HUSBAND AND WIFE
Monsieur Achille was waiting in the vestibule of the Queen's
apartments. As soon as Lord and Lady Eglinton appeared his majestic
figure detached itself from the various groups of flunkeys, who stood
about desultorily pending the breaking up of Her Majesty's Court; he
had a cloak over his arm, and, at a sign from his master he approached
and handed him the cloak which milor then placed round his wife's
shoulders.
"Do you desire to sleep in Versailles to-night, Madame?" he asked, "my
coach is below in case you wished to drive to Château d'Aumont."
"I thank you, milor," she said, "I would wish to remain in
Versailles."
Then she added with a pathetic sigh of bitterness:
"My father would prefer it, I think. He is not prepared for my visit.
And I do not interfere with your lordship's arrangements. . . ."
"Not in the least, Madame," he rejoined quietly. "The corridors are
interminable; would you like a chair?"
"No. . . . Let us walk," she said curtly.
Without further comment he once more offered her his arm. She took it
and together they descended the monumental staircase and then turned
along the endless, vast corridors which lead to the West Wing.
Monsieur Achille followed at a respectful distance, and behind him
walked two flunkeys, also in the gorgeous scarlet and gold Eglinton
livery, whilst two more bearing torches preceded Monsieur le Marquis
and Madame, lighting them on their way.
On the way to the West Wing, milor talked lightly of many things: of
Monsieur de Voltaire's latest comedy, and the quaint new fashion in
headgear, of His Majesty the King of Prussia and of the pictures of
Monsieur Claude Gelée. He joked about the Duchesse de Pontchartrain's
attempts at juvenility and Monsieur Crébillon's pretensions to a place
among the Immortals. Lydie answered in monosyllables; she could not
bring herself to speak, although she quite appreciated milor's desire
to appear natural and unconcerned before his own lacqueys.
A great resolution was taking root in her mind, and she only wanted
the privacy and the familiarity of her own apartments to put it into
execution. Thus they reached the West Wing.
Arrived in the antechamber whence her rooms branched off to the right
and milor's to the left, Lord Eglinton stopped, disengaged her arm
from his and was about to bid her an elaborate good-night, when she
said abruptly:
"May I speak with you privately and in your own study, milor?"
"Certainly, Madame," he replied seemingly a little astonished at her
request.
He dismissed all the flunkeys with the exception of Monsieur Achille,
who led the way through the reception rooms toward milor's private
suite. Lord and Lady Eglinton followed in silence now. The rooms
seemed strangely silent and deserted, ghostlike too, for there was no
artificial light, and the moon peered in through the tall windows,
throwing patches of pale mauve and weird, translucent greens on the
parquet floor and the brocade coverings of the chairs.
In milor's study, Monsieur Achille lighted the candles in two massive
candelabra, which stood on the secrétaire, then, at a nod from his
master, he walked backward out of the room.
The heavy portière fell back with a curious sound like a moan, and for
the third time to-day husband and wife stood face to face alone. The
gaucherie of his manner became at once apparent now: yet he seemed in
no way bashful or ill as ease, only very stiff and awkward in his
movements, as he drew a chair for her at a convenient angle, and when
she had sat down, placed a cushion to her back and a footstool at her
feet. He himself remained standing.
"I pray you sit, milor," she said with a quick sigh, that trembled as
it escaped her lips, "and if I have not angered you beyond the bounds
of your patience, I earnestly ask you to bear with me, for if I have
been at fault I have also suffered much and . . ."
"Madame," he said quite gently if somewhat coldly, "might I entreat of
you not to insist on this interview if it distresses you very much; as
to a fault . . . on my honour, Madame, the very thought of
self-accusation on your part seems to me wildly preposterous."
He did not sit as she had asked him to do, but stood looking down at
her and thinking--thinking alas!--that she never had been quite so
beautiful. She was almost as white as her gown, the powder still clung
to her hair, which, in the dim light of the candles, chose to hide the
glory of its ardent colour beneath the filmy artificial veil. She wore
some exquisite pearls, his gift on the day of her marriage: row upon
row of these exquisite gems fell on her throat and bosom, both as
white, as glittering and pure as the priceless treasures from the
deep.
