Once or twice during the season it was the custom of the Countess
Aurelia Van Homrigh to give a literary party. This party had at first
been but a small social gathering, invitations being issued only to a
few of the most select of the lady’s literary and scientific friends,
but every year the invitations had grown more numerous, until the yearly
reunions became quite the mode, and each one was an event to which the
world of art, science, and letters looked forward with delight.
The Countess was a pretty little Englishwoman, married to a foreign
adventurer, who had made an enormous fortune in certain obscure branches
of trade. While yet a maiden Miss Aurelia Blackeston was well known in
aesthetic circles as the writer of many charming volumes of verse, and
as the favoured lady to whom a certain great and titled poet addressed
the lines commencing
‘Aurelia, pretty one, brightest of blues!’
As a wife and a lady of title the same lady doubled her social charms.
Her husband, standing quietly in her shadow, watched her with morose
adoration, whilst she dispensed hospitality to all the lions of the
land.
For Aurelia loved a lion, just as some people love a lord. On each
occasion there were new ones to be sought out, secured and made much
of, before the party could be complete. In difficulties of this sort
she generally appealed to her old friend and admirer Serena, who, being
full-manned and leonine himself, was a good judge of the noble animal in
demand. Serena, we may remark _en passant_, had painted the Countess in
every attitude and from every conceivable point of view; as a Pythoness,
as a ‘Psyche by the Waters of Love’s Wanness,’ as ‘A Study in Rose
Pink,’ as ‘Vivien the Enchantress,’ in which doleful composition the
painter himself appeared as Merlin; and most of these portraits adorned
the walls of the cerulean house at Barnes, on the banks of the Thames.
One morning, early in the season, Madeline, sitting at breakfast with
her husband, received the Countess’s invitation; accompanying it was a
little note from Serena. ‘I hope you will come; indeed, you must come,’
wrote the great man, ‘since on this occasion the fair Aurelia’s rooms
will be graced by the presence of a gentleman whom I wish particularly
to make known to you, a charming creature whose soul is redolent of
music and divine song. He comes to my rooms, he contemplates your
picture by the hour--he vows that so divine a creature cannot exist. I
wish to show him that she does exist, and that, in trying to place it
upon canvas, my poor hand has signally failed.’
Madeline read the letter with a smile, then she handed it to her
husband.
‘The Countess is not content with mere lions this year,’ she said. ‘She
evidently intends to make a lioness of _me_. Shall we go?’
‘Yes, we had better go, my dear,’ returned Forster quietly. ‘Beneath
all her humbug the Countess is an excellent person; she would be really
pained if we stayed away.’
So without more ado--without more thought--the step was taken which was
to become the great turning point in Madeline’s life.
Breakfast over, Forster went to the City, while Madeline wrote a little
note accepting the lady’s invitation; then put the whole matter from her
mind, ordered her carriage, and an hour later was driving down Regent
Street, with the little boy who was now her constant companion.
The life into which Madeline had entered on her marriage had proved so
far to be a happy one. James Forster, always kind and considerate, was
devoted to his young wife; while Madeline tried to repay some of his
kindness to her by lavishing her affection on his child. ‘He shall never
repent marrying me,’ she said to herself a hundred times a day. ‘He
alone knows I did not bring him honour, but I will bring him happiness.’
And she tried to keep her word.
Meantime, the days flew past, and at length the momentous one arrived
on which Mr. and Mrs. Forster were to appear at the Countess’s house at
Barnes. Forster went to the City as usual, but promised to return early;
he was detained, however, so that when he reached home he found his wife
already arrayed for the night. He looked at her, then gently kissed her.
‘Madeline, my dear,’ he said, ‘I never saw you look more lovely’: then
he added quietly--‘Should you mind very much, my love, if I stayed at
home to-night?’
‘Stayed at home?’
‘Yes, I have had one of my nervous headaches all day, and I don’t feel
equal to facing the Countess’s crowded rooms.’
‘Then you shall remain at home, and I will remain with you.’
‘Not so, my love: you must go, and Margaret shall accompany you.’
‘But I would rather stay.’
‘Nonsense, Madeline. If you talk like that I shall go, and punish you
for your perversity by being more than usually disagreeable.’
So it was settled, the carriage was ordered, and Madeline drove down to
Barnes with Miss Forster by her side.
