CHAPTER XXXIAlone in her rooms in Paris, Lady Jean sits perplexing herself over ways and means. She is awfully in debt, even though she has let the country-house, and supplemented her income by another five hundred a year. She is angry with herself for having refused Sir Francis' assistance and too proud to call him to her side. She can think of no scheme by which to baffle Lauraine, and though she knows her rival is condemned to a species of exile, and that she is as unhappy as a woman can well be, that in no way comforts her for the fact of her own defeat.Her position is full of peril and uncertainty. She can no longer float on the smooth waters of Society, for Society is shocked and outraged by her husband's misdeeds, and an ill odour clings to her name. The people she gathers round her now are not at all the class of people she prefers. Needy foreigners, second-rate celebrities; Englishmen with shady reputations and tarnished titles; French Bohemians who have known and admired her in the days of her success—all these congregate together at her little rooms in the Rue Victoire; and among them all she looks for some willing tool who will lend himself to her hand and work out her schemes.But for long she looks in vain.The winter passes on. The cool, fresh days of early spring are heralded by bursts of sunshine, by the tender budding leafage of the Boulevards, by the scents and hues of flowers that are piled up in the baskets of the market women, and fill the windows of thefleuristeswith brilliance and beauty once again. And in the springtime, suddenly and without warning, Lady Jean's scheme of vengeance comes to her as a vision of possibility at last, for who should come to Paris but Keith Athelstone.He has been wintering in the south of France. He comes to the gay city with no set purpose, or desire. He is alone, and melancholy, and depressed. He thinks he will have a fortnight in Paris, and then start for that long-projected American tour, and the first person he sees and greets in Paris is the Lady Jean.She has never been a favourite of his, and he is inclined to be curt and avoid her. But she had other schemes in her head, and, unless a man is absolutely discourteous, it is not easy for him to baffle a woman who has set her mind upon deluding him, especially a woman clever and keen as the Lady Jean.She is very quiet, very subdued. All the fastness and wildness seem to have evaporated. She tells him of her bereavement, her troubles. She speaks sympathizingly of his own, and brings in Lauraine's name so gently and gradually that he cannot take alarm at it. In the end he accepts an invitation to her house. And finds everything so subdued, so decorous, in such perfect good taste, that he thinks Lady Jean's widowhood has produced most salutary effects.In his present mood gaiety and fastness would have jarred upon, and disgusted him. As it is, all is toned down, chastened, soothing, and in perfect taste. He comes again, and yet again. Lady Jean keeps the foreigners, and shady adventurers, and the Bohemian element carefully out of his sight, and she herself treats him with that consideration and deference always flattering to a young man's feeling when displayed by a woman older than himself, and still beautiful. She mentions the Vavasours casually, Lauraine as being immersed in worldly gaieties. Sir Francis as being abroad at Monte Carlo. The latter fact is true, he having proceeded there in disgust at her obstinacy and coldness, and yet not liking to break with her entirely, because she happens to be the only woman of whom he has never tired.The fortnight passes, and Keith still lingers. Life has no special object for him at present. The spring has turned cold and bleak, and the American tour may await his own convenience.One evening he comes to Lady Jean by special invitation. There are a few people there; there is a little music, and a little "play," not very high, not very alarming; but Keith refuses it for a reason that no one there guesses. Play had been a passion with him once. Its dangerous excitement had lured him into the most terrible scrape of that "wild youth" to which Mrs. Douglas is so fond of alluding. Once free of that early trouble, he had solemnly promised Lauraine never to touch card or dice again, and he has kept his word. Lady Jean does not press him, though she looks surprised at his refusal. She sits with him in a dim corner of the room, and lures him on to talk to her as he has done of late.Watching them with anger and suspicion are two fierce eyes, the eyes of a certain Count Karolyski, of whom no one knows anything except that he is a Hungarian, an expert card player, and a deadly shot.The count is a devoted admirer of the Lady Jean's. The Count has been first in favour with her for months