Arden's health improved, at first very rapidly, and then more slowly, as
he seemed to approach what, for him, was a normal condition of strength.
The month of December was fine, and he was able to drive out constantly,
to be up most of the day, and to talk with acquaintances without any
great fatigue. As a natural consequence, too, Laura regained in a very
short time all that she had lost, and her eyes no longer looked sunken
and haggard nor her face unnaturally pale.
Her gratitude to Ghisleri was boundless, and as the days went on and
Arden had no relapse, she began to wonder how she could ever have felt
anything approaching to dislike for the man to whom she almost owed her
husband's life. Pietro, on his part, came often to the house and saw the
change that had taken place in her manner towards him. He was pleased,
though he had not thought of producing any impression upon her by what
he had done solely for Arden's sake, for he had long admired her, and
felt that she was very like a certain ideal of woman of which he never
talked. But his pleasure was not very genuine, after all. He hardly
believed that Laura's mood would last, because he had hitherto had
little experience of lasting moods in women. For the present, at least,
she believed in him and was grateful.
About this time Donna Adele, her husband, and his father and mother all
came back from the country, and at or near the same period the great
majority of the old society stagers appeared again as forerunners of the
coming season. The gay set was not yet all assembled, and it was even
reported that some of them would not come at all, for there was
financial trouble in the air, and many people had lost money, or found
their incomes diminished by the general depression. Nevertheless, when
Christmas came, few of the familiar faces of the previous year were
missing, and those few have not been seen in this history.
"This is the beginning," said Gouache to Ghisleri. "You may remember
that charming description of chaos in the sacred writings: 'in the
beginning darkness was over all the earth'--very like Rome before the
season begins. The resemblance ends there, my dear friend. The sentence
which follows would hardly be applicable. Are we to have another Shrove
Tuesday feast this year for the sake of giving sin a last chance? Have
you another diabolical production ready?"
"I am afraid not," answered Ghisleri. "Besides, one should never repeat
a good thing."
"That is what my wife says," observed Anastase, thoughtfully. "That dear
woman! But for her, I should do nothing but repeat my successful
pictures--if possible by a chemical process. It would be so easy! That
is the way the modern galleries of old masters are formed. There is a
little man in the Via da' Falegnami who turns out the article at a fixed
price, including the cost of the green wood for smoking the Rembrandts,
and the genuine old panels for doing the Botticellis. I often go to see
him. He knows more about grinding colours, and about vehicles and
varnishes, and the price of lamp-black than any artist I ever knew. He
painted that portrait of Raphael by himself--by Raphael, I mean, for
Prince Durakoff last year, and found the documents to prove its
existence among his papers. It took him six months, but it was well
done, especially the parchments. There was even the receipt for the
money paid to Raphael for the picture by the Most Excellent House of
Frangipani, signed by the painter himself--I mean by Raphael. Cheap, at
ten thousand francs. Durakoff paid the dealer eighty thousand without
bargaining. He did not reflect that if it had been genuine it would have
been worth five hundred thousand, and, if not, that it was not worth
fifty centimes."
"Rather like a friend," observed Ghisleri.
"Friendship is a matter of fortune," said Gouache, "as love is a
question of climate."
"You are not usually so cynical. What has happened?"
"My wife has been amusing me, this morning, with an account of society's
opinions on various subjects. One-half of her friends assure her that
black is white, and the other half tell her it is a vivid yellow. That
is called conversation. They give it you with tea, milk, and sugar,
between five and seven in the afternoon."
Gouache seemed to be in a somewhat communicative frame of mind. As a
matter of fact he often was with Ghisleri, whom he trusted more than
most men.
"What was it all about?" inquired the latter.
"People, people, and then people again. What does everybody talk about?
Silly stories about Lady Herbert Arden and Savelli, and about Lord
Herbert himself, and his dissipated life. The Ardens do not seem to be
liked. He is a great friend of yours, is he not?"
"Yes, we have known each other almost ten years." Ghisleri began to
smoke, rather gloomily, for he perceived that there was trouble in store
for Laura.
"It is Donna Adele who does all the mischief," continued Gouache,
putting a dash of bright blue into the face of the portrait he was
painting, a proceeding which, as Ghisleri noticed with some surprise,
improved the likeness. "It is Donna Adele. You know the old story.
Savelli loved Miss Carlyon but could not marry her. Donna Adele never
forgave her, and she will end by doing her a great deal of harm. She
pretends that Savelli has told her that Lady Herbert is already talking
to him and to everybody of her own wretched married life--rather hinting
that if Savelli would care to depart this life of respectability she
would go with him, a proposition which, of course, Savelli scorns in the
most virtuous and approved fashion, rolling his fine paternal language
as in the fourth act of a tragedy at the Comedie Française. I suppose
you cannot stop this sort of thing, can you?"
