BY A. CONAN DOYLE.
“BETWEEN TWO FIRES.”
Happier is he who standeth betwixt the fire and the flood, than he
who hath a jealous woman on either side of him.--_Fourth Veddah._
The single short drive on the Harrogate coach had re-awakened all
Frank Onslow’s dormant passion for the capricious and beautiful
woman whom he had made his wife. His weak and pliant nature was one
which could readily forget, and after a few weeks of dull pain his
separation had ceased to be a grief to him, and he had devoted himself
to the turf and the green table with an energy which had driven his
matrimonial troubles from his mind. That Fenella had at the least been
indiscreet in the case of the Count de Mürger was beyond all question.
Further, she had allowed her indiscretion to be known and commented
upon. Domestic unhappiness is ill to bear, but worse still is it to
see pitying eyes turned upon one in society, to read snappy little
two-edged paragraphs in gossiping papers, or in a club smoking room to
see heads incline toward each other while a swift malicious whisper
passes from man to man. All this is bad to bear, and yet it had been
Lord Francis’s lot to bear it. It had soured his mind and hardened his
heart at the time of his separation.
But every wound will heal, and this one also had skinned over. When
in the morning he had seen the girlish figure of his wife perched
upon the box-seat, with her yellow hair curling from under the dainty
hat, and looked into the hazel eyes which still shone with the old
provoking, mischievous, challenging twinkle, he had felt his heart go
out to her, and had loved her once more even as he loved her on that
first night when he had plighted his troth to her after the garrison
ball at Portsmouth. It maddened him now to find that, with all the
fire of his love, he could not kindle any answering spark in her. Had
she turned away from him, treated him coldly, or upbraided him for his
conduct, then indeed he might have had hopes. A quarrel might lead
to a reconciliation. But that she should treat him as an everyday
acquaintance, gossip with him about trivial matters, and break small
jests with him, that was indeed intolerable. In vain, through the
long drive, he strove to pass the barrier. At every allusion to their
married life, or to their quarrel, she either retired into absolute
silence or else with quick feminine tact turned the conversation into
other channels. If he had forgiven her there was no sign that she in
turn had forgiven him.
And who was there who knew better than himself that there was much to
forgive? If her name had been coupled with that of the Count de Mürger,
had not his been equally and even more openly associated with the
notorious Mme. Lucille de Vigny? He might have doubts as to his wife’s
guilt, but he could have none as to his own. If he had been subjected
to the degradation of the pity of his fellow-men, had not she undergone
as much or more? He remembered now with grief and compunction how day
after day, and evening after evening, he had deserted his wife in favor
of the society of the fascinating Frenchwoman. He remembered, too, how
patient she had been at first. Then, how her patience had gradually
changed to surprise, surprise to suspicion, suspicion to anger, and
anger to revenge in the shape of the flirtation which had brought about
the separation. Who was he, to blame her? He had himself been the first
to sin. Now he was the first to forgive. Would she follow him in the
one as in the other?
Alas! it seemed that she would not--that the breach was too broad to
be ever again bridged over. Through the bright summer morning, as
they rattled past the lines of beech trees, and through the pleasant
Yorkshire lanes, he chafed and fretted, but in vain. His sin had been
too deep to be forgiven. As he handed her down, when they arrived
once more at the Prospect Hotel, he pressed her little hands in his
feverish grasp, and looked appealingly into her hazel eyes. There
was no answering softness in their glance--nothing but amusement and
something akin to contempt. He turned away with a sigh, and wandered
slowly off in the direction of the gardens, walking with bent head, and
the listless steps of a melancholy man.
Had his eyes not been downcast he might have noticed that he was not
alone on the graveled, hedge-lined walk, which curved down through the
pleasant Harrogate gardens. A woman was walking toward him, moving
slowly through the rich yellow sunshine, and glancing from right to
left with the air of one who is a visitor and a sight-seer. Her light
cream dress, her dainty pink sunshade, and her broad shady hat, with
its curling snow-white feather, made a pleasant picture to the eye,
which was by no means diminished by her approach, for she was a woman
of singular beauty. Though past her first youth, the lines of her
figure were as graceful and perfect as an artist could desire, while
her face, with its dark Southern beauty, its clear-cut, delicate
features, and imperious eyes, spoke of a passionate and impetuous
nature, such as is seldom to be found among our cold and self-contained
Northern races.
Approaching from different ends of the walk the two had almost passed
each other before Lord Francis looked up, and their eyes met. He
sprang back with a cry of surprise, and of something approaching
to dismay, while she stood quietly looking at him out of somber,
deeply-questioning eyes.
“Lucille!” he gasped. “You are the last person whom I expected to see
in Harrogate.”
“But I am not surprised,” she answered, speaking with a slight French
lisp, which added a charm to her rich, deep voice. “I knew that you
were in Harrogate. That is why I came.”
“But why do you wish to follow me, Lucille? What good can come of it?”
“What good? All good. Is not love good? And do I not love you? Ah,
Frank, you taught me to love you, and how can I unlearn it? It is
happiness to me to see you and to speak to you.”
“But see the misery that it has caused. We must part, Lucille. If you
truly love me you will help me to retrieve my life, and not to wreck it
further.”
