A WOMAN SCORNED
Dorothy was by no means of a jealous disposition. Moreover, her love
for George was so deep and pure that she trusted him entirely.
Nevertheless, having learned from the few words dropped by Vane, that
Brendon knew Lola, she felt desirous of seeing the woman. That Lola
was her rival she never for one moment believed, as she knew Vane's
malicious nature and evil tongue. But the fact remained that Brendon's
name was coupled with that of the dancer, and this incipient scandal
annoyed Miss Ward.
There was no need for her to ask George why such a report should
prevail, for she knew that he would be able to explain in a
satisfactory manner, and, trusting him already, it was useless to
demand details. Her feelings would remain the same after the telling
of his story as they were now, therefore she avoided the disagreeable
subject. Nevertheless, she was woman enough to desire a sight of Lola,
and induced her mother to take her to the music-hall. Mrs. Ward was
very pleased to do so, but she was too clever to hint that she guessed
Dorothy's reason for making this request.
"Certainly, my dear," she said briskly. "I am very glad that you are
coming out of your shell. Men hate a woman who can't talk of
everything, and nothing is talked about but Lola."
"I must educate myself to please men, then," said Dorothy, dryly, "so
I may as well begin with the dancer. On what night can we go?"
"Oh, Friday will do. Mr. Vane has invited us to dine at the Cecil, so
I'll ask him to get us a box."
Dorothy would rather have gone with any one than with Mr. Vane, as she
disliked his feeble attempts at lovemaking. However, there was nothing
for it but to accept, since she had brought it on herself. With a
smile which encouraged her mother to think she would behave sensibly
toward Vane, she agreed to the proposed dinner-party and
companionship, and Mrs. Ward wrote a note at once.
"I hope when she sees Lola, and hears the stories about that Brendon
man, that she may refuse to have anything more to do with him," was
Mrs. Ward's remark as she sealed her note. "I don't want to get the
Brendon man into trouble by having him arrested for the murder. And I
don't think Derrington would let me if I did wish it."
Her last speech was prophetic, for the next day Lord Derrington paid a
visit to Curzon Street and had a short interview with Mrs. Ward, the
gist of which was that she must hold her tongue.
"Brendon called to see me the other day," explained Derrington,
looking grim, "and he showed me plainly that he had nothing to do with
the matter."
"But how about the holly berry?"
"That is easily explained," replied Derrington, who, anticipating the
question, had prepared an answer. "Brendon was one of the first to
see the body, and in touching it the berry fell from the sprig.
Afterward--mind you, afterward--Mr. Train found the berry, and, not
knowing that Brendon had seen the body that morning, thought he had
been in the room on the previous night."
"I'm sure he was," insisted Mrs. Ward.
"You are sure of nothing of the sort. Brendon could not have got
downstairs without the connivance of Train, and you heard what Train
said."
"He is such a fool!"
"The more likely to tell the truth," said Derrington. Then he asked,
after a pause, "Why did you tell Dorothy to give the sprig of holly to
Brendon on that night?"
Mrs. Ward shrugged her shoulders and looked down nervously. "Oh, it
was the merest kindness on my part," she said, trying to speak
quietly. Derrington contradicted her at once.
"It was nothing of the sort," he declared with roughness. "You wished
him to have the yellow holly in his coat when he saw Mrs. Jersey, so
that the woman might betray herself."
"I knew nothing about Mrs. Jersey at the time."
"Oh, but you did! With regard to the holly, you knew from me how it
was used in connection with the death of my son at San Remo; and what
I did not tell you, you learned from other people."
Mrs. Ward looked defiant. "Well, I did. I am sure every one knew about
the murder at the time," she said, "and I met some old frumps who gave
me all details."
"I quite understand that; but how did you know about Mrs. Jersey?"
"That's my business," cried Mrs. Ward, becoming imprudent. "You are
right about the holly; I sent to Devonshire expressly to get some. It
was my intention to inclose a sprig in a letter to Mrs. Jersey so as
to frighten her----"
"What good would that have done?"
"My business again," snapped Mrs. Ward, becoming bolder. "I had my
reason for wishing to recall your son's death to her mind, and I knew
that the yellow holly would do so most successfully. When Dorothy came
from the Park and told me that Brendon was to stop with his friend at
Mrs. Jersey's boarding-house, I thought that it would be better to let
George wear the sprig. And I managed it in such a way that neither
Dorothy nor George guessed how I planned the business. And I
succeeded. Mrs. Jersey saw the sprig and nearly fainted. I knew then
that----" Here she stopped.
