A WOMAN’S LOVE
Jacob Strelitzki had vanished. He disappeared on the night of the fire,
after having seen his plans ripe for consummation, and all efforts to
trace him were made in vain. He was wanted for the official inquiry; but
it was probably in order to escape this that he had gone away. In his
absence, Horwitz was made to act as scape-goat; even the factory people
themselves laying the blame on him. But he too put all the mischief down
to the bad influence of his brother-in-law, Strelitzki; and, in common
with his fellow-workers, escaped with a severe censure and nothing more.
If Strelitzki returned he would be arrested on the charge of
incendiarism; but it was not likely that he would do so, especially as
his wife and child left Durlston a few weeks later, their destination
unknown.
Herbert Karne made slow progress towards recovery. At first he seemed,
as the doctor feared he would be, thoroughly prostrated by the shock to
the system; and his convalescence was attended by a fit of nervous
depression most difficult to combat. It was, no doubt, due to the
discouraging fact that three out of the four pictures for the Duke of
Downshire’s chapel would have to be done over again, thus entailing
months of wasted labour. He greatly regretted, also, the destruction by
fire of the best picture he had possessed of his and Celia’s mother,
which had occupied the most prominent position in the studio. He had
often imagined that this picture--the beautiful face with its coronet of
bronze-gold hair so like Celia’s, the dark eyes, the smiling lips--had
proved a source of inspiration to him when engaged at his work; and
without it, the studio, when rebuilt, would look incomplete.
Celia was due at the Havilands’ house in St. John’s Wood the week after
the fire; and although she would much have preferred to stay and nurse
her brother, she found herself unable to cancel her engagement. As the
time drew near she began to wish that she had not consented to become a
temporary actress--for that was what it amounted to. Taking Enid
Wilton’s advice, she wrote a letter to that effect to Mr. Guy Haviland,
and received an answer by return. The dramatist begged her not to
disappoint him; for he had quite set his heart on her filling the _rôle_
of Mallida, the chief character in the play; and arrangements for its
production had been fully planned. So there was nothing for it but to
submit; and having decided to go through with the venture, Celia made up
her mind to do her very best.
The Towers seemed very quiet when the two girls had gone; and its master
would have felt very lonely had it not been for the kind attention of
Lady Marjorie Stonor, who drove over to see him every day--sometimes
twice in the day. He looked forward with eagerness to her coming, for
she made a delightful companion; and being gifted with more than the
average amount of tact, knew exactly how to adapt her mood to his. She
could be loquacious or silent, gay or grave, flippant or thoughtful; it
was all one to her so long as she amused and entertained the invalid.
Their friendship had ripened considerably since the fire. They had
slipped into the habit of calling each other by their first names; he
never thought of prefixing her title now. Sometimes, when she arranged
the cushions in his chair--which, by the way, was not at all necessary,
even if he did carry his arm in a sling--she dropped a light butterfly
kiss on his forehead; and then smiled at him naïvely, like a child who
has been guilty of some particularly audacious trick. And everything she
did, came so naturally and sweetly from her, that there seemed nothing
extraordinary in her guileless intimacy towards him.
Herbert Karne told himself over and over again, that for the sake of his
honour and her happiness he ought to repel her advances, as he had done
before. He knew that he and she were drifting towards a rock marked
_dangerous_, and that shipwreck would inevitably ensue. He knew it; but
he was weakened by illness: he seemed to have lost all his power of
resistance. What is a man to do when a pretty woman--and a good
woman--looks love at him out of baby blue eyes, and practises all the
artless wiles of her sex to enslave him? When Lady Marjorie chose to be
charming, she was very charming indeed. It would have needed a veritable
misanthropist to have withstood her, when once she had made up her mind
to conquer.
And so the days sped on--days full of poetry, romance, and love-dreams;
and one afternoon the climax came. They were having a _tête-à-tête_ tea
in the drawing-room, when, as it happened, Reggie Stannard dropped in to
inquire how the artist was going on. In the hall he was waylaid by young
Bobbie Stonor, who wished to ask his advice about a peg-top he was
endeavouring to spin. Bobbie was in the habit of roaming about the house
when his mother visited Mr. Karne, for the lore of love had no interest
for him. In the course of conversation, he referred to the new papa he
was going to have; and, on being questioned, said that his nurse had
told him that Mr. Karne would soon be his papa. So Stannard came to the
conclusion that Herbert Karne must be engaged to Lady Marjorie Stonor, a
conviction which was deepened when he entered the drawing-room to find
the two sitting opposite each other at a small tea-table with their
faces close together, conversing in low tones.
