Rich men are not always to be congratulated, especially if they are
good-looking and weak. Frank Morrison was both, and in early days after
her wedding Renee found that a loveless marriage was not all bliss.
But she had marked out her own course, and, with the hopefulness of
youth, she often sat alone, thinking that she would win her husband
entirely to herself, and that when he fully saw her devotion he would
give up acquaintances whom he must have known before they were wed.
One Sunday evening, and she was seated waiting, when she heard a
well-known step upon the stairs.
It was quite dinner-time, and she was waiting, dressed, for her
husband's return, looking sad, but very sweet and self-possessed; and as
he entered the room she ran to meet him, put her arms round his neck and
kissed him on lips that had been caressing others not an hour before.
"Ah, Renee," he said quietly, "waiting dinner? So sorry, little woman.
I could not get near a telegraph office, or I would have sent and told
you."
"I have not waited long, Frank," she said cheerfully. "I am so glad you
have come back."
"But that is not what I meant, dear," he replied. "I am only returned
to dress. I dine out."
"Dine out, Frank?" she said, trying hard not to seem troubled.
"Yes--obliged to. Two or three fellows at the club. Couldn't refuse.
You will excuse me to-night, little one?"
"Oh yes, Frank," she said quickly, "if you must go, dear. I will not
say I am not disappointed; but if you must go--"
"Yes, I must, really," he said. "Don't fidget, and don't wait up.
There may be a rubber of whist afterwards, and I shall be late."
"How easy it is to lie and deceive!" thought Renee, as, with the same
calm, placid smile, she listened to her husband's excuses. "You are
going, Frank, to that handsome, fashionable-looking woman? You will
dine with her, and spend the evening at her house, while I, with
breaking heart, sit here alone, mad almost with jealousy I dare not
show."
Thoughts like these flitted through her mind as she put up her face and
kissed him before quietly ringing the bell for her dinner to be served,
and going down to the solitary meal.
Her husband came in for a moment to say good-bye, cheerfully, and then
she was alone.
It was a hard and a bitter task, but she fulfilled it, sitting there
calmly, and partaking of her solitary dinner. It was for his sake, she
said, for no servant must dream that they were not happy; all must go on
as usual, and some day he would come back repentant to her forgiving
arms, won by her patience and long-suffering.
She sat thinking this over and over again later in the drawing-room with
a sad smile upon her lips, pitying, but telling herself that she could
be strong enough to fulfil her self-imposed task. Not one word of
reproach should be his, only tenderness and kindness always. She was
his wife, and would forgive; yes, had already forgiven, and granted him
a dispensation for the sins against her that he might commit.
"Poor Frank, he never loved me as he thought he did; but I shall win him
yet," she murmured; and then started, for she fancied that she heard a
door close.
She saw nothing, though, and paid little heed, for if it was, it might
easily be one of the servants in the farther drawing-room, one of the
set of three, the third being quite a small boudoir, where she was
seated, while the others were only half lit.
She leaned back in her low chair dreaming of the happy days to come,
when her husband would return to her, and then her thoughts glided off
to Gertrude and her projected marriage.
"I wonder whether I shall have a child," she thought, "and if so,
whether I shall be, in time to come, as mamma is. Poor Gerty! it seems
very shocking that she, too, while caring for another, should be almost
forced to accept the addresses of an old man like Lord Henry Moorpark.
For that's what mamma means," she said half aloud.
Then she sat dreaming on and wondering whether some reports she had
heard about John Huish were true--reports of a very dishonourable
nature, but which she had carefully hidden from her sister.
"It may be all scandal," she murmured; "but I am getting hard now--so
soon! ah, so soon! Where there is smoke, they say, there is fire. Poor
Gerty! Better Lord Henry--who seems to love her--than that she should
waste her days on a worthless man. And yet I liked John Huish. Uncle
Robert likes him, too; and I never knew him wrong, in spite of his
retired life."
But it would be strange, she thought, if both she and her sister should
have set the affections of their young hearts upon men who upon being
tried proved to be unworthy of trust. "Poor Gerty!--poor me!" she said,
half laughing. "It is a strange world, and perhaps, after all, our
parents are right in choosing our partners for life."
