NINETTE TELLS HER STORY
“Did you notice what magnificent diamonds Mrs. Neville Williams wore
last night?” said Celia to her brother the following morning. “Mrs.
Haviland says they belong to the Wallingcourt family, and that there has
been some amount of litigation about them. Fancy her wearing jewels that
are not her own!”
Herbert Karne made no remark, for to discuss Mrs. Neville Williams with
his sister was impossible under existing circumstances. Celia had called
for him at his hotel; and was engaged in looking over a pile of
newspaper cuttings concerning the performance of the previous night.
Opinion was divided as to the merits of the play; but the critics were
unanimous in their praise of the acting of _Mallida_.
“I feel frightfully flat this morning,” she continued, stifling a yawn.
“It is the reaction from last night, I suppose. I think a walk would do
me good. Will you come for a stroll over the heath, Herbert? Mr.
Haviland wants me at the theatre at two o’clock, but I am free until
then.”
Herbert rose from the table and looked out of the window.
“It is not a very nice day for the heath,” he replied. “It seems
inclined to be foggy. Besides, I have an appointment in Kensington at
twelve.”
“A business appointment?” she asked with interest.
“No, a private appointment,” he answered briefly, apparently disinclined
to be communicative. Then with a gesture of weariness he passed his hand
across his forehead and sighed.
Celia tossed the papers aside, and regarded him with solicitude. There
was a furrow on his brow which hitherto she had not noticed, and his
eyes had deep lines under the lids. He seemed thoroughly dispirited,
though for what reason she did not know.
“I wish you would tell me what is the matter, Herbert,” she said gently.
“You are not your own bright self at all. I noticed it directly you
arrived on Tuesday. Is anything troubling you, dear?”
He sighed again--for the sixteenth time according to his sister’s
calculation--then confessed to being “a bit worried,” but would not
divulge what was the source of his trouble.
“Won’t you tell me what it is?” she urged. “Perhaps I could help you if
I knew.”
He shook his head. “It’s a trouble for which there is no help,” he
replied; and all her coaxing could elicit no more.
When he parted from her an hour later, he hailed a hansom and drove to
Kensington, where he found the neighbourhood enveloped in fog. The
cabman, unable to see his way clearly, had some difficulty in finding
Cromwell Mansions; but after making a circuit of the whole district,
eventually arrived at the destination he sought.
With a nervousness quite foreign to his disposition, Herbert paid the
man and rang for the elevator. He had not chafed at the delay; quite the
contrary, even though the fog were more or less unpleasant. He was going
to see his wife, but what the result of that interview would be, he had
not the slightest idea: his mind seemed a positive blank.
Arrived at the third floor, he pressed the electric bell, and was
immediately admitted by a trim parlour-maid, who ushered him into an
artistically furnished room of octagonal shape. An ugly pug, who lay
coiled up on the hearthrug, was the only occupant, and greeted the
visitor with a snarl. Herbert quieted it with a word; then, as the
servant went to inform her mistress of his arrival, proceeded to look
about him.
Some of the outside fog had penetrated within; and the only illumination
was that obtained from an electric lamp, which, under a heavy golden
shade formed to represent a daffodil, cast a subdued light over the
room. As soon as his eyes had become accustomed to the dimness, he
discovered that the appurtenances certainly suggested taste and
refinement. Books, pictures, music, and the many dainty knick-knacks
which women delight in, all these were there. Of the pictures, two he
recognized as his own handiwork, painted at the time of his infatuation
for Ninette. The sight of them brought back a host of recollections.
Quite vividly he could see again his old studio overlooking the
chimney-pots of Paris; and Ninette perched on the dais with her
favourite poodle in her arms. In the next _atelier_ there had lived a
pianist, who shared the room with an artist brother, and practised
Liszt’s fourteenth rhapsody energetically every day. Herbert could
almost hear the crisp, dotted notes of that rhapsody now. It is strange
how, in our minds, a certain musical phrase will persist in connecting
itself with certain past events; and we can never think of the one
without the other recurring to us also.
The creak of the door as it swung back on its hinges broke his reverie,
and in another moment Ninette stood beside him. In the half light he
could not see her very distinctly, but she was clad in a loose tea-gown
trimmed with a profusion of ribbons and lace.
“Good morning,” she said as coolly as though his visit were of daily
occurrence. “I hardly expected you in this fog. Won’t you sit down?”
He touched the tips of the fingers she held out as though the action
almost hurt him.
“Thanks; I prefer to stand,” he answered briefly. “I suppose you are
prepared with your explanation, Ninette?”