"I will try," said Ghisleri, in a tone that made Gouache look round from
his painting. He had not often witnessed even such a slight
manifestation of real anger on Pietro's part, as was apparent in the
enunciation of the three words.
"You might, perhaps, better than any one else," observed Gouache. "From
other things she has said, it is quite apparent that she would like to
see you at her feet."
Ghisleri looked at Anastase rather sharply, but said nothing. It was not
the fact that Donna Adele wished him to pay her more attention that
struck him; he was wondering what the other remarks might have been, to
which Gouache alluded. They might have been directed against the
Contessa--or they might have been such as to show that Adele suspected
Ghisleri of an attachment for Laura Arden since he now went so often to
the house. As Gouache did not volunteer any further information,
however, Ghisleri thought it wiser to ask no questions, and he was
inclined to infer that the aforesaid observations had been directed
against Maddalena dell' Armi.
Ghisleri went away in a very bad humour. So long as the gossip came from
the men, he had a very simple and definite course open to him, and he
knew that his personal influence was considerable. But when the worst
things said were said by women, there seemed to be no remedy possible.
It would not be an easy matter to go to Adele and tax her with lying,
slandering, and evil speaking. She would very properly be angry, and
would of course deny that she had ever spoken on the matter, her friends
would support her in her denial, and he would be no further advanced
than before. He could not possibly go to Francesco Savelli and demand of
the latter an explanation of Donna Adele's conduct. That was out of the
question. To let Donna Adele know that both Laura and Arden were quite
unconscious of her attacks and, in their present life of almost enforced
retirement, were likely to remain in ignorance of them, might annoy
Donna Adele, but could do no good. It would be positively unkind to
speak to the Princess of Gerano and ask her to use her influence with
her step-daughter, but Ghisleri thought he had struck a possibility at
last--he could go to old Gerano himself and explain matters. After all,
Gerano was Adele's father and had some authority over her still.
Ghisleri came rather hastily to the conclusion that this would be the
wisest course to follow, and acted almost immediately upon his decision,
for it chanced that he found the Prince at the club, and had the
opportunity he needed within half an hour after forming his plan of
action.
He approached the subject coolly and diplomatically, while Gerano
blandly listened and puffed at a cigarette. Donna Adele, he said, had of
course no intention of injuring her step-sister, but she was too young
to know the weight a careless tale often carried with it in the world,
and had no idea of the harm she was doing. No one, not even the Prince
himself, was ignorant of the fact that Don Francesco Savelli's first
inclination had been rather for Miss Carlyon than for Donna Adele, but
that it had been a mere young man's fancy, without any importance, and
that having yielded to parental authority, Don Francesco was now a
perfectly happy man. Perhaps Donna Adele had not been able to forget
this apparent slight upon her beauty and charm, as far as her
step-sister was concerned, though well aware that her husband thought no
more about Lady Herbert. It was natural and womanly in her to resent it.
But that was not a good reason why she should say--as she seemed to be
saying constantly--that Lady Herbert was very much in love with Don
Francesco.
Here Ghisleri paused, and the Prince opened his eyes very wide at first,
and then almost shut them as he scrutinised his companion's face. He
knew the man well, however, and guessed that the matter must be serious
indeed, since he took the trouble to treat it in such earnest.
"I suppose," said Gerano, "that you are quite prepared to support your
words if any question arises. This is a strange tale."
"Yes," answered Ghisleri. "I am always ready." He spoke with such
gravity that the Prince was impressed.
Pietro went on to say that Donna Adele, doubtless out of pure
carelessness, had certainly, by a foolish jest, suggested the story that
Lord Herbert was very intemperate, a story which Ghisleri had last year
been obliged to deny in the most formal manner in the very room in which
they were now talking, to a number of men. The tale had of late been
revived in a form even more virulent than before, and such untruths,
even when they have originated in a harmless bit of fun, could damage a
man's reputation for life.
"Of course they can, and they do," asserted the Prince, who was becoming
rather anxious.
"As, for instance," continued Ghisleri, "it is now said that Lady
Herbert Arden, your step-daughter, now talks to Don Francesco and to
everybody--which probably means the few persons who circulate the
myth--about her wretched married life, and other suggestions which I
will not repeat are added, which are very insulting to her. For my part,
my business is to defend Arden, who is my friend, and who is
unfortunately too ill to defend himself should all this come to his
ears. I do not say that this last addition concerning Lady Herbert's
confidences comes from Donna Adele Savelli. But it is undoubtedly
current, and proceeds directly from the former gossip, as its natural
consequence."
