When a woman of Claudia Nevill's passionate temperament loves, it is
with her whole soul. The women with dark flashing eyes, red lips,
arched brows, and oval countenances can never do things by halves. They
either love fiercely, or else are as cold as ice; they hate with all the
vindictiveness of hell, or are patient, forbearing and forgiving to the
end. Dudley Chisholm knew this well enough, and was aware how deep and
devoted was the love of the true-hearted woman from whom he had tried to
part, but without whom there seemed a void in his life.
Because gossips had maligned them he had striven, for her sake as well
as his own, to put an end to their affection. His words had pained him
and had stabbed her cruelly, but they had turned out; to be
inconclusive. Their lives were bound together, as she had so frequently
declared.
Now that she had approached the subject, he longed to tell her of the
secret in his heart. But how could he when he had made that strange,
unholy compact with that woman, her rival, who now held his future in
her hands?
With an effort he put such thoughts aside, and with feigned carelessness
strove to assure her that he was in no wise changed. When, however, a
woman really loves, it is difficult to deceive her. She reads man's
innermost thoughts as clearly as though they were written upon an open
page. The wavering of the eyes, the twitching of the lips, the slight
movement of the muscles of the face, and the well nigh imperceptible
swelling at the temples, although entirely unobserved by the woman who
is not in love, are plain and open declarations of the truth to her who
loves the face exhibiting these subtle signals. Truly the feminine
intuition is marvellous and inexplicable.
Dudley knew that to lie to her was impossible. Little by little he
managed to convince her that his mysterious visitor had come from the
Foreign Office. At length he succeeded in turning their conversation
into a different channel.
At his request she crossed to the grand piano at the end of the
magnificent room in which there were so many signs of her exquisite
taste, seated herself at the instrument, and played Mendelssohn's "Rondo
capriccioso" and Chopin's "Valse Op. 70."
Though he made an attempt to turn over the leaves of the music, he found
it difficult to keep himself from becoming absorbed in reverie. What,
he wondered, could she suspect? Surely the woman into whose hands he
had given himself had told her nothing. No. Had she not promised in
the most emphatic manner that no word of his terrible secret should pass
her lips? As she had already exhibited marvellous cleverness and
diplomatic _finesse_, he felt confident of her discretion and silence.
He looked down at the dark-haired woman seated at the piano and thought
how her loveliness would have delighted Greuze. As her slim fingers,
laden with sparkling gems, ran swiftly and dexterously over the keys,
her lawny bosom rose and fell, the diamonds at her throat glittered with
iridescent fire, and the sweet odour of the violets added one more to
the many charms thus spread for him. She had taken three or four of the
flowers from her breast, and with a single leaf had made up a tiny
bouquet, afterwards placing it in the lappel of his coat, as was her
tender habit when they were alone. And he was actually deceiving this
affectionate woman, who had been his friend, _confidante_, and adviser
ever since their days of childhood!
He stood behind her, clenching his teeth, hating himself for his
duplicity.
Did he really love her, he asked himself for the thousandth time? Yes,
he did. She was all in all to him. Their love had always been idyllic.
In his eyes no woman was half as fair to look upon; none so full of
innate grace and _chic_; none so sweet in temperament or so full of
charms. Fate had parted them, it was true, and she had married Dick
Nevill, his best friend. Yet he had never ceased to love her--though to
her dead lord she had been a model wife during their too brief period of
wedded happiness.
When Dick died he had, at Claudia's own request, gone back to her to
become her platonic friend, to cheer her in her loneliness, and to
advise her in the hundred and one matters which concerned her future.
And again she had grown to love him; again she had worshipped him as her
ideal.
She had finished the valse, and, turning slowly, raised her perfect
face, slightly tragic in its dark beauty, with a mute invitation for his
caress. He placed his hand tenderly upon her shoulder and bent until
his lips touched hers. And as he did so, he saw in her bright eyes that
calm expression of tranquil content which comes to such a woman in the
thrill engendered by her lover's kiss.
She rose from the music-stool. Once more he held her in his arms, as he
had so often done of old, while she, in that soft voice he knew so well,
tried to teach him the height and breadth and depth of her love.
"I know what people say, Dudley!" she exclaimed, hoarsely. "Tant mieux!
I know that odious reports have reached you regarding me, but surely
you will trust me? Cannot you see for yourself, dear, that I am yours--
entirely yours?"
"Words are unnecessary, Claudia," he answered, kissing her. "That you
love me I have never doubted; I give no credence to anything I hear. I
trust in you implicitly."
"Then if that is so, dear, why not be perfectly frank and tell me the
reason of your sadness?" she urged.
"I am not sad, Claudia," he protested with a feigned air of gaiety.
"How can I be sorrowful when I know that I possess your love?"
"It is not sufficient that you have my affection," she answered. "I
wish to continue to be your _confidante_ and friend. Recollect that a
woman's wit is often of value to a man engaged in public life as you
are."