They evidently did not hear Higgins announce him; so in order to attract
their attention, he coughed somewhat significantly. Lady Marjorie jumped
up as if she had been shot. Herbert Karne, however, retained his
equilibrium.
“Ha, Reggie, glad to see you!” he said, extending his uninjured arm.
“When did you arrive? We did not hear you come in.”
The young fellow shook hands with Lady Marjorie. “Only a few minutes
ago,” he replied. “I have been talking to Bobs in the hall. I hope
I--er--do not intrude?”--looking from one to the other with a glance of
meaning.
“Not at all,” answered Karne, quickly. “A visit from you could never be
an intrusion.”
Reggie was young and correspondingly imprudent. “It is very kind of you
to say so,” he rejoined, accepting the cup of tea which Lady Marjorie
handed to him. “Only two is company and three is none, isn’t it? May
I--er--be the first to offer my--er--congratulations--and all that sort
of thing, don’t you know?”
The colour flamed into Lady Marjorie’s cheeks.
“Congratulations?” repeated Herbert, with a puzzled air. “Oh; on my
recovery, I suppose! Yes, I am going on very nicely, thank you, Reggie;
my arm is nearly well.”
He hoped that the _contretemps_ was averted, but unfortunately it was
not. The young man had less gumption than he gave him credit for.
“Oh--er--I didn’t mean that,” he pursued provokingly. “I--er--that is to
say--I was told that you and her ladyship were going to make a match of
it, so to speak. I was delighted to hear the news.”
Karne’s brow clouded. “I am afraid that you have been misinformed,” he
replied evenly, not trusting himself to look at Lady Marjorie; and
Reggie Stannard, feeling somehow that he had blundered, begged his
pardon and changed the subject.
Lady Marjorie’s feelings were in a tumult, but she joined in the
conversation with merry vivacity; and Stannard had not the faintest idea
that her gaiety was strained, and that she was longing for him to go all
the time. Karne knew, however, and watched her in silence. He felt like
a patient who awaits the surgeon’s knife. If there must needs be pain,
he wanted to get it over quickly.
There was an awkward silence when Stannard eventually left. They both
felt that there was something to be said; and neither knew exactly how
to begin.
At last Lady Marjorie came over and stood by his chair.
“Am I so very distasteful to you, then, Herbert?” she said.
“Distasteful? What an idea!” he replied, not meeting her gaze. “Why, a
man never had a more indefatigable nurse or truer friend than you,
Marjorie.”
“And yet you denied the rumour that Stannard brought as calmly as if it
meant nothing,” she rejoined, her words coming with difficulty. “And
I--oh, how can I say it? Herbert, I can’t repress my feelings any
longer. You may despise me for telling you, but I can’t help it. I love
you. _I love you!_ And all the world knows it except yourself.”
“Because I dare not know it; I must not know it,” he exclaimed
impetuously. “Love cannot be for me.”
The blow had fallen; the pain was worse than he had anticipated. How
could he tell the woman who believed in him that he had deceived her;
that he had stolen her love under false pretences?
He looked up and saw the tender love-light in her eyes. She reminded him
of a child waiting to be fondled and petted; she evidently had not taken
in the meaning of his words. Rising, he paced the room--as was his
custom when disturbed--and because of his agitation, his manner seemed
almost harsh.
“Marjorie!” She looked up eagerly, but her heart sank as she noted the
expression on his face. “Marjorie, I’m a cad and a scoundrel. I am going
to hurt you: it ought to have been done long ago, then it wouldn’t have
been so bad. When Stannard congratulated us like that, my first impulse
was to accept his congratulations for us both. Then I remembered I
couldn’t, because--I’m not free. Nearly twelve years ago, when I was
just twenty-one, I was married, and, though I know not where she is, my
wife still lives.”
“Married!” She uttered an exclamation of astonished dismay, and caught
hold of the table to steady herself. Herbert thought she was going to
faint, for every vestige of colour left her face; but she did not.
Instead, she threw herself on to the couch and covered her face with her
hands. Married. _Married!_ Oh, if he had met his death on the night of
the fire she could have borne it better than this!
He half expected her to overwhelm him with reproaches; but she was one
of those sweet-natured women who will kiss the hand that strikes them
down. He was her hero, and she loved him, and nothing that he had done
could alter that fact. But her face, when she turned it towards him, was
a greater reproach than any words could have been. All the brightness,
the vivacity, seemed to have been suddenly crushed out of it; she had
grown years older in a moment of time.
“Will you tell me all about it?” she said presently, in a voice quite
unlike her own. “I am sorry to have to rake up what I presume is a--a
painful subject, but I think I--ought to know.”
