"UNEASY LIES THE HEAD."
The rose-tinted silken blinds were drawn in the boudoir, the house in
Lytton Avenue was hushed, there was a smell of eau-de-cologne on the
perfumed air. Society deeply regretted to hear that Countess Lalage
was suffering from nervous prostration. Leona Lalage lay there
pressing her hands to her head fiercely. It was only latterly that she
had suffered from these nerve troubles. Hitherto she had regarded
herself as absolutely invincible to anything of the kind.
A queer sort of fainting fit had been followed by a ghastly sense of
fear. Intrigue had hitherto been the very air that this woman
breathed. Now she was frightened, every ring of the bell sent her
heart into her mouth.
She was horribly frightened. If she could only have seen her
antagonist it would have been bearable. But she was fighting shadows.
Whichever way she turned she found herself checkmated and beaten.
Somebody had found her out. It must be so, because all her plans were
anticipated by the terrible antagonist who worked in the dark. Her
case was much like that of a despairing criminal who takes one huge
sum to conceal the loss of another until the inevitable crash comes.
"If my brain gives way now," she muttered, "if my reason plays me
false now even for a day I--but I dare not think of it. Well, what do
you want?"
A liveried servant looking into the darkened room murmured that Dr.
Bruce had arrived. Bruce came in with his softest professional manner.
He was sorry to hear that anything was wrong, he asked a great many
pertinent questions.
"You have overdone yourself," he said with his cool hand on the
fevered pulse. "Few men could stand the strain of your present life.
You must go away at once to some very quiet place and be in the open
air all day----"
Leona Lalage laughed aloud. The touch of those cool fingers thrilled
her. To go away now, to abandon it all just when----. Ah, the thing
was impossible. She might just as well have cast herself off Waterloo
Bridge.
"Excuse me," she gasped, "I am a little mad today. My dear boy, I
cannot go away, the thing is impossible. If you could only look into
my heart--but nobody can do that. Oh, Gordon, Gordon!"
Her voice sank to a thrilling whisper. Bruce touched her hand
soothingly. The mere contact of his fingers seemed to madden her.
"Don't do that," she said, in the same strained whisper. "If you only
knew how I cared for you, how I love you. There is nothing I would not
do for you! I am rich and powerful, and men who know say I am
beautiful. Take me away, make me your wife, and you shall never know a
moment's pain. Your good name is gone, Gordon--but what does that
matter. If----"
She paused as Gordon recoiled from her. His eyes were full of
loathing.
"Forget this," he said, sternly. "Put it from your mind, as I shall
do. It is a passing madness. My future wife would blush if she could
hear you."
The woman's eyes dilated, her bosom heaved. She might have been waking
as from a trance. She was fighting passionately for the mastery of
herself. It was a short, sharp fight, but it left her trembling from
head to foot.
"Forget it," she said, hoarsely. "I--I never meant a word of it. Leave
me now. Send me something to soothe these frayed nerves of mine. Only
leave me alone."
The door closed quietly behind Bruce. Just for a moment the lace-clad
figure lay motionless on the couch. Then she rose and swept up and
down the room like a tornado. She had shown her hand, she had betrayed
her secret, and the man who had her heart scorned her. She was filled
with shame and rage and hate.
"I began to be sorry," she murmured. "My remorse spoilt my rest; I
thought that all the world would turn from him, and that he would come
to me, and then--Well, the dream is dispelled, for he will never come
to me now. They say that a woman who loves at forty is capable of
every madness. I was mad just now. And now there is but one thing to
live for, I will live for that; ah, yes, I will live for that!"
She sat down quietly for a moment with her hands locked together. That
indomitable will was acting on the racked body. She crept upstairs
before dinner white and shaky; she came down shimmering in white, and
diamonds in her magnificent hair and corsage, smiling, brilliant, as
if she had the whole world at her feet. Hetty looked at her with dazed
admiration.
"That dreadful headache has gone," the Countess cried. "I am myself
again. We will dine quietly together, you and I, and go to hear Melba
presently. Come, you can leave Mamie for just one night."
Leona Lalage swept into her box later on with the air of one who feels
that she is the centre of all attraction. Society was charmed and
gratified, distinguished men dropped into the box on the grand tier,
and whispered their congratulations. The brilliant stream of diamonds
in her hair was no brighter than the woman's eyes.
The house was fairly full on the fall of the curtain after the first
act of the new opera. There was light and life and movement there. And
Melba was scoring new triumphs. The curtain fell on the second act
amidst a crash of applause and the waving of handkerchiefs. Leona
Lelage had an artistic soul, and she was moved.
"Wonderful!" she cried. "Ah, to have a gift like that. To think that
the human voice----"
She paused as some one entered the box. A slight dark man, almost a
half caste, with black hair and glasses. He was immaculately dressed;
his style was quiet, with a touch of humility about it.
"Countess," he said. "I kiss your hand. I have come from Paris to see
you. If I could have a word with you alone----"
"Louis," the Countess cried, "ah, this is good of you! We will have a
little chat in the foyer. Hetty, will you keep guard till I return."
Her smile was light and pleasant. But it faded to a white mask once
she and her companion were outside the box.
"Quick," she whispered. "Quick. Has the blow fallen?"
"A blow," said the other. "That is a poor word. It is absolute
destruction."