ONE of the greatest factors in the preservation of the Baroness’s beauty
had been her ability to sleep under all conditions. The woman who can
and does sleep eight or nine hours out of each twenty-four is well armed
against the onslaught of time and trouble.
To say that such women do not possess heart enough or feeling enough to
suffer is ofttimes most untrue.
Insomnia is a disease of the nerves or of the stomach, rather than the
result of extreme emotion. Sometimes the people who sleep the most
profoundly at night in times of sorrow, suffer the more intensely during
their waking hours. Disguised as a friend, deceitful Slumber comes to
them only to strengthen their powers of suffering, and to lend a new edge
to pain.
The Baroness was not without feeling. Her temperament was far from
phlegmatic. She had experienced great cyclones of grief and loss in her
varied career, though many years had elapsed since she had known what the
French call a “white night.”
But the night following her interview with Preston Cheney she never
closed her eyes in sleep. It was in vain that she tried all known
recipes for producing slumber. She said the alphabet backward ten times;
she counted one thousand; she conjured up visions of sheep jumping the
time-honoured fence in battalions, yet the sleep god never once drew
near.
“I am certainly a brilliant illustration of the saying that there is no
fool like an old fool,” she said to herself as the night wore on, and the
strange sensation of pain and loss which Preston Cheney’s unexpected
announcement had caused her gnawed at her breast like a rat in a
wainscot.
That she had been unusually interested in the young editor she knew from
the first; that she had been mortally wounded by Cupid’s shaft she only
now discovered. She had passed through a divorce, two “affairs” and a
legitimate widowhood, without feeling any of the keen emotions which now
drove sleep from her eyes. A long time ago, longer than she cared to
remember, she had experienced such emotions, but she had supposed such
folly only possible in the high tide of early youth. It was absurd, nay
more, it was ridiculous to lie awake at her time of life thinking about a
penniless country youth whose mother she might almost have been. In this
bitterly frank fashion the Baroness reasoned with herself as she lay
quite still in her luxurious bed, and tried to sleep.
Yet despite her frankness, her philosophy and her reasoning, the rasping
hurt at her heart remained—a hurt so cruel it seemed to her the end of
all peace or pleasure in life.
It is harder to bear the suffocating heat of a late September day which
the year sometimes brings, than all the burning June suns.
The Baroness heard the click of Preston’s key in the street door, and she
listened to his slow step as he ascended the stairs. She heard him
pause, too, and waited for the sound of the opening of his room door,
which was situated exactly above her own. But she listened in vain, her
ears, brain and heart on the alert with surprise, curiosity, and at last
suspicion. The Baroness was as full of curiosity as a cat.
It was not until just before dawn that she heard his step in the hall,
and his door open and close.
An hour later a sharp ring came at the street door bell. A message for
Mr Preston, the servant said, in answer to her mistress’s question as she
descended from the room above.
“Was Mr Preston awake when you rapped on his door?” asked the Baroness.
“Yes, madame, awake and dressed.”
Mr Preston ran hurriedly through the halls and out to the street a moment
later; and the Baroness, clothed in a dressing-gown and silken slippers,
tiptoed lightly to his room. The bed had not been occupied the whole
night. On the table lay a note which the young man had begun when
interrupted by the message which he had thrown down beside it.
The Baroness glanced at the note, on which the ink was still moist, and
read, “My dear Miss Lawrence, I want you to release me from the ties
formed only yesterday—I am basely unworthy—” here the note ended. She
now turned her attention to the message which had prevented the
completion of the letter. It was signed by Judge Lawrence and ran as
follows:—
“MY DEAR BOY,—My wife was taken mortally ill this morning just before
daybreak. She cannot live many hours, our physician says. Mabel is
in a state of complete nervous prostration caused by the shock of
this calamity. I wish you would come to us at once. I fear for my
dear child’s reason unless you prove able to calm and quiet her
through this ordeal. Hasten then, my dear son; every moment before
you arrive will seem an age of sorrow and anxiety to me.
“S. LAWRENCE.”
A strange smile curved the corners of the Baroness’s lips as she finished
reading this note and tiptoed down the stairs to her own room again.
Meantime the hour for her hot water arrived, and Berene did not appear.