She sank on to an arm-chair with an air of weary languor, the pug
nestling against the folds of her gown.
“Yes, I am quite prepared,” she answered calmly. “But, first of all, I
do not wish to be called Ninette any more: the _sobriquet_ savours too
much of Paris and Bohemianism. My real name, as I thought you were
aware, is Marie, which my late husband preferred to translate into
Mary. I was always plain English Mary to him, never the frivolous
Ninette you knew.”
“Your late husband,” repeated Karne, a trifle cynically. “To whom do you
allude?”
“To my second husband, of course,” she returned evenly. “Dr. Percival
Arthur Neville Williams, of Harley Street, London, and Bolton Lawns,
Surrey.”
Herbert paced the room in agitation. “You say that the late Dr. Neville
Williams was your second husband,” he said incredulously. “Have you
forgotten, or do you pretend to ignore the fact of your marriage with
myself?”
“I do neither,” she rejoined, lifting the pug on to her knee. “As it
happens, however, my marriage with you was annulled on the very day that
the ceremony took place.”
The artist stood still and confronted her with amazement. He could
hardly believe his ears. The marriage annulled! How could it have been
annulled? Surely Ninette was trying to fool him, as she had so often
done before. Judging by her manner, she attached but light importance to
her words; her calmness quite irritated him. It might have been a little
thing to her, but it meant a great deal to him.
“Listen!” she commanded, not heeding his evident excitement. “If you
will be so good as to desist from tramping round the room like a caged
lion, I will tell you everything. I need not tell you unless I like--I
have kept it back all these years--but, for a certain reason, it pleases
me that you should know now. To begin at the beginning: At the age of
eighteen I was legally and properly married, in the presence of
relatives and friends, to Armand Douste, an engineer in the French navy.
Shortly after the wedding he was sent on a voyage from Marseilles to
Hong-Kong, where he stayed two months. The boat on which he
returned--the ill-fated _Marie Antoinette_--went down off Aden with all
hands on board. There were five survivors, according to the newspapers,
but Armand’s name was not amongst them; and after many futile inquiries,
I naturally concluded that my husband had perished with the rest. The
sudden bereavement was, of course, a great shock; but I could not afford
to allow sentiment to affect my appetite, and I made as light of it as I
possibly could. I stayed in Marseilles a few months longer; but
meanwhile my mother died; and my father having lost heavily on the turf,
I was obliged to consider some means of earning a livelihood. Armand had
left me with only his current salary to live upon, intending to be back
before the next quarter came due. I went to Paris, and adopted the
profession in which you found me. My good looks and my talents were my
sole stock-in-trade, so I was obliged to use them to the best of my
ability. Then I met you; and although I had loved Armand devotedly, I
rather admired your handsome face, and your quiet English ways. I was
tired, too, of my mode of living at that time, and, wishing for a
change, accepted your proposal of marriage. What happened then, you
know. You were called home on the day of the wedding; I was left in
Paris to await your return. Scarcely an hour after your departure,
however, I was told that a gentleman wished to see me. I went into the
_salon_, and to my astonished bewilderment, there stood my husband,
Armand Douste! He seemed to me like one risen from the dead; and indeed
he looked nearer death than life. He had been picked up by an English
vessel bound for Singapore; where, having landed, he lay too ill to be
moved for nearly eight months. As soon as he recovered, he worked his
way back to Marseilles, and not being able to discover me there,
eventually traced me to Paris. There, by dint of arduous perseverance,
he found me, just married to another man!”
She paused to sip a fluid out of what looked like a medicine-glass. The
talking seemed to tire her, and frequently she put her hand to her side
as if in pain. Her interlocutor sat like one immovable. If what she were
saying were true, he was free--free! Oh the joy of that thought! But he
could not believe it--yet.
“Why did you not inform me immediately of what had occurred?” he managed
to articulate as she placed the glass on the table again, and prepared
to continue her story.
“Because, if I had done that, I should have had no further claim on
you,” she replied promptly. “And knowing that you were in prosperous
circumstances, I was obliged to make use of that knowledge. Armand had
scarcely a _sou_ in the world; I had very little more. Money we were
forced to secure from somewhere, and you were our only hope.”
“But can’t you realize how cruel it was to have kept me in ignorance all
these years?” he pursued reproachfully. “I would willingly have done my
best for you and--your husband, if I had known the true facts of the
case.”
