On the following afternoon there was held in the Floral Hall of the
Devonshire Park one of those brilliant orchestral performances which
always attract the fashionable portion of Eastbourne visitors. The
concerts, held several times each week, are extensively patronised by
the cultured, and even the crotchety, who hate music, and regard Mozart
and Mendelssohn as inflictions, look upon them as a pleasant means of
idling away an hour. This afternoon, however, was devoted to operatic
selections, and the hall was filled with a gay throng.
Trethowen had gone over to Hastings to visit some friends, and Egerton,
who found time hanging heavily upon his hands, strolled in to hear the
music. As he entered, the first object which met his eye was Valerie,
who, dressed with becoming taste and elegance, was sitting alone,
casting furtive glances towards the door, as if expecting someone.
After a moment's hesitation he walked over to where she sat, and
greeting her briefly with a pleasant smile, took a chair beside her.
"Where is your friend?" she asked abruptly.
"He went to Hastings this morning."
"When will he return?"
"I'm sure I don't know," replied the artist carelessly.
"I suppose the attraction of your fascinating self will not allow him to
remain absent long. Am I to--er--congratulate you?"
Her dark eyes flashed angrily, as she exclaimed in a low, fierce tone:
"You've tricked me! You've told him!"
"And if I have, surely it is no reason why you should make an exhibition
of your confounded bad temper in a public place. If you wish to talk,
come into the grounds," he said in a tone of annoyance.
"Yes; let's go. I've something to say."
The conductor's baton was tapping the desk as they rose and passed out
upon the pleasant lawn beyond. Walking a short distance, they seated
themselves under the shadow of a tree, in a nook where there were no
eavesdroppers.
"Well, Valerie, what have you to say to me? I'm all attention," said
Egerton, assuming an amused air, and calmly lighting a cigarette.
"_Diable_! You try to hide the truth from me," she said, her accent
being more pronounced with her anger. "You have warned Hugh; you have
told him to beware of me--that my touch pollutes, and my kisses are
venomous. Remember what you and I were once to each other--and you, of
all men, try to ruin my reputation! Fortunately, I am well able to
defend it."
"Your reputation--bah!"
"Yes, m'sieur, you may sneer; but I tell you, we are not so unequally
matched as you imagine. If you have breathed one word to Hugh of my
past, I can very easily prove to him that you have lied; and, further,
you appear to forget that certain information that I could give would
place you in a very ugly predicament."
"Oh! you threaten, do you?"
"Only in the event of your being such an imbecile as to reveal to Hugh
the secret."
"Then, I may as well tell you that up to the present he knows nothing.
Yet, remember, he and I are old friends, therefore it will be my
endeavour to prevent him falling into your accursed toils, as others
have!" he exclaimed angrily.
"Cursed toils, indeed!" she echoed, with a contemptuous toss of her
pretty head. "The idea of a man like you setting himself up as Hugh
Trethowen's protector! It's too absurd. I wonder whether you would
still be friends were he to know the truth about you, eh?"
"It matters little," he answered sternly. "You'll keep your mouth
closed for your own sake."
"What have I to fear, pray?" she asked impatiently. "It seems you think
me a weak, impressionable schoolgirl, who will tremble under your
menaces. Why, the worst accusation you can make, is that I have been
guilty of that crime so terrible to the eyes of the hypocritical
English--unconventionality. Don't you think I could easily disprove
your statements, especially to a man who loves me?"
"Loves you!" repeated the artist, with a harsh, derisive laugh. "He
wouldn't be guilty of such romantic folly."
"You are mistaken."
"Then I can quickly put an end to his fool's paradise."
"How?" she asked breathlessly.
"I will find the means. If nothing else avails, he shall be made
acquainted with the history of La--"
"Hear me!" she interrupted fiercely. "We are both past masters in the
art of lying, John Egerton; we have both led double lives, and graduated
as deceivers. Breathe one word to him, and I swear that at any cost the
world shall know your secret. You should know by this time how futile
it is to trifle with me, especially when I hold the trump card. Hugh
has been your friend, but now he is my lover; and, furthermore, I mean
that he shall marry me."
The man was silent.
He admitted to himself that her bold, passionate words were true. He
was powerless to give his friend an insight into her true character,
fearing the consequences, and knowing too well how relentless she was,
and that she would not spare him.
"If I carry out my intentions and tell him everything--"
"Then you will suffer, and in his eyes I shall remain immaculate," she
exclaimed quickly, watching his face intently.
Calm indifference had been succeeded by a wearied, anxious expression,
and in his eyes there was a look of unutterable hatred. She waited for
him to answer, but he continued smoking thoughtfully.
"_Ne m'echauffez pas les oreilles_," she urged in a less irritated tone.
"You must admit, Jack, there are certain bonds between us that for our
own sakes must not be broken. The folly of disclosing my past to Hugh
is palpable, for it would mean speedy ruin to yourself, and be of no
possible benefit. Therefore but one solution of the difficulty
remains."
"What is it?"
"Well, I have already told you what form my revenge would take were you
to expose me, and I think you acknowledge that to tell all I know would
be most undesirable from your point of view."
He bowed in assent.
"I'm glad you admit the inefficacy of your attempt to bounce me," she
continued. "I can suggest but one thing, namely, that we resolve to
preserve our compact of secrecy."
