BY JEAN MIDDLEMASS.
Love was dead. There was no gainsaying the fact. With returning
consciousness the expression of hatred became so fully developed on
his face that Lucille de Vigny cowered before it. His wild bloodshot
eyes looked as if they were ready to start from his head, and the
desperation in his entire mien made her feel that there was no length
to which he would not venture. Was he about to commit another murder?
Mme. de Vigny knew naught of the previous one, or probably she would
have run away in dire fear.
As it was, she was under the impression that the man she had once so
loved and still cared for more than anyone else in life, had suddenly
become mad.
Rising at last to his feet with an effort, he began to speak gaspingly,
“You fiend, you arch-demoness, where is my child?”
She laughed, and calling up her courage tried to brave the matter out,
though certainly she had never been so frightened in all her life
before. Then seeing that laughter irritated him, she said:
“I believe he has gone back to his mummy, or at all events to Mrs.
Grandison. Colonel Clutterbuck, my husband, would not stand him any
longer.”
“It is a lie, and you know it. Colonel Clutterbuck is not your husband,
and the child has not left America. Where is he?”
“As you know so much, probably you know the rest. It is therefore
useless for me to speak.” Her tone and her manner were most
aggravating, and in Lord Francis Onslow’s then mood were positively
dangerous. After the semi-somnolent, semi-stupid phase through which
he had passed, an excitement had set in over which he had but little
control.
He turned savagely on Mme. de Vigny, and seized her by the throat with
his long, thin fingers, and yet she was the woman before whom he had
once knelt in adoration.
“My boy--where is my boy? Tell me, where is Ronny?”
How could she tell him while he held her in a vise, even if she wished
to do so. She tried vainly to utter some sound, possibly a scream, but
nothing was heard save a gurgle, while her features became livid. The
look of her to a degree sobered him, and he relaxed his grip; that is,
he almost threw her from him with a force that caused her to fall with
her head against the sharp edge of a sofa.
Even then he took no notice of her; it did not seem to trouble him that
she was hurt, or that the handkerchief she held to her head was covered
with blood.
He did not, however, attempt to touch her again, but walked up and down
the room talking rapidly:
“Curse of my life that you have been, give me my child, that I may take
him to the wronged Fenella and forget that you ever existed. If it had
not been for you, what a happy man I might have been with Fenella--my
beautiful Fenella.”
“And De Mürger?” asked Lucille, whose sting even fright and injury had
not wholly killed.
“De Mürger--curse him too--but I forgot, he is dead--Fenella killed him
to save her honor, even as I will kill you, if you do not take me where
I shall find Ronny.”
But Mme. de Vigny had not quite lost her wits, or her capacity for
self-defense, though the pain in her head was intense, and the blood
was still flowing freely. She managed, without his remarking it, to
crawl from the sofa to the door, and then suddenly, before he had time
to stop her, she jumped up, opened it, passed rapidly out, closed it,
and locked him in.
Having done this, she could do no more, but fell in a dead faint on the
mat.
Meantime, “cabined, cribbed, confined,” Lord Francis was indeed “kept
like a tiger in too small a cage.”
She had thought him mad, and in truth it almost seemed as if she were
right. He thumped at the door till the echoes in the house rang again,
still no one came; the servants were all very far away, and were,
moreover, amusing themselves with a game of poker, which was engrossing
them far more at that moment than their mistress’s visitors and
quarrels. Not successful with the door, Lord Francis tried the window,
but it was at least sixty feet from the ground--the jump was certain
death--then he fell to smashing sundry bits of bric-a-brac that fell in
his way--more to annoy Lucille than because he did not know what he was
doing; and finally he rang the bell.
The bell brought Lucille’s maid, but she did not open the door, though
he loudly demanded that it should be unlocked.
The maid found her mistress faint and bleeding on the landing; it
was scarcely likely she would open the door till she had tended her,
especially as there was no cessation of the smashing inside.