past, and the Count looks with extreme wrath on this young stripling who appears to have supplanted him, and who is so serenely unconscious of the fact.The refusal to play irritates him still more. He knows Keith is very rich, and had hoped to revenge his wounded feelings by fleecing him with ease. Keith has frustrated this agreeable project and that fact rankles in the Count's breast, beneath the expanse of white linen and glittering orders that adorn it so lavishly. The evening goes on. Wine is handed round and freely drunk. A little more noise and freedom than usual pervade the pretty, gilded rooms. Lady Jean gets somewhat uneasy. She contrives to get rid of Keith; it does not suit her purpose that he should think of her as anything but highly decorous. When he leaves and she comes back, Count Karolyski throws down his cards, declaring he is tired of play, and comes over to her side."You are cruel, madame," he says in French. "You have deserted us the whole evening."She throws herself back in her chair with a little laugh. "Cruel! You had better amusement than my company.""Amusement! It is not that," he says, with an ardent glance from his dark, flashing eyes. "You are cold—fickle. You are breaking my heart for the sake of that American boy."She interrupts him with pretended indignation. "Count, you forget yourself! I permit no one to arraign my actions.""Far be it from me to do that. I would not offend you for worlds, madame; but I cannot refrain from expressing my feelings when I see your old friends thrust aside and forgotten, for sake of a beardless youth to whom Fortune has been kinder than to us.""I do not forget my friends," says Lady Jean, with a quick glance; "and I am only civil to this boy because he is friendless and alone, and I took pity on his solitude.""Your pity, madame, may be a dangerous favour. To those whom you really compassionate, exclusion would be the greater mercy.""Every one is not as foolish as yourself, Count," she says with a soft glance.It is pleasant to hear she is still beautiful—still can play the part of an "apple of discord" to men."Because, perhaps, 'every one' has not found your presence what I have found it.""Hush!" she says softly; "you are talking folly, and you know it. The days are over when I believed in compliments.""You do not suppose I am insulting you by anything so commonplace? Compliment is the language of fools and flatterers. I am speaking the plain unvarnished truth.""Truth!" and she laughs lightly; "who speaks the truth now? It is as old-fashioned a virtue as honesty.""Unless one finds it impossible to act indifference.""Come, Count," she says good-humouredly, "we know each other too well to talk in this strain. We are allbons camaradeshere; no sentiment, and no seriousness. I gave you credit for more sense than to fear you would break through the rule."His brows contract with a sudden angry frown."You do not mean what you say! A woman like yourself cannot set bounds to a man's admiration, or check his feelings by ridicule. I have scoffed at sentiment all my life as a thing fit only for boys and women. But all that I have hitherto disdained has amply revenged my past indifference. And you—you have not discouraged me, madame?"Her heart beats high. A sudden warm colour comes into her face beneath its delicate rouge; but not from any gratification at the homage—not for any reason that makes him interpret these signs as flattering to himself. Only because she sees herself a step further on the road of her vengeance—only because triumph whispers to her that the end is not far off.She rises after those last words, laughing still. "I do not believe in love, monsieur, any more than yourself. No one has been able to convert me. To parody an old saying, with me it is only a case of 'La reine s'amuse.'""And is this boy only a plaything also?" he says, with an angry sneer."Of course. Is he not a charming one?" she says with sudden gravity. "So earnest and credulous; quite refreshing. We have so long passed that stage of life,nous autres.""With women like yourself for teachers is that a matter of wonder, madame?""Now you are sarcastic, and that is horrid. Why, Count, I do believe you are jealous of my pretty boy! I thought you were wiser than that."And laughing her soft, amused laughter, she passes on into the card-room, leaving him standing there with the mellow lamplight on his dark, passionate face, and shining in the lurid depths of his eyes. At that moment he hates her and himself, and hates tenfold more the man he has chosen to consider as his rival.It had been true, as he had said, that he had deemed himself above all such weaknesses, until the fascination of this woman had entered into his life and fired his soul with a passion, sudden, wild, fierce, and absorbing even as it was revengeful. To win her he would have done much. He was not a poor man, though far from being rich, as Lady Jean counted riches. Still he was of good birth, and boasted of pure Magyar descent, and had noble and ancient estates in Hungary, and thought himself no ill match for the daughter of a poor Irish Earl. But that Lady Jean should encourage his homage and then ridicule it, filled him with fierce anger.He leaves her room that night with a cold farewell, and for two days does not approach her at all.Lady Jean is amused. It is what she expected, and she does not resent it. She sees Keith daily now—in fact, takes care that she shall see him, for she is not desirous that he should escape her toils.Against his judgment, against his better reason, Keith Athelstone submits to her caprices and permits her to draw him to her presence. He is unfortunately in that state of mind in which a man is easily influenced by a woman if she is sympathetic, friendly, and appears interested in him. At present nothing seems of much consequence or account. The fierce suffering of the last two years has been lulled into a sort of quiescence. The good resolutions formed during that period of languor and convalescence have taken just sufficient root to strengthen him as far as Lauraine is concerned, and with that self-sacrifice they end.Life looks very monotonous, very dreary at present, and there is just a little fillip given to its monotony by Lady Jean. It is not that he likes her—it is not that he respects her, but he drifts into a sort of intimacy before he really knows it, and she is always at hand to sustain her influence. And it so happens that all this comes to the ears of Lauraine, filtered through the letters of mutual friends, put in as spice to various gossip detailed to her from Paris.At first she cannot believe it. It seems too horrible; but unfortunately a letter comes from Lady Etwynde, radiant in the flush and glory of her matronly honours, and revelling in Paris delights with her handsome husband; and that letter mentions casually the same thing. "Keith Athelstone has been driving in the Bois with Lady Jean;" "I have met Keith, and asked him to dinner, but he excused himself on the plea of a previous engagement with Lady Jean," etc., etc.Lady Etwynde tells her this, thinking it may really keep her from brooding over the idea that she has ruined her young lover's life; but had she known the torture it would have inflicted, she would have been silent on the subject.Lady Etwynde's idea of Keith Athelstone has always been that he is selfish and inconsiderate, and that Lauraine is quite thrown away upon him; she feels convinced now of her own sagacity when she sees how foolish is his conduct. She herself takes no notice of Lady Jean, and when Keith excuses himself to her on the plea before mentioned, she feels disgusted and annoyed, and tells her husband she will have nothing more to say to the young man. She would have been civil to him for Lauraine's sake, but if he prefers Lady Jean, why to Lady Jean let him go."I knew he would never be constant," she says complainingly. "Really, men are too horrible.""With one exception," smiles Colonel Carlisle, looking proudly at the bright, petulant face, that seems to have regained all its old sparkling witchery and youthfulness with the "old" happiness."Ah, Cyril, there is no one like you!" she answers."My darling," he says. "Every woman says that of the man she loves, and every man of the woman. I think you are hard upon poor Keith. Fancy, to love a woman with all one's heart and soul, and know she can be nothing to one. Ah heaven! how fatal a thing is marriage sometimes—howsureone ought to be of oneself before entering into a life-long union.""Weare sure!" she murmurs, softly nestling closer in his arms, as they stand side by side in the twilight shadows."Thank God, we are!" he says, with passionate earnestness. "But often and often I think, if it had not been for the sins and follies of the past—for the wrong and the suffering—our love would never have been as deep and intense a thing as it is. I shall never forget those years, and how hopelessly our lives seemed severed—with what reluctance I came home to England—how I dreaded to hear you were another's—and then——""After all I was your own," she whispers."And we are so happy," he resumes presently. "Are we not, my queen of æsthetes?"She laughs a little tremulously. "Indeed, yes; but I fear, dearest, the queen has sadly neglected her subjects. Women's missions are all very well until men interfere with them. Then there is a lamentable failure of all the grand schemes and projects.""A woman's first mission is to love her husband and make his home a paradise," answers Colonel Carlisle. "I am not great at poetry, as you know, but I own to an admiration of those lines of Tennyson in 'The Princess.' You know them:For woman is not undevelopt man,But diverse; could we make her as the manSweet Love were slain; his dearest bond is this,Not like to like, but like in difference.Yet in the long years liker must they grow—The man be more of woman, she of man.