Derrington saw that it was useless to question her further. She would
only lie, and had been telling lies, for all he knew. Moreover, he did
not think she could tell him anything pertinent to the case.
"I shall ask you nothing more," he said, rising to take his leave.
"You have some reason for all this intrigue, I have no doubt. What
your intentions are, matters little to me. I came merely to warn you
that Brendon is to be left alone."
"You won't have him arrested?"
"No. And what is more, I won't have him spoken about in connection
with that crime."
Mrs. Ward forgot her desire to conciliate Derrington, forgot her
desire to marry Vane to Dorothy, forgot everything in a sudden access
of rage. "I shall do what I choose!" she cried.
"No," said Derrington, quietly, and looking her full in the face, "you
will obey me."
"Obey you, Lord Derrington?"
"Yes. I have tried to conduct this interview quietly, Mrs. Ward, and
to hint that your wiser plan is to be silent, but----"
"I don't want hints. I wish for plain speaking," raged the little
woman. "How dare you address me like this?"
The old gentleman leaned forward suddenly and whispered a short
sentence in her ear. Mrs. Ward's face turned pearly white and she
tottered to a chair, closing her eyes as she fell into it. Derrington
surveyed her with a pitiless expression.
"You will be silent about Brendon?" he asked.
"Yes," moaned Mrs. Ward. "I will say nothing."
When Derrington departed Mrs. Ward retired to bed after canceling her
engagements for the evening. For twenty-four hours she stopped there,
explaining to Dorothy that she was taking a rest cure. It apparently
did her good, for on the evening of the day appointed for the meeting
at the Cecil she arose looking bright and quite herself again. She had
quite got over the fright given to her by Derrington, and, when she
saw him later, treated him quite in her old manner. On his side the
old gentleman made no difference, but he wondered how she was carrying
herself so boldly. At once it occurred to his suspicious mind that
there was some reason for this defiant behavior, and he determined to
watch her. For this purpose he joined the party.
"It is the first time I have been to a music-hall for years," he
explained to Dorothy; "but Walter has been talking so much about this
new dancer that I felt I must see her."
"Why did you not dine with us at the Cecil?" asked Dorothy.
"I always prefer to dine at home, my dear young lady. Besides, it does
not do for an old man to wag his gray beard uninvited among the
young."
Meantime Mrs. Ward was chatting amicably to Vane and to a vapid
War-Office clerk, who had formed a fourth at the Cecil dinner-party.
He was a titled clerk, and heir to great estates, so Mrs. Ward made
much of him. She was very diplomatic, and never neglected younger
sons. "One never knows but what they may be rich some day," said Mrs.
Ward in explanation of her wisdom.
The box was large and easily held the party. Mrs. Ward had a position
directly in front, where she could see and be seen; but Dorothy kept
herself behind the curtains. She could see the stage excellently, but
did not wish to be recognized by any chance acquaintance. In an
opposite box sat a red-haired man in immaculate evening-dress.
Derrington recognized him as Bawdsey, but did not think it necessary
to show his recognition. He sat at the back of the box between Vane
and the War-Office clerk, and kept a watchful eye on Mrs. Ward.
That little woman sparkled like a diamond. She criticised the house,
admired the decorations, and applauded the comic songs. It might have
been that this indifferent attitude was one of defiance, as she must
have known that Derrington was watching her. But she acted her part
consummately, and he could not help admiring her coolness. "What an
admirable actress," thought the old lord, "and what a dangerous
woman!"
The ballet of "The Bacchanals" came at the end of the first part of
the programme. When the curtain rose Dorothy was so anxious to behold
Lola that she leaned forward so as to show her face to the whole
house. Bawdsey saw her and put his glass to his eyes. He smiled
slightly, and Derrington wondered why he did so. But at that moment,
and while the stage was filling with dancers, he arose to receive some
newcomers. These were none other than Miss Bull and Margery, for whom
Bawdsey had procured the box. The little old maid was whiter than ever
and wore her usual gray dress. Margery was smartly gowned in green,
and with her light hair and stupid red face looked anything but
beautiful. She placed herself in the best position, being evidently
directed to do so by Miss Bull, for that lady preferred the shade. At
all events, she secluded herself behind a curtain and kept her beady
black eyes persistently on the stage. On seeing that the two were
comfortable, Bawdsey disappeared, and did not return till the end of
the ballet. Derrington saw all this, but no one else in Mrs. Ward's
box took any notice. And why should they? Bawdsey and his party were
quite unknown to them.
