"Dear, dear! Now, only _do_ tell!" exclaims Mrs. Bradshaw Woollffe,
in the solemn conclave of a feminine gathering at the commencement of
the London season. "You ought to know, Mrs. Douglas. Is your
daughter really going to marry Keith Athelstone after all?"
"After all!" echoes Mrs. Douglas. "All what!"
"Well, I guess you know pretty well what people said two seasons ago.
But to think things should turn out like this--quite a romance! Only
to think of it!"
"It is not so unnatural," says Mrs. Douglas loftily. "Mr. Athelstone
was always deeply attached to my daughter, and, in fact, came home
from America with the intention of proposing. But he was just too
late. My dear girl had accepted Sir Francis Vavasour."
"Is that so? Well, I've heard another shaped tale about that.
Anyhow, it seems Sir Francis was a brute to her, and she--well, any
one who knows Lauraine, knows she's got real downright good stuff in
her; and as for Vavasour--isn't there one of your national poets
says: 'Nothing in his life became him like his leaving it'? That's
just about his sort for an epitaph, I should say. No offence, I
hope, Mrs. Douglas, though he was your son-in-law. You know I always
speak my mind right plump out. There's no nonsense about me."
"I am not in the least offended," says Mrs. Douglas sweetly. "All
men have faults, and Sir Francis Vavasour was certainly not as
devoted a husband as my dear child had reason to expect. But you see
she is rather cold and prudish, and all that, and he--well, he had
been spoilt by society. We must excuse him for being a little wild,
and really they got on very well together, and nothing could exceed
his kindness and generosity to Lauraine. And he has left her
everything."
"And she's going to marry Keith Athelstone?"
"Well, her husband has been dead for nearly a year, and dear Keith is
so very delicate since that accident, and he has been ordered to
winter at Algiers, and nothing will induce him to go unless Lauraine
goes also."
"That was a queer thing too," says Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe eagerly.
"Never could make head or tail of it. Lady Jean was kind of mixed up
in that duel, wasn't she?"
"Really," says Mrs. Douglas, with her most stately air, "I must
decline to say anything about that woman. Her conduct has been quite
too disgraceful. Quite."
"Her conduct was no better or worse, that I can see, when her husband
was alive," answers Mrs. Woollffe. "She was always bad, though, of
course, no one could see it until Joel Salomans had lost all his
money. I've never heard a good word of her since."
Mrs. Douglas looks uncomfortable.
"Of course, as long as society is not publicly outraged, as long as
there is some show of decency, it puts up with a great deal; but when
any one is imprudent enough to over-step the boundary mark, that
alters the case."
"Of course," agrees Mrs. Woollffe, with a smile. "It's only natural
to wink at what suits our convenience. I wonder why Lady Jean has
never come to London again since she married that foreigner,
Count----what's his name?"
"Count Karolyski. I don't know, I'm sure, But I think it is just as
well. No one in her old set could possibly receive her."
"Well, your English society beats me!" exclaims Mrs. Bradshaw B.
Woollffe. "Guess you're the rummest lot of people on the face of
creation. What--you're not going?"
"Yes, I must. It is Lady Etwynde Carlisle's day, you know; and I
want to look in and hear some later news of my child. She
corresponds so constantly with her friend. Of course, it is only
natural."
"Old cat," murmurs Mrs. Woollffe, as the satin skirts trail away in
the distance. "You could not blackguard your daughter enough once,
and now it's 'dear child,' and 'dear Keith.' Ugh! I've no patience
with such humbug. Ah, there is Nan and her husband. Nan, my dear,
such news. Keith Athelstone is going to marry, and whom do you
think?"
"Lady Vavasour, of course," answers the young Countess of Longleat
quietly.
"Why, you knew!" exclaims Mrs. Bradshaw Woollffe, disappointed.
"I didn't; I only guessed. I always thought it would come to that.
Poor Keith!"
She sighs, and the radiant eyes grow a little dim. A vision of the
handsome face and figure of the man who had been her girlish hero
rises suddenly before her; in contrast to them she sees the red hair
and burly frame of her own lord and master. "Well, fretting's no
good," she says, with a little laugh at the contrast. "I was awfully
fond of Keith, and I do hope he'll be happy at last. He's had a long
spell of--the other thing."