The chair in which she sat was covered with damask of a rich dull
gold, and against this background with its bright lights and
impenetrably dark shadows, the white figure stood out like what he had
always pictured her, a cold and unapproachable statue.
But to-night, though so still and white, the delicate marble had taken
unto itself life: the life which means sorrow. All the haughtiness of
the look had vanished; there were deep shadows under the eyes and
lines of suffering round the perfectly chiselled lips.
Henry Dewhyrst, Marquis of Eglinton, was not yet thirty: he loved this
exquisitely beautiful woman with all his heart and soul, and she had
never been anything more to him than a perfectly carved image would be
on the high altar of a cathedral. She had been neither helpmate nor
wife, only an ideal, an intangible shadow which his love had not
succeeded in materializing.
As he looked at her now, he wondered for the first time in the course
of their married life, if it had been his own fault that they had
remained such complete strangers: this was because for the first time
to-day a great sorrow, a still greater shame had breathed life into
the marble-like statue.
All at once he felt deeply, unutterably sorry for her; he had no
thought of her wrongs toward him, only of those done to herself by her
pride and the faults of the epoch in which she lived.
"Milor," she said trying to steady her voice, "it would ease me a
little--and ease the painfulness of this interview--if you were to
tell me at what precise moment you entered Her Majesty's throne-room
to-night."
"I cannot say, Madame," he replied with the ghost of a smile; "I did
not look at the clock, but I was in attendance on His Majesty and
therefore . . ."
"You heard what passed between Madame la Comtesse de Stainville and
myself?" she interrupted hastily.
"Every word."
Somehow she felt relieved. She would have hated to recapitulate that
vulgar scene, the mutual recriminations, the insults, culminating in
Her Majesty's contemptuous exit from the room. She could not now see
her husband's face, for he had contrived to stand so as to allow the
light from the candelabra to fall full upon her, whilst he himself,
silhouetted against the light, remained in the shadow; but there was a
certain dignified repose about the whole figure, the white, slender
hand resting lightly on the bureau, the broad shoulders square and
straight, suggesting physical strength, and the simple, somewhat sober
style and cut of the clothes.
The room too appeared as a complete contrast to the other apartments
of the palace of Versailles, where the mincing fancies of Watteau and
the artificialities of Boucher had swept aside the nobler conceptions
of Girardon and Mansard. It was quite plainly furnished, with
straight-back chairs and hangings of dull gold, and the leather
covering of the bureau gave ample signs of wear.
The turmoil in Lydie's heart subsided, yielding itself to peace in the
midst of these peaceful surroundings. She was able to conquer the
tremor of her voice, the twitch of her lips, and to swallow down the
burning tears of humiliation which blinded her eyes and obscured her
judgment.
"Then, milor, it will indeed be easier for me. You understand of what
I am charged, the awful load of disgrace and shame which by my own
folly I have placed upon my shoulders . . . you understand," and her
voice, though steady, sunk to a whisper, "that I have proved unworthy
of the confidence which the unfortunate Stuart prince, who was your
friend, placed in me as well as in you?"
He did not reply, waiting for her to continue. Her head had drooped
and a heavy tear fell from her sunken lids upon her hands. To him who
loved her, and whom she had so deeply wronged, there was a strange yet
painful joy in watching her cry.
"What Madame de Stainville said to-night is true," she added
tonelessly. "I gave into Monsieur de Stainville's hands the map, with
full marginal notes and description of the place where the Stuart
prince is hiding; I also gave him a letter written and signed by me,
addressed to Prince Charles Edward Stuart, begging him to trust
implicitly his own royal person and that of his friends to the bearer
of my note. That letter and the plan are even now in the hands of His
Majesty, who purposes to accept the proposals of His Grace the Duke of
Cumberland, and to sell the Stuart prince to his foes for the sum of
fifteen million livres. And that is all true."