"I know my debt to you is more than I can ever repay," he declared
frankly. "To your good counsels and personal interest all my success is
due. I owe all to you--everything."
"And in return you have given me your love, the sum of my desire," she
said contentedly, slowly raising her lips and kissing him. "You are
mine, Dudley, and you will ever remain so--won't you?" He held his
breath for an instant. Then, as he twined his arm round her slender
waist, he said:
"Of course, darling, I shall ever remain yours, always--always."
He lied to her. Faugh! he hated himself. For the first time he had
uttered a deliberate falsehood concerning their love; and he felt
positive she knew that he had not spoken the truth. So close had been
their association for many years, unbroken save for the few months of
her married life, that they read each other's unuttered thought and knew
each other's innermost secrets.
Long ago she had laid bare her whole heart to him, concealing nothing,
and not seeking to excuse herself for any of those flirtations which
from time to time had been the talk of the town. He knew everything,
and had in return repeated his declaration of love for her. Indeed,
after that long friendship the life of each was void without the other.
When parted from her by reason of her country visits, there somehow
seemed a blank in his existence, and he found himself thinking of her
night and day. Until her last absence in Paris it had been their custom
to write to each other every second day.
How; would she act if she knew the truth? What would she think of him
if she were aware that he had promised himself to another woman, and one
who had come into his life so suddenly, if she continued to shield him
from the exposure of his guilty secret? Her dark eyes, those splendid
eyes everywhere so greatly admired, were turned upon him. There was an
air of sweet sadness in their expression. His eyes fell: he could not
meet her gaze.
"Do you know, Dudley," she exclaimed at last in the soft, sweet voice he
was never tired of hearing, the voice that had so often consoled him and
encouraged him to strive after high ideals,--"do you know, dear, I have
lately thought that your people are endeavouring to part us. You
recollect your sudden refusal to see me last autumn? Your cruel action
put fear into my heart. I am dreading always that I may lose you--that
you will listen to the well-meant counsels of your relations and cast my
love aside."
He saw by her countenance how terribly in earnest she was, and hastened
to reassure her.
"No, darling. All that is a foolish fancy. You may rest quite assured
that as I have not already listened to the advice of people who are in
ignorance of the platonic nature of our friendship, I shall never do so.
We have been lovers ever since our teens, and we shall, I hope, always
so remain."
She sprang upon him, clasping her soft arms around his neck, and,
kissing him with a fierce and fervent passion, exclaimed:
"Thank you, Dudley! Thank you for those words! You know how fondly I
love you--you know that I could not live without frequent sight of you,
without your good counsels and guidance--for I am but a woman, after
all."
"The best and bravest little woman in all the world," he declared in
words that came direct from his heart. Then, pressing her closer to
him, he went on: "You surely know how deep and complete is my affection,
Claudia. The test of it is shown by the fact that were it not for my
love for you I should have forsaken you months ago in order to save my
reputation--and yours."
"It was a foul calumny!" she cried quickly. "The lie was probably
started by some woman who envied me. But a scandal is like a snowball--
it increases as it is rolled along. We invited gossip, and lent colour
to the report by being seen so much together. I know it too well, and I
have regretted it bitterly for your sake. With a public man like
yourself a scandal is very apt to put an end for ever to all chances of
high position. Knowing that, I, too, tried hard to cut myself adrift
from you. Ah! you cannot know, Dudley, what I suffered when I attempted
self-sacrifice for your own dear sake. You can never know!" she went
on, panting and trembling. "But you misjudged me--you believed me
fickle. It was what I intended, for I wanted you to cast me aside and
save yourself."
"Well?"
"They spoke of my flirtations _en plein jour_ at Fernhurst," she
continued, looking up into his face with an expression full of
passionate love. "The report, with exaggerations, reached you as I had
hoped it would, but although it caused you pain it made no difference to
your affection. Therefore, I failed, and we were compelled to accept
the inevitable."
"Yes, Claudia. What I heard from Fernhurst did pain me terribly," he
answered very gravely. "Yet I could not believe without absolute proof
that you, whom I knew to be an honest, upright woman, would deliberately
create a scandal, knowing well that it would be reflected upon me. I
knew that you loved me; I knew that our lives were firmly linked the one
to the other, and that our mutual confidence and affection were based
upon a sure foundation. That is why I refused to give credence to the
scandalous gossip."
Her small hands trembled with emotion, and as she pressed her lips to
his, mutely thanking him for his forbearance and refusal to believe ill
of her, she burst into tears.
"I know, dearest, how terribly you have suffered," he said in a low
voice as he tried to console her. "I know well that your position as a
smart woman supplies your enemies with opportunities for wounding your
reputation. In the clubs men will, with an idle word, take away a
woman's good name, and often think it a huge joke when they hear the
despicable calumny repeated. Indeed, it seems an unwritten law
nowadays, that the woman who is not talked about and who does not hover
between sacraments and scandals, is not to be considered smart. If she
gives dinners and supper-parties at the Carlton or Prince's, her name is
usually coupled with one of her favourite guests. No woman is really in
the running without gossip having ungenerously given her a lover."