* * * * *Till at the last she sets herself to man,Like perfect music unto noble words.""Yes," she says. "They are very true, although a man wrote them.""Don't you believe our sex understands yours, then?" he asks teasingly."No; I do not," she says decidedly. "I think no man yet ever quite comprehended a woman's nature, any more, perhaps, than we comprehend a man's. I think that is how we so often mistake and misjudge each other. We expect a man to act as we would act, and he expects us to act as he would; and that can never be. Another thing: we have such quick instincts, and are governed so often by sympathy or antipathy; you are slow in your judgment, andreasonwhere we act.""Yes," he answers thoughtfully; "but contrast is the salt of life, my darling. We should not find any attraction in each other if we were quite alike, and regulated our lives and actions on the same principles. But to return to our subject. I am certain Lady Jean is up to some mischief, and I would give anything in the world to get Keith Athelstone away from her influence. Whatcanpossess him to be always there?""Not always, dear," says his wife rebukingly. "Three times within a fortnight. I cannot understand it myself. I should like to give him a hint, but I am afraid. He might take offence, and I know what men are. Warn them against a woman, and they immediately run after her; try to turn them from a purpose, and they throw themselves heart and soul into it.""You should treat them as the Irishman did his pigs—drive them one way and turn their heads another," laughs Colonel Carlisle. "But you surely don't imagine he cares about Lady Jean?""No; I give him credit for better sense. But she is a dangerous woman, and I am certain has some purpose in view. I know she hates Lauraine; I am equally certain that she knows of Keith's infatuation for her, and I feel convinced she is trying to work some mischief. You remember her plot about getting him to Falcon's Chase?""Yes. That was a piece of devilry, and no mistake. I have thought more of the young fellow since his refusal than ever I did before.""Keith is a strange character," says Lady Etwynde; "so headstrong and passionate, yet so loving and true; so wild, and yet so easily controlled; so selfish, and yet so weak. Lauraine has a great influence over him—more than any one else has, I think. I believe when once she made him see things in their true light, once she showed him that the love that would dishonour a woman is the last love worthy of her acceptance, he would turn from what even seemed her own tempting. But he must have known it could not be that.""Lauraine is a good, true woman, though she has made a fatal mistake in life, and now it is too late to remedy it," says the Colonel regretfully. "What sad words those are, 'too late!' Just to have missed all that makes life desirable, just to meet and love, and find that Fate has placed an impassable barrier between you and that love. Ah, me!""Don't sigh!" whispers his wife tenderly. "Our 'too late' was just in time after all.""Thank God for that!""I do," she answers fervently. "But how my own happiness makes me regret her loss! I never thought I could love any woman so dearly as I love Lauraine; and I feel, oh! so sorry for her now!""So do I—for Keith.""And you think we can do nothing?""I fear not. It is a delicate matter. He may be only striving for forgetfulness after all. Men do foolish and desperate things sometimes for love's sake.""That is one of the things we women who love you can't understand," says Lady Etwynde. "To us those excesses to which we are accused of driving you seem degrading and contemptible. We can only excuse sins that are not against ourselves, I suppose.""Doubtless it looks cowardly," says her husband, "to fling away our self-respect because something has not been as we wished it; but then that something is worth everything else in the world, or we think so, and losing it, all else seems of no account.""In that respect we set you an example, do we not?" laughs his wife. "We don't go to perdition because we are disappointed in love.""Because your natures are so different. The same rule cannot apply to a man and a woman. I thought we had agreed on that before," says Colonel Carlisle."So we had. Instance Keith and Lauraine.""And my lady and—myself."And he bends down and kisses the sweet red lips.That closes the argument. They forget all about Keith and Lauraine; they talk now of their own love, and of each other.
