CHAPTER XIXWe whisper, and hint, and chuckle,And grin at a brother's shame.Lauraine sees no more of Keith during the next week, but she hears from Mrs. Woollffe that he has gone to the Black Forest."I don't know what's come to him," complains the garrulous American. "Guess he's off his head sometimes. Those dollars have been an unlucky windfall for him. He's not like the same chap he was in New York. He never looks pleased noway, and he was the merriest, larkiest young fellow any one could wish to see when I knew him first. I thought Nan would wake him up a bit, but she don't seem to answer; and now he's run off from Baden-Baden as if it was a den of rattlesnakes; and they do say (she drops her voice mysteriously) that he's with that notorious Frenchwoman Coralie Lafitte. My word, if that's so, won't she make the dollars fly. All the same, I'm uncommon sorry for Keith. Never thought he was one ofthatsort."Lauraine grows hot and cold with shame as she listens. She had thought there would be nothing harder for her to do after giving him up, after that last sad parting; but to hear of his recklessness, his sins, to know that she may be in a measure to blame for both cuts her to the heart.She sits quite silent, her hands busy with some crewel-work that she is doing. Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe is paying her a morning visit. Lady Jean has fled at the first approach of the enemy, and so Lauraine has to entertain her alone. Mrs. Woollffe talks on, on; but her listener hears nothing of what she says. Her thoughts are only with the man whose life she has wrecked. Her storm-shattered heart aches and throbs with memories freshly brought to life. She has done what was right; she has severed her life from his, but if it makes him evil, desperate, hopeless; if it sends him to profligate men and bad women, if his bright young manhood is laid waste and desolate, was it, could it be right, after all?Her influence, her presence, had always been a restraint upon him, and she had denied him both—cast him out to the fire of temptations, the recklessness of despair.It was a horrible thought; no one knows how horrible save a woman whose soul is pure, whose heart is passionate, who sees the life she loves and fain would bless, pass out and away from her keeping, and knows that it is beyond her power to recall or claim its fidelity; who sees it lose itself in evil, and seek forgetfulness in wild and feverish excitements, and knows that a word, one little word might have held it back and kept it safe and unharmed."I must not think of it, Imustnot," she says to herself in scorn; and she looks up from the tangled crewels and tries to interest herself in Mrs. Bradshaw Woollffe's gossip, and promises to drive with her in the Lichtenthal Allée, forgetful of Lady Jean's disgust."Well, I'll go," says her loquacious friend at last. "Guess I've got heaps of shopping to do this morning, and Nan will be that cross for keeping her waiting! Good-bye, my dear; good-bye. Hope I haven't tired you. Four o'clock then."The door closes; Lauraine is alone. She sinks wearily back in her chair. The silks and canvas fall unheeded to the floor. She is afraid of this new pain that has come to her—this jealous hatred and horror of the woman who is holding Keith in her evil bondage. Her strength seems all fled. The long, empty, colourless days that stretch before her, that have to be lived through, look doubly dreary in this hour. "I thought the worst bitterness of my cup had passed my lips," she moans. "I had not thought of this."Her husband had asked her carelessly about Keith, and she had spoken of that brief meeting in the Tyrolean valley. Sir Francis had not heard of his being at Baden at all. A sort of dread comes over her as she thinks of the chance of other meetings, of the added pain that each fresh account of his actions may bring her. He had, indeed, known how to make her suffer, and the suffering could have no anodyne now.With an effort she calms herself at last. Her hours of solitude are few, and she must appear her usual calm, grave self to the friends who are about and with her daily life. They see no change in her to-day. Even Lady Jean's sharp eyes detect no difference; but the laughter, the chatter, the gay banter, the naughty stories, all seem dull and far-off to her ears. She marvels whether these men and women have hearts to feel, or souls to suffer?It is the day of the race. A day warm and brilliant with sunshine, cooled by a fresh soft breeze, that brings all the scents of the pine forests in its breath, and stirs the fluttering laces and ribbons of the women's toilettes, and the waving flags that stream from the Pavilion and the Grand Stand and other points of vantage.Lady Jean and her husband, Sir Francis and Lauraine, come in the same carriage. As the ladies descend and sweep along the pretty grass-covered course they come face to face with Mrs. Bradshaw Woollffe, her niece, and Keith Athelstone.Lady Jean's presence gives Lauraine fair excuse. They only exchange bows and pass on. She marvels that she feels so calm, that neither flush nor pallor betrays what the sight of that young, haggard, weary face is to her. She is annoyed to see him here, having heard no word from his staunch ally. Afraid of a second meeting, she begs her husband to take her to her seat. Lady Jean grumbles, but the men are eager to be off to the enclosure, where the hero of the day, Aldebert, is calmly awaiting the important moment when he is to make or mar the fortunes of those who support him."You have no bets on?" says Lady Jean to Lauraine, as they sit side by side, and survey the glittering scene, all life and light and colour now."No, not even a solitary pair of gloves," smiles Lauraine. "To tell you the truth, I never thought about it. Betting seems stupid.""You appear to think most things stupid that other women do," says Lady Jean tartly. She has a great deal more than gloves on this race, and Lauraine's speech annoys her. "Good gracious! here comes that awful woman again. Lauraine, you must change places; let me get on your other side. I should positively die if I had to sit next her for a quarter of an hour."She rises impulsively from her seat. Lauraine does the same. There is a little bustle, a little laughter, a chatter of tongues, and then Lauraine finds herself with Keith Athelstone, instead of Mrs. Bradshaw Woollffe, by her side.It is impossible to avoid shaking hands with him now, and she does so. Neither of them speaks, however; but the constraint is not noticed by the rest of the party, for the horses are coming out of the enclosure now, and every eye turns to the starting point.Aldebert wins the race; but to Lauraine everything seems confused and indistinct, and in comparison with Lady Jean's excitement and delight at Sir Francis' success, her own manner seems strangely cold and unconcerned. Amidst the hubbub and excitement, the noise of voices and shouts of congratulation, Keith bends nearer to Lauraine."I have some news that will please you, I hope," he says. "I am going to marry Nan, as you advised me."For one startled instant Lauraine is quite unable to speak or move. She feels the hot blood surging to her brain; she turns dizzy and faint. But the importance of self-command is present to her mind. She forces herself to appear as little moved as possible. Her voice is perfectly calm as she says: "I am glad to hear it. Pray accept my congratulations."And then Sir Francis joins them, and there are more congratulations and a great deal of noise and excitement, and Mrs. Bradshaw Woollffe and her party leave the stand and go down to the pretty racecourse, and Lauraine sees Keith by the side of Miss Anastasia J. Jefferson, and wonders is she dreaming—is all this real? For her the gay scene is altogether dull and wearisome. Turn where she will, look where she may, she only sees that haggard young face, only hears the shrill, ringing laugh of the pretty American, whom every one calls "Dresden China," and who looks like a dainty little Watteau shepherdess in her flowered silk costume and big hat, and piled up sunny curls.Long before the close of that day the news is on every tongue. The young millionaire is going to marry "Dresden China," and Lady Jean looks maliciously at Lauraine, and laughs and nods her head mysteriously, saying she'll believe it when she sees it."Too sudden to be much good," she says, as they discuss the event that evening at dinner. "Though she's been spoons on him for ever so long.""She's awfully pretty," remarks Sir Francis. "Why shouldn't he care for her?""No reason why he shouldn't. I only say he doesn't," answers Lady Jean."So much the better," says anattachéto the Austrian Legation, who makes one of the party. "Love matches are a mistake. Never yet knew one turn out well.""Poor Keith," says Lady Jean. "Fancy tied to those dreadful people. Her father sold rum and molasses, didn't he, in New Orleans; and she says 'guess,' and 'spry,' and 'cunning.' And then the aunt.""I don't think their colloquialisms are worse than our slang," says Lauraine coldly."Oh, I know you are enthusiastic on American subjects," says Lady Jean meaningly. "I beg your pardon for my remarks.""There is no necessity," Lauraine answers, looking at her with calm surprise. "I know you dislike Mrs. Woollffe, and of course you are not bound to acknowledge her niece—"As Mrs. Athelstone," interrupts Lady Jean. "No, I suppose not—only for Keith's sake——"She pauses. Lauraine feels the colour mounting to her brow. There is something so irritating in this patronage and she knows that Lady Jean is about the last person who ought to talk of amésalliance."I thought you said just now that she would never be that," she says very coldly. "Your words and opinions seem somewhat inconsistent.""I shall be very much surprised if she ever is," responds Lady Jean. "All the same, one ought to prepare for the worst."Good-humoured as is her speech, light as is her laughter, Lauraine feels that there is a covert meaning in both.She would have known she was right could she have heard the conversation between Sir Francis and herself later on that evening. After the fatigue of the drive to Iffezheim and the excitement of the races the whole party profess to be too tired for anything but a quiet evening of "loo," mingled with music and gossip and cigarettes. Then Sir Francis saunters over to where Lady Jean sits—her dark, picturesque beauty looking its