CHAPTER XXVIWhen Keith Athelstone leaves Lauraine that morning he is scarcely conscious of what he is doing.And yet with his brain whirling, with a desperate sense of his life's complete failure oppressing his heart, he goes straight to hisfiancée'shouse and asks to see her.Miss Nan flies into the room, as she expresses it, "like greased lightning.""Well, what's the matter?" she cries. "Has the bank broke, or has Worth failed, or—— Why, Keith," (with sudden gravity), "are you ill?"Her voice seems to recall his senses. He sits down and looks sadly at the radiant little figure."Nan," he says brokenly, "I—I have come to say that I have behaved to you like a cad, a brute. I have no excuse to offer. I can only tell you the plain truth, and that is——""Stop!" she cries suddenly; and all her airs and affectations seem to fall off her, leaving only a quiet, pale-faced little maiden, whose big, bright eyes are clouded and sad. "I know what you mean. You don't love me. It is not what comes to me, Keith, only I thought I might help to console you, being so fond of you as I was, for—she—can be nothing to you after all.""You—you know——" stammers Keith."Know, of course I know," she answers, with pretty contempt. "Do you think I was reared in Boston and can't see a little bit through a stone wall, specially when that stone wall has some mighty big chinks to let the daylight in? Know—why, who doesn't know that's ever seen you and 'my Lady Lauraine' together?"The colour mounts to Keith's brow. "And I have done her all this harm," he thinks. "Don't be afraid to speak out to me," continues Nan. "I'm too fond of you to be cross, and I know you've tried your best to be true to me. We'd best forget that we ever thought of being more than friends. Don't you trouble to explain. If you hadn't said this, I should have done so before it came to the real business. I don't want to marry a man whose heart is set on another woman, and you loved her before you knew me—didn't you?""Yes," he says quickly. "Since we were boy and girl together.""And why did she jilt you?" asked Dresden China tranquilly. Her heart is so full, and pained, and angry, that she is afraid of betraying herself."She was forced into marrying another man during my absence," says Keith coldly. "I was forbidden to write, and when I trusted—well, it was her mother—to tell her about myself—my changed fortunes—she never did. When I came back from New York she was married.""If she'd have been worth her salt she'd have kept true to you," says Nan. "I don't believe in girls caving in, and marrying to please other people. I wouldn't, not for fifty mothers, leave alone one.""No, you are a staunch little thing," says Keith, looking up at the brightmignonneface; "and you are worth a man's whole heart and life, Nan, and I feel I am neither worth the offering nor the acceptance. I have been a fool; but at last I seem to see my folly, and I am going to make one vigorous effort to conquer it. I am going to leave England—perhaps for ever.""I think it is the very best thing you can do," she says quietly. "What is the use of wasting your life, and eating your heart out for a woman who can be nothing to you?""And you will forgive me my treachery to yourself?""My dear Keith," she says, with a little quivering smile. "I knew you were making a cat's-paw of me, but somehow I didn't mind that so much, if it would have been any real good to you. In time, I thought perhaps you might have got fond of me. Lots of men are, you know; but I began to see that it wouldn't do—that you couldn't take to me, and no wonder, when I was so different to—her. But as for forgiving, that's no big thing to do. And I never bear malice; 'tisn't in me. Yes, you go right straight away out of the country, and I'll make all this look natural enough, don't you fear. You're not the first young man I've knocked off by many. I'm a born flirt, they say. Well, I'm only acting up to my character."Behind the bright eyes is a weight of tears she longs to shed, and will not. The brave little heart is throbbing and aching with pain. But Keith sees nothing, suspects nothing. He is only relieved she takes it so well, that after all she does not seem to care so very much.He rises and holds out his hands. "You are far too good to me, Nan," he says brokenly. "I feel ashamed when I think of my conduct. God bless you, child, and make you happy.""Too good to you," echoes Nan softly. "I don't know. It strikes me, Keith, that you are just the sort of fellow women would be 'good to.' I surmise they can't help it. It's just your way with them, you know. So it's really 'Good-bye.' Take my advice and go to the Rockies and shoot grizzlies. That'll cure you if anything will."Not by any means a romantic parting, or