"Evidently," said the Prince, who kept his temper admirably, in
consideration of the gravity of the case. "And now what do you expect me
to do?"
"You are Donna Adele's father," answered Ghisleri. "She is assuredly
ignorant of the harm she has caused. It would seem quite natural if you
suggested to her that it is in her power to undo what she has
unintentionally done."
"How, may I ask? By an apology?" Gerano did not like the idea, but
Ghisleri smiled.
"That would make matters worse," he said. "She could put everything
right merely by saying a few pleasant things about the Ardens to half a
dozen people of her acquaintance--at random. Donna Maria Boccapaduli,
the Marchesa di San Giacinto, the Contessa dell' Armi--even Donna
Faustina Gouache. She might ask the Ardens to dinner--"
"I observe that you do not name any men," observed the Prince.
"It is not the men who have been talking, so far as I know--nor if they
did, would their gossip do so much damage."
"That may be. As for the rest, I will say this. You have said some
exceedingly unpleasant things to me this afternoon, but I know you well
enough to be sure that you are not only in earnest, but wish to avert
trouble rather than cause it. Otherwise I should not have listened to
you as I have. I am very deeply attached to my only child, though I am
also very fond of my step-daughter. However, I will take this question
in hand and find out the truth, and do what I can to mend matters. If I
find you have been misinformed, I will ask the favour of another
interview."
"I shall always be at your service."
They parted rather stiffly, but without any nearer approach to hostility
than was implied in the last formal words they exchanged. Gerano walked
slowly homeward, revolving the situation in his mind, and wondering how
he should act in order to get at the truth in the case. Being very fond
of his wife, his first impulse was to tell her the whole story, and to
take counsel with her before doing anything definite. It would have been
better had he gone directly to Donna Adele, though he might not have
accomplished anything at all, and might have believed her, and might
also have quarrelled with Ghisleri afterwards. But he did not foresee
the consequences.
The Princess was very much overcome by the account he gave her of his
interview with Ghisleri, of whom she had a high opinion as a man of
truthful character, bad as he seemed to be in other respects. She knew
instinctively and at once that every one of his statements must have
been perfectly well founded, and that if he had erred it had assuredly
not been in the direction of exaggerating the facts. She was in much the
same position as her husband, except that her own daughter was the
victim, while his was the aggressor. It was strange that in so many
years neither should have understood Adele's character well enough to
suspect that she could be capable of any treachery, and yet both were
now convinced that the case against her was not by any means a fiction.
The Princess was now in the gravest distress, and she could not keep
back her tears as she tried to find arguments in Adele's favour, wishing
to the last to defend her husband's child, while never for a moment
losing sight of her own.
She was an eminently good woman, but very far from worldly-wise. Indeed,
as events proceeded that day, there seemed to be a diminution of wisdom
in the action of each in turn as compared with that of the last person
concerned. Ghisleri had not really allowed himself time to consider the
situation in all its bearings before speaking to Gerano, or he might not
have spoken at all. Gerano, next, had scarcely hesitated in confiding
the whole affair to his wife, and she, in despair, turned to the one
person of all others with whom she was really most in sympathy, to Laura
Arden herself, regardless of the consequences to every one concerned.
Lord Herbert was resting before dinner, and she found her daughter
alone.
Her heart was almost bursting, and she poured out the story in all its
details, accurately, as she had heard it, though hardly knowing what she
said. At first Laura was tempted to laugh. She had been so much happier
of late that laughing had grown easy, but she very soon saw the real
meaning of the situation, and she grew pale as she silently listened to
the end. Then her mother broke down again.
"And I have loved her so!" cried the poor lady. "Almost as I have loved
you, my child! To think of it all--oh, it is not to be believed!"
Laura was not at that moment inclined to shed tears. It was almost the
first time in her life when she was really angry, for her temper was not
easily roused. It was not destined to be the last. Dry-eyed and pale,
she sat beside the Princess, holding her hands, then drying her fast
flowing tears, then caressing her, and saying all she could to soothe
and calm her, while almost choking herself to keep down the rage she
felt. Her eyes had been opened at last, and she saw what the story
really was at which Arden had made such a poor guess. As the Princess
grew more calm, she began to look at her daughter in surprise.
"What is the matter, darling?" she asked anxiously. "Are you ill, dear,
you look so changed!"
"I am angry, mother," answered Laura, quietly enough. "I shall get over
it soon, I dare say."
