There is a moment's silence, then Sir Francis turns and confronts her
with a face of sullen rage.
"What the devil do you mean?" he says fiercely. "Are you going to
insult her?"
"I think the insult is to me," says Lauraine, very quietly. "I have
been blind a long time; but if you can discuss my actions with
another woman in the familiar manner I heard you discussing them with
Lady Jean, it says enough to convince me of the terms of your
acquaintanceship. I have no desire for any open scandal. You can
explain to your friend that her presence here is no longer desirable.
That is all."
"All!" scoffs Sir Francis savagely. "And do you suppose I'm going to
be dictated to by you as to who stops in my house, or not? A nice
model of virtue and propriety you are, to preach to other women! A
beggar, who married me for my money, just as one of the vilest women
would have done--a woman who has been carrying on a secret intrigue
of her own for years, only is too devilish clever to be found out."
Lauraine stops him with a gesture of infinite scorn. "What you say
is untrue. That I married you without any pretence of love, you
know. I make no secret of it, and my mother and yourself both tried
your utmost to persuade me into it. But since I married you, I have
at least been true. Secret intrigues, as you call them, are for
women of Lady Jean's stamp, not mine."
"And what about your own friendship for Keith?" sneers her husband.
"Do you deny he is your lover?"
"No," answers Lauraine, turning very white, but still keeping her
voice steady in its cold contempt. "But his love is worthy of the
name; it is not a base, degrading passion that steeps itself in
deceit--that, holding one face to the world, has another for the
partner of its baseness. Keith has loved me from his boyhood. I was
faithless to him, in a way; but I was not wholly to blame. For long
after we met again I never suspected but that the old love was dead
and buried. When I found it was not----" She stops abruptly, and a
sudden, angry light comes into her eyes. "Why do I stop to explain?
You--you cannot even imagine what a pure, self-denying love may be
capable of! I think you have had your answer in his letter. He
knows better than to palter with temptation. He has more respect for
me, than you who claim to be--my husband."
His eyes droop in momentary shame, but the rage in his heart is
boiling with fiercer fury. "A fine thing for you to talk to me of
your love for another man--of his for you. Pshaw! as if all men's
love is not alike. Do you take me for a fool? You never loved me,
and since your child died we have been almost strangers, and you have
had your lover with you often enough. That he has not accepted this
invitation is to me no proof of what you call virtue. Perhaps he is
tired of you. It is likely."
All the blood seems to rush from Lauraine's heart to her face at this
insult. She confronts him with a passion of indignation. "How
_dare_ you?" she cries; and then something seems to rise in her
throat and choke her. The utter futility of words--the sense of her
own imprudence--confront her like a barrier to the belief she would
invoke. He sees he has stung her now almost beyond endurance, and
the knowledge rouses all that is worst in him, and prompts but
further outrage. That his own wrong-doing is discovered, that
another woman has fallen where she--his wife--stood firm, are but
added incentives to his jealous fury and defeated ends.
"How _dare_ I? You will find that I dare more than that, madam. I
think you would not look much better than I if we had a 'show up,'
and as I live, if you insult Lady Jean I will institute proceedings
against you--with Keith Athelstone as co-respondent."
And he leaves the room with a brutal laugh.
Lauraine stands there as if turned to stone. For the first time she
feels how powerless she is--how helpless is any woman when the man
who has sworn to protect and honour her, turns round on her and
insults her with the very weakness he is bound to respect.
She knows her husband is not faithful, that the very presence of this
woman beneath her roof is an outrage to all decency and morality, and
yet if she opposes that presence, she herself is threatened with a
life-long injury; nay, more, Keith will be dragged in to shield the
sharer of this flagrant guilt, which is before her very eyes, and
which she seems powerless to resent. She grows desperate as she
thinks of it--as she looks at the case from every side, and yet sees
no way of escape or justice.
Of what use is innocence to a woman whose name is before the world,
and dragged through the mire of public inquiry? A thousand tongues
will chatter, a thousand scandals fly, to be magnified and retailed
and charged with vile suspicions. She will be a public sport, a
public shame. And Lauraine knew that this would be her portion if
she did not agree to hide the guilt of another woman, and tacitly
accept the charge laid against herself. As she thought of it, all
that was best and purest in her nature rose in revolt. All the
courage and strength that had given her power to resist her lover,
seemed to array themselves against the brutal tyranny and shameful
outrage she had been bidden to accept.
"I will not do it; I _will_ not!" she cries aloud, as she paces to
and fro her room. "After all I am rightly punished. I was false to
him, and it was wrong to allow him to be so much with me, once I knew
he loved me still. Now, whichever way I look at it, there seems
nothing but shame and dishonour."
It seemed to her right--nay, but common justice--that she should
suffer; but she hated to think of Keith being condemned to like
torture, of the shame that would be about his life, did her husband
carry out his threat. Where, indeed, would the results of this fatal
love end? To what depths of misery had it not led, and still seemed
to be leading them?
Divorce had always seemed to Lauraine a shameful thing--a necessary
evil sometimes, but still something with a stigma of disgrace, that,
whether merited or not, always dogged and haunted a woman all her
life. And now she could plainly see to what end her husband and Lady
Jean were driving her as their scapegoat.