Knowing men, the men of her world, she fully expected that this
confession of hers would cause her husband's just wrath to break
through that barrier of courteous good-breeding and self-restraint,
imposed on all men of honour when in the presence of women, and which
she firmly believed had alone prevented him from interfering between
herself and Irène. She would not have been astonished if he had
stormed and raged, loudly accused and condemned her, nay!--she had
heard of such things--if he had laid hands on her. But when, hearing
nothing, she looked up, she saw that he had scarcely moved, only the
hand which still rested on the secrétaire trembled a little. Perhaps
her look made him conscious of that, for he withdrew it, and then
seemed to pull himself together, and draw himself up, straight and
rigid like a soldier on parade.
"Having told you this, milor," she resumed after a slight pause, "I
should like to add that I am fully aware that in your eyes there can
be no excuse possible for what I did, since in doing it I have
sacrificed the life of a man who trusted us--you and me, milor--more
even than he did France. He and his friends, by my act, will leave the
shelter of their retreat, and will be delivered into the hands of
those who cannot do aught, for political and self-protective reasons,
but send them to the scaffold. You see, milor, I do not palliate my
offence, nor do I seek your pardon--although I know that you will look
on what I have done as a disgrace brought by your wife upon your name.
I deserve no pardon, and I ask for none. But if there is no excuse for
my conduct, at least do I owe you an explanation, and for this I crave
your attention if you would care to listen."
"Nay, Madame, you do but jest," he rejoined, "you owe me nothing . . .
not even an explanation."
"Yet you will listen?" she urged.
"It would be only painful to us both, Madame."
"You prefer to think of me as ignoble, treacherous and base," she said
with sudden vehemence, "you do not wish to know for certain and from
my own lips that Gaston de Stainville . . ."
She paused abruptly and bit her lips, he watching her keenly, she not
knowing that she was watched.
This was going to be a fight and he knew it, a dire conflict between
distress and pride. At first he had hoped that she was prepared to
yield, that she had sought this interview because the load of sorrow
and of humiliation being more than she could bear, she had turned
instinctively to the only man in the world who could ease and comfort
her: whose boundless, untiring love was ready to share the present
pain, as it had shrunk from participating in the glories of the past.
But as she spoke, as she sat there before him now, white, passive,
disdainful even in her self-abasement, he knew that his hour--Love's
hour--had not yet struck. Pride was not yet conquered.
The dominant ruler of a lifetime will not abdicate very readily, and
though distress and sorrow are powerful opponents, they are more
transient, more easily cast aside than Pride.
"As you say, milor," she now said more quietly, "the matter is only
painful to us both. I understand that your estimate of me is not an
exalted one. You despise--you probably hate me! Well! so be it. Let us
not think of our own feelings in this matter, milor! I entreat you to
ignore my very existence for the time being, only thinking of the
Stuart prince and of his dire peril!
"'Tis because of him I have begged for this interview," she resumed
with just a thought of that commanding manner, which she was wont to
assume whenever matters of public import were discussed: "I need not
reiterate the fact that he is in deadly danger. _Le Levantin_, a fast
brigantine, milor, is even now being equipped by His Majesty for the
nefarious expedition. _Le Levantin_ or perhaps _Le Monarque_--the
latter is quite ready to sail at any time, and with the map and my
letter it will be easy . . . oh! so easy! . . . Oh!" she added with a
sudden uncontrollable outburst of passionate appeal, "milor, he was
your friend . . . can nothing be done? . . . can nothing be done?"
"I do not know, madame," he replied coldly, "how should I?"
"But surely, surely you remember your promise to him, milor," she said
impatient at his coldness, unable to understand this lack of
enthusiasm. "You remember that night, in the Château d'Aumont--the
banquet . . . his farewell to you . . . his trust, his confidence
. . . the assurance you gave him . . ."
"So much has occurred since then, Madame," he said simply. "The
guidance of affairs has been in your hands. . . . I have lost what
little grasp I ever had of the situation. . . . As you know, I am
neither clever nor strong--and I have only too gladly relied on abler
wits than mine own. . . ."
"But your promise," she urged, with real passion ringing in her voice,
"your promise to him. . . ."
"I made a far more solemn one to you, madame, never to interfere in
matters of State."
"I'll release you of that," she cried impulsively; "think, milor . . .
I entreat you to think! . . . there must be some way out of this
terrible labyrinth . . . there must be some one whom you can trust
. . ."