"Yes," she answered, "that is only too true? Dudley. I know quite well
that the happiness of many a smart woman, as well as her domestic
comfort has been utterly wrecked by the eternal chatter which follows
public entertaining. A short time ago we gave dinners in our own
houses, as our mothers used to do; but that is all of the past. The
glitter of the big restaurants has attracted us. To be _chic_ one must
engage a table at Prince's or the Carlton, smother it with flowers, and
dine with one's guests in the full glare of publicity in a hot and
crowded room, where the chatter is so incessant that one can scarcely
hear one's own voice. The Italian waiters rush through the courses as
if they wish to get rid of you at the earliest possible moment; there is
clatter, noise, an inordinate perfume of cooked food, and a hasty
gobbling up of gastronomic masterpieces. I am compelled to give my
dinners amid such surroundings, but how I hate it all! For me it is
only an ordeal--just as are your political dinners with your friendly
working-men."
He smiled as he recollected what he had so often suffered from the
"tuppenny smokes" of his constituents.
"The restaurant dinner of Aristocrats and Anonymas is a terrible feast,"
he said. "I suppose the new fashion of entertaining was started by the
_nouveaux riches_ because after the public feast there appeared in what
are called the fashionable columns of the papers paragraphs, supplied by
the restaurants, informing London's millions that Mrs. So-and-So had
been entertaining a big party, among the guests at which were Lady
Nobody, who was exquisitely dressed in black velvet and old lace, and
Lord Somebody, who was looking younger than ever. You know the style."
She laughed outright at his candid criticism, which was so thoroughly
well deserved. Half the dinners, she declared, were given by
adventurers from the City to needy men with titles, which were wanted to
lend lustre to prospectuses. And the whole affair had been so cleverly
engineered by the manager of the restaurants, who nightly gave
paragraphs to the journalists, thus glorifying the givers of feasts and
flattering the guests, that a _mode_ had actually been created, and even
the most exclusive set had been compelled to follow it, royalty itself
being often among the diners.
At his request she re-seated herself at the piano, and to disperse the
melancholy that had settled upon him she sang with infinite zest the
latest song of the Paris cafe-concerts which had been made famous by the
popular _chanteur_, Paulus, at the Ambassadeurs'. The chorus ran as
follows:
"Ah! Monsieur Chamberlain, ca n'etait pas malin,
Les femmes de l'Angleterre ell's manqu'nt de militaires
D'leur absenc' tout l'mond' se plaint.
Car ils sont rigolos, avec leurs p'tits polos.
A London je le confess' on admir' leur gentiless
Quand ils march'nt entortillant, en entortillant leur... yes."
The grave-faced Jackson entered and with pompous ceremony served him
with a whiskey and soda, as was usual; then, after she had sung to him
another _chanson_, he rose to go. As it was already late, and as he was
obliged to return to the House, he was compelled to take leave of her.
"You really love me, Dudley?" she asked in a low, intense voice, as they
stood locked in each other's arms just before he left. "Tell me that
you do. Somehow I am so apprehensive, foolishly so, perhaps; but your
words always reassure me. I feel happier and a better woman after
hearing them."
"Love you, Claudia?" he cried, his hand stroking her beautiful hair;
"how can you ever doubt me? I swear by all I hold most sacred that no
tender thought of any woman save yourself ever enters my heart. I am
wholly and entirely yours." And he kissed her with all the fervent
passion of an ardent lover.
"And you will never desert me--never? Promise!" she said, in tones
breathing anxiety and earnestness.
"I promise," he answered. His voice had lost a little of its resonance,
but she did not notice the slight change. He made a promise which he
himself knew to be incapable of fulfilment. Hers no longer, he was now
helpless in the inexorable toils of that mysterious woman who alone held
his secret.
She kissed him again in fond farewell. Outside in the great hall, which
was famous for its fine marble columns and statuary, the man helped him
on with his coat, while Claudia stood above upon the terrace of the
upper hall, laughing gaily and wishing him "good-bye" as was her wont.
Then he went forth in a dazed condition, walking along Knightsbridge in
search of a passing hansom to take him down to the House.
As the door closed behind him when he emerged from the great portico
into the foggy night, the short, dark figure of a rather thin man in a
soft deer-stalker hat and dark overcoat slunk quickly out of the shadow
of a doorway almost opposite, crossed the road, and hurried after him
with laboured breath.
Of a sudden as Dudley, having gone a hundred yards or so, turned to
glance behind him for an approaching cab, he came face to face with the
fellow who, if the truth were told, had for nearly two hours been
patiently awaiting his appearance.
"Pardon, signore!" exclaimed the black-haired, sharp-featured man,
speaking with a decided Italian accent. He was somewhat taken aback by
the abrupt termination of his rather clumsy efforts at espionage. "I
beg the signore a thousand pardons, but may I be permitted to have a
parolina [little word] with him?"