Even her voice did not sound like her own. It was hollow and strange.
Her mother was frightened.
"I have done very wrong to tell you, Laura," she said, realising too
late that the revelation must have been startling in the extreme.
"I do not know," answered Lady Herbert, still speaking in the same
peculiar tone, and with an effort. "Adele and I meet constantly. Of
course we have been brought up like real sisters, and though we were
never intensely fond of one another we talk about everything as if we
were. I will be careful in future. This may not be all true, but there
is truth in it, if you have remembered exactly what Signor Ghisleri
said--or rather, if the Prince has."
The Princess started slightly. Laura had always called Gerano father, as
though she had really been his daughter, but the shock had been very
sudden, and she found it hard to call by that name the man whose
daughter was Adele Savelli.
"I hope it will turn out to be all a mistake!" exclaimed the Princess,
weakly, and on the point of bursting into tears again.
"Until we are sure of it, I shall try and behave as usual to Adele, if
we have to meet," said Laura. "After that, if it is all true--I do not
know--"
When the Princess went home, she was a little frightened at what she had
done, and repented bitterly of having yielded to her own unreasoning
longing to talk the matter over with Laura--natural enough indeed, when
it is remembered that the two loved one another so dearly. It had been a
mistake, she was sure, and she would have given anything to undo it. She
only hoped that she should not be obliged to explain to her husband.
Laura sat alone by the fireside. Herbert was lying down and would not
appear until dinner time, so that she had almost an hour in which to
think over the situation. She determined to master her anger and to look
the matter in the face calmly. After all, it was only gossip, town-talk,
insignificant chatter, which must all be forgotten in the light of the
true facts. So she tried to persuade herself, at least, but she found it
a very hard matter to believe her own statement of it all. The more she
thought it over, the more despicable it all seemed in her eyes, the more
savagely she hated Adele. She could have borne the story about herself
better, if it had come alone, but she could neither forgive nor find an
excuse for what had been said against her husband. To know that people
openly called him intemperate--a drunkard, that would be the word! Him,
of all living men! The assertion was so monstrous that all Laura's
resolution to control herself gave way suddenly, and she, in her turn,
burst into a flood of tears, hot, angry, almost agonising, impossible to
check.
She might have been proud to shed them, for they showed how much more
she loved her husband than she cared for herself, but she was conscious
only of the intense desire to face Adele, and do her some grievous
bodily hurt and be revenged for the foul slander cast on Herbert Arden.
She opened and shut her hands convulsively, as though she were clutching
some one and strangling the breath in a living throat. Every drop of
blood in her young body was fire, every tear that rolled down her pale
cheek was molten lead, every beat of her angry pulse brought an angry
thought to her brain. How long she remained in this state she did not
know.
She did not hear her husband's laboured, halting step on the soft
carpet, and before she was aware of his presence he was standing before
her, with a look of pain and almost of horror in his delicate face. That
was the most terrible moment in his life.
Highly sensitive as he was, loving her almost to distraction as he did,
he had always found it hard to understand her love for him. To suspect
that all of it was pity, or that a part of it had grown weak of late,
was almost impossible to him, and yet the possibility of doubt was
there. He had entered the room as usual, without any precaution, but she
had not heard him; he had seen her apparently struggling with herself
and with some unseen enemy, in a paroxysm of grief and rage. Instantly
the doubt rose supreme and struck him, like a sudden blow in the face.
"She has found out her mistake too late--she does not love me, and she
longs to be free." That was what Herbert Arden said to himself as he
stood before her, and the horror of it was almost greater than he could
bear. Yet there was a great and manly courage in his narrow breast. He
felt that he must die, but she should not suffer any more than was
necessary until then. He drew the best breath he could, as though it
were his last. She started, wild-eyed, as he spoke.
"Laura darling--it has been a terrible mistake--and it is all my fault.
Will you forgive me, dear one? I thought that you would love me--I see
how it is when you are alone. No woman could have borne this bondage of
yours as you have borne it since you have found out--"
"Herbert! Herbert!" cried Laura, in sudden agony. She thought he was
going mad before her eyes.
"No, dear," he said, with an immense effort, and making a gesture with
his hand as though to keep her in her place. "It is better to say it
now, and it need never be said again. Perhaps I should not have the
strength. I see it all. You are so kind and good that you will never
show it to me--but when you are alone--then you let yourself go--is it
any wonder? Are you to blame? You see that you have made the great
mistake--that it was all pity and not love--and you long to be free from
me as you should be, as you shall be, dear."