Alone in her rooms in Paris, Lady Jean sits perplexing herself over ways and means. She is awfully in debt, even though she has let the country-house, and supplemented her income by another five hundred a year. She is angry with herself for having refused Sir Francis' assistance and too proud to call him to her side. She can think of no scheme by which to baffle Lauraine, and though she knows her rival is condemned to a species of exile, and that she is as unhappy as a woman can well be, that in no way comforts her for the fact of her own defeat.
Her position is full of peril and uncertainty. She can no longer float on the smooth waters of Society, for Society is shocked and outraged by her husband's misdeeds, and an ill odour clings to her name. The people she gathers round her now are not at all the class of people she prefers. Needy foreigners, second-rate celebrities; Englishmen with shady reputations and tarnished titles; French Bohemians who have known and admired her in the days of her success—all these congregate together at her little rooms in the Rue Victoire; and among them all she looks for some willing tool who will lend himself to her hand and work out her schemes.
But for long she looks in vain.
The winter passes on. The cool, fresh days of early spring are heralded by bursts of sunshine, by the tender budding leafage of the Boulevards, by the scents and hues of flowers that are piled up in the baskets of the market women, and fill the windows of thefleuristeswith brilliance and beauty once again. And in the springtime, suddenly and without warning, Lady Jean's scheme of vengeance comes to her as a vision of possibility at last, for who should come to Paris but Keith Athelstone.
He has been wintering in the south of France. He comes to the gay city with no set purpose, or desire. He is alone, and melancholy, and depressed. He thinks he will have a fortnight in Paris, and then start for that long-projected American tour, and the first person he sees and greets in Paris is the Lady Jean.
She has never been a favourite of his, and he is inclined to be curt and avoid her. But she had other schemes in her head, and, unless a man is absolutely discourteous, it is not easy for him to baffle a woman who has set her mind upon deluding him, especially a woman clever and keen as the Lady Jean.
She is very quiet, very subdued. All the fastness and wildness seem to have evaporated. She tells him of her bereavement, her troubles. She speaks sympathizingly of his own, and brings in Lauraine's name so gently and gradually that he cannot take alarm at it. In the end he accepts an invitation to her house. And finds everything so subdued, so decorous, in such perfect good taste, that he thinks Lady Jean's widowhood has produced most salutary effects.
In his present mood gaiety and fastness would have jarred upon, and disgusted him. As it is, all is toned down, chastened, soothing, and in perfect taste. He comes again, and yet again. Lady Jean keeps the foreigners, and shady adventurers, and the Bohemian element carefully out of his sight, and she herself treats him with that consideration and deference always flattering to a young man's feeling when displayed by a woman older than himself, and still beautiful. She mentions the Vavasours casually, Lauraine as being immersed in worldly gaieties. Sir Francis as being abroad at Monte Carlo. The latter fact is true, he having proceeded there in disgust at her obstinacy and coldness, and yet not liking to break with her entirely, because she happens to be the only woman of whom he has never tired.
The fortnight passes, and Keith still lingers. Life has no special object for him at present. The spring has turned cold and bleak, and the American tour may await his own convenience.
One evening he comes to Lady Jean by special invitation. There are a few people there; there is a little music, and a little "play," not very high, not very alarming; but Keith refuses it for a reason that no one there guesses. Play had been a passion with him once. Its dangerous excitement had lured him into the most terrible scrape of that "wild youth" to which Mrs. Douglas is so fond of alluding. Once free of that early trouble, he had solemnly promised Lauraine never to touch card or dice again, and he has kept his word. Lady Jean does not press him, though she looks surprised at his refusal. She sits with him in a dim corner of the room, and lures him on to talk to her as he has done of late.
Watching them with anger and suspicion are two fierce eyes, the eyes of a certain Count Karolyski, of whom no one knows anything except that he is a Hungarian, an expert card player, and a deadly shot.
The count is a devoted admirer of the Lady Jean's. The Count has been first in favour with her for months past, and the Count looks with extreme wrath on this young stripling who appears to have supplanted him, and who is so serenely unconscious of the fact.