The gathering, as we have said, was always numerous, but this time it
seemed of greater importance than ever. The street on the river side
was so blocked with carriages that some time elapsed before Forster’s
brougham could pull up at the door, and when at length it did, and
the ladies passed over the carpeted pavement into the hall, they found
themselves in so dense a throng that it was with difficulty they made
their way along at all. At length, however, they reached the top of the
crowded staircase, at the door of a crowded room. Here Madeline paused;
her eyes, lately accustomed to the darkness, were dazzled by the
brilliant glare of light which met them, so that at first she could
find out nothing very distinctly; in a moment, however, the feeling of
confusion passed away, and with one swift glance she took in the scene.
In a suite of lofty rooms running from one to another, like a picture
gallery, and almost as thickly covered with works of art, were ladies
and gentlemen of all shapes and ages, the majority of the ladies clad
in what is now known as the aesthetic, or high-waisted, style, and the
greater number of the gentlemen resembling one another in a certain limp
and flaccid self-consciousness of attitude. Scattered here and there,
as a sort of leaven, were swarthy artists, with beards, spectacled
_savants_ and scientists, stout literary ladies, and acidulous lady
members of the London School Board. It was, indeed, a scene too familiar
to need much describing. The chatter was deafening, reminding an
irreverent spectator of the noise in the monkey-house at the Zoological
Gardens.
While Madeline and Miss Forster stood hesitating within the threshold
of the room, they were espied from a distance by Serena, who immediately
made his way over to them, and forthwith, in the manner of one having
authority, led them to the lady of the house.
The Countess, who was shining resplendent in a dress composed entirely
of Indian shawls folded tight round her lissome figure, welcomed
Madeline with effusion, and gave the tip of her fingers to Miss Forster;
then after a little desultory prattle, she introduced Madeline to a limp
gentleman standing near, and floated away to another part of the room.
‘A charming creature the Countess,’ said the limp gentleman. ‘So far
above the vulgar prejudices of our too crowded civilisation, with no
creed but Beauty, and no God but Art.’
‘Yes,’ murmured Madeline, scarcely attending, as she gazed rather
vacantly round the room.
‘Have you seen Botticelli Jones’s picture of her ladyship as “A Lily
of Languor in the Garden of Proserpine”? No? Well, Ponto says it is the
most superbly sane and cosmic thing----’
He was interrupted by a cry from Madeline, who, leaving his side
without a word of apology, crossed the room rapidly, and approached a
grim-looking person with a light beard, clad in a very shabby dress suit
and rather disreputable boots.
This was no other person than Jack Bingham, an artist by profession, of
the old ‘pipe and beer’ school, and a bosom friend of Marmaduke White.
‘What, Jack!’ she cried, holding out both her hands.
Everybody called him Jack.
As she spoke the grim face relaxed into a smile.
‘What, is it you?’ returned Jack, with a delighted laugh.
‘Yes, and I am so glad to see you. But who would have thought of meeting
you here, of all the places in the world? Dear, dear Jack, the very
sight of you calls up old times.’
And tears stood in her eyes as she gazed upon his homely face. Jack was
affected too in his rough way, so he made a diversion.
‘Beastly slow, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘There doesn’t seem to be a smoke
room, and none of the fellows are my sort.’
‘Why haven’t you come to see me?’ asked Madeline, nodding.
‘Since your marriage?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I don’t know--you didn’t ask me--and your husband’s a swell.’
‘He’s nothing of the sort, Jack, and as to not being asked, you ought
to have known my house was open to every friend of my dear guardian. You
might smoke in the drawing-room if you liked, and no one would object.’
Jack laughed.
‘I’m not quite such a beast as that; but there, I’ll come since you wish
it, and have a talk about old times.’
At this point they were interrupted by Blanco Serena.
‘Mrs. Forster,’ said he, ‘permit me; I wish to make two clever people
known to each other.’
Madeline placed her hand on Serena’s proffered arm, and with a smile and
a nod to Bingham moved a few steps away. Presently she paused and looked
up into her companion’s face.
‘Mr. Serena,’ she said, ‘who is the person? Nobody very clever, I hope;
I am so afraid of very clever people.’
‘I am going, my dear Imogen, to introduce you to one who, if the
“Megatherium” is to be trusted, is one of the greatest minds of the age.
A man who is all spirit, whose soul is a combination of music and song,
whose----’
‘Dear me,’ broke in Madeline, ‘he must be a dreadful person. Suppose you
point him out to me before we meet him, in case I get quite overcome.’