Lucille was recovering her senses when the maid arrived, and thus by
the help of an arm crawled into her own room, which was not very far
distant. The first sentence she managed to pronounce was:
“Do not let him out, he is mad. Poor man, he has a dreadful wife who
has driven him mad. Set someone to watch the door in case he should
force it, and send for Dr. Walton.”
It was not for herself that Mme. de Vigny desired the presence of Dr.
Walton, for she washed her face, and put some plaster on the wound,
which, after all, was not a very serious one, and she was a good deal
revived by the time the doctor arrived.
Dr. Walton was a personal friend of Mme. de Vigny, that is she had made
a friend of him since she had come to New York. She had a wonderful
facility for fascinating the male sex and annexing their services, and
she felt very certain she could depend on Dr. Walton, or she would not
have sent for him.
When he did arrive, which was speedily, he was naturally aghast at the
injury she had received. She would have allowed him to see it at its
worst stage if she had not feared to disillusionize him by the aspect
she had presented when the maid found her.
“Never mind me,” she said, “I shall be all right in a day or two; but I
cannot go on being subject to attacks from that madman, you must remove
him; he says I have his child, whereas you know Ronny is my own nephew.”
Dr. Walton did not know anything except what she had told him, but
he believed in her, and therefore did not think of doubting her
statement. “My dear madame, I will do the best I can for you; of
course, this must be stopped. Do you think it will be necessary to
take--ahem--extreme measures? I have some influence with the police.”
“No police at all, if you please, Dr. Walton. The police are a body
with which I wish to have no dealings. They have never done me any
good. You have a house a little way out of town, where you keep
patients who cannot control themselves. Take this man there as your
guest, until I have time to communicate with his friends in England. He
will be out of mischief and harm, and you will be doing a good action.”
“You know his friends?” asked Dr. Walton, a little dubious whether he
was not risking his professional reputation by taking this step.
“Well, I am most intimate with his wife. She is a most flighty,
ill-behaved little person. I fancy it is her shortcomings that have
driven this poor man to desperation. Still, of course, she is the
proper person to communicate with. Hark, how he is knocking at that
door again--there really is no time to be lost. I do not believe there
is a bit of whole furniture in the room.”
Thus urged, Dr. Walton proceeded to do what she wished; in fact, he
began to think that it was the only thing that could be done. To get
this man away quietly was, however, the difficulty--he did not want a
scene and a scandal.
“Can you depend on the man on guard?” he asked.
“For coin--yes,” she said, laughing, “money makes most people
reliable--for a time.”
“Well, stay where you are, and leave me to do the rest. I will return
later, and let you know the result.” So saying, Dr. Walton proceeded to
the room where Lord Francis was still knocking clamorously. He said a
few words in a low tone to the man at the door, and then he proceeded
to interview the supposed lunatic.
To anyone less experienced than Dr. Walton, Lord Francis would
certainly have seemed to be quite mad, but the doctor saw at once that
he was merely suffering from excessive nervous excitement.
A few days’ seclusion would, however, he thought, do him no harm, as
by that time, with a little judicious treatment, he would probably be
quite himself again.
Was there something in Dr. Walton’s touch or look that soothed Lord
Francis, predisposed as he was to hypnotic influence, or was the doctor
armed with some calming anæsthetic--who shall say? But, as if by magic,
rage and excitement subsided, and as though insensible to what was
passing around, Lord Francis sank down once more into the chair in
which he was sitting when he first saw Lucille de Vigny.
Now he was entirely in the doctor’s power, he could do with him as he
liked. The servant still outside the door was called into the room, and
in less than five minutes Frank Onslow was transported to the doctor’s
carriage, and was driven off to the private madhouse outside the city,
of which Dr. Walton was the director.
From her bedroom window, by the aid of a gas lamp in the street,
Lucille de Vigny saw him depart.
“Now,” she said, “you are mine, to do as I like with. You will not
leave that place until you have absolutely given up Fenella--forever.”