The refusal to play irritates him still more. He knows Keith is very rich, and had hoped to revenge his wounded feelings by fleecing him with ease. Keith has frustrated this agreeable project and that fact rankles in the Count's breast, beneath the expanse of white linen and glittering orders that adorn it so lavishly. The evening goes on. Wine is handed round and freely drunk. A little more noise and freedom than usual pervade the pretty, gilded rooms. Lady Jean gets somewhat uneasy. She contrives to get rid of Keith; it does not suit her purpose that he should think of her as anything but highly decorous. When he leaves and she comes back, Count Karolyski throws down his cards, declaring he is tired of play, and comes over to her side.
"You are cruel, madame," he says in French. "You have deserted us the whole evening."
She throws herself back in her chair with a little laugh. "Cruel! You had better amusement than my company."
"Amusement! It is not that," he says, with an ardent glance from his dark, flashing eyes. "You are cold—fickle. You are breaking my heart for the sake of that American boy."
She interrupts him with pretended indignation. "Count, you forget yourself! I permit no one to arraign my actions."
"Far be it from me to do that. I would not offend you for worlds, madame; but I cannot refrain from expressing my feelings when I see your old friends thrust aside and forgotten, for sake of a beardless youth to whom Fortune has been kinder than to us."
"I do not forget my friends," says Lady Jean, with a quick glance; "and I am only civil to this boy because he is friendless and alone, and I took pity on his solitude."
"Your pity, madame, may be a dangerous favour. To those whom you really compassionate, exclusion would be the greater mercy."
"Every one is not as foolish as yourself, Count," she says with a soft glance.
It is pleasant to hear she is still beautiful—still can play the part of an "apple of discord" to men.
"Because, perhaps, 'every one' has not found your presence what I have found it."
"Hush!" she says softly; "you are talking folly, and you know it. The days are over when I believed in compliments."
"You do not suppose I am insulting you by anything so commonplace? Compliment is the language of fools and flatterers. I am speaking the plain unvarnished truth."
"Truth!" and she laughs lightly; "who speaks the truth now? It is as old-fashioned a virtue as honesty."
"Unless one finds it impossible to act indifference."
"Come, Count," she says good-humouredly, "we know each other too well to talk in this strain. We are allbons camaradeshere; no sentiment, and no seriousness. I gave you credit for more sense than to fear you would break through the rule."
His brows contract with a sudden angry frown.
"You do not mean what you say! A woman like yourself cannot set bounds to a man's admiration, or check his feelings by ridicule. I have scoffed at sentiment all my life as a thing fit only for boys and women. But all that I have hitherto disdained has amply revenged my past indifference. And you—you have not discouraged me, madame?"
Her heart beats high. A sudden warm colour comes into her face beneath its delicate rouge; but not from any gratification at the homage—not for any reason that makes him interpret these signs as flattering to himself. Only because she sees herself a step further on the road of her vengeance—only because triumph whispers to her that the end is not far off.
She rises after those last words, laughing still. "I do not believe in love, monsieur, any more than yourself. No one has been able to convert me. To parody an old saying, with me it is only a case of 'La reine s'amuse.'"
"And is this boy only a plaything also?" he says, with an angry sneer.
"Of course. Is he not a charming one?" she says with sudden gravity. "So earnest and credulous; quite refreshing. We have so long passed that stage of life,nous autres."
"With women like yourself for teachers is that a matter of wonder, madame?"
"Now you are sarcastic, and that is horrid. Why, Count, I do believe you are jealous of my pretty boy! I thought you were wiser than that."
And laughing her soft, amused laughter, she passes on into the card-room, leaving him standing there with the mellow lamplight on his dark, passionate face, and shining in the lurid depths of his eyes. At that moment he hates her and himself, and hates tenfold more the man he has chosen to consider as his rival.
It had been true, as he had said, that he had deemed himself above all such weaknesses, until the fascination of this woman had entered into his life and fired his soul with a passion, sudden, wild, fierce, and absorbing even as it was revengeful. To win her he would have done much. He was not a poor man, though far from being rich, as Lady Jean counted riches. Still he was of good birth, and boasted of pure Magyar descent, and had noble and ancient estates in Hungary, and thought himself no ill match for the daughter of a poor Irish Earl. But that Lady Jean should encourage his homage and then ridicule it, filled him with fierce anger.