Then she started once more, for she knew that she was not alone, and on
turning, there, in evening dress, his crush hat in his hand, and looking
calm, handsome, and sardonic enough for an incarnation of the spirit of
evil himself, stood Major Malpas.
"Nervous, Mrs Morrison? Good-evening. Did you not hear me announced?
No? Your carpets are so soft."
He almost forced her to hold out her hand to him as she sat up, by
extending his own, and he took it and raised it respectfully to his
lips.
"But where is Frank?" he asked.
"My husband dines out this evening," said Renee coldly.
"Indeed! how unfortunate! He asked me to run over one evening for a cup
of coffee and a cigar. Perhaps he will return soon."
"Not till quite late," said Renee, who tried hard not to show that she
was troubled by the visit.
"I am so glad to see you better, Renee," he said, taking a chair near
her, and speaking in a low, earnest voice.
Renee started, for it was the first time since her marriage that he had
called her by her name; and as she met his eyes she felt that it was
also the first time since the same event that he had gazed at her with
such bold admiration.
What could she do? She could not bid him leave her; and, besides, she
felt that in a few minutes his gentlemanly instincts must lead him to
go, and, indeed, what was there to fear? He was a gentleman--a friend
of her husband--and he had called to see them.
"How times are changed, Renee!" he said, after a pause, as he gazed at
her pensively. "Once your eyes used to brighten and the colour flushed
into your cheek when I came near. Now, is it a dream--a trick of fancy?
I find you another's, and you turn from me with coldness."
"Major Malpas," said Renee quietly, "is this a suitable way of
addressing the wife of your friend?"
The mask fell off at these words.
"Friend!" he cried bitterly, as he drew his chair close to the couch on
which she sat; "he is no friend of mine. Friend! What, the man who has
robbed me of all that was dear--who has made my life a desert! Friend?
Renee, you mock me by using such a word."
"Major Malpas!" she cried loudly.
"Hush!" he exclaimed, throwing down his hat. "Hear me now, for the time
has come, and I must speak, even though it be to wound the heart of the
tenderest and sweetest of women. Renee, can I call the man friend who
deliberately forsakes you for the society of a notorious woman--an
actress!"
"Friend? No," cried Renee with flashing eyes, as she rose to ring; but
he caught her wrist and stayed her. "No; nor he you, if this is your
friendship--to come and blacken my husband's name with foul calumny to
his wife."
"Stop!" he said. "You shall not ring. Calumny! foul! Is it a foul
calumny to say that he was driving her in the Park to-day, that he is
dining with her and her friends to-night? Shame, Renee, that you should
speak thus to the man who has ever been your faithful slave."
"Major Malpas, I insist upon your leaving me this instant. There is the
door!"
"Leave you! No," he cried, seizing her other hand, as he fell upon his
knees at her feet, "not till I have told you, Renee, that the old love
never died in my heart, but has grown up stronger, day by day, till it
has mastered my very being."
That same night there was a party given by Madame Dorinde, limited to
eight, fairly balanced between the sexes. The dinner was to be good,
the supply of wines very liberal, especially as they cost the hostess
nothing.
But they were a curious collection of guests, such as would have puzzled
a student of human nature. Certainly he would have understood the
status of Madame Dorinde, a handsome, showy woman, with plenty of smart
repartee on her lips, and an abundance of diamonds, rubies, and emeralds
for neck, arms and fingers--the gifts of the admirers of her histrionic
powers. He would have told you that this would be a bright and gay
career for a few years, and then probably she would drop out of sight.
There was a pretty, fair girl with good features and the glow of youth
on her cheeks, putting to shame the additions of paint, and who seemed
to think it right to laugh loudly and boisterously at everything said to
her; there was Miss Grace Lister, the first burlesque actress of the
day, dark, almost gipsy-looking in her swarthy complexion, whose colour
was heightened by the novelty and excitement of the scene; Lottie
Deloraine, _nee_ Simpkins, of the Marquise Theatre; Frank Morrison and a
couple of washed-out habitues of the stalls lounged about the room, and
the assembled company were beginning to wonder why dinner was not
announced.
