THE BEGINNING OF THE END.
“What is this? His eyes are heavy; think not they are glazed
with wine--
Go to him; it is thy duty; kiss him, take his hand in thine.
It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought;
Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter
thought.” --TENNYSON.
“Mrs. Essex, Miss Kingsley, let me present to you my friend, Monsieur
Orne.”
Viva gives her guest the tips of her fingers and a graceful greeting,
but Evelyn Kingsley starts at the name and glances keenly at the dark,
bearded face of her host’s friend. She had seen his name on the back
of a letter once, and never forgotten it. She remembers, too, that the
letter was addressed in Earle Essex’s hand, although he had told her
that Madame Orne had given it to him to mail. She is immediately on the
_qui vive_, and says to him, at the earliest opportunity:
“Your name sounds very familiar to me. My cousin Vivian had for three
years a beautiful young governess called Madame Orne. Is it possible,
monsieur, that this lady is a relative of yours?”
“Scarcely possible,” monsieur replies indifferently, “I have no
relatives in this country.”
“Then it seems that she really had no relatives to mourn over her
strange fate, for her life closed with a tragedy,” Eve observes, but
the polite Frenchman only bows. He does not show any interest in the
tragedy that ended the life of the poor young governess. He tacitly
dismisses the subject by asking his hostess to sing.
She pleads hoarseness, and installs Eve at the piano. The young lady
executes a difficult march in brilliant style, and Monsieur Orne pays
her profuse compliments.
Dinner makes a pleasant break in the evening. At the elegant table,
sparkling with silver and crystal and adorned with rare hot-house
flowers, loaded with delicate viands and costly wines, Eve forgets
her curiosity, Essex grows social and witty, the guest brilliant
and fascinating, with all the _aplomb_ of a middle-aged man of the
world. Vivian is the most quiet of the quartet, but she listens to the
quick repartee, the versatile converse of Monsieur Orne with languid
pleasure. It takes her out of her own dull thoughts as she follows the
gay thread of talk and laughter. But yet she is not really prepossessed
in favor of the stranger. She was conscious of a distinct sensation of
repulsion when his hand had touched hers at greeting, and she shrinks
unaccountably at the glance of his handsome yellow, brown eyes.
It was with a sensation of relief, after all, that she rises with Eve
to quit the table, and leaves the gentlemen still lingering over their
wine, in foreign fashion, to do honor to the Frenchman.
“Where was Di’s engagement this evening, Eve?”
“Oh, only with her dressmaker. The wedding is next month, you know, and
Di is hurried to death with the preparations. My dear, does your head
ache? You are so pale, and your eyes are heavy.”
“No, my head is all right, but I feel tired and dull. Perhaps your city
air does not suit me. I am country-bred, you see.”
“It is the dreary weather, perhaps, or may be you are homesick. Has
Charlton been to see you yet?”
“No, nor papa, either; but to change the conversation, Eve, how do you
like our guest?”
“He is good-looking and witty. Do you know, I asked him if he was any
relation to Madame Orne, but he declared he was not.”
They chat languidly until tired, but it is a long, long while before
the gentlemen come in. Then both are very much under the influence
of the wine they have been imbibing. The Frenchman has just sense
enough left to be conscious of his condition, and very soon makes his
courteous adieus and goes. The host throws himself on a luxurious sofa,
and falls asleep almost immediately, quite forgetful of the presence of
ladies. His heavy breathing and the strong fumes of liquor pervading
the apartment announce his condition very plainly to Eve Kingsley’s
quick eyes. She looks at Vivian’s face, and sees it flushed with shame
and pain.
“Earle has taken too much wine, don’t you think so, Eve?” she asks
anxiously.
“I’m afraid so, dear. You must scold him a little for this, and not
permit him to fall into a habit of taking so many extra glasses, with
friends at dinner. And now, Viva, I must go, for there is the carriage,
and I have an engagement for the opera to-night.”
She says good-by with effusive tenderness, and is driven away, leaving
Vivian alone with her intoxicated husband.
He is awake now--the bustle of Eve’s departure has aroused him--and he
turns at the soft rustle of a silken gown.
“Come here, my love,” he exclaims, in a maudlin voice.
She looks at him with angry eyes and scornful red lips, and answers
bitterly:
“So this is the way you keep your promise to me to give up drinking.”
“My darling wife, you are--are--entirely mistaken--and--do me injustice
in talking so! I--am--perfectly sober, m-my dear, but I--really--feel
quite ill--was taken sick at dinner--head aches! Put your cool little
hand on my head, Viva, and--and--chase away the pain!”
She pulls her little hand out of his clasp scornfully as he mutters
the words, half-asleep. Then he falls back on the pillow, his eyes
closed, breathing heavily, entirely oblivious in another moment of her
presence. She stands a moment watching his flushed and stupid features,
then bursts into swift tears--tears of shame, of anger, of deep
humiliation, and futile despair.