While he worked she always preserved perfect silence. It was their
rule. For hours she would sit scarcely moving a muscle, her attention
engaged by a newspaper, a novel, or some fancy needlework, unless,
perhaps, he addressed her, asking an opinion or advice. Then she would
usually reply briefly and to the point, and resume her reading without
disturbing her pose in the smallest degree.
Beside her, on a little inlaid pearl table, stood the cup of tea Mrs.
O'Shea had brought her an hour before, but which had been left almost
untasted, so absorbed was she in her book. She did not notice that the
artist had laid aside his palette, and was cleaning his brushes, until
he exclaimed,--
"That will do for to-day, Dolly. You must be awfully tired and cramped,
for we've had an unusually long spell."
His voice recalled her to consciousness. Stretching both arms above her
head, she gave a stifled yawn, and slowly rose from her couch with a
languid grace. Slipping her foot into the shoe, she stepped down to
where he was standing.
"Why, what's the time?" she asked, noticing it was growing dusk.
"Half-past six," he replied. "I've an engagement to dine at the
Vagabond Club at the Holborn at seven, therefore I haven't much time to
lose. By Jove!" he added admiringly, "you look absolutely bewitching,
my little _houri_. If Hugh could only see you now, 'pon my honour he'd
go down on his knees and propose straight away."
"You think so, do you?" she asked artlessly, laughing and glancing down
at her gauzy dress, a fair, bright-eyed odalisque. Then she grew
serious, and examined the picture. "You've certainly made very good
progress this afternoon with everything except the hand. The high light
is scarcely perfect," she added, fixing her gaze upon the canvas, and
moving across the studio to study the effect from the opposite
direction.
"I must finish that to-morrow," the artist said, as he carefully wiped a
small brush, and placed it aside. "The light has not been good for the
last hour or more."
"The fingers, too, want retouching. They look just a trifle too stiff,"
she continued, with the air of a critic.
"Yes, I have noticed that. But I must now go and make myself
presentable, for I haven't a moment to lose. Run and dress yourself,
there's a good girl."
Already she was plaiting her hair, and coiling it deftly upon her head.
"Very well," she said, and tripped lightly away; but, losing a slipper
in her walk, she was compelled to stop and recover it.
Then she disappeared into the small room adjacent, sacred to her use for
purposes of dressing, and sometimes of resting after the fatigue of
posing for prolonged periods.
Egerton, who laughed over the refractory slipper, and chaffed her
good-humouredly, declaring that she let it slip off in order to attract
his attention to the smallness of her foot, cleaned his palette, knocked
the ashes from his pipe, and also left the studio.
When alone in her room, Dolly drew from her pocket a letter in a firm,
masculine hand, which she had received at her home before leaving that
morning.
"An evening at the Empire will perhaps brighten me up. At all events,
it will be a change," she thought, after she had glanced over the note.
"Besides, what harm is there? I don't care two pins for the fellow,
but--nobody cares for me," she added, with a little disconsolate sigh.
Replacing the note in its envelope, she quickly divested herself of her
transparent garments, and assumed a more unromantic and conventional
attire. Having finished, she went to Mrs. O'Shea's room to have her
usual chat before returning home.
To-night, however, she did not remain long, for almost as soon as Jack
Egerton had left the house she also followed.
The clocks were striking half-past seven as she entered Victoria
Station, and was joined by a tall, dark man in evening dress, who raised
his hat, smiled, and grasped her hand warmly. She had met him for the
first time a fortnight before. While travelling in a train between
Clapham and Waterloo he had spoken to her, and she being nothing loth to
a mild flirtation, an acquaintance soon sprang up between them. Already
they had spent several evenings together, and she had found him a very
pleasant companion. Dolly Vivian was essentially a _fin de siecle_
girl. Although admitting in her own mind that to dine and visit music
halls with a man about whom she knew almost nothing was scarcely proper,
yet the cause of her sudden longing for pleasure was not far to seek.
Since Hugh's departure for Brussels she had been gloomy and despondent,
for it had been proved to her beyond doubt that he cared nothing for
her, but was madly in love with the voluble foreign woman, who seemed to
exercise a power over him that was incomprehensible. She had bidden
farewell to the man she loved with every fibre of her being, and was now
growing world-weary and careless. Her sister had died a year before,
and she now found life in a mean, gloomy lodging, with her aged mother,
very lonely and dull. In this spirit she met Henry Mansell, her new
acquaintance, and discovered that the pleasures of variety
entertainments drove away her sad thoughts. Her Bohemian nature longed
to penetrate into phases of society hitherto forbidden to her, and she
looked upon this as an opportunity for gratifying it. Egerton, who
admired both her beauty and her many sterling qualities, frequently took
her to concerts and theatres, but as their friendship was purely
platonic, and, as during the years of their acquaintance he had never
hinted at affection, his companionship at places of entertainment had
become monotonous. Mansell, who flattered her, indulged her whims, and
paid her those delicate attentions that women love, was more to her
taste in her present state of mind. He spent his money freely upon her,
and appeared infatuated with her beauty, while she, neither
inexperienced nor _gauche_, was content that he should entertain her.
Briefly, she was but a London girl of to-day, a single example of
thousands of others who have a _penchant_ for fast life, and who gratify
it without overstepping the bounds--who rub shoulders with the
_demi-monde_, but who are not of it. True they copy the "creature" in
her clothes, her appearance, and even her manners, but the imitation is
due to the fact that to be considered a trifle "fast" is alas! nowadays
considered good form.