"What are we waiting for, Dory?" said Morrison at last. "Aren't we all
here?"
"Only for an old friend of mine. You know him--John Huish," said the
hostess rather maliciously; and then she added to herself, "He'll keep
your eyes off Gracy Lister, my gentleman."
Morrison screwed up his face a little, laughed in a curious way, uttered
the ejaculation "Oh!" and then smiled as the door was opened and a smart
soubrette loudly announced "Mr John Huish!" the bearer of that name
entering hurriedly, looking flushed and full of apologies, which were at
once received and the dinner commenced.
It was intended to be free and easy and full of spirit; but somehow it
seemed as if a spirit of discontent had crept in, and from time to time,
though there was no open unpleasantly, flashes of annoyance played like
the summer lightning which prefaces a storm over the table with its
sparkling glass.
Madame Dorinde had a great favour to ask of her admirer, Frank Morrison,
and sought to put him in the best of humours; but to her great annoyance
she found him preoccupied, for his attention had from the first moment
been taken up by Grace Lister, and his eyes were being constantly turned
in her direction as, after a time, forgetting past troubles and neglect
in the gaiety and excitement of the scene, Madame Dorinde looked
brighter and more animated than she had seemed for weeks.
All this annoyed Huish, who was not long in detecting the glances
directed by Frank Morrison at the glowing beauty of Grace, and he was
the more annoyed because, just before dinner, he had whispered to the
giver of the feast:
"Have the cards on the table as soon as you can. You propose."
"There will be no cards to-night, my friend, so you need not expect to
win any money," the hostess had replied; and the young man had bitten
his lip, and sat thinking how he could turn the little party to his own
account.
"Why, I say, Huish," Morrison cried gaily, a little later on, "what a
canting humbug you are! I never thought to meet you at a party like
this;" and he smiled significantly. "We always thought you were a kind
of saint."
"I am--sometimes."
"It's wonderful," sneered Morrison.
"Yes, it is a wonder, my dear fellow; but you set me such an example."
The two habitues of the stalls nodded to one another their approbation
of the retort, and Madame Dorinde, to calm what threatened to be one
ebullition with another, called for champagne.
As the dinner went on, the elements of discord began to leaven the party
with greater effect, and a calm observer would have felt sure that the
evening would not pass away without a quarrel. Morrison slighted his
hostess more than once, and a redder spot burned in her cheeks right in
the centre of a rather unnatural tint, while Huish, out of sheer
bravado, on seeing how Morrison kept trying to draw Grace into
conversation, directed his to Madame Dorinde.
"By the way, why hasn't Malpas come?" said Morrison at last. "I
expected to see him here with little Merelle."
"Better employed, perhaps," said Madame Dorinde tartly; and the young
girl with the youthful look laughed very heartily.
"I say, Huish," said Morrison at last, on finding that his attentions to
Grace were resented by her companion, "I shall see little fair somebody
to-morrow. You know whom I mean. What tales I might tell!"
"Tell them, then," said Huish sharply; "perhaps I shall retort by
telling too."
"Oh, tut, tut, tut!" cried Dorinde. "Nobody tells tales out of school."
"This is not the School for Scandal, then," said one of the habitues of
the stalls; and the fair young lady laughed again.
"I say, Dorinde," said Morrison at last, rather uneasily, "why is not
Malpas here?" and as he spoke he directed a peculiar smile at Grace.
Huish drew his breath hard, but said nothing. He set one of the _menu_
cards close to his plate, wrote something on the back, and, waiting his
time, doubled it up at last.
"Give that to the gentleman opposite," he whispered to a waiter,
slipping a florin into the man's hand. "Don't say where it came from."
The man nodded, and Huish turned to chat gaily with Dorinde; then,
filling his glass slowly, he directed a sidelong glance at Morrison as
he took the card, glanced at its writing, crushed it up in his hand, and
closed his eyes, as a spasm ran through his countenance and he turned
pale as death.
