On the night of that fateful trip, when Leroy returned to his chambers,
he found Lady Constance's letter. Already tired with the events of the
day, and the struggle in the water, this proved an overwhelming blow.
The thought that he had spent the day in idle dalliance, when he might
have been with the woman he truly loved--might have basked in the warmth
of her presence, even though she would never be his, drove him almost to
madness.
Jasper Vermont, who had followed him back to town by the first train
obtainable, called in at Jermyn Court, and found him pacing up and down
the room, more troubled and unhappy than he had ever been in the whole
course of his pampered, shielded life. Vermont listened and sympathised,
and stabbed afresh, with his artful accounts of Lady Constance's anger
at the fancied slight. He was altogether delighted at the way in which
things had turned out, though he did not know how Fortune had aided him
still more at Waterloo Station.
On the following morning Leroy received a cypher note from Lady
Merivale, saying that she had arrived home safely, and unnoticed; and,
with a sigh of relief, he turned his attention to his own affairs. To
Jasper's supreme annoyance, he insisted on going through a pile of
papers which Vermont had only meant him to sign; and to that gentleman's
chagrin he actually dared to interfere in the matter of rents and
leases; which proceeding, naturally, did not tend to make Jasper feel
the more kindly disposed to the world in general, and Adrien Leroy in
particular.
When he had taken his departure, Adrien ordered the motor, and drove
down to Barminster with the intention of offering an apology for his
seeming discourtesy. He found all in confusion and excitement in view of
the coming ball; and, whether by accident or design, he found it
impossible to get a single word with Constance alone.
The two ladies received the explanation of his absence--a river-trip
with a friend--with chilling indifference. To Miss Penelope nothing was
of any importance except the decorations of the banqueting hall, while
Lady Constance had the evidence of her own eyesight. He was compelled,
therefore, to return to London the next day in the same unhappy state of
mind. To distract his thoughts, he threw himself heart and soul into the
preparations for the festive event; and even Jasper Vermont himself
could not have worked harder.
The announcement of the fancy dress ball to be held at Barminster had
made something like a sensation; for not only was the magnificence of
the Castle well known, but the fact that it was so seldom used for
festivities of any kind lent importance to the occasion, and had roused
society, both in town and country, to the height of expectancy.
Preparations were carried on apace. The whole Castle was to be lighted
and decorated, regardless of expense, while even the servants' dresses
were to be manufactured by the masters of their craft, and approved of
by heraldic authorities, in order that the right effect of the period,
that of two hundred years back, might be maintained. Never had a ball
been carried out with such a wealth of detail.
Throughout all this, and during the many visits which Adrien found
necessary to make to Barminster, journeying backwards and forwards in
his great car, Lady Constance maintained a smiling, gentle demeanour;
but she allowed him no opportunity for explanation, seeming rather to
avoid his presence. Even Lord Barminster, watching his two dear ones
closely, was not blind to the gravity of the situation; but he trusted
to Constance's love to make matters right in the end.
At last the eventful night came. The temporary stables which the village
carpenters had been erecting close to the ordinary ones were rapidly
filling. Cars and carriages stood side by side, as guests from town and
the surrounding districts arrived; and the air resounded with the
clatter and rattle of the horses' hoofs and carriage wheels, mingled
with the hooting of motor horns.
Within the Castle all was light and mirth. Ripples of laughter and the
buzz of conversation went on incessantly, as the guests arrived in their
varied and gorgeous costumes.
The walls of the great reception rooms had all been covered with
priceless tapestry, and as far as possible made to represent the
ball-room of Antony Leroy, two hundred years ago. But the guests
themselves had not been asked to keep to any period of history or
fashion, and, therefore, it was the most incongruous crowd that had ever
gathered within the walls of Barminster Castle. Never were dresses more
regal or more magnificent, alike in materials, colour and decoration.
Cavaliers in silks and satins, with plumed hats and jewelled swords;
Crusaders in glittering mail and silver armour. Alsace peasant girls
mingled with Carmelite monks and Sicilian nuns. Shakespeare's characters
were legion--Portias, Cymbelines, Katherines and Shylocks, all laughed
and jested together, their identity concealed beneath their black velvet
masks. It seemed as if every character and fable had risen to throng the
halls of Barminster Castle that night.
Up in the gallery above the great ball-room a famous orchestra poured
forth melody, and the guests were awaiting the entrance of their host as
a signal to start dancing.