“Yes; you have a right to know,” he rejoined dully. “Twelve years ago I
studied art in Paris. There I met a girl, who, from the first day I knew
her, exercised a peculiar fascination over me. Her name was Ninette
Douste, her father being Scotch, her mother French, and although so
young she was already a widow, her husband having been lost at sea.
Ninette was an artist’s model in the daytime, and a dancer in the
evening; and although of doubtful reputation, was always anxious to
impress upon me the fact that her father was a gentleman. She was fairly
well-educated herself, but erratic and unprincipled in the extreme. All
the money she earned went to back horses; it seemed quite unnatural for
such a young girl to be so infatuated with racing. She laughed at me
when I remonstrated with her about it, and called me a prude. Well,
Ninette and I eventually got engaged, although, being as variable and
capricious as the wind, she broke off the engagement about two or three
times a week. I don’t think she ever loved me--she always treated me
with good-humoured contempt; but I was a young fool, and she had me
completely under her spell. We were married, without the knowledge of my
parents, at the English Consulate in Paris, and intended going to
Montmorency for our honeymoon. On the afternoon of the wedding, however,
I received a telegram announcing the death of my mother, which
necessitated my going home immediately; for my step-father, Bernie
Franks, was away in South Africa. I left Ninette in Paris until--after
the funeral--I could settle our future plans. When I returned, she had
vanished, and I have never seen her from that day to this.”
Lady Marjorie uttered an exclamation of surprise. “Did you not make
inquiries?” she asked eagerly.
“Yes, I made full inquiries, but in vain, and to be candid, I was not
dissatisfied with the result. When I returned to England, and mixed
among my friends again, I saw how foolish I had been to imagine I could
be happy with a woman of Ninette’s calibre: the scales seemed to
suddenly fall from my eyes. Then the responsibility of Celia’s
up-bringing devolved upon my shoulders; and I was secretly glad to think
that she would be spared the undesirable companionship of my wife. Celia
is still unaware of my marriage.”
“And did you never hear anything of your--your wife?”
“Yes. I received a letter from her a few months after the wedding asking
for money, but vouchsafing no explanation of her strange conduct. I went
to the address--it was in London--and found it to be a small stationer’s
shop. The woman in charge said a foreign man always came for the
letters, but he spoke little English, and she knew nothing about him.
Without pursuing my quest further I sent the money, and asked Ninette to
come back to me, or at least to grant an interview. She refused to do
either, and wrote that she considered our marriage a mistake, adding
that as long as I sent her a little money occasionally, for her
favourite pastime, she would trouble me no further. I was not sorry to
get out of the wood that way, and complied with her request, generally
sending the money to the _Poste Restante_, Paris. After a while,
however, I grew tired of despatching large sums to be squandered on
betting, and told her so, whereupon she threatened to come to Durlston
and assume her rightful place as mistress of the Towers. She evidently
knew that I had some sort of a position there; and that for a wife--and
such a wife--to suddenly appear on the scene would reflect discredit
upon myself. That was about three or four years ago; and curiously
enough, I have had no word from her since. I began to believe that she
must be dead; but a friend of mine--the only one who knows my
secret--has seen her twice during the last six months, once at Monte
Carlo, and the second time alighting from a Channel boat at Dover. On
both occasions he tried to get an opportunity of speaking to her, but
she evaded him, and he lost her in the crowd. So that is how the matter
stands, Marjorie. I have not a wife in the true sense of the word, yet I
am fettered by the marriage laws. It is a cruel predicament for a man to
be placed in.”
“Why did you not tell me all this before?” she said, with the first
touch of reproach. “Oh, it was cruel of you to pose as a bachelor all
this time--especially cruel towards me. I would have died rather than
have confessed my love, had I known the truth.”
She spoke quite calmly, but she could not repress the tear which
trembled on her lash. It wended its way down her cheek when Karne
admitted that he had been cruel, foolish, and weak; woman-like she could
not bear to hear him blame himself.
And then she began to think of the future--her lonely, empty future. All
the castles she had built in the air--the happy day-dreams of a life
blessed with love--struck down at one blow. She had been living in a
fool’s paradise; now she would reap the consequences of her folly.
Suddenly a new thought seemed to strike her; and an eager yet
half-frightened expression came into her eyes.
“Herbert, if you were free, would you marry me?” she questioned, in a
low tremulous voice. “Don’t be afraid of hurting me; I want to know the
truth.”
“I would marry you to-morrow if I could,” he answered despondently. “Do
you think this doesn’t hurt me as well as you? I am not quite such a
brute as to filch a woman’s love, and then toss it aside without caring,
Marjorie. Besides, you’ve been so sweet and good to me. A man couldn’t
know you as I do, without loving you and wanting to be loved in return.