a touching one; but it is a very faithful heart that masks its pain so bravely, and a very loving one too.A week later, and town is eagerly discussing two startling pieces of news. One is that Keith Athelstone, the rich young American, has sailed for Timbuctoo or Tahiti, or New Zealand, people are not quite sure which; the other that Joel Salomans, the great millionaire, has come to smash over some gigantic speculation, and has blown his brains out in his hotel in Paris.In the deepest of mourning, with her handsome brows drawn into an angry frown, with a pile of letters and papers on the table before her, sits Lady Jean. "It is ruin, simply ruin!" she mutters fiercely, as she pushes the pile impatiently aside and looks at the long column of figures before her.Ruin to her means some five hundred a year, secured to herself, and a country house bought and settled on her by Mr. Salomans a year before. She is at present in Paris. It is a week since her husband's death, and the scandal andesclandreare flying everywhere, and adorning special articles in all the society journals.Lady Jean feels very bitter against the dead man, and very bitter against everything in general. She has had but few condolences, and those have been spiced with feminine malice. She is quite alone in her hotel in the Rue Scribe, and her lawyer has worried her into a headache this morning with explanations and formalities. While she is in this unamiable mood the door opens, and Sir Francis Vavasour enters. Lady Jean blushes scarlet as she rises to greet him. To do her justice the emotion is genuine enough. She has thought herself forsaken—forgotten. "You—how good of you!" she says, and holds out both her hands. He takes them and draws her towards him, and kisses her many times. She does not rebuke him; the days for pretence have long been over between them."And so you are—free?" he says."And penniless and—disgraced, you should add," she answers, sinking down on the couch by his side. "This horrible scandal will kill me, I think." This is all her regret for the dead man she has deceived, goaded, embarrassed by her extravagances, and wantonly neglected and ridiculed through all her married life."Oh, no, it won't," says Sir Francis consolingly. "Scandal never killed any one yet, especially a woman. But are things very bad?"Lady Jean explains as well as she can the lawyer's wearisome phrases, and her own definition of ruin."And what will you do?" asks Sir Francis."I have scarcely thought about it yet. I can't live at Norristown, it would be absurd. I must let it. Oh, Frank, isn't it hard? Fancy a life like this for—me!""It is a trial, certainly," he says, pulling his thick moustache with an abstracted air. "I don't know what the deuce you're to do, unless you let me help you."She laughs contemptuously. "No, thank you. We'll stop short of money favours. I haven't come to that yet.""But what can you do?" persisted Sir Francis. "Five hundred pounds a year! Why, it wouldn't keep you in gowns for three months—and do you expect to eat, drink, pay rent, and clothe yourself, on such a beggar's pittance?""Oh, I shall get into debt for a year, of course," says Lady Jean coolly, "and then—marry—I suppose."He turns very white. "You say that to—me?""My dear Frank, why not? You are a man of the world; you don't suppose I am going to stagnate in poverty and obscurity till some happy chance gives you the freedom I possess. Not I—pshaw! it is absurd. I must do the best for myself. You are not surely so selfish as to expect me to throw away a good chance for—you.""I thought you loved me," he says gloomily; "you told me so.""Love you! Of course I love you! But what use—now, any more than before? Do you expect fidelity in a case like ours? We have both outlived the age of romance, and now, of course, I must be doubly cautious not to draw down calumny on my head. Were you free it would be a different matter. But, of course, your wife is a saint, and Keith Athelstone an anchorite. Fraternal affection, when unfettered by fraternity, is so pure and beautiful a thing!"He groans impatiently. "I know what you mean. But she never cared for him; and now he has broken off his projected marriage, and left England."Lady Jean looks up in surprise."Left England? Are you sure?""Lauraine said so, and every one is talking of it.""Lauraine told you so! Ah, how beautiful is faith! Did I not tell you that marriage would never be? What reason does he give for breaking it off?""Oh, the girl says she broke it off because they could not agree about furnishing their drawing-room. She is as larky and perky as ever, and treats the whole thing as a joke. Has got the young Earl of Longleat mad after her now, and I suppose will end in marrying him.""And Keith