The last visitor had arrived, when Lord Barminster and his sister came
from the entrance hall, where they had stood so long. The old man had
merely donned a domino over his evening dress and carried his mask in
his hand; but Miss Penelope had had her elaborate dress copied from a
picture of Lord Antony's wife, which hung in the Picture Gallery. The
gown was composed of soft grey satin, over which hung a veil of gold
chiffon embroidered with pearls. An embroidery of gold wheat-ears sown
with pearls decorated the bodice and the long, grey satin train; this,
together with the family diamonds, made Miss Penelope an imposing
figure, even in that bevy of fair women and gorgeous gowns.
Immediately behind them came Adrien and Lady Constance. The latter had
chosen to represent "Miranda," and her loveliness seemed almost
supernatural. The pale gold of her hair and the perfect shell-pink of
her complexion were set off to advantage by her gown, which, simple as
it was, yet showed by that very simplicity the hand of the master by
whom it had been designed. It was of palest green satin, edged with
chiffon in such a way as to represent the crested waves, relieved here
and there by pink sea-shells and tiny wreaths of seaweed; while her only
ornaments were pearls, the gifts of her guardian. It was little wonder
that Adrien had been unable to express the admiration he felt, when he
looked upon her fair beauty, which was now, however, covered by a velvet
mask.
He himself had taken the character of Charles the First, and, with his
dark, deep eyes and melancholy face, fully looked the part of the
unhappy monarch. There was a faint murmur of admiration as he entered,
for every detail had been so carefully copied, from the lace collar to
the jewelled order across his breast, that it was as if Van Dyck's
famous picture itself had stepped down from its frame.
Unconscious of the attention they provoked, Adrien led Lady Constance
out to the first dance, and opened the ball with her.
Miss Penelope was in the seventh heaven of delight, when some little
time later Adrien came up to her.
"What a magnificent sight, is it not, Adrien?" she said excitedly. "I
knew it would be a success; but really the dresses are wonderful. Then
the mystery is so delightful. I can't recognise any one now under the
masks. Look, who is that?" She glanced towards a lady dressed as Undine,
who seemed to float by them, so light were her movements, on the arm of
a Mephistopheles.
"That," said Adrien, whose quick eyes readily penetrated the majority of
the disguises, "that is--yes, I cannot be mistaken--Ev--Lady Merivale."
His voice dropped slightly as he spoke the name; for he had not expected
that she would accept Miss Penelope's invitation, and was surprised by
her presence.
"Who is the Mephistopheles?" asked his aunt.
Adrien glanced after the couple rather puzzled.
"I don't know," he admitted frankly.
"It is something, a shadow only, like Mr. Vermont," suggested Miss
Penelope.
"It cannot be he," said Adrien, "he is not coming to-night."
Lord Barminster, who had approached in time to hear this speech, looked
affectionately at his son, and Adrien caught the glance and understood
it. But without making any comment, he went in search of his partner for
the next waltz.
Meanwhile, Undine and Mephistopheles had seated themselves in the deep
recess of one of the alcoves.
"May I get you an ice, madam?" asked the Mephistopheles in a queer,
strained voice.
Undine turned her face towards him, and her eyes flashed curiously
through the mask.
"You may," she replied, also disguising her voice, "if you will tell me
who you are."
"That I dare not," was the guarded reply. "My name is never mentioned in
ears polite, you know."
Undine smiled.
"Since you will not tell me your name, perhaps you can tell me mine
without the asking."
"I can, madam. You are--Lady Merivale, who is so fond of the river."
Undine started, her face turning suddenly pale.
"I--what do you mean? Who are you?" she asked, as she peered at him with
straining eyes, seeking to pierce the clever disguise.
"Mephistopheles!" was the calm retort. Then, as if to turn the subject,
he continued lightly: "It is a fair scene, and a fabulous one."
Undine began to have a slight suspicion as to whom her companion might
be, and was far from comfortable in her mind. The hit at the river might
have been only a chance one; but this was doubtful, if Mephistopheles
turned out to be either Mortimer Shelton or Jasper Vermont, as she half
feared.
She strove to conceal her uneasiness.
"The best should be happy and satisfied to-night," she said; "it is a
great success."