best in the mellow lamp-light."What did you mean to-night by your remarks about young Athelstone?" he asks abruptly.Lady Jean gives him one quick glance of her flashing eyes. "Mean? nothing, of course. WhatshouldI mean?""That's just what I want to know. You don't think he cares for this girl?""Not the value of a brass farthing!""But you think——!""My dear old donkey, Ithink—of course I think. I keep my eyes open, which you don't. I know a little sum in arithmetic called two and two, which you, I dare say, have long forgotten. That is all.""I wish I knew what you were driving at," mutters Sir Francis sulkily."What should I be 'driving at'?" asks Lady Jean innocently. "Only when a young man has been entirely devoted to one woman, and then without rhyme or reason suddenly proposes to another for whom he doesn't care a straw, then—well, the little sum in arithmetic comes in useful. That is all."Sir Francis looks at her half in anger, half in perplexity."That's the devil of women," he says with impatience. "They hint and hint, and won't speak out.""And that's the—ahem—of men," laughs Lady Jean. "They see, and see, and remain so blind.""I have seen nothing.""So much the better for you," says Lady Jean, with a shrug of her handsome shoulders. "You might have been annoyed, or uncomfortable; most likely the latter. You have not my secret of taking things lightly. Now, if I saw you making love under my very eyes I should only be amused, or think what bad taste you had to prefer any other woman to me.On se console toujours, mon ami. You do it one way, Lauraine another, I another. But I suppose we each have our own views on the subject of the consolation, or—consoler!"And she laughs again: soft, amused, pleasant laughter, that seems to hold no malice, to be the outspring of no evil thought. And all the time her heart is full of both. For, as virtue shames vice, and purity shows up the grosser contrast of immorality, so she feels ashamed and rebuked by the words and presence of Lauraine. "If ever two people loved, they love," she had said to herself that past season; and now it had all come to nothing. There was no hold over Lauraine, nopetite histoire, nothing to smile and sneer at."If she had only compromised herself ever so little," she thinks to-night as she looks at the lovely calm face, the grave dark eyes. "And now this projected marriage. It is awfully queer. If she had been like other women."
We whisper, and hint, and chuckle,And grin at a brother's shame.
Lauraine sees no more of Keith during the next week, but she hears from Mrs. Woollffe that he has gone to the Black Forest.
"I don't know what's come to him," complains the garrulous American. "Guess he's off his head sometimes. Those dollars have been an unlucky windfall for him. He's not like the same chap he was in New York. He never looks pleased noway, and he was the merriest, larkiest young fellow any one could wish to see when I knew him first. I thought Nan would wake him up a bit, but she don't seem to answer; and now he's run off from Baden-Baden as if it was a den of rattlesnakes; and they do say (she drops her voice mysteriously) that he's with that notorious Frenchwoman Coralie Lafitte. My word, if that's so, won't she make the dollars fly. All the same, I'm uncommon sorry for Keith. Never thought he was one ofthatsort."
Lauraine grows hot and cold with shame as she listens. She had thought there would be nothing harder for her to do after giving him up, after that last sad parting; but to hear of his recklessness, his sins, to know that she may be in a measure to blame for both cuts her to the heart.
She sits quite silent, her hands busy with some crewel-work that she is doing. Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe is paying her a morning visit. Lady Jean has fled at the first approach of the enemy, and so Lauraine has to entertain her alone. Mrs. Woollffe talks on, on; but her listener hears nothing of what she says. Her thoughts are only with the man whose life she has wrecked. Her storm-shattered heart aches and throbs with memories freshly brought to life. She has done what was right; she has severed her life from his, but if it makes him evil, desperate, hopeless; if it sends him to profligate men and bad women, if his bright young manhood is laid waste and desolate, was it, could it be right, after all?
Her influence, her presence, had always been a restraint upon him, and she had denied him both—cast him out to the fire of temptations, the recklessness of despair.
It was a horrible thought; no one knows how horrible save a woman whose soul is pure, whose heart is passionate, who sees the life she loves and fain would bless, pass out and away from her keeping, and knows that it is beyond her power to recall or claim its fidelity; who sees it lose itself in evil, and seek forgetfulness in wild and feverish excitements, and knows that a word, one little word might have held it back and kept it safe and unharmed.
"I must not think of it, Imustnot," she says to herself in scorn; and she looks up from the tangled crewels and tries to interest herself in Mrs. Bradshaw Woollffe's gossip, and promises to drive with her in the Lichtenthal Allée, forgetful of Lady Jean's disgust.