The ballet was modeled closely on the lines laid down by Euripides in
his tragedy. The opening scene was the market-place of Thebes, and the
stage was filled mostly with men. Pentheus, the King, is informed that
the whole female population of the city, together with his mother,
Agave, have gone to the mountains to worship a stranger. The seer,
Tiresias, knows by his psychic powers that the stranger is none other
than Bacchus, the god of wine, and implores Pentheus not to provoke
his enmity. The King spurns this advice and gives orders that the
so-called god shall be arrested. It was at this moment that Agavé
appears. Dorothy looked at her eagerly.
Agavé has not yet assumed her Bacchanalian garb. She is still in the
quiet dress of a Grecian matron, but her gestures are wild, and she is
rapid in her movements. In the dance which followed she is interrupted
by Pentheus, who strives to calm her frenzy. But Agavé, knowing the
god of wine is at hand, becomes as one possessed. Bacchus appears and
is arrested by Pentheus. He is chained and hurried into the palace.
Agavé warns the King against the impiety he is committing. Pentheus
defies the gods. There is a peal of thunder, and the palace of
Pentheus sinks into ruins. At the back appears the ruins of the city
walls, which have also fallen, and on the summit of the heaped stones
stands Bacchus, the god confest. At a wave of his wand vines begin to
clamber over the ruins, and the cries of the Bacchanalians are heard.
Pentheus tries to seize the god again, and darkness covers the stage.
The last thing seen was Lola dancing in a wild red light, with
extravagant gestures.
Dorothy could not say that Lola was handsome, but she had about her a
wild grace which was very fascinating. When dancing she seemed to
think of nothing but the revels in which she was engaged. She never
cast a look at the house, and Dorothy noticed this. She was therefore
somewhat surprised when, during the second scene, she saw Lola
deliberately look in the direction of the box and stare at her
piercingly for quite a moment or two. Rather confused by this sudden
regard, the girl drew back. Lola noticed her no more, but continued to
dance.
The second scene was the camp of the Bacchanals, where Pentheus, as a
follower of the god, comes to see the orgies. It was a mountainous
scene with a lurid red sky broken by masses of black clouds. There is
no need to describe the ballet in detail. The frenzied dancers of the
Bacchanals seemed to send the audience wild. There was something
fierce and murderous about these orgiastic movements. And through the
wild throng darted Lola, in leopard-skin and garlands, bearing a cup
of wine, and flinging herself about in wild madness. She appeared to
be a devil, and Dorothy shrank back at the sight of her wild face. The
music also was terrible, and excited the dancers to further efforts of
madness. It was a feast of witches, a Walpurgis night, a revel of the
earth-powers. There was nothing spiritual about this riot of the
flesh; the audience shuddered at the fierce rapture of the dancers, at
the alluring pain of the music, at the reckless abandon of Lola Velez.
"It's too awful!" murmured Dorothy, moving to the back of the box,
beside Derrington; "that woman is a demon."
"Yet your friend Mr. Brendon helped her to this, position," said the
old man, grimly.
"I am sure he cannot approve of this dancing," shuddered the girl, who
was very pale.
"There is nothing improper about it," said Derrington.
"No. Everything is right in that way; but it is maddening, and unholy,
and altogether terrible. The music is something like that in
Tannhäuser--cruel, evil, voluptuous."
"Ah, your poor spiritual nature shrinks from that sort of thing! But
Mrs. Ward seems to enjoy it."
She certainly did. Craning forward so as to get a full view of the
stage, Mrs. Ward's eyes were alight. She would have enjoyed being in
the throng herself, and would have danced as madly as the worst of
them. And queerly enough Miss Bull appeared also spellbound. Her face
was flushed, her eyes glittered, and her breath came and went in quick
pants. "It's wonderful, Margery," she said, leaning out of the box and
fixing her eyes intently on the whirling mass.
"It's very pretty," said Margery, stupidly. Her dull brain could not
understand the wild madness of the scene, and she was as unmoved as
though she had been listening to a sermon.
