THE LAST CARD.
It was nine o'clock in the evening, and darkness had fallen rather
earlier than usual, owing to a black, cloudy sky that threatened rain.
Jimmie Drexell had gone during the afternoon, and Jack was alone in the
big studio--alone with his misery and his anguish. He had scarcely
tasted food since morning, much to the distress of Alphonse. He looked
a mere wreck of his former self--haggard and unshaven, with hard lines
around his weary eyes. He had not changed his clothes, and they were
wrinkled and untidy. Across the polished floor was a perceptible track,
worn by hours of restless striding to and fro. Now, after waiting
impatiently for Victor Nevill, and wondering why he did not come, Jack
had tried to nerve himself to the task that he dreaded, that preyed
incessantly on his mind. He knew that the sooner it was over the better.
He must write to Madge and tell her the truth--deal her the terrible
blow that might break her innocent, loving heart.
"It's no use--I can't do it," he said hoarsely, when he had been sitting
at his desk for five minutes. "The words won't come. My brain is dry.
Would it be better to try to see her, and tell her all face to face?
No--anything but that!"
Thrusting pen and paper from him, he rose and went to the liquor-stand.
The cut-glass bottle containing brandy dropped from his shaking hand and
was shattered to fragments. The crash drowned the opening of the studio
door, and as he surveyed the wreck he heard footsteps, and turned
sharply around, expecting to see Nevill. Diane stood before him, in a
costume that would have better suited a court presentation; the shaded
gas-lamps softened the rouge and pearl-powder on her cheeks, and lent
her a beauty that could never have survived the test of daylight. Her
expression was one of half defiance, half mute entreaty.
The audacity of the woman staggered Jack, and for an instant he was
speechless with indignation. His dull, bloodshot eyes woke to a fiery
wrath.
"You!" he cried. "How dare you come here? Go at once!"
"Not until I am ready," she replied, looking at him unflinchingly. "One
would think that my presence was pollution."
"It is--you know that. Did Nevill permit you to come? Have you seen
him?"
"No; I kept out of his way. He is searching for me in town now, I
suppose. It was you I wanted to see."
"You are dead to all shame, or you would never have come to London. I
don't know what you want, and I don't care. I won't listen to you, and
unless you leave, by heavens, I will call the police and have you
dragged out!"
"I hardly think you will do that," said Diane. "I am going presently, if
you will be a little patient. I am your wife, Jack--"
He laughed bitterly.
"You were once--you are not now. If I thought it would be any punishment
to you, that disgrace could soil _you_, I would take advantage of the
law and procure a divorce."
"I am your wife," she repeated, "but I do not intend to claim my
rights. We were both to blame in the past--"
"That is false!" he cried. "You only were to blame--I have nothing to
reproach myself with, except that I was a mad fool when I married you
for your pretty face. You tried to pull me down to your own level--the
level of the Parisian kennels. You squandered my money, tempted me to
reckless extravagances, and when the shower of gold drew near its end,
you ran off with some scoundrel who no doubt proved as simple a victim
as myself. I trusted you, and my honor was betrayed. But you did me a
greater wrong when you allowed me to believe that you were dead. By
heavens, when I think of it all--"
"You forget that we drifted apart toward the last," Diane interrupted.
"Was that entirely my fault? I believed that you no longer cared for me,
and it made me reckless." There was a sudden ring of sincerity in her
voice, and the insolent look in her eyes was replaced by a softer
expression. "I did wrong," she added. "I am all that you say I am. I
have sinned and suffered. But is there no pity or mercy in your heart?
Remember the past--that first year when we loved each other and were
happy. Wait; I have nearly finished. I am going out of your life
forever--it is the only atonement I can make. But will you let me go
without a sign of forgiveness?--without a soft word?"
For a moment there was silence. Diane waited with rigid face. She had
forgotten the purpose that brought her to the studio--a womanly impulse,
started to life by the memories of the past, had softened her heart. But
Jack, blinded by passion and his great wrongs, little dreamed of the
chance that he was throwing away.
"You talk of forgiveness!" he cried. "Why, I only wonder that I can
keep my hands off your throat. I hate the sight of you--I curse the day
I first saw your face! Do you know what you have done, by letting me
believe that you were dead? You have probably broken the heart of one
who is as good and pure as you are vile and treacherous--the woman whom
I love and would have married."