has—left England," says Lady Jean musingly; "or is that a blind? Where is your saint?""Lauraine? She is staying with her æsthetic friend in Kensington. No, Jean. With all due respect to your 'cuteness, that won't do. I tell you Lauraine doesn't care two straws for the fellow, though he is madly in love with her. Why, I met him rushing out of the house like a lunatic the day he came to say 'Good-bye.' Never saw a fellow in such a state in my life, and she—she was as cool and cold as possible. Said he was going away to some foreign place or another.""He has not gone!" says Lady Jean tranquilly. "I won't mind an even bet of a cool thou' on that point, Frank. While England holds Lauraine, it will hold Keith Athelstone. Of that I am quite convinced.""I think you mistake her," says Sir Francis coldly."She is human, and she loves," answers Lady Jean. "Of course she is of a much higher type than ordinary women—cast in a nobler mould, and all that. But still——" She pauses meaningly. Sir Francis moves with sudden impatience. "Why talk of her?" he says. "You know I hate her.""I know nothing of the sort," retorts Lady Jean. "You were very madly in love with her once, and you paid a high enough price for your fancy, and you believe in her still.""One can respect a woman, even if one dislikes her," mutters Sir Francis.Lady Jean's eyes flash fire beneath their lowered lids. What she has forfeited she hates to hear praised as another woman's possession."I am glad you find her such a paragon of virtue," she sneers. "And it must be a novel sensation for you to—respect—a woman.""It is—rather," he answers in the same tone. "There are not many who give us the chance!""I think your visit has lasted long enough," says Lady Jean coldly. "As I told you before, I have to be doubly careful ofles convenances; I am glad you did not give your name. And please do not call again until I send you word.""You have grown mighty particular all of a sudden," exclaimed Sir Francis angrily. "Why the deuce shouldn't I call if I please? We are old friends, and surely——""Oh, certainly we are old friends," says Lady Jean maliciously. "But you see it behoves me to be careful. I have my future prospects to consider.""Jean! You are not in earnest, you are only trying me?""Mon cher, I was never more in earnest in my life. I am not going to be a martyr to one man's misguided rashness, or another's selfish passion. Not I indeed.Ce n'est pas mon métier. No; I shall do the best for myself, as I have said before; and you will be magnanimous, I know, and permit the—sacrifice.""I don't know so much about that," says Sir Francis, an evil light gleaming in his eyes. "You are too much to me for me ever to yield you up to another man. Of course before—well, that could not be helped. But now——""Now," says Lady Jean, with her cold smile, "you have learnt that torespecta woman is better than to love her. I only wish to follow your good example. I should like to be able to—respect—a man.""Then by all means don't marry one," retorts Sir Francis. "But, joking apart, Jean, you are not serious? You are not going to throw me off in this fashion?""I said nothing about 'throwing off.' I only said it behoved me to be careful—doubly careful; and if you come to see me now, you must come with—your wife.""My wife!" He stares at her stupidly."Certainly. As a widow I cannot receive constant visits from married men unaccompanied by their wives. It would never do. I cannot suffer you to humiliate me; I care too much for—myself!""I wish to heaven I could understand you," mutters Sir Francis. "Well, at all events, for a year, you can't carry out your threat."She has him in such complete subjugation that he does not bluster or insist as with a weak-minded woman he would have done. Lady Jean has always ruled him with a strong hand, as a bad woman will often rule a man who yet owes her no fidelity, and has for her no respect."I may never carry it out," she says, with a sudden softening of her voice. "Perhaps, after all, I—love—you too well, though you don't believe it. But, as I said before, of what use—of what use?"His brow clears, his anger melts. "If I could only believe you!" he says."Ah!" she answers, with humility, "if I had lovedmyselfbetter than you, I, too, might have had your respect. But I was not wise enough to be selfish.""For your love I would forfeit any other consideration!" he cries impetuously. "You know that well enough. Whatever you desire, I will do it; only don't forsake me.""Whatever I desire," says Lady Jean, a slow, cruel smile flitting over her face. "Well, I will give you a task. Ask Keith Athelstone to Falcon's Chase for Christmas."
When Keith Athelstone leaves Lauraine that morning he is scarcely conscious of what he is doing.