Serena gazed round the room. The crowd was so great he could not at
first find the individual he sought, and with Madeline’s hand still upon
his arm he moved a few more steps forward. Suddenly he paused again,
gazed across the room, and Madeline, following the gaze with her eyes,
beheld a form the first sight of which chilled her to the soul.
The room was long and vast, and the further end of it curved off into a
kind of alcove, which at this moment was filled with an admiring group,
such as Du Maurier loves to draw--aesthetic ladies, for the most part
tall and limp, and lean gentlemen, crowded together, who stood gazing in
rapt admiration upon a figure who stood in their midst. It was upon this
figure that Madeline’s eyes had fallen. In this wonderful creature,
this new lion of the night, she recognised, with a sickening shock of
surprise, none other than her old friend and tormentor, Belleisle!
For a moment all power of speech deserted her, the room, the crowds,
melted away--she stood as if alone, gazing upon the figure of a man in
overwhelming fear--all the blood had deserted her cheeks, the hand which
lay upon her companion’s arm was cold and death-like.
She was recalled to herself by the sound of Serena’s voice.
‘Mrs. Forster,’ he said, ‘will you come on now--may I be permitted the
honour of presenting you to my friend Gavrolles?’
But Madeline neither moved nor spoke. Her companion turned towards her,
and noticed the ghastly hue of her face.
‘Good heavens!’ he exclaimed. ‘What has happened? My dear Mrs. Forster,
let me trust you are not ill?’
Madeline clutched nervously at his arm.
‘Hush, not so loud,’ she whispered; then forcing a faint smile to her
bloodless lips, she murmured, ‘I am not feeling well, Mr. Serena, but
indeed there is no cause for alarm. The rooms are hot, you see, and I
have grown a little faint. Pray let me sit for a moment, but take no
further notice of this, I beseech you.’
Utterly bewildered as to what it all meant, but feeling instinctively
that something wrong had happened, Serena did as he was requested. He
led Madeline to an ottoman; she sank down on it with a sigh.
‘Now let me fetch you a glass of wine, or something to take away the
faintness,’ he said anxiously; and Madeline bowed her head in silent
acquiescence.
The moment he had gone she turned her weary, bewildered eyes upon the
gay crowd surrounding her, and gazed again with a sickening sense of
shrinking fear towards the spot where the man had stood.
Had her eyes deceived her, had it been some hideous vision conjured
up to cast a black shadow upon the happiness which was hers at last?
Madeline turned her eyes, hoping, half believing this might be so; but
one look gave the death-blow to all her hopes, and made her terror more
terrible than it had been before.
Yes, there he stood, the man who had blighted her young life, who had
dragged her into the mud, from which, in spite of him, she had arisen.
He was changed, certainly, but what changes could disguise him? His
hair, once short, was now long and luxuriant, he was clothed in garments
of the newest cut, he was talking rapidly, twisting his body into
various contortions, for the benefit of the small crowd about him. There
was no mistaking those pitiless eyes, that cruel mouth. Yes, it was
Belleisle, the man who had cheated her into becoming his mistress, who
had made her the decoy of a gambling hell, who had dragged her into the
very depths of dishonour and pollution.
She sat for a time concealing her face with her fan, but gazing upon him
in a wild fascination; then a terror seized her that the dreadful figure
might approach and she would be recognised. The mere possibility sent a
cold thrill through all her frame, and she realised for the first time
all the evil which one word from the man’s lips could bring upon her
head. Serena returned with a glass of wine and a biscuit. She sipped
the wine, but put the biscuit from her. Then she turned her white face
towards Serena, and whispered eagerly--
‘Mr. Serena, I must go home!’
‘Go home! My dear Mrs. Forster, the evening has hardly begun. We cannot
lose one of our brightest ornaments--besides, I have yet to introduce
you to----’
‘Hush,’ interrupted Madeline, eagerly, ‘do, pray, let me go. Take me
downstairs, I can bear this place no longer. I will wait in the hall for
the carriage, and you can bring Miss Forster to me.’
So saying, and without giving Serena time to reply, she rose, took his
arm, and drew him out of the crowded room, down the stairs. Once clear
of the room she seemed to breathe more freely, but her cheek still
retained its ashen grey hue, and the hand which rested upon his arm
trembled violently. He led her to the hall, wrapped her cloak about her,
and ordered her carriage; then, at her request, he returned to the room
to fetch Miss Forster.
