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 his
_fiancée's_ house 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
bright _mignonne_ face; "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 and _esclandre_ are 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 of _les
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 to
_respect_ a 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 loved _myself_ better
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."