"Why does Lauraine not come to town?" says Mrs. Douglas, impatiently,
to Lady Etwynde. "She must be moped to death in that dreary
Northumberland place. It gives me the horrors even to think of it."
It is a cold afternoon in February, and it is Lady Etwynde's "day,"
but the æsthetes are deserting her now. Her marriage is fixed for
the end of the month. It is to be very quiet, and Lauraine has
written to say she cannot come to it; her health is so delicate, that
all excitement and fatigue are forbidden. But the real truth is,
that Sir Francis has developed a new system of tyranny, framed in by
every species of insulting suspicion, and has ordered Lauraine to
remain at Falcon's Chase, and declared she shall not even go up to
London for the season. It is childish, it is cowardly, and it is
unreasonable, and he knows it is all these; but he is infuriated with
her, and savage at the failure of his schemes, and this is the only
sort of revenge that he can think of at present. He himself is in
Paris, with all the gaieties and amusements of the season awaiting
his selection, but chafing inwardly and fiercely at Lady Jean's
strange conduct, and complete avoidance of himself.
Of course she goes nowhere--her deep mourning compels retirement--but
she has a small circle of friends who come to her afternoons in her
pretty rooms in the Rue Victoire, and Sir Francis knows this, and
knows that he is always excluded, and the fact makes him more
irritable, more bitter against his wife, and more impatient of seeing
his mistress than he has ever been since they parted at the Chase.
"How long am I to wait?" he wonders impatiently. "What can be her
meaning?"
As yet neither of these questions seemed destined to be answered.
"I know there is something," persists Mrs. Douglas, drawing near to
the fire in the pretty artistic drawing-room, and dropping her voice
confidentially. "It looks so odd, and Sir Francis is never with her
now. Do tell me, Lady Etwynde, was there anything--anything
wrong--when you were down there at Christmas?"
"I think Lauraine is most unhappy," says Lady Etwynde sorrowfully;
"and I think her marriage was a great mistake. I often heard you
congratulating yourself and her--on its brilliance, Mrs. Douglas; but
I think, could you see behind the scenes and look into your
daughter's breaking heart, you would not feel quite so proud, or so
satisfied respecting it."
Mrs. Douglas looks at her annoyed and impatient.
"If she is unhappy it must be her own fault. She had everything that
could make a woman happy, and her husband was devoted to her. If she
has lost his affection, it is by her own imprudence and folly. I
warned her long ago how it would be."
"Perhaps your warning came too late. Most warnings do," says Lady
Etwynde coldly. "But a loveless marriage to a girl of Lauraine's
disposition and nature was a dangerous experiment. You ought to have
let her marry Keith Athelstone."
Mrs. Douglas' eyes flash angrily. "I suppose you are in her
confidence. I acted for the best. Keith was always wild and rash,
and not at all a suitable match; and, besides that, she was not in
love with him--or, at least, never told me so. She was quite content
to marry Sir Francis."
"She could have known nothing of his reputation, then," answers Lady
Etwynde. "He was always a bad, fast man; and he has treated Lauraine
abominably."
Mrs. Douglas looks at her with increased curiosity. "What has he
done? Is it about--Lady Jean?"
"Yes," answers Lady Etwynde, colouring. "Lauraine knows now what the
world has long suspected; and when she would not allow that woman to
remain under her roof, Sir Francis threatened her with proceedings
and dragged in poor Keith Athelstone's name."
"Good Heavens!" exclaims Mrs. Douglas, "what scandal--what horror!
Oh, surely he is not in earnest? Why, Lauraine is a fool--a perfect
fool! Why did she make a scene about it? Of course, every one knows
such things happen constantly. Men are never faithful--never! But
to insult the woman--and for what good? To think that a daughter of
mine should have been such an idiot?"
"It does seem remarkable, doesn't it?" says Lady Etwynde dryly. "You
see women nowadays generally prefer worldly advantage to their own
self-respect."
"Self-respect! Fiddlesticks!" cries Mrs. Douglas, growing more and
more irate. "Will self-respect give her her present position, or
gain the world's belief in her innocence if she is once in the
Divorce Court? Self-respect! I hate such rubbish. She had
everything she wanted; why could she not have been content?"
"I dare say you would never understand why," answers Lady Etwynde
calmly. "Lauraine is singularly unlike yourself."
"Lauraine is a fool--a perfect fool!" cries Mrs. Douglas furiously.
"To get herself into a scrape like this, and all for nothing; to
insult a woman of Lady Jean's position, and then to get herself
talked about as she's done with that young idiot Keith, and simply
because of some childish folly long ago, when they fancied themselves
in love with each other! Why, she must have taken leave of her
senses, and all this time she has not said a word to me--her own
mother!"
Lady Etwynde is silent. She is thinking it would have been stranger
still if Lauraine _had_ taken her mother into her confidence.
"I am sure Sir Francis was always most kind to her," resumes Mrs.
Douglas presently. "Always when I have seen them together."
"I believe it is not a rule in good society for husband and wife to
quarrel openly," remarks Lady Etwynde.
"She should have been content and sensible like other people," goes
on Mrs. Douglas, disregarding the interruption. "Good gracious,
every one knows such things go on. You can't make saints of men.
You must take them as they are. And did she actually make Lady Jean
leave the house?"
"She would have been scarcely less guilty than Lady Jean had she
condoned her presence, knowing what she knew," says Lady Etwynde,
with rising indignation. "Even if a husband does not love his wife,
he at least should treat her with common decency."