It was yet early, carriages continued to drive up to the door, and new
streams of people made their way into the dwelling, but in the confusion
no one noticed Madeline. She had withdrawn into the shadow, and stood
now tremulous with excitement and eager to be gone, and inwardly
thanking God that she had escaped the Frenchman’s eye.
Suddenly she felt herself lightly touched upon the arm. She turned
quickly, and found herself face to face with the very man she feared!
Instantly she shrank away, and a quick cry of pain escaped her lips. She
put her hand to her head in a wild bewildered fear, and stared stupidly
at her foe.
The Frenchman was by no means disconcerted. He bowed politely before
her, asked in an audible voice if he could be of any service to her, but
whispered low----
‘I must see you alone to-morrow. Name a place where we shall meet!’
Madeline did not utter a cry this time, but she shrank farther and
farther away. Then she raised her head and looked straight into the
Frenchman’s eyes. For a moment she had been seized with a mad idea to
disown any knowledge of him--that one look into his eyes convinced her
that the device was hopeless.
‘Name a time and place,’ he repeated. Madeline knew that to refuse was
impossible--so she said hurriedly--‘Albert Memorial to-morrow morning
at 11.’ Then she gazed like a frightened child about her, and saw with
dismay that Miss Forster stood close at hand. Had she heard or seen?
Madeline could not tell, for the lady’s face betrayed nothing. She came
quickly forward, and said, in her cold, unsympathetic voice--
‘What is the matter, Madeline?’
Madeline’s face, which had lately been so pale, suddenly became crimson.
She stammered out that nothing was the matter.
‘Mr. Serena told me that you had been ill.’
‘I did not feel well,’ returned Madeline, regaining some of her
self-command, ‘and I should like to go home--but, dear Miss Forster, if
you will permit me I will go alone. It seems a pity to take you away so
soon.’
The lady replied, coldly--
‘I have no wish to stay. I came because my brother wished me to come;
that was all.’
By this time Serena, who had been busy hurrying up the carriage, came
to announce that it was ready, to offer his arm to the ladies, and
once more to express his deep grief at Madeline’s untimely departure.
Madeline took his arm in silence. As she moved away, she turned and
gazed uneasily around her.
The Frenchman was nowhere to be seen.
The drive home was made in profound silence. Miss Forster sat in stately
reticence and gazed from the carriage window at the flashing lamps of
the street, while Madeline threw herself into her corner, closed her
weary eyes, and tried to persuade herself that the event of the last
hour had been but a dream. She was a little bewildered as yet, and
unable to realise all that the man’s presence might mean. To her as yet
he had only recalled the horror of her past-life; he had cast no actual
shadow over her home.
When the carriage was pulled up at the door and she stepped out, she
felt herself shivering from head to foot, though in reality her hands
and lips were burning. When she pleaded illness as the cause of her
early return, Forster readily believed her, and while folding her in his
arms he blamed his own folly for allowing her to go forth at all that
night. Was it his fancy, or did Madeline really shrink from his embrace;
yes, shrink from it, as she had never done before? He turned anxiously
towards her, he noticed that her cheek was flushed, and that a strange
light shone in her eyes; but he saw no mystery there.
Having satisfactorily explained her return, Madeline went at once to
her room, where she found her maid awaiting her. The girl assisted her
mistress to remove her dress; to take down her hair, and put on her
dressing gown; then she was summarily dismissed for the night, and
Madeline, after locking her door, sat down to think what it would be
best for her to do.
What had she done? Nothing as yet. She had let the man see that she
feared him, certainly, but then he needed no sign from her to assure
him of that. She had, moreover, in her desperation and fear of exposure,
made an assignation with him. But then that assignation need never be
kept. There was one way open to her--one open, honest course; but she
shrank from it appalled. Her heart counselled thus--‘Go to your husband,
tell him all, and throw yourself upon his sympathy;’ but her courage
failed her, she shrank back like a contaminated guilty thing.
‘Go to him, look in his eyes, and say to him--“I have seen to-night the
man who made me his mistress; with one word he can bring disgrace upon
me, and _you_”---------’
No, she could not do it. Whatever her husband had heard of her past she
hoped by this time he had forgotten. In Forster’s sight, at least,
she would not be degraded; come what might, she would fight her battle
alone.