He leaves her room that night with a cold farewell, and for two days does not approach her at all.
Lady Jean is amused. It is what she expected, and she does not resent it. She sees Keith daily now—in fact, takes care that she shall see him, for she is not desirous that he should escape her toils.
Against his judgment, against his better reason, Keith Athelstone submits to her caprices and permits her to draw him to her presence. He is unfortunately in that state of mind in which a man is easily influenced by a woman if she is sympathetic, friendly, and appears interested in him. At present nothing seems of much consequence or account. The fierce suffering of the last two years has been lulled into a sort of quiescence. The good resolutions formed during that period of languor and convalescence have taken just sufficient root to strengthen him as far as Lauraine is concerned, and with that self-sacrifice they end.
Life looks very monotonous, very dreary at present, and there is just a little fillip given to its monotony by Lady Jean. It is not that he likes her—it is not that he respects her, but he drifts into a sort of intimacy before he really knows it, and she is always at hand to sustain her influence. And it so happens that all this comes to the ears of Lauraine, filtered through the letters of mutual friends, put in as spice to various gossip detailed to her from Paris.
At first she cannot believe it. It seems too horrible; but unfortunately a letter comes from Lady Etwynde, radiant in the flush and glory of her matronly honours, and revelling in Paris delights with her handsome husband; and that letter mentions casually the same thing. "Keith Athelstone has been driving in the Bois with Lady Jean;" "I have met Keith, and asked him to dinner, but he excused himself on the plea of a previous engagement with Lady Jean," etc., etc.
Lady Etwynde tells her this, thinking it may really keep her from brooding over the idea that she has ruined her young lover's life; but had she known the torture it would have inflicted, she would have been silent on the subject.
Lady Etwynde's idea of Keith Athelstone has always been that he is selfish and inconsiderate, and that Lauraine is quite thrown away upon him; she feels convinced now of her own sagacity when she sees how foolish is his conduct. She herself takes no notice of Lady Jean, and when Keith excuses himself to her on the plea before mentioned, she feels disgusted and annoyed, and tells her husband she will have nothing more to say to the young man. She would have been civil to him for Lauraine's sake, but if he prefers Lady Jean, why to Lady Jean let him go.
"I knew he would never be constant," she says complainingly. "Really, men are too horrible."
"With one exception," smiles Colonel Carlisle, looking proudly at the bright, petulant face, that seems to have regained all its old sparkling witchery and youthfulness with the "old" happiness.
"Ah, Cyril, there is no one like you!" she answers.
"My darling," he says. "Every woman says that of the man she loves, and every man of the woman. I think you are hard upon poor Keith. Fancy, to love a woman with all one's heart and soul, and know she can be nothing to one. Ah heaven! how fatal a thing is marriage sometimes—howsureone ought to be of oneself before entering into a life-long union."
"Weare sure!" she murmurs, softly nestling closer in his arms, as they stand side by side in the twilight shadows.
"Thank God, we are!" he says, with passionate earnestness. "But often and often I think, if it had not been for the sins and follies of the past—for the wrong and the suffering—our love would never have been as deep and intense a thing as it is. I shall never forget those years, and how hopelessly our lives seemed severed—with what reluctance I came home to England—how I dreaded to hear you were another's—and then——"
"After all I was your own," she whispers.
"And we are so happy," he resumes presently. "Are we not, my queen of æsthetes?"
She laughs a little tremulously. "Indeed, yes; but I fear, dearest, the queen has sadly neglected her subjects. Women's missions are all very well until men interfere with them. Then there is a lamentable failure of all the grand schemes and projects."