"I daresay Lauraine brought it all on herself. A man can't always
put up with such airs as those to which she treated Sir Francis, and,
in contrast with Lady Jean, why Lauraine was--nothing."
"No," agrees Lady Etwynde. "A good woman and pure-minded generally
looks colourless and tame beside a wicked one. The contrast is too
strong I suppose."
Mrs. Douglas looks at her sharply. She does not like her tone, nor
understand it.
"Well, I only hope it will come right," she says. "I shall write to
Lauraine and advise her to make it up with her husband. It is so
stupid, making a fuss and _exposé_--losing everything, and all
for--what?"
"I think," says Lady Etwynde quietly, "that you do not understand
your daughter, and you do her injustice. A woman must know when to
support her own dignity; I suppose you allow that?"
"I daresay Lauraine made a great deal of unnecessary fuss; it would
be just like her. She is full of romance and high-flown ideas. If
she had been quite circumspect herself it would not matter; but after
getting herself talked about with Keith--I myself had to warn her--I
think Sir Francis was very good to overlook it."
"Sir Francis perhaps had his own aims to attain," interpolates Lady
Etwynde. "I am inclined to think so, judging by results."
"Do you mean--do you really think he wishes for freedom?" gasps Mrs.
Douglas. "Is it so bad as that?"
"Lady Jean seems to have infatuated him," answers Lady Etwynde. "He
was always weak where women were concerned, you know. He has treated
Lauraine very badly and he is even now in Paris."
"I think I will go down to Falcon's Chase," says Mrs. Douglas
presently. "I must see Lauraine and advise her. It is really most
critical. I had no idea things were so bad. She has not chosen to
take me into her confidence; still, as her mother, it is my duty to
see she does not ruin her whole future."
"I think," says Lady Etwynde, very quietly, "I would not go if I were
you."
"Why not?" demands Mrs. Douglas sharply.
"She might not like it," answers Lady Etwynde; "and you can do no
good--no one can. Lauraine is proud, but she is also
high-principled. I do not think you need fear for her. What is
right to do she will do, at any cost. Sir Francis has not carried
out his threat, and I fancy he won't. He has ordered Lauraine to
remain in Northumberland; but I do not think that is any great
punishment to her. She always loved the Chase, and all her memories
of her child are with it."
"It is a pity the child died," says Mrs. Douglas.
"You may well say that. He would at least have been some consolation
to her now. Not that it would have made any difference to Sir
Francis. He never cared for the boy. Still it was a tie."
"Lauraine must have been in fault," complains Mrs. Douglas fretfully.
"It is all nonsense to say she is a martyr--Sir Francis was no worse
than other men. If she had been less cold, less odd, he would never
have run after other women."
"I do not agree with you," interrupts Lady Etwynde. "Sir Francis is
just what he always was--a thoroughly selfish man, and a man whose
habits are ingrained in every fibre of his nature. He has never
treated women with any respect, and his passion for Lauraine was as
short-lived as any of his other fancies. He married her
because--well, you know the real reason as well as you know the man,
and in two years he was tired of her. For a woman, young, beautiful,
warm-hearted, she has had a most trying life, and a most cruel
experience. Had she indeed been what hundreds of others are, she
might have consoled herself easily enough; but she could not do that,
and--she has her reward."
Mrs. Douglas is silent and uncomfortable. "It is a great pity," she
says at last. "A great pity. And one can really do nothing?"
"Nothing, except wait and hope."
Then the door opens and Colonel Carlisle enters, and a beautiful
flush and light come over her face as she greets him. Mrs. Douglas
looks at her radiant eyes and sees his proud and tender glance, and
hears the happy ring in their answering voices, and as she goes out
and leaves them alone a little uncomfortable feeling rises in her
heart. "Is there something in love, after all?" she asks herself.
"What has that woman been saying?" asks Colonel Carlisle, as the door
closes and he seats himself by his betrothed. "You looked worried
when I came in."
"She always does worry me, I think," says Lady Etwynde, nestling
closer to his side, as the strong arm draws her towards him. "She is
so worldly, so cold, so heartless; and I hate to hear a mother speak
of her daughter as she speaks of Lauraine."
"They seem totally unlike each other," says the Colonel. "Poor
Lauraine! Have you any news?"
"I had a letter this morning. She cannot come up for our marriage.
Of course, Sir Francis won't let her--that is the real truth. It is
a little bit of spite on his part."
"What an unfortunate marriage that was!" exclaims Colonel Carlisle
involuntarily. "Ah, my darling, thank God that we shall have love
and sympathy on which to base ours. There is no hell upon earth like
a union where there is no love, no respect, no single thought or
feeling shared in common--where one's nature revolts and one's duty
demands submission--where the sacredness of home is violated every
hour until the name becomes a mockery----"
"Poor Lauraine!--what she has missed!" Lady Etwynde sighs.
"She had not your constancy, my darling!" murmurs her lover. "To
think that for all these years you held me shrined in the proud
little heart that I thought so cold and unforgiving once! How true a
love was yours!"
"It had need to be true if it was so unforgiving," she says, smiling
up into the dark eyes that search her own. "When I think of those
long, wasted years----"
"Do not think of them," he interrupts passionately, "or think of them
only to crowd into those that are to come, a double portion of the
love they have missed."
And with his lips on hers she is content, indeed, that it should be
so.