"Yes, happy!" agreed the demon, nodding his horned head, "but not
satisfied. That will never be till he sees the marriage of his beloved
son----" He stopped short.
"With Lady Constance Tremaine," finished Lady Merivale, in a low voice,
from which all attempt at disguise had gone.
Mephistopheles nodded again.
"You have guessed aright, my lady," he said. "See! there they are
together. A handsome pair; an admirable match. Yet it is sad to
think----" He stopped again.
"What?" cried Lady Merivale, grasping his scarlet-clad arm in a fierce
grip.
"It will never be!"
His companion trembled with suppressed eagerness.
"What do you meant?" she exclaimed. "Can you prevent it?"
"I both can and will," was the quiet answer. "But, come, let us seek a
more retired spot."
He drew her almost forcibly out of the recess into the shadow of some
palms, as Adrien Leroy, with a partner on his arm, approached the
alcove.
"Oh! Mr. Leroy," said Lady Chetwold, as they passed, "can you tell me
who this latest arrival is?"
"I have not seen her," said Adrien rather wearily; his eyes were bent on
Lady Constance, who had left him and was now dancing with Lord Standon.
"Oh, there she is!" exclaimed his voluble little companion. "Such a
magnificent Cleopatra, isn't she?"
She drew his attention to a tall lady who was looking rather anxiously
and constrainedly about her. Her dress certainly deserved the name of
magnificent. It was made for the greater part of apricot-coloured satin,
with gauze and tinselled chiffon fulled over it; from the shoulders was
suspended a long train of imperial purple velvet, on which was
embroidered in dull green, various Egyptian symbols. Her jewels too,
which were abundant, consisting chiefly of diamonds and large emeralds,
made her a regal, though almost theatrical figure. Yet, as her eyes met
the steady regard of Adrien's, she looked nervously round as if to make
her escape.
Lady Chetwold felt Adrien give a slight start, and looking up, she saw
that his lips had grown stern, and even through the mask detected the
angry gleam in his eyes.
"Do you know her?" she whispered.
"Yes!" he said. "But it would be a breach of confidence to betray her,
Lady Chetwold."
At the close of the dance he surrendered the little lady her next
partner, and went in search of the Cleopatra. He soon espied her, seated
in one of the recesses, and strode across to her. She started to her
feet as Adrien approached, then sinking back into her chair, she looked
up at him defiantly.
At that moment the band struck up the music for the cotillion, and the
mass of colours shifted in dazzling movement, as, amid the rustle of
silks and the ripple of laughter, the dance commenced.
Adrien was engaged to Lady Constance for it; but in the height of his
anger he had forgotten the fact.
"Ada!" he exclaimed in a low voice full of suppressed indignation. "What
is the meaning of this intrusion? You've no business here."
"No business here! Oh, haven't I?" she answered harshly, her bosom
heaving, and her bejewelled hands clenching.
"No," he continued, standing in front of her so that she should not be
seen by the dancers. "You know that as well as I do. How did you come?"
"On my legs," retorted the lady defiantly. "They're good for something
else besides dancing in your theatre, Adrien. You're an unfeeling brute
to speak to me like that after the way you've treated me. Do you think
I'm going to be thrown aside like a worn-out glove, just because you
want to marry that grand swell of a cousin."
"Silence!" said Adrien in a tense whisper, and grasping her arm almost
savagely. "Keep your mask on, and come with me. If you are discovered, I
will not answer for the consequences."
She rose sullenly, but abashed by his unusual vehemence, for never yet
had she seen him moved from his polite calm; and opening the door at the
end of the room, he led her away from the brilliant ball-room.
"Now," he said as he closed the door and removed the mask from his face,
"what does this mean? There is something more in your presence than I
can understand. Whether I marry or not, it can be nothing to you, Ada;
you have the money, which is all you care for."
"No, I haven't," she retorted loudly, "and you know it!"
He held up his hand with a gesture of contemptuous command.
"Speak quietly, if you can," he said, "or I leave you at once. Do you
mean to tell me you have not received the deeds?"
"I do," she replied sulkily. "It ain't no use your carrying it off in
this high-handed way, because I ain't going to be deceived by it! You
promised me that you'd make me an allowance of a thousand a year, and
give me the theatre when you left me. Well, you've left me right enough,
but where's the money? That's what I want to know."
"I gave the deed to Jasper," said Adrien, looking down upon her with
distaste, and vaguely wondering how he could ever have endured such a
woman near him.