"At the cost of my friend's happiness?"
"At any risk. But let me first assure you that Hugh's happiness will
not be jeopardised by the adoption of this course."
"There will be no--er--danger, I suppose?"
"What do you mean?"
"Men die sometimes."
"I don't understand your insinuation. I confess I love him, so it is
scarcely probable that any harm will befall him if it is in my power to
prevent it."
He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and frowned. Then he
exclaimed decisively:
"Your words have no effect upon me. I am determined he shall judge you
in your true light."
She glanced at him in anxious surprise, for, truth to tell, she was
unprepared for this bold reply. She hesitated whether she should change
her tactics, as she was well acquainted with his obdurate nature, and in
her heart feared to lose the man whose tender passion she half
reciprocated. But her quick, impetuous character quickly asserted
itself, and attained the mastery.
"You--you blighted my life!" she cried in a towering rage, her face
blanched with passion. "And even now, when I have an opportunity, you
debar me from atoning for the past, and becoming an honest woman! I am
not such a blind fool, however, as to bow calmly to your tyranny. I
have already sacrificed too much, so I give you but one chance to save
yourself."
"To save myself. Bah! you are talking nonsense."
"No, believe me, I'm not," she declared, her dark eyes flashing with
anger. "Either you give your promise of secrecy now, at once, or before
the day is out I will give you up to the police."
Jack Egerton drew a long breath, and his countenance grew visibly paler.
He was cornered, and saw no possible means of evading the dire
alternative. If he divulged the secret, it would mean disgrace, ruin,
even worse.
She smiled triumphantly at his bewilderment. It was true, as she
assured him, she held the trump card, and was playing the dangerous game
dexterously, as only a clever, scheming woman could.
"Which do you choose?" she asked in a cool, indifferent tone, as if
putting forward some very commonplace plan.
"You're an idiot," he exclaimed in vehement disgust.
"I'm well aware of that fact, _mon ami_," replied she, with a
supercilious curl of the lip. "Such a compliment is particularly
appropriate. I was an idiot to allow you to have the freedom you now
enjoy. Remember, however, I have yet a talisman that will sooner or
later cause you to cringe at my feet."
"Never."
"Then you must put up with the consequences," she answered calmly,
nervously twisting the ribbons of her sunshade. "But I warn you, that
if we are to be enemies you will find me even more merciless than
yourself. Your own folly alone will bring upon you the retribution you
so richly deserve."
"Bah! what's the use of being dramatic? If it's a fight between us,
your record is quite as black as mine."
"Ah! you would have to prove that; but in the meantime I should have the
satisfaction of seeing you sent to penal servitude. You have been
acquainted with me long enough to know that I do nothing by halves. I
am determined that now, before we part, you shall swear to keep my
secret, or I will put you in a convict's cell."
"But think of the injury you would--"
"Enough! Words are useless. You must choose now."
Her handsome face was perfectly impassive; a cruel, sarcastic smile
played about her lips.
She had been watching his features narrowly, for the pallor and the
nervous twitchings clearly showed the agitation her decisive alternative
had produced. Passionate love for Hugh Trethowen had alone prompted
her, for she saw that if this man gave him an insight into her past he
would turn his back upon her in ineffable disgust. Hers was a Bohemian
nature, and she had led a strangely adventurous life, though few were
aware of it. Her early education in the Montmartre quarter of Paris had
effectually eradicated any principles she might have originally
possessed, and up to this time she had enjoyed the freedom of being
absolute mistress of her actions. Yet, strangely enough, now she had
met Hugh, her admiration of his character had quickly developed into
that intense affection which is frequently characteristic of women of
her temperament, and she discovered that his love was indispensable to
her existence. There was but one barrier to her happiness. Egerton
knew more of the unpleasant incidents of her life than was desirable,
and for the protection of her own interests she was compelled to silence
him.
From the expression on his face she felt she had gained her point, and
rose with a feeling of absolute triumph.
"Now," she demanded impatiently, "what is your decision?"
"Your secret shall be kept on one condition only," he said, rising
slowly, and standing beside her.
"What is that, pray?"
"That no harm shall befall Hugh," he replied earnestly. "You understand
my meaning, Valerie?"
"It isn't very likely that I should allow anything of that sort to
occur. You seem to forget I love him."
The artist was convinced that her affection for his friend was
unfeigned. She was but a woman after all, he argued, and probably her
life had changed since they last met. Her answer decided him.
"Well, which will you do?" she again asked, with an anxious look.
"I will tell Hugh nothing of the past," he said briefly.
"Ah! I thought you would come to your senses at last," she exclaimed,
with a short, hysterical laugh. "Then it is a compact between us. You
take an oath of silence."
"I swear I will divulge nothing," he stammered.
Then Valerie breathed again, and it was impossible for her to hide the
satisfaction with which she regarded his words.
"Divulge nothing," she repeated, quite cheerfully. "Undoubtedly it will
be the best course, especially as we both have hideous secrets which, if
exposed, would bring inevitable ruin upon us both. Was it not Marmontel
who said `La fortune, soit bonne ou mauvaise, soit passagere ou
constante, ne peut rien sur l'ame du sage?'"
They chatted for a few moments, then moved away together in the
direction of the Floral Hall--not, however, before she exclaimed--
"If you break your oath you will bitterly repent."