No one else noticed it, and he opened his eyes and glanced quickly round
to see that the company were all busily conversing. Then, rising
quietly, he left the room, walked slowly to the lobby of the great
building, where he had left hat and coat, and went out of the house.
Then he let his excitement have its full vent.
"Hansom!" he shouted, leaping into the first he saw. "Chesham Place--
double fare--gallop."
The horse dashed off in answer to the sharp cut of the whip, and as it
tore along Piccadilly Frank Morrison strove to get rid of the fumes of
the wine he had been drinking, and to think calmly.
"She is too pure and sweet and true a woman--I don't believe it," he
said, grinding his teeth. "Whom I am cursed scoundrel enough to
neglect. Who could have written that? Curse him! that John Huish, of
course. What a scoundrel he has turned out!"
"Bah! what am I railing at?" he cried. "Whom do I call scoundrel? Damn
you!" he roared, forcing up the little trap in the roof of the hansom.
"Faster, man, faster."
There was another lash of the whip, and the horse galloped furiously.
"Scoundrel, indeed! he is no worse scoundrel than I. He is an open
roue, while I stoop to all kinds of beggarly petty subterfuges to
conceal the life I lead. I won't believe it, though; it is a malicious
trick of John Huish's because he was jealous--and he has fooled me."
"Well," he muttered, after a pause, "a good thing too. I'm sick of the
whole thing--cards, lose, pay, feast a woman who does not care a _sou_
for me. Heavens, what a fool I am! John Huish, you have ousted me;
take my place and welcome. Renee, little woman, I'll come back, and be
a good boy now."
He said this with a mocking laugh, and then changed his position
impatiently in the cab, growing, in spite of his words, more excited
every moment.
"How could Huish know?" he said, gnawing his nails. "Impossible; and,
besides, he is too good and tried a friend. Suppose he did drop in,
what then? Why, he is wiser than I: he prefers the society of a sweet
good little woman to that of a set of painted animals, who have not a
scrap of reputation big enough to make a bow for their false hair."
"There, I've been tricked," he exclaimed, as the cab turned down out of
Knightsbridge and he neared Chesham Place. "Never mind; I'll forgive
him for fooling me, and I'll try to leave all this wretched, stupid life
behind. We'll go abroad for a bit; or, no, we'll go yachting--there'll
be no temptations there. I'm going to begin afresh. We'll have a new
honeymoon, Renee, my little girl. But--but--if that fellow's words were
true!"
The gas-lamps seemed to spin round as he stopped the cab, and he leapt
out to hastily thrust some money in the drivers hand, and then walked
sharply down the Place till he came opposite his own house.
"Curse it--it can't be so!" he groaned, as he saw the dimly-lit
drawing-room. "If it were true, I should go mad or go to the bad
altogether. I won't believe it. Malpas, old fellow, I beg your
pardon," he muttered. "Renee, my child, if heaven will give me
strength, I'll confess to you like an honest man that I've been a fool
and an idiot, and ask you to forgive me."
"Yes, and she'll forgive me without a word," he said, as he opened the
door, quickly threw off hat and coat, and ran up the great stone
staircase three steps at a time, then, trying to control the agitation
that made his heart beat so heavily against his side, he threw open the
door, closed it hastily, and walked across the faintly-lit room into the
next, where he could see into the little boudoir with its bright
furniture, flowers, and graceful hanging-lamp, which shed a softened
light through the place.
The next instant he had entered, and was standing there face to face
with his wife, who with flushed face stood trembling before him,
supporting herself by-one hand upon the chimney-piece.
"Renee," he cried, turning white with rage, as his worst suspicions
seemed confirmed, "what does this mean?"
"Frank, Frank!" stretching out her hands towards him as she tottered a
couple of steps and then reeled and would have fallen, but he caught her
and swung her round on to the couch, where he laid her, and stood gazing
down for a few moments.
Then, looking dazed, and trembling in every limb, he turned round, his
eyes rested on the curtains which shut off the little conservatory, and
with two strides he reached them, tore them aside, and then started
away.
