper was the ParisGaulois. Truth to tell, it was the paper which Egerton had abstracted from the bureau at Coombe when Dolly and he had visited Trethowen.
The “Sultan’s Favourite” carefully scanned each line in an endeavour to discover some word that was familiar, but found none. She knew it contained details of some mystery or other, and that was sufficient incentive for her to try and translate it. Soon, however, she found that all her efforts were futile; so, refolding it, she was about to replace it in its former position when she suddenly reflected that if she copied out a portion of it she might get it translated by a governess who lodged in the same house as herself, and with whom she was on friendly terms.
Taking a seat at the desk, she spread out the paper before her, and carefully copied several sentences, taking heed to place the accents accurately, and scrupulously avoiding errors in orthography. Having covered two sheets of notepaper, she replaced the newspaper in the drawer, afterwards going into her dressing-room and putting her notes into the pocket of her dress.
Once or twice she felt inclined to laugh at herself for attaching so much importance to a mere newspaper report which seemed to contain nothing to connect it with the persons in whom she was interested, nevertheless she felt convinced that no clue was too small or insignificant for her to investigate. One discovery, amazing yet incomprehensible, she had already made, and it had whetted her desire to know the whole truth in order that her revenge might be more complete.
Egerton returned shortly afterwards. Handing her a bag of burnt almonds of a kind for which she had a particular weakness, he expressed a hope that she had not been dull, and quickly prepared to resume his work. With eyes sparkling like those of a spoiled child, she tasted the almonds, and gave him one, then, flinging aside her wrap, lay again upon the divan before him, laughing, and crunching her sweets.
The artist was in a mood even more joyful than before he went out, the cause being that he had been given commission for a portrait that was at once easy and lucrative, a fact which he triumphantly announced to his model, and upon which she congratulated him.
In November the light in London grows yellow early, and before four o’clock the artist had to lay down his palette for the day. Tea was brought in a few minutes later, and the pair sattête-à-têtebefore the blazing fire, Dolly listening to the painter’s technical description of the picture that he had been commissioned to execute.