And yet with his brain whirling, with a desperate sense of his life's complete failure oppressing his heart, he goes straight to hisfiancée'shouse and asks to see her.
Miss Nan flies into the room, as she expresses it, "like greased lightning."
"Well, what's the matter?" she cries. "Has the bank broke, or has Worth failed, or—— Why, Keith," (with sudden gravity), "are you ill?"
Her voice seems to recall his senses. He sits down and looks sadly at the radiant little figure.
"Nan," he says brokenly, "I—I have come to say that I have behaved to you like a cad, a brute. I have no excuse to offer. I can only tell you the plain truth, and that is——"
"Stop!" she cries suddenly; and all her airs and affectations seem to fall off her, leaving only a quiet, pale-faced little maiden, whose big, bright eyes are clouded and sad. "I know what you mean. You don't love me. It is not what comes to me, Keith, only I thought I might help to console you, being so fond of you as I was, for—she—can be nothing to you after all."
"You—you know——" stammers Keith.
"Know, of course I know," she answers, with pretty contempt. "Do you think I was reared in Boston and can't see a little bit through a stone wall, specially when that stone wall has some mighty big chinks to let the daylight in? Know—why, who doesn't know that's ever seen you and 'my Lady Lauraine' together?"
The colour mounts to Keith's brow. "And I have done her all this harm," he thinks. "Don't be afraid to speak out to me," continues Nan. "I'm too fond of you to be cross, and I know you've tried your best to be true to me. We'd best forget that we ever thought of being more than friends. Don't you trouble to explain. If you hadn't said this, I should have done so before it came to the real business. I don't want to marry a man whose heart is set on another woman, and you loved her before you knew me—didn't you?"
"Yes," he says quickly. "Since we were boy and girl together."
"And why did she jilt you?" asked Dresden China tranquilly. Her heart is so full, and pained, and angry, that she is afraid of betraying herself.
"She was forced into marrying another man during my absence," says Keith coldly. "I was forbidden to write, and when I trusted—well, it was her mother—to tell her about myself—my changed fortunes—she never did. When I came back from New York she was married."
"If she'd have been worth her salt she'd have kept true to you," says Nan. "I don't believe in girls caving in, and marrying to please other people. I wouldn't, not for fifty mothers, leave alone one."
"No, you are a staunch little thing," says Keith, looking up at the brightmignonneface; "and you are worth a man's whole heart and life, Nan, and I feel I am neither worth the offering nor the acceptance. I have been a fool; but at last I seem to see my folly, and I am going to make one vigorous effort to conquer it. I am going to leave England—perhaps for ever."
"I think it is the very best thing you can do," she says quietly. "What is the use of wasting your life, and eating your heart out for a woman who can be nothing to you?"
"And you will forgive me my treachery to yourself?"
"My dear Keith," she says, with a little quivering smile. "I knew you were making a cat's-paw of me, but somehow I didn't mind that so much, if it would have been any real good to you. In time, I thought perhaps you might have got fond of me. Lots of men are, you know; but I began to see that it wouldn't do—that you couldn't take to me, and no wonder, when I was so different to—her. But as for forgiving, that's no big thing to do. And I never bear malice; 'tisn't in me. Yes, you go right straight away out of the country, and I'll make all this look natural enough, don't you fear. You're not the first young man I've knocked off by many. I'm a born flirt, they say. Well, I'm only acting up to my character."
Behind the bright eyes is a weight of tears she longs to shed, and will not. The brave little heart is throbbing and aching with pain. But Keith sees nothing, suspects nothing. He is only relieved she takes it so well, that after all she does not seem to care so very much.
He rises and holds out his hands. "You are far too good to me, Nan," he says brokenly. "I feel ashamed when I think of my conduct. God bless you, child, and make you happy."
"Too good to you," echoes Nan softly. "I don't know. It strikes me, Keith, that you are just the sort of fellow women would be 'good to.' I surmise they can't help it. It's just your way with them, you know. So it's really 'Good-bye.' Take my advice and go to the Rockies and shoot grizzlies. That'll cure you if anything will."
Not by any means a romantic parting, or a touching one; but it is a very faithful heart that masks its pain so bravely, and a very loving one too.
