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 of _that_ sort."
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, I _must_ not," 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 an _attaché_ to 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 a _mésalliance_.
"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. What _should_ I 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, I _think_--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, no _petite 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."