She checked herself, and a quick hot blush rose to her cheeks. She
thought that she had detected a quick flash in his eyes at these last
words of hers, a flash which had caused that sudden rush of blood to
her temples, but which was extinguished almost as soon as it arose: he
said quite naturally and tonelessly:
"There is no one. How could there be?"
"But surely, surely," she repeated with growing, obstinate vehemence,
"you can think of something to do . . . you have the means . . . you
are rich . . . have you no enthusiasms, milor?"
"Oh! . . ." he said deprecatingly, "so few! . . . they are scarce
worthy of the name. . . ."
"No thought how to help your friend who is in fear and peril of his
life? . . . Heavens above us, what are the men of France? Wooden dolls
or . . ."
"That what the women of France have made them, Madame," he said
quietly.
"Then you have no thought, or initiative how to help your friend?" she
retorted.
He had noted the ring of scorn in her voice, the return of that
haughty and obstinate self-will, which would for ever stand between
her and happiness. His expression suddenly hardened, as he looked at
her flashing eyes and the contemptuous curl of the exquisite lips, all
the gentleness went out of his face, the latent tenderness which she
had wilfully ignored, and his voice, no longer softly mocking, became
hard and bitter in its tones.
"I?" he said with a slight uplifting of his brow and a
self-deprecating droop of the lip, "surely, Madame, you are pleased to
jest. I am no statesman, no politician, I scarce have a sufficiency
of brains to be a figure head in an administration. I have never been
taught to think."
"You are mocking me, milor," she said haughtily.
"Nothing is further from my thoughts. I have far too much respect for
your ladyship to venture on either mockery or individual thought."
She paused awhile, frowning and impatient, angered beyond bounds, too,
at his attitude, which she was quite clever enough to see did not
represent the true state of his mind. No doubt he desired to punish
her for her contempt of him that morning. She would have liked to read
the expression in his face, to know something of what was going on
behind that straight, handsome brow, and the eyes always so gentle,
yet so irritating now in this semblance of humility. She thought
certainly that the outline of the jaw suggested obstinacy--the
obstinacy of the inherently weak. If she had not wanted his help so
much, she would have left him then and there, in scorn and in wrath,
only too glad that sentiment had not led her into more excuses or
explanations--a prayer for forgiveness mayhap. She was not a little
irritated with herself too, for she felt that she had made a wrong
start: she was quite sure that his supineness, at any rate with regard
to the fate of the Stuart prince, was assumed. There must be a way of
appealing to that loyalty which she knew he cherished for his friend,
some means of breaking down that barrier of resentment which he had
evidently set up against her.
Oh! if it had been a few months ago, when he still loved her, before
Irène de Stainville. . . She paused in this train of thought, her mind
not daring to travel further along it; it was such a wide, such a
glorious possibility that that one little "if" suggested, that her
heart quivered with renewed agony, and the weak tears, of which she
was so ashamed, insisted on coming to her eyes.
If only his love for her was not dead, how easy her task would have
been! It would have fired him to enthusiasm now, caused him to forget
his resentment against her in this great work yet to be accomplished,
and instead of asking him for passive help she could have incited him
to a deed of loyalty and of courage. But now she was too proud to
continue her appeal: she thought that she had done her best, and had
not even succeeded in breaking through the icy reserve and resentment
which in his heart had taken the place of silent and humble worship.
"Milor," she said with sudden determination, and in the authoritative
manner which was more habitual to her than the more emotional,
passionately appealing mood, "with your leave we'll cease these
unworthy bickerings. I may have been hasty in my actions this morning.
If so I pray you not to vent your anger against your friend. If I have
wronged you by taking you at your word, when a year ago you told me
that you would never wish to interfere in my official work, well! I
humbly beg you pardon, and again entreat you not to allow your friend
to expiate the sins of your wife. You say that the men of France are
what the women have made them; there I think that you are wrong--at
least in this: that in your mind the word woman stands for those of
the sex who are pure and loyal as well as those for who are not. It is
not the women of France who have made the men, milor, rather it is the
men who--looking to the Pompadours, the Irène de Stainvilles, not only
for companionship and for pleasure, but also, heaven help them! for
ideals--have made the women what they are! But enough of this. You no
doubt think me wordy and tedious, and neither understand, nor wish to
understand that there may be honour and chivalry in a far greater
degree in the heart of a woman, than in that of the more selfish sex.