"Well, I'll go," says her loquacious friend at last. "Guess I've got heaps of shopping to do this morning, and Nan will be that cross for keeping her waiting! Good-bye, my dear; good-bye. Hope I haven't tired you. Four o'clock then."
The door closes; Lauraine is alone. She sinks wearily back in her chair. The silks and canvas fall unheeded to the floor. She is afraid of this new pain that has come to her—this jealous hatred and horror of the woman who is holding Keith in her evil bondage. Her strength seems all fled. The long, empty, colourless days that stretch before her, that have to be lived through, look doubly dreary in this hour. "I thought the worst bitterness of my cup had passed my lips," she moans. "I had not thought of this."
Her husband had asked her carelessly about Keith, and she had spoken of that brief meeting in the Tyrolean valley. Sir Francis had not heard of his being at Baden at all. A sort of dread comes over her as she thinks of the chance of other meetings, of the added pain that each fresh account of his actions may bring her. He had, indeed, known how to make her suffer, and the suffering could have no anodyne now.
With an effort she calms herself at last. Her hours of solitude are few, and she must appear her usual calm, grave self to the friends who are about and with her daily life. They see no change in her to-day. Even Lady Jean's sharp eyes detect no difference; but the laughter, the chatter, the gay banter, the naughty stories, all seem dull and far-off to her ears. She marvels whether these men and women have hearts to feel, or souls to suffer?
It is the day of the race. A day warm and brilliant with sunshine, cooled by a fresh soft breeze, that brings all the scents of the pine forests in its breath, and stirs the fluttering laces and ribbons of the women's toilettes, and the waving flags that stream from the Pavilion and the Grand Stand and other points of vantage.
Lady Jean and her husband, Sir Francis and Lauraine, come in the same carriage. As the ladies descend and sweep along the pretty grass-covered course they come face to face with Mrs. Bradshaw Woollffe, her niece, and Keith Athelstone.
Lady Jean's presence gives Lauraine fair excuse. They only exchange bows and pass on. She marvels that she feels so calm, that neither flush nor pallor betrays what the sight of that young, haggard, weary face is to her. She is annoyed to see him here, having heard no word from his staunch ally. Afraid of a second meeting, she begs her husband to take her to her seat. Lady Jean grumbles, but the men are eager to be off to the enclosure, where the hero of the day, Aldebert, is calmly awaiting the important moment when he is to make or mar the fortunes of those who support him.
"You have no bets on?" says Lady Jean to Lauraine, as they sit side by side, and survey the glittering scene, all life and light and colour now.
"No, not even a solitary pair of gloves," smiles Lauraine. "To tell you the truth, I never thought about it. Betting seems stupid."
"You appear to think most things stupid that other women do," says Lady Jean tartly. She has a great deal more than gloves on this race, and Lauraine's speech annoys her. "Good gracious! here comes that awful woman again. Lauraine, you must change places; let me get on your other side. I should positively die if I had to sit next her for a quarter of an hour."
She rises impulsively from her seat. Lauraine does the same. There is a little bustle, a little laughter, a chatter of tongues, and then Lauraine finds herself with Keith Athelstone, instead of Mrs. Bradshaw Woollffe, by her side.
It is impossible to avoid shaking hands with him now, and she does so. Neither of them speaks, however; but the constraint is not noticed by the rest of the party, for the horses are coming out of the enclosure now, and every eye turns to the starting point.
Aldebert wins the race; but to Lauraine everything seems confused and indistinct, and in comparison with Lady Jean's excitement and delight at Sir Francis' success, her own manner seems strangely cold and unconcerned. Amidst the hubbub and excitement, the noise of voices and shouts of congratulation, Keith bends nearer to Lauraine.
"I have some news that will please you, I hope," he says. "I am going to marry Nan, as you advised me."
For one startled instant Lauraine is quite unable to speak or move. She feels the hot blood surging to her brain; she turns dizzy and faint. But the importance of self-command is present to her mind. She forces herself to appear as little moved as possible. Her voice is perfectly calm as she says: "I am glad to hear it. Pray accept my congratulations."
And then Sir Francis joins them, and there are more congratulations and a great deal of noise and excitement, and Mrs. Bradshaw Woollffe and her party leave the stand and go down to the pretty racecourse, and Lauraine sees Keith by the side of Miss Anastasia J. Jefferson, and wonders is she dreaming—is all this real? For her the gay scene is altogether dull and wearisome. Turn where she will, look where she may, she only sees that haggard young face, only hears the shrill, ringing laugh of the pretty American, whom every one calls "Dresden China," and who looks like a dainty little Watteau shepherdess in her flowered silk costume and big hat, and piled up sunny curls.