A wild cry broke from Laura's very heart when she realised what he
meant.
"Love! Darling--Herbert! I never loved you as I love you now!"
She did not know that she spoke articulate words as she sprang to her
feet and clasped him in her arms, half mad with grief at the thought of
what he must have suffered, and loving him as she said she did, far
beyond the love of earlier days. But he hardly understood yet that it
was really love, and he tried to look up into her face, almost fainting
with the terrible strain he had borne so bravely, and still struggling
to be calm.
"Laura darling," he said, in a low voice, "it was all too natural.
Unless you tell me what it was that made you act as I saw you just now,
how can I understand?"
She turned her deep eyes straight to his.
"Do you doubt me still, Herbert?" she asked. And she saw that he could
not help doubting.
"But if I tell you that what I was thinking of would pain you very much,
and that it would be of no use--"
"It cannot be like the pain I feel now," he answered simply.
She realised that what he said was true. Then she told him the whole
story, as she knew it. And so, in a few hours, the conversation Ghisleri
had held with Gouache began to bear fruit in a direction where neither
of them had suspected it possible that their words could penetrate.
Arden had allowed himself to sink into a chair at Laura's side, and he
listened with half-closed eyes and folded hands while she spoke. Under
ordinary circumstances he would probably have betrayed some emotion, and
might have interrupted her with a question or two, but the terrible
excitement of the last few minutes was followed by a reaction, and he
felt himself growing colder and calmer every moment, while his heart,
which had been beating furiously when he had first spoken to her, seemed
now about to stand still. As she proceeded, however, he was aware of the
most conflicting feelings of happiness and anger--the latter of the
quiet and dangerous sort. He saw at once that he had been utterly
mistaken in doubting Laura's love, and from that direction peace
descended upon his heart; but when he heard what the world was saying of
her, he felt that weak as he was, he had the sudden strength to dare and
do anything to avenge the insult. He was human enough, too, to resent
bitterly the story about himself, though that, after all, was but a
secondary affair in comparison with the gossip about Laura.
When she had finished, he rose slowly, and sat upon the arm of her
easy-chair, drawing her head to his shoulder. He kissed her hair
tenderly.
"My beloved--can you forgive me?" he asked, in a very gentle voice. "My
darling--that I should have doubted you!"
"I am glad you did, dear--this once," she answered. "You see how it is.
You are all the world to me--the mere thought that any one can hurt you
by word or deed--oh, it drives me mad!"
And she, who was usually so very calm and collected, again made that
desperate gesture with her hands, as though she had them on a woman's
throat and would strangle out the life of her in the grip of her firm
fingers.
"As for me, it matters little enough," said Arden, taking her hands and
stroking them as though to soothe her anger. "Of course it is an absurd
and disgusting story, and I suppose some people believe it. But what
they say of you is a very different matter."
"I do not think so," broke in Laura, indignantly. "Of course every one
knows that we love each other, and that it is all a lie--but when such a
tale is started about a man--that he drinks--oh, it is too utterly
vile!"
"Dear--shall we try and forget it? At least for this evening. Let us do
our best. You have made me so happy in another way--I suffered in that
moment very much."
She looked up into his face as he sat on the arm of the chair, and she
saw that he looked very ill. The scene had been almost too much for him,
and she realised that when he spoke of forgetting it was because he
could bear no more.
"Yes, love," she said, "we will put it all away for this evening and be
happy together as we always are."
Each was conscious, no doubt, that the other was making a great effort,
but neither of them referred to the matter again that night. They talked
of all manner of subjects, rather nervously and resolutely at first,
then naturally and easily as ever, when the deep sympathy which existed
between them had asserted itself. During two hours, at least, they
nearly forgot what had so violently moved them both.
When Arden laid his head upon his pillow, his anger had not subsided,
but he knew that his love had taken greater strength and depth than ever
before. He spent a sleepless night indeed, but when he rose in the
morning he did not feel tired. Something within him which was quite new
seemed to sustain him and nourish him. He could not tell whether it was
love for Laura, or anger against the woman who slandered her, or both
acting at once, and he did not waste much time in speculating upon his
mental condition. He had formed a resolution upon which he meant to act
without delay.
It was a rainy morning, chilly and raw again, as the weather had been
earlier in the year.
"Give me warm clothes, Donald," he said to his man. "I am going out."
"Going out, my lord! In this weather!" Donald's face expressed the
greatest anxiety.
"Never mind the weather," said Arden. "Give me warm clothes, and send
for a closed carriage."
Donald obeyed, shaking his head, and muttering in detached expressions
of disapproval. He was a privileged person.