"You gave it to Jasper, did you?" said Ada, pulling or rather tugging
off her mask viciously, as she spoke. "Hang me if I didn't think so all
the time!" she exclaimed with a sudden change of tactics. "That Jasper's
a thief. I heard you say something about those deeds, and Jasper told me
a long rigmarole that you wouldn't sign them. Whether that's true or
not, Heaven only knows. Jasper's a bad one, an' he's sold me. He's got
the coin, and I'll split on him, as I threatened. No, it's no use your
trying to make me hush up, I will speak out. I'll show you what a fool
he's made of you, you who have been so good to him; I'll tell you a
thing or two as will open your eyes a bit wider than they are now.
I'll--"
"Be quiet!" said Adrien. "Not another word--there is some mistake.
Jasper has forgotten, he has some reason for not giving it to you. He
shall explain directly I can reach town. You shall have the money and
the theatre, that I promise you; you know I have never broken my word
yet. Now you must go. Every moment you stay increases your danger. My
father is old-fashioned perhaps, but he would regard this as the
greatest insult, and would punish it severely. You are no fool, Ada. How
could you have done such a mad thing? Hush! slip on that domino." He
pointed to a black masque cloak, and rang the bell. "Get away as quickly
as possible," he went on as, now thoroughly subdued, she put on the
cloak. "You shall have the money, I swear it."
On the servant entering, he hastily gave directions for her to be driven
to the station; then without another word to her, he returned to the
ball-room, just as his father's voice was heard inquiring for him.
"Ah! there, you are, my boy. I wondered if anything had gone wrong. Are
you ill?" He gazed keenly at Adrien's pale, unmasked face.
"No, sir, it is rather hot though in this dress," he returned hurriedly,
hating even the very semblance of a lie. "I believe Constance is waiting
for me," he continued. "Ah, yes, there she is. The ball is going off
well, don't you think so?"
His father nodded.
"Yes," he said, "your friends are pronouncing it to be a success. Mr.
Paxhorn declares it is a vision of the period. But Constance is
waiting."
Replacing his mask, Adrien made his way to his cousin, who, as usual,
was surrounded by a small group of courtiers. She glanced up as he
approached and, with a smile to the rest, took his proffered arm. As he
looked at her sweet face, a thrill ran through him at the purity of her
beauty--so great a contrast to that of the woman he had just dismissed
that he loathed the very thought of ever having touched her hand. In
that moment, the love he bore Constance welled up passionately in his
heart, refusing to be suppressed, and again he tore off the velvet mask.
When the girl raised her calm eyes to his face, the ardent look in his
startled her, and she determined to at least listen to any explanation
he wished to give her. "Where have you been, Adrien?" she said gently.
"I thought you had forgotten me."
"No!" he answered sharply, "that would be impossible; but I was called
away. Do you care for this dance? Or, would you give me just a few
moments with you alone on the terrace?"
Her eyes softened.
"Yes, if you like, Adrien," she said gently. "I am really tired now, and
longing for the air."
"Come, then," he said; and catching up a silken wrap that lay on one of
the seats, he threw it tenderly over her.
Together they passed out on to the terrace, and seemed to have slipped
into another world, so great a contrast was the peaceful moonlit valley
beneath them to the brilliant, heated ball-room they had just left.
As the curtained door swung behind them, Jasper Vermont, alias
Mephistopheles--his scarlet costume now changed to ordinary evening
dress, and covered with a long black domino, similar to that which Ada
had donned--shot a sharp glance after them; then, with a sinister smile,
he left the room by another exit, and made his way into the grounds.
Keeping well within the shadow of the trees and shrubs, he crouched
down, directly under the terrace where Adrien had led Constance; here,
motionless and scarcely breathing, he listened with eager ears.
"It is hot," said Constance, removing her mask, and letting the wrap
fall back from her shoulders.
"All the more reason you should be careful," said Adrien, replacing it
gently.
She smiled, as she gazed up at him.
"You look very tired," she said softly. "This ball has been a strain on
you, has it not?"
"Not more than usual," he returned. "At any rate, it will be my last for
some time to come."
"Your last!" she echoed, looking up at him with wide, startled eyes.
"What do you mean, Adrien?"
"I am going away after to-night," he said hoarsely; for the sight of her
beauty was goading him almost to despair.
