BY FLORENCE MARRYAT.
MME. DE VIGNY’S REVENGE.
Revenge is sweet--especially to women.--_Byron._
Perhaps of all the visitors who were in the Prospect Hotel on the
night of De Mürger’s murder the one to be most perplexed was Lucille
de Vigny. To her Lord Francis Onslow’s mysterious disappearance was
(at first) inexplicable. Yesterday he had been her lover, full of
protestations of affection, and ready, as she believed, to fly with her
anywhere. To-day he had flown by himself, and without leaving a word of
explanation behind him. But, as the whole of the circumstances came to
light, when Lady Francis was dragged away from the hotel in custody, on
the charge of the count’s murder, Mme. de Vigny thought she had solved
the riddle. She had no belief in Fenella’s account of the defense of
her honor. She sneered at the idea with an incredulous smile. But she
_did_ think that Lord Francis had found his wife and Count de Mürger
together and had killed his rival before her eyes, or perhaps injured
him so much with his muscular English fists that he had died from
the effects. And then the wife, preferring to stand her trial for
manslaughter sooner than confess her infidelity, had taken the crime,
or the accident, or whatever you may like to call it, on her own
shoulders, but for no love of the absent husband, who would probably
refuse ever to see her again.
So far Mme. de Vigny’s intelligence, which had not ripened in an
entirely moral atmosphere, had led her pretty near the truth. But her
conclusion was like a broken watch, useless because the mainspring
was missing. For she did not stop there. She completed the story for
herself. Lord Francis had flown, not for his wife’s sake nor his
own--but in order not to drag _her_ (whom he loved) into the miserable
tangle of his married life. He would remain away until everything was
concluded, and then he would seek her out again, and they would be
happy. Such a terrible scandle would surely be followed by a divorce,
after which he would be free to put her in the place left vacant by his
wife’s infidelity. But the trial of Lady Francis Onslow took place, as
has been related, and yet no intelligence came of her missing husband.
When she had left Harrogate, and the child had been taken away, Mme. de
Vigny became tired of being left behind. She returned to London, and
went down to Haslemere, thinking Lord Francis might be lying _perdu_ in
his country home. But all she found there was a large board stating
that The Grange was to be let, furnished, and that applications were to
be addressed to Mr. Abraham Hewett, of Chancery Lane. Quick as thought
she resolved (if possible) to take it.
She had no love for the country, nor for a secluded life, but to settle
in his very home must be, she argued, the best way by which to come
in contact with Lord Francis Onslow. Even if he did not come there he
must, sooner or later, learn the name of his tenant, and be drawn into
the circle of her love again. She found no difficulty in the matter.
Her references were the best of all--ready cash--and Mr. Hewett had
been instructed to let The Grange as soon as possible. Her foreign
accent somewhat puzzled him, and he had mentioned her to his client (as
Onslow told Lord Castleton) simply as a foreigner.
Perhaps she had tried to increase his mystification by speaking as
incoherently and writing as illegibly as she could. Anyway, she secured
The Grange, and took possession of it.
How much she reveled at first in the thought that she was living in the
house which Lord Francis called his own, using the same furniture, and
walking in the same garden that he had been used to walk in. Before
long she hoped that he would be there too, watching the moon rise above
the summits of the fine old trees. She searched the house for some
memento of him--a cast-off glove, a faded flower. But the housemaid’s
broom had been too busy, and the Grange was inviolate from attic to
basement. Only in a little drawer in his looking-glass stand she had
found a few of his visiting cards, evidently forgotten or overlooked.
“Lord Francis Onslow, The Grange, Chiddingford,” and on the other
side, “The Corinthians, Pall Mall.” How sweet the words looked! The
enraptured woman raised them to her lips as she thought that some
day she might own a corresponding passport to society. Meantime Mme.
de Vigny did not enjoy her solitude long. While the man she dreamed
of was hiding himself in Paris, and on the _Seamew_, others of her
acquaintance tracked her to The Grange, and intruded their presence
upon her. Lucille de Vigny was too beautiful, and, unfortunately, too
notorious, to conceal herself successfully. She had had many admirers
besides Lord Francis Onslow, and before she had been many weeks at
Chiddingford they commenced to run down from London to call upon her.