And meanwhile where is the prime mover in the plot that was to ruin
Lauraine's happiness--that was to have been a scheme of vengeance
perfect as woman's malice and skill could make it? The world of
society, of fashion--the world which she delights in, and has
delighted--knows Lady Jean no more.
If she had never met her master in all her life before, she met him
in the person of Count Karolyski. He was a stern tyrant and a
jealous ruler. Once his wife, and once safe among the gloomy
solitudes of his own possessions in the Carpathian range, there was
neither peace nor liberty for the Lady Jean.
Passionate, exacting, cruel, domineering, this man, who had for her
an absorbing passion, but neither trust nor belief, resolved that she
should never escape his keeping, let her chafe and fret as she would.
When she heard of Sir Francis Vavasour's death she had congratulated
herself on her prudent acceptance of this other man, more especially
as she knew that his action had rid Lauraine of her lover, and
poisoned all the freedom of her sudden release.
But when in course of time she learnt of Keith's recovery, her rage
and fury knew no bounds. Then, for the first time as yet in their
married life, she gave her husband a specimen of her tigress temper;
but then also for the first, though not the last time, did she learn
that she had sold herself into a bondage from which there was no
escape, and, galled, fretted, half broken-hearted, she found herself
compelled to do his bidding, and accept her present fate.
If Lauraine had been unhappy too, it would have sweetened the gall
and wormwood of her own lot; but that her rival should now have peace
and happiness, and she herself sink to a life that was as dreary as a
captive's, was the crowning stab to her many wounds.
And yet, burn in anger, chafe in humiliation as she might, there was
no help for her and no possibility of escape. The violence of her
tempestuous passions only seemed to amuse him. Tears and reproaches
alike beat against the stony calm and immovability of his nature, as
futile waves may lash a rock that has borne their fury for centuries.
Do what she might, act as she pleased, one fact alone showed itself
to her. She was a disappointed and helpless woman, and she was in
the power of a master against whom it was useless to rebel. The long
dreary days went by, empty as a rifled grave, cold with the chill of
an endless despair.
Such was her life; such would be her life for all the future now.
Her soul might rebel as it would, and her heart grow sick within her
as the sullen shadows of memory dogged her every footstep, but she
was powerless to evade or resent. Her evil deeds had gained now
their own reward--the vengeance she had planned for another had
recoiled on her own head.
And where are the two about whom so much gossip is rife, concerning
whom so many tongues are wagging?
Have the sundered lives been joined at last? Has fate done its
worst, and, wearied of spite, grown callous now as to what may or may
not ensue?
Two days after Lauraine had left him, Sir Francis Vavasour died. His
presentiment had been true, but his sacrifice had in some way
softened the bitterness of death.
Lauraine was smitten with terrible remorse. It seemed to her always
as if she should have withstood his wishes and remained by his side
until the end.
Even her husband's dying words--the message penned by his
hand--failed to comfort her, and it took all Lady Etwynde's
persuasions, and all Colonel Carlisle's strong common sense, and all
Keith's tender reproaches to lessen the sharpness of her own
self-accusation--to convince her that her fault, if fault it were,
deserved no such harsh condemnation as she feared.
A year has passed since freedom came to her--a year so peaceful and
so calm that sorrow and pain and self-accusing seem lulled to rest,
and once again Keith whispers of happiness in store.
A year, and to-morrow she will wed her lover.
He kneels by her side in the summer moonlight--his heart too full of
rapture for words--his eyes resting ever on her face with that
adoration neither has wearied of yet.
"You are happy--you are _sure_ you are happy?" he asks, as he has
asked a thousand times before.
"Ah, yes," she sighs. "Too happy almost, it seems to me."
"And of what were you thinking all this long time?"
"I was thinking of something Etwynde told me long ago, dear when I
was very wicked, very discontented, very wretched."
"What was it?"
"That anthem from the 'Elijah': 'Trust in the Lord; wait patiently
for Him, and He will give thee thy heart's desire.'"
"And what was--your--heart's desire, my own?"
"Can you ask?" she murmurs passionately; and in the soft summer dusk
he draws her arms about his neck, and kisses the trembling lips.
"I can, I do. Tell me," he says, with soft insistence.
"Just your own graceless self, Keith!"
THE END
LONDON: WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD.