"Look! there she goes! Isn't she lovely? By Jove, she's the most
charming woman I've ever met!"
"The less of her sort there are about, the better for society at large,
old fellow."
"What? You know her?"
"Yes. Unfortunately."
"Oh, of course. Some frivolous tale; but I'll not hear a word of it.
Some people are never satisfied unless they are polluting a fair name,
or washing their neighbour's dirty linen."
"That's meant to be personal, I suppose?"
"As you please."
"And where did you make her acquaintance, pray?"
"Quite casually; a week ago."
"And you've taken her for three drives, and walked on the promenade with
her?"
"If I have, what crime have I committed beyond arousing your jealousy?"
"I'm not jealous in the least, I assure you, old chap," replied Jack
Egerton, smiling. "But the fact is, Hugh, I've always considered you a
man, and never believed that you could develop into a brainless,
lovesick swain. Yet it appears you have. We've known each other long
enough to speak plainly, and if you take my advice you'll steer clear of
her."
"Why do you give me this mysterious warning, old chap?"
"She's bewitching, I admit: but a pretty face is not all that is
desirable in a woman. If you're on the lookout for a suitable partner--
and it seems you are--I advise you not to make her your wife, or you'll
repent it. Besides, a rich man like yourself can choose from among the
younger and possibly better-looking bargains offered by anxious but
impecunious mothers."
"Oh yes; I know all about that," replied Hugh impatiently. "I shall
never take any advice upon matrimony, so you are only wasting breath.
The man who frowns at coquetry is often willing enough to wink at the
coquette. I'm master of my own actions, and were we not old friends,
Jack, I should consider this abominable impertinence on your part."
"But, my dear fellow, it is in your own interests that--"
"Bother my interests! Have another cigar and shut up!"
"Very well, as you please."
The two men, who were thus discussing the merits of a female form which
had just passed, were seated at an open window at the Queen's Hotel, at
Eastbourne. It was an August morning, warm, with scarcely a breath of
wind. The cerulean sky reflected upon the clear sea, glassy and calm in
the sunlight, while the white sails of the yachts and the distant
outlines of larger vessels relieved the monotonous expanse of blue, and
added effect and harmony to the scene.
A fashionable crowd of loungers were passing and reusing the window,
keeping under the shadow of the uses: for the fair ones who frequent
seaside resorts, presumably for health, never desire their faces tanned.
Now that the legal formalities had been accomplished, and Hugh
Trethowen found himself with a comfortable competence, he, no longer
world-weary, had recommenced a life of enjoyment. It was a pleasant
reflection to know that his creditors had been paid in full, that he had
repaid the thousand pounds he had obtained dishonourably, that he was no
longer likely to be troubled by duns, and that his trusted servant Jacob
had been reinstalled master of his chambers. He had spent a few weeks
at Coombe, and formally taken possession of the home of his youth; then
he returned and went to Eastbourne, having induced Egerton to put aside
work and spend a short holiday with him.
After this discussion regarding the lady, he sat back in his chair, with
a cigar in his mouth, looking unutterably bored. Truth to tell, he was
a little out of temper; the weather was oppressive, and he hated
discussions, as he always argued that life was too short, and breath too
precious, to waste on trying to convince any one against his will.
As he sat there he gazed out upon the expanse of blue, and lapsed into
silent contemplation.
The object of his admiration, who had just passed their window, was
dressed with elegance and taste in a dainty pearl-grey creation of
Worth's, a hat of the latest French mode, the whole being surmounted by
a cool-looking lace sunshade, the tint of which served to enhance her
extraordinary beauty.
She was one of those women frequently met with in Society, whose past is
enveloped in a mist of uncertainty, yet they cannot be termed
adventuresses, for their adventures, as far as known, are nothing
extraordinary, and _les conveyances_ have always been respected and
rigorously preserved. Men liked her because her foreign accent and
gesture added a vivacious piquancy to her manner, and women tolerated
her because she was affable, fashionable, and _chic_. Scandalous
tongues had certainly done their utmost to injure her reputation, but
had failed. She numbered many smart people among her friends, but not
even her enemies could accuse her of vulgarity or indiscretion. All
that was known was that she possessed ample means, moved in a good set,
and was a conspicuous figure wherever the _haut monde_ poured forth her
children--at Trouville, Royat, Brighton, on the _plage_ at Arcachon, or
the Promenade des Anglais at Nice, according to the season and fashion.
"Let's go for a stroll, old fellow," suggested Hugh, rising, and tossing
his cigar out of the window.
"I've some letters to write."