And she was pleased to see them. She had not been used to the company
of her own thoughts.
They proved ugly company to her on occasions--she had not always the
courage to look back--and she earnestly hoped to make for herself a
future on which the past should have no power to obtrude. So, pending
the return of Lord Francis, she was glad to welcome the various
friends who considered it worth their while to travel down to see her.
Among them was Colonel Uriah B. Clutterbuck, a Senator from the United
States, who had made a large fortune over railway iron, and was trying
to spend it in the old country. He had been an ardent admirer of Mme.
de Vigny from the first day of their acquaintance, and would have
proposed to her long before, had not Lord Francis Onslow’s claims stood
in his way.
But now the colonel thought he saw his opportunity. The first evening
he dined with Lucille, and she took him after dinner into the garden,
his heart overflowed, and he was able to contain himself no longer.
“Mrs. der Vin-yay,” he commenced, “Loo-cill--if I may call you
so--there is no man in the United States that can boast of a bigger
pile than your obedient servant. I am not a lord, ma’am; I would
disdain to be one. Neither am I, perhaps, an Apoller; but, in point of
dollars, Mrs. der Vin-yay, you will not find my superior, and they and
I are at your service, to-day, and forever, if you will only say the
word.”
Mme. de Vigny looked at him with surprise, mingled with a degree of
contempt. She was a magnificent woman, towering several inches above
the New York Senator, with a finely-molded figure, large dark eyes,
chiseled features, and a voluptuous mouth. She looked like a Juno
regarding a human rat.
“Colonel Clutterbuck,” she replied, “you astonish me. Surely I have
never encouraged you to address me in such an extraordinary manner. I
have not the slightest intention of marrying again, and I must beg you
never to refer to the subject.”
“Very well, Mrs. der Vin-yay,” replied the discomfited suitor, “say no
more about it. I thought you might have liked the pile, ma’am, if you
didn’t admire the man; but it won’t go begging, Mrs. der Vin-yay, you
may bet your bottom dollar upon that.”
“I do not wish to bet anything, Colonel Clutterbuck,” said Lucille
grandly, “nor should I take money into consideration on a question of
marriage. But I am quite content with my life as it is, and have no
desire to alter it.”
“Ah! You’re waiting for a title, Mrs. der Vin-yay,” replied the
Senator, “that’s where it is. You’ll never tell me that a fine woman
like yourself means to remain single for the rest of her life. But
you’re gone on these English aristocrats, like the gals in my country,
and nothing will satisfy you but to be a duchess or a countess.”
“Colonel Clutterbuck, your remarks are positively offensive, and I must
entreat you to turn your conversation to something else. I thank you
for your offer, but I can never accept it. Come indoors and let me give
you a song. I had a parcel of new ones down from London last week.” She
drew her lace wrap about her as she spoke, and turned to re-enter the
house. Her handsome face looked proud and cold under the moonlight,
but her heart was throbbing warmly against Lord Francis Onslow’s
card, which she carried in her bosom. She was not really faithful, or
affectionate, but she had set her mind upon capturing and holding this
man (as a woman sometimes sets her mind upon a spaniel or a bonnet),
and would not rest until she had achieved her purpose. In like manner
the American Senator had set his mind upon her, but he would not break
his heart over her refusal. He had thought she would make a splendid
picture at the head of his New York table, and an enviable wife to
present to his friends, but if she couldn’t accept his pile of dollars,
he concluded that some other lady would. So they parted on their usual
terms, and Lucille even asked him to repeat his visit on the first
opportunity. The next morning, when her maid brought her letters into
her room with her coffee, she was struck by the appearance among them
of a pale buff letter, stamped on the top “On H. M. Service,” and on
the bottom, “Dead Letter Office.”
“What is that, Rose?” she cried.
“I do not know, madame, but it was left here with the other letters,
so I thought I had better bring it up to you.”
Lucille had by this time seized the envelope and read the
superscription:
“Frank Doggie, Esq., The Grange, Chiddingford, Haslemere.”
“How strange,” she laughed. “Who is Mr. Frank Doggie, and why do they
send his letters here?”
“Shall I return it to the postman, madame?”
“No! It would be useless. I will keep it a little while. It may be
inquired for.” So the maid retired, leaving the letter behind her. It
seemed to fascinate Lucille; though she had the morning papers and
several letters of her own to peruse, her eyes kept turning toward
the buff envelope with marked curiosity, until she took it up again
and examined it carefully. What right had Mr. Doggie to have the name
of Frank?--that name above all others so dear to her. The fact alone
seemed to make the letter her property. It had come from the Dead
Letter Office. That showed that all reasonable inquiries had been
made for the owner without avail. There could be no harm, then, in
her reading it, for the more she regarded it, the more curious she
became to learn its contents, so without further ado, she tore it open.
It contained an envelope addressed to “Mrs. Right, Prospect Hotel,
Harrogate,” and scribbled all over, both in red and black ink, and in
various signatures, with the words, “Not known here,” “Gone away,” “No
such person,” etc. This was the letter (as may be remembered) that Lord
Francis wrote with such a beating heart to his wife on the night of De
Mürger’s murder, and left, in his subsequent horror and confusion, on
the table in his bedroom. When he had gone, the servants carried it to
the landlord, who, knowing no one of the name of “Right,” had delivered
it over to the Post-office. And so it had gone the round of Harrogate,
being repudiated everywhere, and finally found its way to London, and
was opened and returned to the address engraved on the note-paper.
“Mrs. Right and Mr. Doggie.” Mme. de Vigny laughed at the strange
conjunction of names, as she prepared to find out what Doggie and Right
had to say to each other. But she did not laugh long. The first words
her eyes lit upon made the color fade from her cheek, while her hand
clenched savagely over the unoffending paper. They were the words Frank
had poured forth in the anguish of his soul at Fenella’s feet:
“My darling--my own, _own_ darling (for that you must ever be to me,
let who will come between us), why will you make us both so unhappy? I
know you are not happy, Fenella! I can read it in your face; hear it
in each tone of your voice. Those were not the looks and tones that
made the first years of our married life one long dream of bliss. And
I am supremely miserable, more so than yourself, for I have sinned
more against you than you have against me. I confess it, dear love. I
prostrate myself before you, and I cry for forgiveness. Can you not
forgive me? Will you not take me to your heart again, and let me try to
atone for all the past? My life is so barren without you and my darling
child. Do you suppose that anything can compensate me for your loss?
As for Mme. de V., she is _nothing_ to me--less than nothing; a toy to
pass away the time that goes so slowly without you; an opiate that for
a moment makes me forget my pain, and sometimes, even while I seem to
yield to her witcheries, I loathe her because she has come between us.
But it shall never be again, dear love, if you but say the word. Come
back to me, Fenella, and I will swear to wipe her (and all like her)
out of my life, as surely as I would kill the viper that lay across
your path. Oh, when I think of all that she has cost me, how bitterly I
hate her!”
There was much more in the same strain, but this was sufficient for
Lucille, who lay back on her pillow with the paper crushed in her hand,
and jealousy and revenge gleaming from her eyes. _This_ was how he
thought of her, then. This was how he wrote and spoke of her to his
wife--his faithless, flirting wife--the murderess, by her own account,
of Count de Mürger, the unworthy mother of his child--the creature
to whom he might, after all, return--so contemptible and despicable
and mean-spirited were men. How could she be revenged on them both? On
_him_ for so deceiving herself; and on _her_ for retaining her power
over him?
Mme. de Vigny did not weep. Her temperament was not of the weeping
order, but she gnashed her teeth with impotent fury as she lay with her
face buried in her pillow, and thought out her best means of revenge.
Her maid was surprised to find how long a time elapsed before her
usual services were required, but after the lapse of two hours she was
summoned to her mistress’s side.
Lucille was up, and engaged in writing.
“Tell George to take this telegram into Chiddingford at once,” she
exclaimed, handing it to her.
It was addressed to Colonel Clutterbuck, and ran as follows: “If not
engaged, dine with me this evening.”
When Mme. de Vigny had arrived at this decision, she tried to calm
herself, but it was a difficult task. All day she raved against
Providence and the treachery of the man she had trusted in, but, when
the evening came, she arrayed herself in her most becoming costume
to meet the Senator. She had made up her mind by that time. She had
refused him simply on account of her fatal passion for Lord Francis
Onslow, but that was over now--quenched as effectually as though it had
never been--and she was determined not to let the colonel’s dollars
slip through her fingers a second time. For many reasons, too, America
would suit her better than England. How could she have been such a fool
as to think of giving it up for a foolish love dream?