A week later, and town is eagerly discussing two startling pieces of news. One is that Keith Athelstone, the rich young American, has sailed for Timbuctoo or Tahiti, or New Zealand, people are not quite sure which; the other that Joel Salomans, the great millionaire, has come to smash over some gigantic speculation, and has blown his brains out in his hotel in Paris.
In the deepest of mourning, with her handsome brows drawn into an angry frown, with a pile of letters and papers on the table before her, sits Lady Jean. "It is ruin, simply ruin!" she mutters fiercely, as she pushes the pile impatiently aside and looks at the long column of figures before her.
Ruin to her means some five hundred a year, secured to herself, and a country house bought and settled on her by Mr. Salomans a year before. She is at present in Paris. It is a week since her husband's death, and the scandal andesclandreare flying everywhere, and adorning special articles in all the society journals.
Lady Jean feels very bitter against the dead man, and very bitter against everything in general. She has had but few condolences, and those have been spiced with feminine malice. She is quite alone in her hotel in the Rue Scribe, and her lawyer has worried her into a headache this morning with explanations and formalities. While she is in this unamiable mood the door opens, and Sir Francis Vavasour enters. Lady Jean blushes scarlet as she rises to greet him. To do her justice the emotion is genuine enough. She has thought herself forsaken—forgotten. "You—how good of you!" she says, and holds out both her hands. He takes them and draws her towards him, and kisses her many times. She does not rebuke him; the days for pretence have long been over between them.
"And so you are—free?" he says.
"And penniless and—disgraced, you should add," she answers, sinking down on the couch by his side. "This horrible scandal will kill me, I think." This is all her regret for the dead man she has deceived, goaded, embarrassed by her extravagances, and wantonly neglected and ridiculed through all her married life.
"Oh, no, it won't," says Sir Francis consolingly. "Scandal never killed any one yet, especially a woman. But are things very bad?"
Lady Jean explains as well as she can the lawyer's wearisome phrases, and her own definition of ruin.
"And what will you do?" asks Sir Francis.
"I have scarcely thought about it yet. I can't live at Norristown, it would be absurd. I must let it. Oh, Frank, isn't it hard? Fancy a life like this for—me!"
"It is a trial, certainly," he says, pulling his thick moustache with an abstracted air. "I don't know what the deuce you're to do, unless you let me help you."
She laughs contemptuously. "No, thank you. We'll stop short of money favours. I haven't come to that yet."
"But what can you do?" persisted Sir Francis. "Five hundred pounds a year! Why, it wouldn't keep you in gowns for three months—and do you expect to eat, drink, pay rent, and clothe yourself, on such a beggar's pittance?"
"Oh, I shall get into debt for a year, of course," says Lady Jean coolly, "and then—marry—I suppose."
He turns very white. "You say that to—me?"
"My dear Frank, why not? You are a man of the world; you don't suppose I am going to stagnate in poverty and obscurity till some happy chance gives you the freedom I possess. Not I—pshaw! it is absurd. I must do the best for myself. You are not surely so selfish as to expect me to throw away a good chance for—you."
"I thought you loved me," he says gloomily; "you told me so."
"Love you! Of course I love you! But what use—now, any more than before? Do you expect fidelity in a case like ours? We have both outlived the age of romance, and now, of course, I must be doubly cautious not to draw down calumny on my head. Were you free it would be a different matter. But, of course, your wife is a saint, and Keith Athelstone an anchorite. Fraternal affection, when unfettered by fraternity, is so pure and beautiful a thing!"
He groans impatiently. "I know what you mean. But she never cared for him; and now he has broken off his projected marriage, and left England."
Lady Jean looks up in surprise.
"Left England? Are you sure?"
"Lauraine said so, and every one is talking of it."
"Lauraine told you so! Ah, how beautiful is faith! Did I not tell you that marriage would never be? What reason does he give for breaking it off?"
"Oh, the girl says she broke it off because they could not agree about furnishing their drawing-room. She is as larky and perky as ever, and treats the whole thing as a joke. Has got the young Earl of Longleat mad after her now, and I suppose will end in marrying him."
"And Keith has—left England," says Lady Jean musingly; "or is that a blind? Where is your saint?"