"Oh, let them wait. Come along."
Egerton's features were clouded by a frown of displeasure. He yawned
wearily, but rose and accompanied his friend.
They strolled along the parade, and back, and then out to the end of the
pier. Trethowen's eager eyes soon descried the object of his
admiration, seated alone under the shadow of the pavilion, apparently
engrossed in a novel. She looked up in surprise at their approach, and
after mutual greetings they seated themselves beside her.
Valerie Dedieu, whose features were flushed--for she had been startled
by their sudden appearance--was certainly remarkably pretty. She was
gentle and winning, with a well-formed head, and a tall, graceful figure
that any woman might have envied. Her large, expressive dark eyes,
protected by their fringe of long lashes, had that look, at once
stubborn and gentle, provocative and modest, wanton and ardent, of the
Frenchwoman. The expression of her face was ever changing; now her
eyes, cast down demurely, seemed to indicate a coy modesty; now her
pouting lip betrayed a slight annoyance, only to be succeeded by a
charming smile which disclosed an even row of pearly teeth.
As Hugh gazed upon her he remembered his friend's mysterious warning,
and asked himself what evil could lurk under so innocent a countenance.
"I had no idea you were acquainted with M'sieur Egerton," she exclaimed,
suddenly turning to him.
"Oh yes; we are old friends," Hugh replied, smiling.
"Ah! what an age it is since we met," she said, addressing the artist,
her words just tinged with an accent that added charm to her musical
voice.
"It is, mademoiselle," he answered, somewhat sullenly; "I scarcely
expected to come across you here."
She darted a sharp, inquiring glance at him, and frowned, almost
imperceptibly. Next second she recovered her self-possession, and with
a light laugh said: "Well, there seems some truth in the assertion that
the world is very small after all."
"There does, and encounters are sometimes unpleasant for both parties,"
he remarked abruptly. "But you'll excuse me, won't you? I see a man
over there that I know, and want to speak to him."
Valerie gracefully inclined her head, and Egerton, rising, lounged over
to the man he had recognised.
The moment he was out of hearing, she turned to Trethowen, and said:
"Then you and Jack Egerton are friends?"
"Yes; I find him a very agreeable and good hearted fellow."
"That may be." She hesitated thoughtfully; then she added: "You do not
know him as well as I do."
"And what is your objection to him?" asked he in surprise.
"Hugh, yesterday you told me you loved me," she said, looking seriously
into his face.
"Yes, dearest, I did. I meant it."
"Then; as I explained to you, I have many enemies as well as friends.
Jack Egerton is one of the former, and will do all in his power to part
us when he finds out our affection is mutual. Now you understand my
antipathy."
"Clearly," he replied, puzzled. "But I know Jack too well; he would not
be guilty of an underhand action."
"Do not trust him, but promise me _one thing_."
"Of course, I'll promise you anything to make you happy. What is it?"
"That you will take no heed of any allegations he may make against me."
She was intensely in earnest, and gazed at him with eyes that were
entirely human in their quick sympathy, their gentleness--in their
appeal to the world for a favouring word.
"Rest assured, nothing he may say will ever turn me from you, Valerie."
She heaved a sigh of relief when he gave his answer.
"Somehow or other I am always being scandalised," she exclaimed
bitterly. "I have done nothing of which I am ashamed, yet my select
circle of enemies seem to conspire to cause the world to deride me.
Because I am unmarried, and do not believe in burying myself, they
endeavour to besmirch my fair name."
She spoke with a touch of emotion, which she ineffectually tried to
hide.
Then, as Hugh addressed her in a tone in which respect melted into love,
she quivered at the simple words in which he poured forth his whole
soul:
"I love you. Why need you fear?"
He uttered these words with a slight pressure of the hand, and a look
which sank deep into her heart.
Then they exchanged a few tremulous words--those treasured speeches
which, monotonous as they seem, are as music in the ears of lovers. The
artist and his friend were by this time out of sight, and they were left
to themselves to enjoy those brief half-hours of happiness which seldom
return, which combine the sadness of parting with the radiant hopes of a
brighter day, and which we all of us grasp with sweet, trembling joy, as
we stand on the threshold of a new life.
And Valerie--forgetting everything, absorbed in a dream which was now a
tangible reality--sat silent, with moist and downcast eyes. Hugh
continued to smile, and murmured again and again in her ear:
"I love you."
The pier was almost deserted, and, heedless of the rest of the world,
they sat enraptured by love, lulled by the soft splashing of the sea,
and bathed in the glorious golden sunshine.