Dolly's movements that evening were scarcely those of the modest
retiring girl she really was, and would have caused the artist much
surprise had he been watching her.
From Victoria they drove to a cafe in Regent Street, where they dined
together, walking thence along Coventry Street to the Empire Theatre.
After half an hour in the stalls they went upstairs to the circle
promenade, that recognised resort of the _jeunesse doree_, and strolled
up and down among the gay crowd. The brilliant light, the dreamy music
of the ballet, and the ever-shifting figures around, combined, perhaps,
with the wine she had taken, exhilarated her.
Among the crowd of men who passed up and down, there was one who watched
them closely, but unobserved. A dozen times he sauntered past, cigar in
mouth and hands in pocket, as if merely killing time like the others.
Yet, had Dolly glanced up at the opportune moment, she would have seen
meaning glances exchanged between her companion and the man who was
keeping observation upon them so mysteriously.
But the pretty model was unsuspecting, and the man, after shadowing them
for nearly an hour, went to the bar, and stood drinking, but in a
position whereby he could observe their movements through the glass
partition.
Presently Dolly and her companion returned to their seats, and sat for
some time watching the performance.
"I must really be going now," Dolly said to her companion, as, an hour
afterwards, they sat opposite each other in a private room at a
neighbouring restaurant finishing their meal. "I've enjoyed myself very
much indeed; I'm sure it's awfully kind of you to be so good to me."
"Not at all. I'm pleased you haven't been bored," he replied gallantly.
"And I hope you'll honour me with your company on another occasion.
Shall we arrange for one night early next week?"
"As you like," she answered, smiling.
"Very well; I'll write making an appointment, and we'll spend an hour or
two at some other hall--the Alhambra, or the Palace."
"I left my cape outside in the passage. I'll fetch it, and commence to
get ready," she said, and rising suddenly, left the room in search of
her outdoor attire.
The moment he was alone her admirer reached over the table quickly, and
took up her emptied wineglass. From his vest pocket he produced a tiny
phial, the contents of which he poured into the glass, then, taking up
the champagne, filled both his own glass and hers, replacing the latter
in the position where it had originally been. It was accomplished in a
few seconds, for scarcely had he put down the bottle before she
reappeared.
When she had assumed her cape, and tied her veil by the aid of the dingy
mirror over the mantelshelf, she noticed her glass had been refilled.
"I really don't think I ought to drink any more," she exclaimed. "I'm
not used to so much, and it might affect me."
"Oh, I assure you it won't," declared Mansell, laughing. "It's a good
brand, and I can recommend it. Besides the night is chilly."
He was watching her face narrowly, but he assumed a well-feigned air of
unconcern. His argument, however, convinced her that another glass
would do her no harm, thereupon she raised it to her lips and drank it.
Being in a hurry to return home, she noticed no peculiar taste about it,
and the man smiled faintly with self-satisfaction.
"I have to go to King's Cross, so I'll drive you home if you'll allow
me," he suggested, as they descended to the street, and to this proposal
she gladly acquiesced.
Outside they entered a brougham that was apparently awaiting them--and
which Mansell incidentally remarked was his own--and were quickly driven
along Shaftesbury Avenue, on their way to King's Cross.
Scarcely had they been in the carriage five minutes when she was seized
with a sudden giddiness and faintness. At first she struggled against
it, trying to rouse herself, for she attributed it to the wine she had
consumed, combined with the heated atmosphere. Recognising the disgrace
which would fall upon her should she return to her mother intoxicated,
she determined that her companion should notice no difference in her
manner. In the shifting lights that flashed into the carriage she felt
confident that he would be unable to detect any change in her. It was
by her voice alone that he could discover her intoxication, and,
therefore, she continued the conversation in what she believed was the
same tone as before.
Yet, as they drove along, the strange, sickening sensation increased,
her eyes burned, and an acute pain on the top of her head caused a
feeling as if her brain were a leaden weight. With alarm she became
aware that it was gradually taking possession of her senses, and that to
bear up against it was unavailing. Confused noises sounded in her ears,
her breath became short, and she fancied she was falling from a great
height. Then all the objects and lights in the street seemed to dance
about her, and, with a suppressed groan, she sank back into the corner
of the carriage inert and insensible.
The man by her side watched her gradually lapsing into unconsciousness
with evident satisfaction, and, having taken both her arms and worked
them up and down violently to assure himself of her total insensibility,
he shouted to the coachman that he would go to another address--one
which necessitated the brougham being driven back towards the place
whence they had started.
Two hours afterwards a strange scene was presented in a house that stood
by itself in the centre of a market garden, in a lonely position
surrounded by fields midway between Twickenham and Isleworth.
In a small, bare attic, carpetless and almost devoid of furniture, the
inanimate form of Dolly Vivian lay crouched in a rickety armchair. The
feeble light of a guttering candle revealed the closed eyes and
deathlike pallor of the features, while her breathing was almost
imperceptible, so completely had the drug accomplished its work.
Near her stood Mansell and the man who had dogged their movements during
the evening.
The wind had risen and was moaning mournfully around the house, causing
the windows to rattle, and creating weird noises in the stillness of the
night.
Suddenly a door creaked below. Both men started, and looked at one
another.
"Listen! What's that?" asked Mansell in an awed voice.
"Nothing; merely the wind," the other replied sharply.