Mme. de Vigny was an attractive woman, and she had, as in the instance
of Dr. Walton, her slaves. She forgot that Fenella was quite as
attractive, nay, more so, for she was younger than Lucille, and many
thought her much better looking. She, too, had her devoted allies;
Clitheroe Jacynth was no mean opponent for Walton, save that Walton was
on his own ground. Still, if Mme. de Vigny was not very much on the
alert she might yet be balked.
For the moment, however, she decidedly held the trump cards in this
terrible life game.
For some minutes after the carriage had driven off she stood by the
window, thinking. The day had been an eventful one, and before the
morrow dawned she must decide on some plan of action. A move out of her
present quarters was inevitable, unless she wished to be turned out.
Besides, since she no longer dared call herself Mrs. Clutterbuck, it
was far better to reappear as Mme. de Vigny in a new place. She did
not, however, wish to leave the city till circumstances had shaped
themselves somewhat; but New York was large enough for her to remain
_perdu_ for awhile if necessary. She counted her dollars. Colonel
Clutterbuck’s parting gift had been no mean one. She would not want
money for some time to come. Having so far arranged her affairs, and
told the maid to pack up, as they were going away for a few days, she
went into the sitting room where Frank Onslow had been locked in for at
least an hour, and, as she surveyed the _débris_, she smiled.
When Clutterbuck came back, as he doubtless would in a few days, when
he thought she had had time to clear out, what would be his feelings!
as, of course, he would attribute the breakages to her and call it
petty revenge; but what matter, in fact she felt rather glad that it
had happened, especially as, casting her eyes round the room, she saw
that the desk was uninjured. If Lord Francis had managed to dive into
that, there is no saying what a pregnant change there might not have
been effected in the course of events.
She opened it, took from it the papers which she considered of
considerable importance to herself, sealed them up in some strong brown
paper, and put the packet carefully into a dispatch box she intended
to take with her.
For that night she would sleep under Colonel Clutterbuck’s roof, and
on the morrow she would take her departure. Before, however, she went
to bed, there was still work to be done. She told the servants, who
did not yet know of the separation, that their master would not be in
and that they could shut up the house and go to bed. Having thus rid
herself of them, she got ready to go out, tying a very thick veil over
her hat in order to conceal the white plaster on her head, which might
otherwise have been remarked. The servants’ quarters were at the back
of the house, so she slipped out unobserved. She took a car and went to
an outlying part of the city. There she got out and walked down two or
three streets, looking carefully behind her to see if she were followed.
At last she knocked at the door of a tumble-down-looking house. It was
opened by a slatternly foreigner, whose face lighted up into something
like a smile when she saw Mme. de Vigny. Not that she had any love for
her, but her coming meant gold, and it was of the avaricious nature of
this woman to do anything for money. “Is it all right?” asked Lucille,
speaking French in a low tone.
“Yes, he went this morning, and if Satan himself sent his myrmidons on
the quest, they would not find him. Poor boy, it will be a hardish
life that he will lead in the future. Have you ever read Daudet’s
‘Jack’?”
“Tush for Daudet’s ‘Jack!’ Don’t mix up sentiment with business.”
“Business is done for the present, as far as I am concerned, only I
quite understand I have to mother him in the future--mercy, what a lot
of money it does cost to keep a child, even in a poor way.”
“I know all about it, the terms are arranged. Here is six months’
money in advance, as I am going away for a little. Not the slightest
deviation in our compact, remember. You are in my hands, I know your
past.”
The woman made a cringing movement as she pocketed the money, and gave
a promise of allegiance, but a few minutes later, as Mme. de Vigny
walked away, she muttered to herself:
“I know as much of you as you of me, _ma belle_ Lucille. Which of us
has the most need to be afraid of the past, I wonder?”
Mme. de Vigny adopted the same plan for returning home that she had
done for coming to these purlieus. She took a car to Broadway, and from
there started to walk to Colonel Clutterbuck’s house.
She had not, however, proceeded far, when, to her consternation and
surprise, she met Lord Castleton and Clitheroe Jacynth strolling
together arm-in-arm.