"A woman's first mission is to love her husband and make his home a paradise," answers Colonel Carlisle. "I am not great at poetry, as you know, but I own to an admiration of those lines of Tennyson in 'The Princess.' You know them:
For woman is not undevelopt man,But diverse; could we make her as the manSweet Love were slain; his dearest bond is this,Not like to like, but like in difference.Yet in the long years liker must they grow—The man be more of woman, she of man.* * * * *Till at the last she sets herself to man,Like perfect music unto noble words."
"Yes," she says. "They are very true, although a man wrote them."
"Don't you believe our sex understands yours, then?" he asks teasingly.
"No; I do not," she says decidedly. "I think no man yet ever quite comprehended a woman's nature, any more, perhaps, than we comprehend a man's. I think that is how we so often mistake and misjudge each other. We expect a man to act as we would act, and he expects us to act as he would; and that can never be. Another thing: we have such quick instincts, and are governed so often by sympathy or antipathy; you are slow in your judgment, andreasonwhere we act."
"Yes," he answers thoughtfully; "but contrast is the salt of life, my darling. We should not find any attraction in each other if we were quite alike, and regulated our lives and actions on the same principles. But to return to our subject. I am certain Lady Jean is up to some mischief, and I would give anything in the world to get Keith Athelstone away from her influence. Whatcanpossess him to be always there?"
"Not always, dear," says his wife rebukingly. "Three times within a fortnight. I cannot understand it myself. I should like to give him a hint, but I am afraid. He might take offence, and I know what men are. Warn them against a woman, and they immediately run after her; try to turn them from a purpose, and they throw themselves heart and soul into it."
"You should treat them as the Irishman did his pigs—drive them one way and turn their heads another," laughs Colonel Carlisle. "But you surely don't imagine he cares about Lady Jean?"
"No; I give him credit for better sense. But she is a dangerous woman, and I am certain has some purpose in view. I know she hates Lauraine; I am equally certain that she knows of Keith's infatuation for her, and I feel convinced she is trying to work some mischief. You remember her plot about getting him to Falcon's Chase?"
"Yes. That was a piece of devilry, and no mistake. I have thought more of the young fellow since his refusal than ever I did before."
"Keith is a strange character," says Lady Etwynde; "so headstrong and passionate, yet so loving and true; so wild, and yet so easily controlled; so selfish, and yet so weak. Lauraine has a great influence over him—more than any one else has, I think. I believe when once she made him see things in their true light, once she showed him that the love that would dishonour a woman is the last love worthy of her acceptance, he would turn from what even seemed her own tempting. But he must have known it could not be that."
"Lauraine is a good, true woman, though she has made a fatal mistake in life, and now it is too late to remedy it," says the Colonel regretfully. "What sad words those are, 'too late!' Just to have missed all that makes life desirable, just to meet and love, and find that Fate has placed an impassable barrier between you and that love. Ah, me!"
"Don't sigh!" whispers his wife tenderly. "Our 'too late' was just in time after all."
"Thank God for that!"
"I do," she answers fervently. "But how my own happiness makes me regret her loss! I never thought I could love any woman so dearly as I love Lauraine; and I feel, oh! so sorry for her now!"
"So do I—for Keith."
"And you think we can do nothing?"
"I fear not. It is a delicate matter. He may be only striving for forgetfulness after all. Men do foolish and desperate things sometimes for love's sake."
"That is one of the things we women who love you can't understand," says Lady Etwynde. "To us those excesses to which we are accused of driving you seem degrading and contemptible. We can only excuse sins that are not against ourselves, I suppose."
"Doubtless it looks cowardly," says her husband, "to fling away our self-respect because something has not been as we wished it; but then that something is worth everything else in the world, or we think so, and losing it, all else seems of no account."
"In that respect we set you an example, do we not?" laughs his wife. "We don't go to perdition because we are disappointed in love."
"Because your natures are so different. The same rule cannot apply to a man and a woman. I thought we had agreed on that before," says Colonel Carlisle.
"So we had. Instance Keith and Lauraine."
"And my lady and—myself."
And he bends down and kisses the sweet red lips.
That closes the argument. They forget all about Keith and Lauraine; they talk now of their own love, and of each other.