I have asked for your advice in all simplicity and loyalty,
acknowledging the sin I have committed and asking you to help me in
atoning for it, in a way useful to your friend. This appeal for advice
you have met with sneers and bitter mockery: on my soul, milor if I
could now act without your assistance I would do so, for in all the
humiliation which I have had to endure to-day, none has been more
galling or more hard to bear believe me, than that which I must now
endure through finding myself, in a matter essentially vital to my
heart and even to my reason, dependent upon your help."
He could hear her voice trembling a little in spite of her efforts at
self-control. He knew quite well that at this moment she spoke the
truth, and these last words of hers, which for many a long day
afterward rang persistently in his ears, represented to him ever
afterward the very acme of mental--aye! and physical--pain which one
human being could inflict on another. At the time it absolutely seemed
unendurable: it seemed to him that under the blow, thus coldly dealt
by those same beautiful lips, for which his own ached with an
intensity of passionate longing, either his life or his reason must
give way. The latter probably, for life is more tenacious and more
cruel in its tenacity: yet if reason went, then Heaven alone could
help him, for he would either kill her or outrage her beyond the hope
of pardon.
"Therefore, milor," she resumed after a slight pause, unconscious
evidently of the intense cruelty of her words, "I will beg of you not
to make it harder for me than need be. I must ask this help from you,
in order to succeed, if humanly possible, in outwitting the infamous
work of a gang of traitors. Will you, at least, give me this help I
need?"
"If it lies within my power," he replied; "I pray you to command
Madame."
"I am thinking of sending a messenger post haste to the commander of
_Le Monarque_ with orders to set sail at once for Scotland," she
continued in matter-of-fact tones. "I should want a fresh copy of the
map where Prince Charles Edward is in hiding, and to make assurance
doubly sure a letter from you to the prince, asking him to trust
Captain Barre implicitly. _Le Monarque_ I know can reach Scotland long
ere _Le Levantin_ is ready for sea, and my idea had been originally to
commission her to take the prince and his friends on board, and then
to skirt the west coast of Ireland, reaching Brittany or mayhap the
Pyrenees by a circuitous route. I have firm belief that it is not too
late to send this messenger, milor, and thus to put my original plan
into execution. And if you will give me a new map and full directions
and your signet ring for the prince, I feel confident that I can find
someone whom I could thoroughly trust . . ."
"There is no one whom you could thoroughly trust with such an errand,
Madame!" he said drily.
"I must risk that, milor. The crisis has become so acute that I must
do something to avert that awful catastrophe."
"Betrayal would be the inevitable result."
"I entreat you to leave that to me," she urged firmly. "I know I can
find someone, all I ask is for the map, and a word and signet ring
from you."
She was leaning forward now, eager and enthusiastic again, self-willed
and domineering, determined that he should do what she wished. Her
eyes were glowing, the marble was indeed endowed with life; she
gleamed like a jewel, white and fragile-looking, in this dull and
sombre room, and he forgetting for the moment her cruelty of awhile
ago was loth to let her go, to speak the harsh words which anon would
have to be said, and which would send her resentful, contemptuous,
perhaps heartbroken, out of his sight again.
Would it not have been ten thousand times more simple to throw pride,
just anger, reason to the winds, to fall at those exquisite feet, to
encircle that glittering marble with passionately tremulous arms, to
swear fealty, slavery, obedience to her whims.
How she would smile, and how softly and tenderly would the flush of
victory tinge those pale cheeks with delicate rose! to see it
gradually chase away the pearl-like tone of her skin, to see her eyes
brighten at his word, to feel perhaps the tiny hand tremble with joy
as it lay for sheer gratitude a few brief seconds in his, was not that
well worth the barren victory of a man's pride over a woman's
self-will?
She had thought that he would have yielded at her first word, would at
once have fawned at her feet, kissing her hand, swearing that he was
her slave. He had done it once . . . a year ago, and why not now
again? Then she had smiled on him, had allowed him to kneel, to kiss
her gown, anon had yielded her cold fingers to his kiss; he had reaped
a year of misery for that one moment's joy, and now, just for the
space of a few seconds he was again assailed with an awful temptation
to throw prudence and pride away, to enjoy one golden hour--less
perhaps--but glorious and fulsome whilst it lasted, until it gave way
once more to humiliation, far worse to bear than heretofore.