“Ah, that is what you say now,” she rejoined dubiously. “I doubt if you
would have said so then. Well, to continue my story, Armand, never
having properly recovered from his illness, gradually grew weaker and
died, leaving me in very low water for a time. Then, luckily for me, I
came across an English lady, a Mrs. Hall. She was only a chance
acquaintance, for I met her in a circulating library where I happened to
find a pocket-book she had lost, but she took a liking to me at first
sight. After having visited her constantly, I went to stay with her for
a time, and eventually she introduced me to her friend, Lady Elstree, of
Portland Place, London, who was in need of a companion. Lady Elstree was
one of those shrinking kind of women who always seek refuge behind a
stronger mind, and want even the most trivial matters decided for them.
Before I had been with her a month, I was able to rule her whole
household as though I were its legitimate mistress. Her husband, Sir
Richard, although not a doctor, dabbled in therapeutics and hygiene, and
spent most of his time in his laboratory, never troubling much about how
his wife amused herself. He paid her bills with automatic regularity,
and fortunately failed to notice that they almost doubled themselves
during my _régime_. Being so pleasantly situated, my old love for the
turf revived; and taking my advice, Lady Elstree backed certain horses
that I happened to fancy. Sometimes they won, more often they lost; but
when they did win, I retained five per cent. commission. Very soon I
became familiar with London life and the ways of English society.
Wherever I went, I was always introduced as Lady Elstree’s ‘friend,’
never as her companion. One day I happened to pick up a society paper
containing an account of a reception I had attended. My name was
included in the list of guests, and I was described as the ‘beautiful
and brilliant Mdme. Douste.’ This fired my ambition, and I determined to
become a society leader--a second Corinne, or Mdme. Pompadour. Then Dr.
Neville Williams appeared upon the scene----”
“It is a wonder you did not seek some one in a higher position than a
mere body-healer,” interposed Herbert, with a touch of satire.
“Yes, I might have done so, it is true; but I was rather struck with
Neville Williams, although his disposition was the direct opposite of
mine. He was then at the zenith of his fame, too, having managed to cure
a royal princess by a special treatment of his own when all the highest
physicians in the land had failed. He could have been knighted for that,
had he wished. I saw a good deal of him, for he was a great friend of
Sir Richard Elstree’s, and came often to Portland Place. We were married
at St. George’s, Hanover Square--oh, you need not look sceptical; it was
a _bonâ fide_ marriage. Percival’s brother-in-law, the Rev. J. W.
Milnes, officiated, assisted by the clergy of St. George’s.”
“And was your ambition realized?”
“Partially. Society was inclined to look askance at me first of all, but
it was not able to withstand me for long. I was a woman, I had a tongue,
I could talk. I had the knack of finding out whatever I wanted to know
about certain people too. They discovered by experience that it was
unwise to offend me. They called me a dangerous woman behind my back,
but conciliated me to my face. The only drawback to my happiness was
that Percival was comparatively poor, and although I managed to get long
credit, I was continually pressed for ready money.”
“I had often heard of Mrs. Neville Williams from the Milnes’ family,”
said the artist, musingly, “but of course I never dreamt of connecting
her with you. Geoffrey Milnes used to say--pardon my telling you--that
her extravagance, or rather yours, was the ruin of his uncle.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “It may have been so, but he should not have
married if he could not afford to keep me in proper style. He left me
almost penniless when he died, and the house in Harley Street was
mortgaged right up to its full value.”
“And how did you get on then?”
“Oh, the Duke of Wallingcourt--one of my greatest admirers--paid off the
mortgage and set me on my feet again. Then there was the property in
Surrey, which Percival had settled on me at the time of our marriage;
that fetched nearly fifteen hundred pounds. Afterwards I became engaged
to the duke, who, as you know, died a fortnight before the wedding was
to have taken place. That was hard luck, for as Duchess of Wallingcourt
I should have society at my feet.”
“Did it never occur to you to re-marry me after the death of either of
your husbands?” asked Karne, still inclined to be satirical; “or was I
altogether out of the running, as you would say?”
“I did think of it,” she answered equably. “But you lived in the
country, which was a disadvantage, for I could not possibly exist for
any length of time out of London or Paris. I heard also that you were
very friendly with Percival’s people, the Milnes; and I feared that if
you were as straitlaced as themselves, you would be too prim for me.”
Herbert could not resist a smile, but his countenance quickly resumed
its gravity. He rose from his seat and glanced out of the window. The
fog had almost melted away.
“So that is your story!” he said meditatively. “How am I to know that it
is true?”
“Do you doubt my word?” she asked with pique.
“Well, not exactly,” he replied hesitatingly. “But you must admit that
when I knew you, you did occasionally deviate from the truth.”