Diane's features hardened, and a sudden rage flashed in her half-veiled
eyes; her repentant impulse died as quickly.
"So that is your answer!" she exclaimed, harshly. "And there is another
woman! You shall never marry her--never!"
"You fiend!"
The threat goaded Jack to fury, and he might have lost his self-control.
But just then quick footsteps fell timely on his ear.
"Get behind that screen, or go into the next room," he muttered. "No; it
won't matter--it must be Nevill."
Diane held her ground.
"I don't care who it is," she said, shrilly. "I will tell the world that
I am your wife."
The next instant the door was thrown open, and a woman entered the
studio and came hesitatingly forward under the glare of the gas-jets.
With a rapid movement she partly tore off her long, hooded cloak, which
was dripping with rain. Jack quivered as though he had been struck a
blow.
"Madge!" he gasped, recognizing the lovely, agitated face.
The girl caught her breath, and looked from one to the other--from the
painted and powdered woman to the man who had won her love. Her bosom
heaved, and her flushed cheeks turned to the whiteness of marble.
"Jack, tell me--is it true?" she pleaded, struggling with each word. "I
should not have come, but--but I received this an hour ago." She flung a
crumpled letter at his feet, and he picked it up mechanically. "It said
that I would find you here with your--your--" She could not utter the
word. "I had to come," she added. "I could not rest. And now--who is
that woman? Speak!"
No answer. Jack's lips and throat were dry, and a red mist was before
his eyes.
"Is she your wife?"
"God help me, yes!" Jack cried, hoarsely. "I can explain. Believe me,
Madge, I was not false--I told you only the truth. If you will listen
to me for a moment--"
She shrank from him with horror, and the color surged back to her cheeks.
"Don't touch me!" she cried. "Let me go--this is no place for me! I pray
heaven to forgive you, Jack!"
The look that she gave him, so full of unspeakable agony and reproach,
cut him like a knife. She pressed one hand to her heart, and with the
other tried to draw her cloak around her. She swayed weakly, but
recovered herself in time. Jack, watching her as a man might watch the
gates of paradise close upon him, had failed to hear a cab stop in the
street. He suddenly saw Stephen Foster in the room.
"Is my daughter here?" he excitedly demanded.
Madge turned at the sound of her father's voice, and sank, half-fainting,
into his arms. Tears came to her relief, and she shook with the violence
of her sobs.
Stephen Foster looked from Diane to Jack. Madge had shown him the
anonymous letter, and he needed not to ask if the charge was true.
"You blackguard!" he cried, furiously. "You dastardly scoundrel!"
"I do not deserve those words!" Jack said, hoarsely, "but I cannot
resent them. From any other man, under other circumstances--"
"Coward and liar!"
With that Stephen Foster turned to the door, with Madge leaning heavily
on him. They passed down the stairs, and the rattle of wheels told that
they had gone. Jack was left alone with Diane.
"Are you satisfied with your devil's work?" he demanded, glaring at her
with burning, bloodshot eyes.
"It was not my fault."
"Not your fault? By heavens--"
He looked at the crumpled letter he held, and saw that it was apparently
written by a woman. A suspicion that as quickly became a certainty
flashed into his mind.
"_You_ sent this, and the other one as well," he exclaimed. "Don't deny
it! You planned the meeting here--"
"It is false, Jack! I swear to you that I know nothing of it--"
"Perjurer!" he snarled.
His face was like a madman's as he caught her arm in a cruel grip. She
cowered before him, dropping to her knees. She was pale with fear.
"Go, or I will kill you!" he cried, disregarding her protestations of
innocence. "I can't trust myself! Out of my sight--let me never see you
or hear of you again. I will give you money to leave London--to return
to Paris. Nevill will arrange it. Do you understand?"
He lifted her to her feet and pushed her from him. She staggered against
an easel on which was a completed picture in oils, and it fell with a
crash. Jack trampled over it ruthlessly, driving his feet through the
canvas.
"Go!" he cried.
And Diane, trembling with terror, went swiftly out into the black and
rainy night.
An hour later, when Victor Nevill came to say that his search had been
fruitless, he found Jack stretched full length on the couch, with his
face buried in a soft cushion.