It was exactly what he had wound himself up to expect; but his faith in
his injured wife was so strong that, as he drew back, he could scarcely
believe his eyes, and with a giddy feeling stealing over him, he stood
staring wildly at the apparition that he had unveiled. The blood seemed
to swell in a chilling flood to his heart, and for a few moments he
could neither speak nor move.
Then with an electric rush it seemed to dart again through every vein in
his body, making his nerves tingle, and he flew at the man who had crept
like a serpent into his Eden.
"Devil!" he cried hoarsely; and he tried to seize his enemy by the
throat.
With a deft movement of the arms, though, Malpas struck his hands aside,
caught them by the wrist, gave them a dexterous twist, and forced the
other, stronger man though he was of the two, upon his knees.
"Fool! idiot!" he said, in a low voice. "Do you wish to publish it all
over Belgravia?"
"You crawling, deceitful fiend!" cried Frank Morrison, making a savage
effort to free himself, and succeeding so that he closed, and a sharp
struggle ensued, which again went against the young husband. For his
adversary was an adept in athletic exercises, and taking advantage of a
low ottoman being behind, forced him backwards so suddenly that he fell,
and in a moment was down with Malpas's hands in his necktie and a knee
on his chest.
"Are you mad?" he said, panting and trying to recover his breath; "what
do you want?"
"Your life, you crawling, lying villain," gasped Morrison.
"Look here, Morrison, be a man of the world," said Malpas quietly. "So
far, I don't suppose they have heard anything downstairs, so why make a
scene? If you wish it, I'll meet you in Belgium; that is," he added,
smiling, "if you consider that your honour has suffered."
"You scoundrel!" panted Morrison. "You have blasted my home!"
"Bah! don't go into high sentiment. Blasted your home? Hang it, man,
talk sense! What did you care for your home? Where have you been
to-night?"
"Where I pleased," cried Morrison, with subdued rage in his eyes; but he
lowered his voice.
"Exactly, you had your little affair to attend to: why should not madame
have her guest by way of solace, in the absence of so true and faithful
a husband?"
"You villain!" panted Morrison again, as he caught the wrists that held
him down.
"Villain, if you like to use such strong language, _mon cher_; but for
heaven's sake be calm--be a man of the world! We don't live in the old,
sentimental Darby-and-Joan days, my dear fellow, but in times when it is
fashionable to follow one's own sweet will. You are like the dog in the
manger: obstinate--selfish--brutal. Go to, my dear friend, and enjoy
yourself, but let others live and enjoy themselves too."
For answer Frank Morrison made a desperate struggle to rise, but he was
quite helpless under the strong pressure of his opponent's knee.
"For goodness' sake, be calm," said Malpas angrily. "Hang it, man, what
did you expect in our matter-of-fact world! You brought me here
constantly, and you left us together constantly. Do you forget that we
were old lovers before you came between us? There, you are coming to
your senses, I hope."
He stepped away quickly towards the door, and Frank Morrison sprang up
and made as if once more to seize him, but with a violent thrust Malpas
sent him backwards and was gone.
Frank Morrison stood motionless till he heard the front door close; then
with a moan of anguish he turned towards where Renee still lay
insensible upon the couch.
"My punishment!" he groaned: "and I believed in her so thoroughly; I
thought her so pure, so sweet that--out upon me! I left her, dog that I
was, for garbage. Curse him!" he cried in a paroxysm of rage, "curse
her, with her smooth, white, innocent looks! The whole world is blasted
with villainy, and there is not one among us worthy of a moment's
faith."
"Frank--husband," moaned a voice, and Renee, pale as death, rose
trembling to clasp her hands before him.
He caught them in his, dragged her up savagely, and then swung her down
upon her knees.
"And you, too, of all women in the world! Curse you! curse you! may
you--"
"Frank, my own, I--"
"Out upon you!" he cried. "I'll never look upon your smooth false face
again!"
Choking with her emotion, she tried to speak--to cling to him; but he
snatched himself away, and as she fell heavily upon the carpet he rushed
from the house.
Volume 2, Chapter IV.