“Which means, in vulgar parlance, that I told lies,” she rejoined
evenly. “Thank you for the compliment. As it happens, however, I have
told you the exact truth. My reason for telling you was that I wish to
settle up all my affairs. I am shortly going away--a little further than
my beloved Paris. In plain words, Herbert, I am dying.”
The last statement was made so calmly that Karne thought he could not
have heard aright. He glanced at her in astonishment, almost dumbfounded
by the news.
Mrs. Neville Williams, with a swift movement, extinguished the lamp, and
pulling up the window-blinds allowed the daylight to flood the room.
Then she called the artist to her side.
“Now,” she exclaimed, turning her face towards him, “look at me!”
He looked, then gave an exclamation of horror. Could it be possible that
this was the handsome and brilliant woman of yesternight? Her cheeks
were haggard and drawn, the cheek-bones protruding with undue
prominence; her eyes were sunken, her complexion yellow. Already the
hand of death seemed to have set its seal upon her face. Yet only last
night she had appeared before him, magnificent and splendid. What had
happened in one short night to change her thus?
He turned aside, not knowing what to say. She sank on to a chair with a
mirthless laugh.
“A clever woman, am I not?” she said, with feigned cheerfulness. “Clever
to the last. You saw me last night, so you know how I looked. I shall
look just as well when I am dressed for dinner this evening; I have a
treasure of a maid, thank heaven. Any other woman afflicted with my
disease would allow herself to be treated as an invalid, would eschew
society, and go to bed. I have more pluck than that. And yet before the
year is out, I shall probably be dead. A truly cheerful prospect, is it
not?”
Herbert felt himself grow cold. That she spoke the truth now, he could
not doubt; but it was positively gruesome to hear her talk like that.
“How long have you been so ill?” he asked, in a subdued voice. “Is there
no cure?”
“None,” she answered resignedly. “It is over two years since I first
contracted the complaint; but since last month I have rapidly grown
worse. My husband’s consulting physician, Sir Dighton Forbes, has made
me consent to undergo an operation on the 1st of December, although I do
not at all like the idea of being butchered to satisfy the doctors.”
“Perhaps it may cure you,” suggested Karne, optimistically. “You must
not lose hope.”
But Mrs. Neville Williams shook her head; she was convinced that she was
doomed.
“Why do you bother yourself about society--now?” he asked, after a
moment’s silence. “What is the use? If you really believe that your last
days have come, why not spend the time that remains to you in peace and
quietness?”
She gave a gesture of dissent.
“What you call peace and quietness would be misery to me. It would give
me too much time to think. I should go mad with thinking. Besides, I am
loth to leave the good things of this world. To wear magnificent jewels,
to be the best-dressed woman in the room, the cynosure of all eyes--it’s
the breath of life to me--the breath of life! When I can no longer shine
in society, I’ll die. I am not one of those
_devil-sick-was-he-devil-a-monk-would-be_ kind of persons. I’ll die
‘game.’ But do not let us talk about it any more; it is an unpleasant
subject.”
Herbert rose and buttoned his overcoat. “I must be going,” he said. “But
there is one thing I wanted to say. Did it never occur to you, in all
the years of your silence, that I, too, might have my hopes and
ambitions?”
“I wondered what you were doing,” she answered evasively. “If I had met
you sooner, I would have told you before. I have all but met you so many
times since Celia Franks made her _début_. By-the-by, Karne, take my
advice; look after your sister well. She has a lovely face--a face that
will turn men’s heads. If you want her to be happy--quietly happy in
your own way--take her off the boards.”
He looked at her in approval. “You are right,” he said, half surprised
at such counsel coming from her. “Celia only went on the stage in
deference to Guy Haviland’s wishes. She has promised me that, however
great her success, she will accept no further theatrical engagements. Do
you feel ill?” he added suddenly, as she pressed her hands against her
forehead. “I am afraid I have tired you with so much talking.”
“It is the pain,” she explained, when the spasm had passed. “It comes
and goes. Last night I thought I should have had to leave the theatre. I
shall lie down this afternoon. You will come and see me again?”
“I am going back to Durlston at the end of the week,” he replied,
holding out his hand. “But I will try to come again before I go.”
Then, after an expression of sympathy, he left; and, taking his place in
the elevator, descended into the damp atmosphere of the streets once
more.
The fog had lifted; and it seemed to Herbert that a weight had been
lifted off his heart at the same time. He felt happier than he had done
for months, although as yet he could barely digest and realize all that
he had heard. Of one thing he was certain, however, that he was
free--free to marry his beloved. This thought superseded all the rest.
He was free!