She looked more than handsome--she looked bewitchingly seductive as she
advanced with a soft, luminous gaze to meet Clutterbuck, and asked his
pardon for the trouble she had given him.
“But something has occurred since last night, my dear friend,” she
said, “that makes it necessary for me to take a short sea voyage. My
doctor is rather alarmed about my health, and insists on my obedience.
So, as I have always had a supreme longing to visit your delightful
country, I have decided to go to America for the autumn, and want you
to tell me the best means of getting there. You must know so much,” she
concluded, as she slipped her arm confidingly through his.
“Ah! Mrs. der Vin-yay!” exclaimed the colonel, patting her little hand,
“why can’t you make up your mind to let me take you there? You should
travel like a queen, Loo-cill, and there’s a house waiting for you
in New York City that might satisfy an empress. Say the word, Mrs.
der Vin-yay, say the word, and you’ll make me the happiest man in the
United States.”
“But there is an obstacle to our marriage,” she whispered, “perhaps an
insuperable one. Had it not been so, I should have said ‘yes,’ last
night.”
“Dollars can overcome all obstacles,” replied the colonel. “What is it?
I guess it’ll make no difference between us.”
“I have a little nephew, the orphan child of an only sister, now
deceased, and I will marry no man who asks me to leave him behind.”
“That man won’t be myself, Mrs. der Vin-yay. Bring him along, by all
means. There’s room in the States for another boy or two, and I’ll do
by him as if he were my own.”
“Oh! you are too good, _too_ good,” exclaimed Lucille fervently, as she
pressed his hand.
The Senator was not young, and in no mind to wait, besides which he
was anxious to get back to his own country, so, as the lady’s wishes
appeared to coincide with his own, they arranged matters to their
mutual satisfaction that evening, and in a fortnight were married at
a registrar’s office in London, without anyone but themselves being
the wiser for the transaction. Lucille had pleaded for secrecy, lest
her friends should interfere to prevent her leaving England, and the
colonel had arrived at that age when a man detests all publicity and
fuss. So Mme. de Vigny was transformed into Mrs. Colonel Clutterbuck as
if by magic, and went home to the Langham Hotel with her husband, as
if they had been married for twenty years. Four days after a well-known
steamer was to start from Liverpool for New York, and their cabins were
already secured on board of her.
“And now!” said Lucille, with a winning smile, the day before they
started, “you must let me run down into Suffolk, colonel, and fetch my
little nephew.”
“Suffolk? That’s a long way,” said Colonel Clutterbuck. “Hadn’t I
better go for you?”
“Oh, no! no! I couldn’t hear of it. The little fellow would be
frightened out of his senses at the sight of a stranger. He is terribly
sensitive. I can never coax him away, but by pretending we are going to
meet his poor, dear mother.”
“Very well, Mrs. Clutterbuck, have it your own way,” replied the
colonel, who was beaming with pride in the possession of so handsome a
wife.
So Lucille, armed with Lord Francis Onslow’s card, traveled down on the
following day to Felixstowe, where Jacynth’s sister, Mrs. Grandison,
was staying with her own son and little Ronny.
This was the Frenchwoman’s revenge. She had heard while at Harrogate
of Ronny’s destination, and knew that in so small a place she would
experience little difficulty in finding out which house was occupied by
Mrs. Grandison.
She disliked children (as most women of her stamp do), but she felt she
could wreak no bitterer vengeance on Lord Francis Onslow and his wife
than by depriving them of their son and heir, so dearly loved by both
of them.
Her marriage had been conducted so secretly that she was most unlikely
to be recognized as Mrs. Clutterbuck, and once she had got the boy to
America she believed that (virtually) he would be lost. What was to
follow after that, or whether the game would be worth the candle to
her, she never stayed to consider.
Mrs. Grandison, while engaged over her mid-day meal with the children,
was much surprised to hear that a lady wished to speak to her. Still
more so when, on entering the drawing room, she saw the fashionably
attired Mrs. Clutterbuck.