“Ah!” cried she, with a quick flash in her dark eyes. “You have seen
her. You have been speaking with your wife again.”
“Yes, I saw her to-day.”
“By chance?”
“Yes, by chance.”
“And you are friends again?”
“No, not friends.”
“Ah, you wished it, but she would not have it. I can see it in your
face. O Frank, how could you humble yourself to such a woman? How
could you? To hold out your hand to her and to be refused! _Quelle
dégradation!_ See how she has treated you--she, who is not worthy to be
the wife of any honest man.”
The color sprang to Onslow’s pale cheeks. It was one thing to know his
wife’s faults, and it was another to hear about them.
“That is an old story,” he said curtly. “We may let that drop.”
“An old story? Why, she was with De Mürger last week in London.”
“Fenella was?”
“Yes, I saw them with my own eyes riding together in the Row.”
Lord Francis started as if he had been stung. “Come here!” he said.
There was a garden bench in a little recess, and he threw himself down
upon it. Lucille de Vigny seated herself beside him, and a triumphant
smile played over her dark and beautiful face as she marked with a
sidelong glance the anger and chagrin which convulsed her companion’s
features.
“Is this true?” he cried.
“I tell you, Frank, that I saw them with my own eyes. It is not my
custom to say what is not true.”
“They were riding together?”
“Yes.”
“And talking?”
“Talking and laughing.”
“By heavens, I will see that fellow De Mürger. I will shoot him,
Lucille. It is not our custom in England to duel. But he is a
foreigner. He will meet me. I have wished to avoid a scandal, but if
they court one why should I spare them? In the Row, you say?”
“Yes, and just when all the world was there.”
“Heavens! it is maddening.” He sank his face in his hands and groaned
aloud.
“And what matter, after all?” said she, laying one delicately gloved
hand upon his wrist. “Why should you trouble? What is she to you now?
She is unworthy, and that is an end. _Tout est fini._ You are a free
man, and may let her go her way while you go yours. Which way will be
yours, Frank?”
The blood throbbed in his head. He felt her warm, magnetic hand tighten
upon his wrist. Her soft, lisping voice, and the delicate perfume which
came from her dress, seemed to lull the misery which had torn him.
Already, in her presence, the fierce longing for his wife which had
possessed him was growing more faint. Here was a woman, beautiful and
tender, who did indeed love him. Why should his heart still dwell upon
that other one who had brought unhappiness and disgrace to him?
“Which way will be yours, Frank?”
“The same as yours, Lucille.”
“Ah, at last!” she cried, throwing her arms about him. “Did I not know
that I should win you back?”
A sharp cry, a cry as from a stricken heart, and a dark shadow fell
between the pair. Lord Francis started to his feet. Fenella was
standing in front of them, her hands thrown out, her eyes blazing with
anger.
“You villain!” she gasped. “You false villain!” She put her hands to
her throat, and struggled with her words like a choking woman. Lord
Francis Onslow looked down, while the blood flushed to his temple. Mme.
de Vigny stood beside him, her hands folded across each other, and a
look of defiance and anger upon her face.
“I came out here to tell you that I had forgiven you. Do you hear?
That I had forgiven you. And this is how I find you. Oh, I shall never
forgive you now--never, never, never! Why were you so nice to me this
morning, if you meant to treat me so?”
“One word, Fenella,” cried Onslow. “Answer me one question, and if I
have wronged you I will go down on my bended knees to you. Tell me
truthfully, and on your honor, were you in the company of De Mürger
last week?”
“And if I were, sir?”
“Were you or were you not?”
“I was.”
“You were with him in the Park?”
“I was.”
“Then that is enough. I have no more to say. Madame, let me offer you
my arm!” He walked past his wife with her rival, and the dresses of the
two women would have touched had Fenella not sprung back with a cry
of disgust, as one who shrinks from a poisonous thing. Mme. de Vigny
laughed, and her proud sparkling eyes told of the triumph which filled
her soul.
Fenella Onslow stood for an instant in the middle of the sunlit walk,
her little right hand clenched with anger, her gaze turned toward
the retreating figures. Then a sudden lurid thought flashed into her
mind, and she started off as rapidly as she could in the direction of
the railway station. Clitheroe Jacynth’s train did not leave for ten
minutes. Ronny had told her of the hour of his departure. The barrister
was standing, moody and disconsolate, upon the platform, when he felt a
light touch upon his shoulder, and looking round, saw a flushed little
woman, with sparkling eyes, looking up at him.
“Fenella!” he cried.
“Yes, you must not go.”
“Not go?”
“No, you must come back.”
“You bid me?”
“Yes, I bid you. You must come back to the hotel.”
“But it was you who this very morning drove me away from it.”
“Forget it. Many things have happened since then. Will you not come?”
“Of course, I will come.”
“Then give me your arm.”
And so it happened that as Lord Francis Onslow and Mme. Lucille de
Vigny stood at the door of the Prospect Hotel after their walk, they
perceived Lady Francis and a gentleman whom neither of them had seen
before coming toward them arm-in-arm, and engaged in the most intimate
conversation.