"Dorothy! Dorothy!" whispered Mrs. Ward, "come back to your seat. Lola
juggles the head of Pentheus. It is the great dance."
"No," answered Dorothy, and clung to Derrington's arm. "I will stop
here. It is too terrible."
The old man understood, and in the darkness of the box he slipped his
arm round her. In that kind embrace Dorothy felt safe. If she looked
upon that madness again she felt that she must cry out. Derrington
quite appreciated her feelings. It was the repulsion experienced by
the spiritual against the material.
The action of the ballet proceeded rapidly. Pentheus climbed a tree,
the Bacchanalians surrounded it and dragged him down. Lola emerged
from a frantic crowd bearing his head. Then began the dance, slowly at
first with solemn pacings and stately gestures. The limelights, red
and blue and green and yellow, were flashed on the swaying form of
Lola as she eyed the head with terrible glances. Then the music
flashed out into a wild galop. The scene became pandemonium. Lightning
flashed, thunder rolled, the violins shrieked in the orchestra, the
dancers spun, whirled, plunged, and sprang and bounded, and
frantically rushed about the stage. Everywhere at unexpected moments
Lola appeared, tossing, smiting, and caressing the head of Pentheus,
whirling out and in as the rainbow lights played upon her restless
figure. Finally, when the orgy was at its height, came a flash of
lightning, a crash of thunder, the riot died away, the Bacchanalians
sprang from the stage. Darkness descended, the music sank to lulling
tones, and quiet, silvery moonlight flooded the stage. There alone, in
the center, sat Agavé, restored to her right mind, weeping over the
head of her son. And on this scene of sorrow the curtain fell slowly
to the strains of sweet music. The audience drew long breaths and felt
as though a nightmare were at an end.
"Let us go now," said Dorothy, standing up and still clinging to
Derrington's arm. "I wish I had not come."
She was interrupted by an ejaculation from her mother. Mrs. Ward also
was standing up, but her eyes were fixed on Miss Bull. The little old
maid, as though feeling the influence of that glance, slowly looked in
Mrs. Ward's direction. The eyes of the two women met. From those of
Miss Bull flashed a look of hate, and she withdrew behind the curtain
of the box. Mrs. Ward was white and shaking. Clutching Vane's arm she
requested to be taken to her carriage. "It is too much for me," she
said, alluding to the ballet.
Derrington stood on the pavement when the brougham rolled away bearing
the mother and daughter, both silent, both pale. He was alone, as Vane
and the War-Office clerk were back again in the hall. "Humph!" said
Derrington, his eyes fixed on the retreating carriage. "So you know
that little woman who called to see me about the lease. I wonder how
that comes about. Miss Bull knew Mrs. Jersey, and you, Mrs. Ward, sent
that yellow holly. I wonder----" The old man stopped; he could not
quite understand what Mrs. Ward was doing, but he repeated his former
observation. "A dangerous woman," said he. "I shall speak to Bawdsey
about her;" and making up his mind to this he went in search of the
detective.
All that night Dorothy was haunted by strange dreams, in which
the figure of Lola played a prominent part. Usually calm and
self-possessed, Dorothy slept like a child, but the fierce music, the
mad dancing, the knowledge that George knew this terrible woman--for
so she appeared to the girl--caused her to sleep brokenly. She was up
early, and after a breakfast that was a mere farce she took her way to
the Park. It was her usual custom to walk in a lonely part about eight
o'clock in the morning but on this occasion she was at her usual spot
by half-past seven. This was a seat under a spreading tree in the
center of a wide lawn. Few people came there at so early an hour, and
Dorothy often read for an hour before returning home. In a mechanical
manner she took a book out of her pocket--it was the "Meditations" of
Marcus Aurelius--and tried to fasten her attention on the soothing
words of the stoic Emperor. But it was impossible. Before her inner
vision passed the wild, flushed face of Lola Velez, and Dorothy could
not drive it away. While endeavoring to do so some one came to sit on
the seat. Dorothy, rather surprised, looked up. She saw Lola staring
at her intently.
The dancer looked pale and worn. About her there was none of the
unholy influence of the previous night. As the morning was cold she
wore a sealskin coat and toque with a scarf of red silk twisted round
her throat. This touch of color was all that was about her likely to
suggest her foreign origin. With her pale face and piteous mouth and
appealing eyes she looked like a broken-hearted woman. Dorothy's first
movement was to go away; but when she saw the sorrow on that wild face
she remained where she was. The two gazed at one another for a time,
and the thought in the mind of each was the same. Both thought of
George Brendon.