By her means they wished to vindicate themselves; and, remembering
how easily their plot might have been carried out, she shudders and
turns sick with loathing and shame unutterable.
Keith, in his weakness and loneliness, might have been enticed here
apparently by her wish. There would have been hours of languor and
convalescence, during which they would have been together--hours when
the softness of pity in her own heart and the awakened memories of
his would have held all the old power, and all the long
fought-against danger. But she sees still that the plot is not
defeated, that she has a subtle foe to combat, and in all her scorn
and wrath Lauraine yet feels the miserable conviction of her own
impotence oppressing her.
The hours pass. Of time she takes no count or heed; only lies there
prostrate and sick at heart, and desolate, and ashamed; feeling that
a great crisis in her life has come, and she cannot tell how to deal
with it.
The luncheon-bell rings, but she sends a message that she is ill and
cannot come downstairs. Another hour passes, and still she does not
move, only lies there in a sort of stupor of misery and bewilderment.
There comes a gentle knock at the door, and she hears Lady Etwynde's
voice asking permission to enter.
Wearily enough she gives it. All sympathy seems useless to her, and
her friend's perfect happiness seems to show up in but sharper
contrast her own wretched life. Lady Etwynde guesses instinctively
that something is wrong. Neither Lady Jean nor Lauraine has appeared
at luncheon, and Sir Francis has looked like a human thundercloud all
the time. She comes forward now and kneels by Lauraine's side.
"What has happened, dear?" she asks. "Are you ill?"
"Ill enough in mind," answers Lauraine, and then she tells her all.
Lady Etwynde listens in silence, but her beautiful eyes grow dark
with indignation and scorn.
"It is all that hateful woman, of course," she says at last. "Oh, my
dear, my dear, what will you do now?"
"I cannot tell," says Lauraine despairingly. "Accept such an outrage
as this, I cannot, and yet if I insist--well, I told you his threat."
"But that is absurd!" exclaims Lady Etwynde indignantly. "He has not
a shadow of proof. No judge would listen to such a case. It is only
a threat, Lauraine; and that woman has put him up to it."
"But in any case the disgrace would be the same," says Lauraine. "I
was so blind, so foolish. Every one seems to have noticed Keith's
devotion to me, and I--it was so long before I suspected it."
"The lookers-on always see most, you know. But still all this proves
nothing, and I don't believe your husband would seriously think of
dragging his name and yours into one of those courts without a tittle
of evidence to support his accusation."
"Evidence can be bought," says Lauraine; "and even were it to come to
nothing, there is the shame, the scandal. Oh, my poor Keith! It was
an evil fate that threw us two together again."
For a moment Lady Etwynde is silent. She is deeply troubled. She
knows well enough that, be a woman ever so innocent, the breath of
public discussion will tarnish her fame for ever, A sense of
injustice, of anger, rises in her heart, and fills it with hot,
indignant thoughts.
"I cannot counsel you to submit," she says.
"I do not mean to submit," answers Lauraine tranquilly. "It would
look like fear. I must face the worst. For myself, I do not care so
much; I have been unhappy so long--but it is of Keith I think."
"My dear!" exclaims Lady Etwynde, "spare your pity! A man never
suffers in these cases; it is always the woman--always. The more
guiltless, the more society will shun her. It is a sort of way it
has for condoning its own errors and impurities. It looks well to
make a violent outcry when any one has been so foolish as to be found
out. As long as you sin in the dark, no one will dream of saying a
word, let their suspicions be ever so strong. A woman like you,
Lauraine, who has only been imprudent and sorely tempted, and yet
dares to be virtuous, will receive no mercy and gain no belief."
"I know that," she says, and her indifference is scarcely forced now.
She feels too hopeless for strong emotion.
"As for Keith," goes on Lady Etwynde impatiently, "it is all owing to
his selfishness and----"
"Hush!" cries Lauraine sternly. "I will not have him blamed. He has
been sorely tried, and many men would have acted far worse. It is on
me that all the blame lies--on me only. It all began from the fatal
error of my marriage, and I deserve to suffer, I know; only
sometimes, Etwynde," she adds wearily, "it does seem as if the
suffering was beyond my strength."
The tears spring to Lady Etwynde's eyes.
"What _will_ you do?" she asks despairingly.
"To-morrow I will tell Lady Jean that it is best for her visit to
terminate," answers Lauraine. "I do not see why I should condone my
own shame. As for the consequences, Sir Francis must do what he
pleases. I know I am innocent, even if blameable--the result, time
will show."
"I think you are quite right," says Lady Etwynde. "But I am afraid
you will suffer for it. Lady Jean is a dangerous woman to offend."
Lauraine pushes the hair off her temples as if the weight oppressed
her. "I do not expect anything else but suffering now. And I may as
well endure it for right as for wrong. If I have respected my
husband's name, at least he might respect mine."
"And whatever you do be sure of this," says Lady Etwynde gently: "my
house is always open to you. Let the whole world turn its back upon
you, Lauraine, my friendship will never fail." Lauraine looks up at
the beautiful face. Her heart is too full for words.
But when she is alone again a great fear chills her. "I have done
right," she says. "But--what will it cost?"