"Lauraine? She is staying with her æsthetic friend in Kensington. No, Jean. With all due respect to your 'cuteness, that won't do. I tell you Lauraine doesn't care two straws for the fellow, though he is madly in love with her. Why, I met him rushing out of the house like a lunatic the day he came to say 'Good-bye.' Never saw a fellow in such a state in my life, and she—she was as cool and cold as possible. Said he was going away to some foreign place or another."
"He has not gone!" says Lady Jean tranquilly. "I won't mind an even bet of a cool thou' on that point, Frank. While England holds Lauraine, it will hold Keith Athelstone. Of that I am quite convinced."
"I think you mistake her," says Sir Francis coldly.
"She is human, and she loves," answers Lady Jean. "Of course she is of a much higher type than ordinary women—cast in a nobler mould, and all that. But still——" She pauses meaningly. Sir Francis moves with sudden impatience. "Why talk of her?" he says. "You know I hate her."
"I know nothing of the sort," retorts Lady Jean. "You were very madly in love with her once, and you paid a high enough price for your fancy, and you believe in her still."
"One can respect a woman, even if one dislikes her," mutters Sir Francis.
Lady Jean's eyes flash fire beneath their lowered lids. What she has forfeited she hates to hear praised as another woman's possession.
"I am glad you find her such a paragon of virtue," she sneers. "And it must be a novel sensation for you to—respect—a woman."
"It is—rather," he answers in the same tone. "There are not many who give us the chance!"
"I think your visit has lasted long enough," says Lady Jean coldly. "As I told you before, I have to be doubly careful ofles convenances; I am glad you did not give your name. And please do not call again until I send you word."
"You have grown mighty particular all of a sudden," exclaimed Sir Francis angrily. "Why the deuce shouldn't I call if I please? We are old friends, and surely——"
"Oh, certainly we are old friends," says Lady Jean maliciously. "But you see it behoves me to be careful. I have my future prospects to consider."
"Jean! You are not in earnest, you are only trying me?"
"Mon cher, I was never more in earnest in my life. I am not going to be a martyr to one man's misguided rashness, or another's selfish passion. Not I indeed.Ce n'est pas mon métier. No; I shall do the best for myself, as I have said before; and you will be magnanimous, I know, and permit the—sacrifice."
"I don't know so much about that," says Sir Francis, an evil light gleaming in his eyes. "You are too much to me for me ever to yield you up to another man. Of course before—well, that could not be helped. But now——"
"Now," says Lady Jean, with her cold smile, "you have learnt that torespecta woman is better than to love her. I only wish to follow your good example. I should like to be able to—respect—a man."
"Then by all means don't marry one," retorts Sir Francis. "But, joking apart, Jean, you are not serious? You are not going to throw me off in this fashion?"
"I said nothing about 'throwing off.' I only said it behoved me to be careful—doubly careful; and if you come to see me now, you must come with—your wife."
"My wife!" He stares at her stupidly.
"Certainly. As a widow I cannot receive constant visits from married men unaccompanied by their wives. It would never do. I cannot suffer you to humiliate me; I care too much for—myself!"
"I wish to heaven I could understand you," mutters Sir Francis. "Well, at all events, for a year, you can't carry out your threat."
She has him in such complete subjugation that he does not bluster or insist as with a weak-minded woman he would have done. Lady Jean has always ruled him with a strong hand, as a bad woman will often rule a man who yet owes her no fidelity, and has for her no respect.
"I may never carry it out," she says, with a sudden softening of her voice. "Perhaps, after all, I—love—you too well, though you don't believe it. But, as I said before, of what use—of what use?"
His brow clears, his anger melts. "If I could only believe you!" he says.
"Ah!" she answers, with humility, "if I had lovedmyselfbetter than you, I, too, might have had your respect. But I was not wise enough to be selfish."
"For your love I would forfeit any other consideration!" he cries impetuously. "You know that well enough. Whatever you desire, I will do it; only don't forsake me."
"Whatever I desire," says Lady Jean, a slow, cruel smile flitting over her face. "Well, I will give you a task. Ask Keith Athelstone to Falcon's Chase for Christmas."