Lola began to speak without any preamble. "Mr. Bawdsey pointed you to
me at the last night," she said in her imperfect English. "He declared
you did walk early, and I have been with my eye on your mansion since
six hours--what you call o'clock. I see you come, I follow you, I am
here, Mees Vard, I am here."
"What do you want?" asked Dorothy, calmly, her nerves much more under
control than Lola's were. Yet both were agitated.
"Ah," cried the foreign woman, throwing back her head, "give him to
me! I love him--I worship him. Give him to me."
"Of whom do you speak, mademoiselle?"
"Ah, mademoiselle, so he speaks when angry. But I am no French. I am
Señora--I am Spanish. I have warm blood here in my heart." She struck
her breast fiercely. "And if you take him from me I will kill you.
Yes, I will give you the death--quick, sure, sudden."
Her face drew near to Dorothy's as she spoke, and the girl could feel
her hot breath on her cheek. But Dorothy had a brave heart of her own
and did not flinch. For all she knew, Lola might intend to stab her at
the very minute. The Park keeper was some distance away, and it was
useless to create a scandal by calling him to her assistance. Lola was
just the kind of mad creature to make a scene. Retaining control of
herself, though her heart was beating rapidly, Dorothy fixed her eyes
firmly on those of Lola. "Sit a little further away," she said, "and
we will talk calmly."
"Are you not afraid?" asked Lola, surprised. She had always found the
savage attitude so effective.
Dorothy laughed. "I was never afraid of anything or of any one in my
life," she said coolly. "And I am not going to begin now. What do you
want, mademoiselle? Why do you threaten me?"
"Bah!" cried the other, but moving back a little as requested, "you
know, you blond white cat, you. It is George."
"What about George?"
"He is mine. He loves me. You would take him from me."
"If you are speaking of George Brendon----"
"Of who else should I speak? You know--ah, you know!"
"Yes. I know. I heard some rumors as to how he helped you. But I do
not believe for one moment that he loves you."
"He does. You dare ask that he loves."
"I shall do nothing of the sort. We may as well understand one
another, as you have no right to thrust yourself upon me."
"I do do what I do please," said Lola, sullenly.
"These sorts of things are not allowed in England, I am sorry for you,
and so I speak. Otherwise, I should call the Park keeper."
"I want not any sorrow. I do want my own George."
"Mr. Brendon is engaged to marry me," said Dorothy, deliberately.
Lola sprang to her feet with flashing eyes. "It will not be," she
almost shouted. "I love him."
"Sit down," said Dorothy, much in the same tone as she would have used
to a fractious child, and Lola resumed her seat immediately. The woman
was a creature of impulse. Had Dorothy raged also, she would have
gained the ascendancy. But this calmness, to use a nautical simile,
"took the wind out of her sails." She could only do as she was told.
"But I will have my George," she muttered.
"Listen to me," said Dorothy, quietly. "I have no right to answer your
questions. But I am sorry for you. I will speak to Mr. Brendon."
"No--" Lola looked up in terror--"you must not do that. He will be
very angry--oh, much--much enraged."
"Then that shows me you have been speaking untruths. Mr. Brendon does
not love you----"
"But I say yes--yes--yes!" Lola sprang to her feet again and poured
forth her wrath. "Ah, you think he will be milord and that you will
marry him, but----"
"What do you know about that?" asked Dorothy, rising indignantly.
"Oh, I do know much--much," Lola snapped her fingers. "Yes, I know
that which I do know. I can stop him from being milord, and that I
will--I will. If he is milord he will marry--you--you. But as my own
George he will make me--me--" she struck her breast again--"me, Lola
Velez, madame his wife."
"You are talking nonsense," said Dorothy, coolly, though she felt
annoyed and puzzled. "What can you know?"
"That which I do know. Wait--oh, wait a day--one day, two day, three
day, and then--" She snapped her fingers. "You see--yes--you see how
clever I am. I go, I go, you white cat. I go to get my George."
Lola darted away at a run, which slackened to a rapid walk as she
neared the Park gates. Dorothy sat down again, too amazed to follow.