The Baroness drank a quart of hot water every morning as a tonic for her
system, and another quart after breakfast to reduce her flesh. Her
excellent digestive powers and the clear condition of her blood she
attributed largely to this habit.
After a few moments she rang the bell vigorously. Maggie, the
chambermaid, came in answer to the call.
“Please ask Miss Dumont” (Berene was always known to the other servants
as Miss Dumont) “to hurry with the hot water,” the Baroness said.
“Miss Dumont has not yet come downstairs, madame.”
“Not come down? Then will you please call her, Maggie?”
The Baroness was always polite to her servants. She had observed that a
graciousness of speech toward her servants often made up for a deficiency
in wages. Maggie ascended to Miss Dumont’s room, and returned with the
information that Miss Dumont had a severe headache, and begged the
indulgence of madame this morning.
Again that strange smile curved the corners of the Baroness’s lips.
Maggie was requested to bring up hot water and coffee, and great was her
surprise to find the Baroness moving about the room when she appeared
with the tray.
Half-an-hour later Berene Dumont, standing by an open window with her
hands clasped behind her head, heard a light tap on her door. In answer
to a mechanical “Come,” the Baroness appeared.
The rustle of her silken morning gown caused Berene to turn suddenly and
face her; and as she met the eyes of her visitor the young woman’s pallor
gave place to a wave of deep crimson, which dyed her face and neck like
the shadow of a red flag falling on a camellia blossom.
“Maggie tells me you are ill this morning,” the Baroness remarked after a
moment’s silence. “I am surprised to find you up and dressed. I came to
see if I could do anything for you.”
“You are very kind,” Berene answered, while in her heart she thought how
cruel was the expression in the face of the woman before her, and how
faded she appeared in the morning light. “But I think I shall be quite
well in a little while, I only need to keep quiet for a few hours.”
“I fear you passed a sleepless night,” the Baroness remarked with a
solicitous tone, but with the same cruel smile upon her lips. “I see you
never opened your bed. Something must have been in the air to keep us
all awake. I did not sleep an hour, and Mr Cheney never entered his room
till near morning. Yet I can understand his wakefulness—he announced his
engagement to Miss Mabel Lawrence to me last evening, and a young man is
not expected to woo sleep easily after taking such an important step as
that. Judge Lawrence sent for him a few hours ago to come and support
Miss Mabel during the trial that the day is to bring them in the death of
Mrs Lawrence. The physician has predicted the poor invalid’s near end.
Sorrow follows close on joy in this life.”
There was a moment’s silence; then Miss Dumont said: “I think I will try
to get a little sleep now, madame. I thank you for your kind interest in
me.”
The Baroness descended to her room humming an air from an old opera, and
settled to the task of removing as much as possible all evidences of
fatigue and sleeplessness from her countenance.
It has been said very prettily of the spruce-tree, that it keeps the
secret of its greenness well; so well that we hardly know when it sheds
its leaves. There are women who resemble the spruce in their perennial
youth, and the vigilance with which they guard the secret of it. The
Baroness was one of these. Only her mirror shared this secret.
She was an adept at the art of preservation, and greatly as she disliked
physical exertion, she toiled laboriously over her own person an hour at
least every day, and never employed a maid to assist her. One’s rival
might buy one’s maid, she reasoned, and it was well to have no confidant
in these matters.
She slipped off her dressing-gown and corset and set herself to the task
of pinching and mauling her throat, arms and shoulders, to remove
superfluous flesh, and strengthen muscles and fibres to resist the flabby
tendencies which time produces. Then she used the dumb-bells vigorously
for fifteen minutes, and that was followed by five minutes of relaxation.
Next she lay on the floor flat upon her face, her arms across her back,
and lifted her head and chest twenty-five times. This exercise was to
replace flesh with muscle across the abdomen. Then she rose to her feet,
set her small heels together, turned her toes out squarely, and, keeping
her body upright bent her knees out in a line with her hips, sinking and
rising rapidly fifteen times. This produced pliancy of the body, and
induced a healthy condition of the loins and adjacent organs.
To further fight against the deadly enemy of obesity, she lifted her arms
above her head slowly until she touched her finger tips, at the same time
rising upon her tiptoes, while she inhaled a long breath, and as slowly
dropped to her heels, and lowered her arms while she exhaled her breath.