I’ve tried to steel my heart against you all along, but it was
impossible. Love is so strong; it will not be bound down by rules and
regulations: it has been too powerful for you and me.”
“Yes, love is strong,” she repeated breathlessly. “Stronger than death.
We can’t stifle its promptings any more than we can stay the flow of the
waves. It’s the future I’m thinking of, dearest, the future. What shall
we do?... What shall we do?... Nobody knows about your wife--nobody need
know.... Couldn’t we--just you and I--go right away, out of England,
perhaps, and---- Oh, God, what am I saying? Herbert, Herbert, you have
broken my heart!”
She hid her face in the silken sofa-cushions, and burst into a torrent
of weeping. For the moment she felt as if she could never look any one
in the face again. An overwhelming sense of shame took possession of her
whole being. Worst of all, she had lost her self-respect in the eyes of
the man she loved!
But Herbert knew that her words were the result of a mind distorted by
anguish, for it was surely not the pure and virtuous Marjorie who thus
set herself forth as temptress! Flinging himself down by the couch, he
tried to comfort and soothe her, begging her forgiveness for the
suffering he had caused. And then he reminded her, that, in spite of the
dreariness of the outlook, she still would have the comfort of her
child.
“Yes, thank God I have my child!” she murmured brokenly. “Life would not
be worth living--now--without Bobbie.”
Presently the clock struck six--the time she usually went home. She rose
to her feet and dried her eyes; and scarcely had she done so ere the
door opened to admit her little son, armed with her cloak and hat.
Fortunately, being dusk, he did not notice the unwonted dejection of her
manner, or that her eyes were red with weeping.
Lady Marjorie sent him off to see if the carriage had arrived; then,
when the last sound of his little feet trotting down the stairs died
away, she turned once more towards Karne.
“This must be our good-bye, Herbert,” she said, in a muffled voice. “Of
course I cannot come here any more. Do not tell Celia the reason; I
would rather she did not know.”
“As you wish,” he replied gloomily. “You’ve no idea how I shall miss
your visits, Marjorie. Must it really be good-bye?”
“Yes,” she rejoined quickly. “To look into your eyes, to hear you
speak, would be torture to me now--I couldn’t bear it. Away from you I
may be able to forget. That is what will be my chief aim in the
future--to forget.”
“Perhaps some day--” he began hopefully. But she shook her head. His
wife was just as likely to live as long as either of themselves.
“I wonder if you will ever really forgive me?” he added sadly. “I shall
never forgive myself.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” she said, true to the innate sweetness of
her nature. “There was no adequate reason why you should have kept your
marriage a secret from me all these years; it was quite unnecessary. But
we all make mistakes sometimes. It was not your fault that I was so
foolish as to give my love unasked.”
She paused, for Bobbie reappeared upon the scene. Herbert wished to
escort his visitors to the carriage; but Lady Marjorie reminded him that
he was still an invalid: it was cold and draughty downstairs.
Bobbie endorsed her statement; and advised him to remain where he was.
“I’ll ’scort mother,” he said cheerfully. “I know how to take care of
her quite as well as any growed-up person. Come along, mother. You’ll be
all right with me.”
“I am glad that you have such a worthy protector,” Herbert said in a low
voice, aside. “I trust he may ever be as attentive as he is now.”
“I trust so,” she rejoined, the tears springing to her eyes.
“Good-bye--Mr. Karne.”
She held out her small ungloved hand. He pressed it gently, then almost
reverently raised it to his lips.
“Good-bye, Lady Marjorie--good-bye.”
One last look--and then she was gone. All the freshness and brightness
of the room seemed to go with her. Herbert shivered, and rang the bell
for a lamp; for some inexplicable reason he could not endure the glare
of the electric light just then. All the evening he remained in his
chair, deep in thought; and having left his dinner untested, went
despondently to bed.
On the following afternoon, the weather being congenial, he went for a
stroll. Almost involuntarily his steps turned towards Durlston House,
although he had not the slightest intention of calling there. To his
surprise he found all the blinds down, the house having an unwonted
appearance of desertion. Without pausing to think twice, he rang the
bell, and inquired for Lady Marjorie Stonor. The lodge-keeper informed
him that her mistress had left suddenly for London, where she intended
leaving her son at school. From thence she would proceed to Paris _en
route_ for the South. More she did not know.
Karne thanked the woman and turned away. Suddenly he paused, and looking
up at the silent windows, raised his hat, as though greeting a friend.
“Poor Marjorie!” he exclaimed softly to himself, heaving a deep sigh.
“Poor little Marjorie!”
Then, squaring his shoulders, he resumed his walk.