Long before the close of that day the news is on every tongue. The young millionaire is going to marry "Dresden China," and Lady Jean looks maliciously at Lauraine, and laughs and nods her head mysteriously, saying she'll believe it when she sees it.
"Too sudden to be much good," she says, as they discuss the event that evening at dinner. "Though she's been spoons on him for ever so long."
"She's awfully pretty," remarks Sir Francis. "Why shouldn't he care for her?"
"No reason why he shouldn't. I only say he doesn't," answers Lady Jean.
"So much the better," says anattachéto the Austrian Legation, who makes one of the party. "Love matches are a mistake. Never yet knew one turn out well."
"Poor Keith," says Lady Jean. "Fancy tied to those dreadful people. Her father sold rum and molasses, didn't he, in New Orleans; and she says 'guess,' and 'spry,' and 'cunning.' And then the aunt."
"I don't think their colloquialisms are worse than our slang," says Lauraine coldly.
"Oh, I know you are enthusiastic on American subjects," says Lady Jean meaningly. "I beg your pardon for my remarks."
"There is no necessity," Lauraine answers, looking at her with calm surprise. "I know you dislike Mrs. Woollffe, and of course you are not bound to acknowledge her niece—
"As Mrs. Athelstone," interrupts Lady Jean. "No, I suppose not—only for Keith's sake——"
She pauses. Lauraine feels the colour mounting to her brow. There is something so irritating in this patronage and she knows that Lady Jean is about the last person who ought to talk of amésalliance.
"I thought you said just now that she would never be that," she says very coldly. "Your words and opinions seem somewhat inconsistent."
"I shall be very much surprised if she ever is," responds Lady Jean. "All the same, one ought to prepare for the worst."
Good-humoured as is her speech, light as is her laughter, Lauraine feels that there is a covert meaning in both.
She would have known she was right could she have heard the conversation between Sir Francis and herself later on that evening. After the fatigue of the drive to Iffezheim and the excitement of the races the whole party profess to be too tired for anything but a quiet evening of "loo," mingled with music and gossip and cigarettes. Then Sir Francis saunters over to where Lady Jean sits—her dark, picturesque beauty looking its best in the mellow lamp-light.
"What did you mean to-night by your remarks about young Athelstone?" he asks abruptly.
Lady Jean gives him one quick glance of her flashing eyes. "Mean? nothing, of course. WhatshouldI mean?"
"That's just what I want to know. You don't think he cares for this girl?"
"Not the value of a brass farthing!"
"But you think——!"
"My dear old donkey, Ithink—of course I think. I keep my eyes open, which you don't. I know a little sum in arithmetic called two and two, which you, I dare say, have long forgotten. That is all."
"I wish I knew what you were driving at," mutters Sir Francis sulkily.
"What should I be 'driving at'?" asks Lady Jean innocently. "Only when a young man has been entirely devoted to one woman, and then without rhyme or reason suddenly proposes to another for whom he doesn't care a straw, then—well, the little sum in arithmetic comes in useful. That is all."
Sir Francis looks at her half in anger, half in perplexity.
"That's the devil of women," he says with impatience. "They hint and hint, and won't speak out."
"And that's the—ahem—of men," laughs Lady Jean. "They see, and see, and remain so blind."
"I have seen nothing."
"So much the better for you," says Lady Jean, with a shrug of her handsome shoulders. "You might have been annoyed, or uncomfortable; most likely the latter. You have not my secret of taking things lightly. Now, if I saw you making love under my very eyes I should only be amused, or think what bad taste you had to prefer any other woman to me.On se console toujours, mon ami. You do it one way, Lauraine another, I another. But I suppose we each have our own views on the subject of the consolation, or—consoler!"
And she laughs again: soft, amused, pleasant laughter, that seems to hold no malice, to be the outspring of no evil thought. And all the time her heart is full of both. For, as virtue shames vice, and purity shows up the grosser contrast of immorality, so she feels ashamed and rebuked by the words and presence of Lauraine. "If ever two people loved, they love," she had said to herself that past season; and now it had all come to nothing. There was no hold over Lauraine, nopetite histoire, nothing to smile and sneer at.
"If she had only compromised herself ever so little," she thinks to-night as she looks at the lovely calm face, the grave dark eyes. "And now this projected marriage. It is awfully queer. If she had been like other women."