The temptation for those few brief seconds was overwhelming, and 'twas
fortunate that he stood in shadow, else she had seen signs of an awful
conflict in that young and handsome face which she had been wont to
see so gentle and so placid. But he knew that in her, pride had by now
absolutely got the upper hand: sorrow had laid down her arms and
constituted herself a prisoner of war, following meekly behind the
triumphal chariot of her conquering rival.
And because of that, because he knew that there was not one spark yet
in her heart which Love had kindled, that Love itself was still lying
dormant within her, gagged and bound even in his sleep, kept in
subjection thus pinioned and helpless by masterful self-will and by
obstinate pride, he would not yield to the temptation of culling the
Dead Sea fruit, that would inevitably turn to ashes, even as his lips
first tasted its fleeting, if intoxicating savour.
She had half risen from her chair leaning across the bureau, eager,
excited, tremulous, sure of victory. Paper and pen lay close to her
hand, smiling she pointed to these:
"Oh! I pray you, milor," she said with passionate fervour, "do not
delay! Every hour, every minute is precious . . . I swear to you that
I'll find a messenger. He'll not know the purport of his errand. . . .
Oh! I assure you I'll play the part of indifference to perfection!
. . . The packet to the commander of _Le Monarque_ will seem of the
most insignificant kind. . . . I'll not even order the messenger to
hurry . . . just to guard the packet as inviolate as any secret of
State. . . . Nay! hundreds of such messages have to be trusted to
indifferent hands, in the course of a single transaction of the
nation's business. Believe me, milor, there is not cause for fear! _Le
Monarque_ can put to sea within an hour of receiving my orders, and
Prince Charles Edward Stuart and his friends will be safely out of
reach, ere _Le Levantin_ unfurls her sails, and pins to her masthead
the pennant of traitors. . . ."
"But you do not speak, milor," she said suddenly changing the tone of
her voice, all eagerness gone from her manner, a strange, nameless
anxiety gripping her heart, "will you not do this little I ask? . . ."
"It is impossible, Madame," he said curtly.
"Impossible? . . . Why? . . ."
Her voice now was harsh, trenchant, as it had been when she hurled a
loud insult at Gaston de Stainville through his wife. She was on her
feet, tall and erect; a statue once more, white to the lips, cold and
haughty, rigid too, save for the slight trembling of her hands and the
tremulous quiver of her mouth when she spoke.
As he did not reply to her question, she said impatiently:
"Will you give me a reason for this unexplainable refusal, milor?"
"No. I refuse, that is all."
"This is not your last word?"
"It is my last word."
"Would you have me think that you are at one with the treacherous
scheme, milor? and that you do not desire the safety of the Stuart
prince?"
She had raised her voice, boldly accusing him, inwardly knowing that
the accusation was groundless, yet wishing to goad him now into
passion, into explanation, above all into acquiescence if it still lay
in her power to force it.
But he took the insult with apparent calm, shrugged his shoulders and
said quietly:
"As you please."
"Or is it . . . is it that you do not trust me? . . . that you think I
. . . ?"
She could not finish the sentence, nor put into words the awful
suggestion which had sprung like a stinging viper straight across the
train of her thoughts. Her eyes dazed and burning tried to pierce the
gloom wherein he stood, but the flickering light of the candles only
threw weird, fantastic gleams upon his face, which suddenly seemed
strange, unknown, incomprehensible to her. His figure appeared
preternaturally tall, the sober gray of his coat looked like the pall
of an avenging ghost. He was silent and had made no sign of protest,
when she framed the terrible query.
A bitter, an awful humiliation overwhelmed her. She felt as if right
within her heart something had snapped and crumbled, which nothing on
earth could ever set up again.
She said nothing more, but she could not altogether repress a
heartbroken moan, which rose from the intensity of her mental agony.
Then she turned and with head thrown back, with silent, trembling lips
and half-closed eyes she walked slowly out of the room.