“You are doubtless surprised to receive a call from a perfect stranger,
madam,” commenced Lucille, with her charming accent; “but time did not
permit me to prepare you for my appearance. I come as a messenger from
Lord Francis Onslow. I am an intimate friend of his, and of his poor
dear wife!”
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Grandison gravely.
Her first opinion of Fenella’s conduct had been intensified to horror
when the news of the murder and the trial were made public, and she had
only taken charge of Ronny under protest--at the urgent request of her
brother--and because she had felt it to be a Christian duty to keep
the poor child, as far as possible, from hearing the terrible things
that were said of his mother. But her dislike of the subject was so
great that when Lucille said she was an intimate friend of the Onslows,
she shrunk from her with ill-concealed aversion.
“Indeed!” she reiterated slowly.
“Yes, and have been so for years. This has been a terribly sad affair
for them both, but let us hope the worst is over. Lord Francis feels
naturally that it is best they should spend the next few years, at
least, out of England; therefore, they start for the Brazils to-morrow,
and wish naturally to take Ronny with them.”
“Lord Francis is, then, reconciled to his wife?”
“Oh, yes! Why should he not be? The unfortunate affair of Count de
Mürger’s death really, redounds to her credit, and what preceded it was
only a foolish misunderstanding!”
“Of course if Lord Francis is satisfied, no one has a right to demur at
his decision. You come from him, you say?”
“Yes. He asked me to fetch Ronny home for him. He would have come
himself, but he had no time. Here is his card, which he begged me to
present to you, with a thousand thanks for your kindness to his child.”
Mrs. Grandison hardly knew what to do. She disliked delivering Ronny
into the charge of a stranger, and yet she felt she had no right to
keep the boy against his parents’ wishes. She kept turning the card
over and over in her hands as she considered the matter.
“Did you say they sailed to-morrow?” she asked, presently.
“Yes, to-morrow, at four in the afternoon.”
“It is a very sudden resolution.”
“Not at all. They have contemplated it for weeks past, but Lady
Francis’ health has prevented them carrying it out. Now they have a
sudden opportunity of which they wish to avail themselves. How long
will it take to get Ronny ready to go back with me?”
“Oh, that can be done in half an hour. But I wish my brother, who put
him in my charge, had written me word that his parents wished to resume
their guardianship.”
“I know nothing of that,” snapped Lucille. “All Lord Francis told me
was to come down to Felixstowe, and take back his boy to him at all
costs; and I should think a parent’s wish was imperative.”
“Certainly,” replied Mrs. Grandison, “and I should not dream of
disputing it. If you will kindly wait here for a few minutes I will
bring Ronny to you.”
She left the room as she spoke, and Lucille felt that she had triumphed
and her revenge would be complete. She remembered how Fenella had
gloated over this boy, how Lord Francis had written of him as his
“darling child,” and smiled to herself as she thought what they would
both say and do, when they found he had gone beyond recall. In a short
time the door opened again, and Mrs. Grandison appeared with Ronny.
He recognized Lucille at once as the lady he had seen at the _table
d’hôte_ at Harrogate.
“I know you!” he said, coming forward with a shy, outstretched hand,
“you were with my papa at Harrogate.”
“And with your mamma, Ronny, of course. We were all there together. But
mamma wants you sadly. She has been fretting terribly for her boy. We
are going back to her together.”
“Going back to mummy? Oh, I _am_ glad! I have wanted her so,” said
Ronny, trying hard to keep back his tears. “It’s been very jolly with
Harold, of course, and Mrs. Grandison’s been ever so good to me--but
I’ve missed mummy every day. Shall we go at once? I’m all ready, and my
box is packed. And shall I see her to-day? Oh! do let us make haste and
go.”
He thrust his hand in that of Lucille as he spoke, who rose smiling,
and addressed Helen Grandison:
“You see, madame, the ties of nature surmount those of friendship.
Please to accept the best thanks of the parents of this boy, for your
care of him at a very trying moment, to which I must add my own, and
wish you farewell.”
“Good-afternoon,” said Mrs. Grandison stiffly, as she watched them get
into the fly which was in waiting, and drive away to the station.
And before she had time to acquaint Jacynth with the circumstance,
Ronny (still with the expectation of meeting his mother) was far away
on the broad Atlantic!