While these exercises had been taking place, a tin cup of water had been
coming to the boiling point over an alcohol lamp. This was now poured
into a china bowl containing a small quantity of sweet milk, which was
always brought on her breakfast tray.
The Baroness seated herself before her mirror, in a glare of cruel light
which revealed every blemish in her complexion, every line about the
mouth and eyes.
“You are really hideously passée, mon amie,” she observed as she peered
at herself searchingly; “but we will remedy all that.”
Dipping a soft linen handkerchief in the bowl of steaming milk and water,
she applied it to her face, holding it closely over the brow and eyes and
about the mouth, until every pore was saturated and every weary drawn
tissue fed and strengthened by the tonic. After this she dashed ice-cold
water over her face. Still there were little folds at the corners of the
eyelids, and an ugly line across the brow, and these were manipulated
with painstaking care, and treated with mysterious oils and fragrant
astringents and finally washed in cool toilet water and lightly brushed
with powder, until at the end of an hour’s labour, the face of the
Baroness had resumed its roseleaf bloom and transparent smoothness for
which she was so famous. And when by the closest inspection at the
mirror, in the broadest light, she saw no flaw in skin, hair, or teeth,
the Baroness proceeded to dress for a drive. Even the most jealous rival
would have been obliged to concede that she looked like a woman of
twenty-eight, that most fascinating of all ages, as she took her seat in
the carriage.
In the early days of her life in Beryngford, when as the Baroness Le
Fevre she had led society in the little town, Mrs Lawrence had been one
of her most devoted friends; Judge Lawrence one of her most earnest, if
silent admirers. As “Baroness Brown” and as the landlady of “The Palace”
she had still maintained her position as friend of the family, and the
Lawrences, secure in their wealth and power, had allowed her to do so,
where some of the lower social lights had dropped her from their visiting
lists.
The Baroness seemed to exercise a sort of hypnotic power over the
fretful, nervous invalid who shared Judge Lawrence’s name, and this
influence was not wholly lost upon the Judge himself, who never looked
upon the Baroness’s abundant charms, glowing with health, without giving
vent to a profound sigh like some hungry child standing before a
confectioner’s window.
The news of Mrs Lawrence’s dangerous illness was voiced about the town by
noon, and therefore the Baroness felt safe in calling at the door to make
inquiries, and to offer any assistance which she might be able to render.
Knowing her intimate relations with the mistress of the house, the
servant admitted her to the parlour and announced her presence to Judge
Lawrence, who left the bedside of the invalid to tell the caller in
person that Mrs Lawrence had fallen into a peaceful slumber, and that
slight hopes were entertained of her possible recovery. Scarcely had the
words passed his lips, however, when the nurse in attendance hurriedly
called him. “Mrs Lawrence is dead!” she cried. “She breathed only twice
after you left the room.”
The Baroness, shocked and startled, rose to go, feeling that her presence
longer would be an intrusion.
“Do not go,” cried the Judge in tones of distress. “Mabel is nearly
distracted, and this news will excite her still further. We thought this
morning that she was on the verge of serious mental disorder. I sent for
her fiancé, Mr Cheney, and he has calmed her somewhat. You always
exerted a soothing and restful influence over my wife, and you may have
the same power with Mabel. Stay with us, I beg of you, through the
afternoon at least.”
The Baroness sent her carriage home and remained in the Lawrence mansion
until the following morning. The condition of Miss Lawrence was indeed
serious. She passed from one attack of hysteria to another, and it
required the constant attention of her fiancé and her mother’s friend to
keep her from acts of violence.
It was after midnight when she at last fell asleep, and Preston Cheney in
a state of complete exhaustion was shown to a room, while the Baroness
remained at the bedside of Miss Lawrence.
When the Baroness and Mr Cheney returned to the Palace they were struck
with consternation to learn that Miss Dumont had packed her trunk and
departed from Beryngford on the three o’clock train the previous day.
A brief note thanking the Baroness for her kindness, and stating that she
had imposed upon that kindness quite too long, was her only farewell.
There was no allusion to her plans or her destination, and all inquiry
and secret search failed to find one trace of her. She seemed to vanish
like a phantom from the face of the earth.
No one had seen her leave the Palace, save the laundress, Mrs Connor; and
little this humble personage dreamed that Fate was reserving for her an
important rôle in the drama of a life as yet unborn.