"Going away!" she hardly breathed the words; her face had paled in the
moonlight, till it looked almost unearthly. "Why?"
"You ask me why?" he murmured, his forehead damp with the force of his
emotion. "You, who know how I love you--worship your very shadow!"
She trembled under the passion of his gaze.
"Adrien!" she exclaimed, in low, reproachful tones. "Why do you speak to
me like that, when I know how little your words really mean?"
"Little!" he cried with suppressed passion. "Ah, Constance, why are you
so cruel to me? Why do you so misjudge me, when I would gladly die to
serve you?"
The earnestness in his tones was unmistakable; but she kept her face
turned from him, and he knew only from the quick-drawn breath that she
had heard him.
"Constance," he pleaded, "look at me, dear. Give me this one chance. I
shall never trouble you again."
"You have no right----" she began tremulously.
"No right to tell you I love you. Do you think I don't know that?" he
burst out. "It is just that very knowledge which has burnt itself into
me, and seared my very soul."
"What knowledge?" she asked, forgetful, in the suddenness of his attack,
the tactics she had adopted with regard to Lord Standon.
"The knowledge of your engagement," he answered hoarsely. "Ah,
Constance, be merciful. Surely not even Standon himself would grudge me
these last few moments."
"What has Lord Standon to do with me?" she asked, looking him full in
the face with steadfast eyes.
He stared at her in amazement.
"Is he not your accepted lover?"
His voice betrayed his agony of spirit; and, hearing this, she relented.
Holding up her left hand, the third finger of which was bare of rings,
she said quietly, almost, indeed, demurely:
"This does not look like it, does it?"
The light of hope, new-born, flashed into his face. He sprang forward
eagerly.
"Constance!" he cried. "My darling! You will try to care for me
then----?" He would have taken her in his arms; but she held him off at
arm's length.
"No! no, Adrien," she interrupted sadly. "Because I am not engaged to
Lord Standon, is that any reason why I should love one who treats me so
lightly?"
"I treat you lightly, you--the one woman I have ever truly loved?
Constance, whatever sins I may have committed, you are my first love,
and you will be my last. I am not worthy to touch your hand, as pure as
it is white, but will you not forgive me the folly of my past life, and
let me live in hope that I may do better? I swear from this day forth to
cast off the old life, with all its emptiness and folly, and lay the
future at your feet."
As his passionate words ceased, she turned to him.
"Adrien, I do not know what to think," she said in low, troubled tones.
"I wrote to you last month--that day we came up to London, believing
that perhaps you had learned to care a little for me; but when you
deliberately spent the day with another woman, sooner than with me, what
am I to think?"
"What do you mean?" he asked hoarsely.
"I saw you," she returned simply, "when we were at the station, auntie
and I, on the twenty-second----"
"The twenty-second!" he echoed, through blanched lips.
"Yes, you were at Waterloo Station with some one, I did not see her
face. But what does it matter now? If you had cared----" She stopped
abruptly.
"I do care," he reiterated passionately. "Heaven above knows that; but I
do not hope to make you believe me. Constance, I can give neither you
nor any living being the explanation of that awful day. But I swear to
you that the meeting was unsought by me. I could not help myself. I do
not know how all this has come about. I understood from Standon
that--that he was engaged to----"
"Muriel Branton," interrupted Constance softly. "He told me himself."
For a moment Adrien stared at her in stupefaction.
"If I had known we were at cross-purposes!" he exclaimed. "I see it all
now--when it is too late," and sinking down on the stone seat he buried
his face in his hands.
For a minute there was silence, broken at last by the rustle of Lady
Constance's dress as she came timidly towards him.
"Adrien," she murmured, very low indeed, but not so low that he did not
hear.
He looked up, gave one swift glance at her blushing face, then, with an
incoherent cry of delight, caught her in his arms.
"My darling!" he cried. "I love you. Believe that, though I failed you
so."
No further words were spoken--none were needed; then Adrien said gently:
"Darling, before we return, tell me, just once--let me hear it from your
own lips, that you love me; for I can scarcely believe I am awake."
"It is no dream, Adrien," she said, her face flushing and quivering with
pent-up emotion. "I love you, dear."
Again he clasped her in his arms and neither heard a step behind them.
It was not until a warning cough roused them, that Adrien started, and
became aware of the presence of Mr. Jasper Vermont.