THE FIRST CLOUD.
“I declare, we have been six months abroad, and not yet come across a
single person we know,” said Lady Gwendolyn to her husband one morning.
“I wonder how it is?”
“Well, we haven’t tried to come across people we know, for one thing.”
“But it might easily have happened accidentally.”
“Don’t let us boast,” Colonel Dacre returned, as he passed his hand
through her arm. “A thing always happens directly you begin to
congratulate yourself upon having escaped it.”
“Then I won’t say another word.”
“Come for a walk instead,” he said. “You have spoiled me so, Gwen, that
I can’t enjoy my cigar unless you are hanging about me.”
“Oh! Lawrence, I am sure I never hang about you.”
“What do you do, then?”
“I walk by your side.”
“Like a discreet British maiden. Do you know you have got your part
very perfect, considering the short time you have had to learn it?”
“I don’t call six months a short time.”
“It has seemed so to me--perhaps, because I have been so happy. I
am afraid you have been dreadfully bored, Gwen, as it has passed so
slowly.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Lawrence!”
“But, my dear love, you forced me reluctantly to draw that inference.”
Lady Gwendolyn pouted, and Colonel Dacre, being still his wife’s lover,
as men of his constant nature continue to be all their lives, stooped
his tall head and kissed the sweet, red mouth.
“Now, put on your hat,” he said, “and we will go for a little stroll. I
am quite beginning to like this free-and-easy sort of life, Gwen. Are
not you?”
“I don’t seem to mind much where we are so that we are together. I have
given up the world and its vanities----”
“All for love?”
“All for love,” she repeated. “I couldn’t have a better reason, surely.”
“I am quite satisfied with it, if that is what you mean. But be quick
and dress, or the beauty of the day will be over; and, mind you, wrap
up well.”
She came back presently in velvet and furs, with a pretty, frosty bloom
on her round cheeks; and as Colonel Dacre offered her his arm, he said
proudly to himself that there wasn’t a woman in France who could come
up to his darling. And his darling was quite aware that she was looking
her best, and thoroughly enjoyed the respectful admiration she excited,
not for its own sake, but because she liked Lawrence to feel that she
was appreciated.
They walked up the center avenue of the Tuileries, and then made their
way down the Rue Royale to the boulevards, which looked very gay this
bright morning.
Then, walking briskly back again, they paid a visit to the pastry-cook
at the corner of the Rue Castiglione, and lunched off oyster patties
and babas, finishing up with the tiniest glass of curaçoa, as a
suitable defense against the cold.
Lady Gwendolyn was arranging her veil after this moderate but dainty
refection, when a very magnificent dame rustled into the shop, and
said, in abominable French, which, however, she seemed delighted to air:
“_Donnez moi oon patty, mademoiselle, et dépêche parceque je suis en
hâte._”
This pastry-cook being much affected by the English, mademoiselle was
accustomed to this sort of thing, and did not even smile as she handed
madame her pâté out of the hot safe in the center of the shop, and
placed a chair for her beside one of the little marble tables.
Lady Gwendolyn glanced furtively at the face belonging to this voice,
and then made her way toward the door, keeping as far as possible from
the neighborhood of the newcomer, so as not to attract her attention.
But Colonel Dacre, who had noticed nothing, turned round from examining
some bonbons in the window, and, seeing her close to the door, called
out:
“Wait a moment, Gwen, I haven’t paid.”
The lady at the marble table looked up then, and by simply catching
Colonel Dacre’s eye, explained Lady Gwendolyn’s little ruse.
“What, you, Norah?” he said, with evident pleasure, as he extended his
hand. “What brought you to Paris?”
“Well, money; but I forget how much,” she answered, with her old
vivacity, although he thought her much thinner and paler than when
they met last. “I am getting so tired of England, of everybody,
and everything. Is that your wife who has just left the shop so
precipitately?” she concluded, with some abruptness.
“She has just gone out, certainly.”
“To avoid me? You need not deny it, Lawrence, it is very natural she
should. However, I have something she ought, in justice, to see. Will
you tell me where you are staying?”
“At the Hotel d’Albion, close by. If you will tell me where you are,
Norah, I will call upon you to-morrow, and take charge of anything you
may have for her.”
“Thank you, that will be best,” she answered. “Don’t let me keep you
from Lady Gwendolyn. I am at the Grand Hotel, number forty three; but
don’t come before noon. I sleep so wretchedly nowadays, that I am glad
to rest in the morning. If Lady Gwendolyn minds your coming, write me
a line instead, and I shall understand. I think if I had a husband I
cared for I should be awfully jealous.”
“Not if he gave you no cause, I hope.”
“Perhaps. But do go. I wouldn’t for the world add to my offenses in
your wife’s eyes by exposing her to annoyance. She is much too handsome
to be a minute alone in the streets of Paris.”
“True,” he said, and hurried off.
Lady Gwendolyn was standing at a book-shop waiting for him, and put her
arm into his without a word. Neither did he make any remark. He thought
it best not to speak of Mrs. O’Hara, until he had heard what she had
to say on the morrow. Lady Gwendolyn was unusually grave and quiet for
the rest of the day, and if he happened to raise his eyes suddenly he
caught a very wistful look of the dark eyes; but he bided his time, and
still said nothing.
That night when Lady Gwendolyn fancied that her husband was asleep she
cried softly to herself, for the string of old, sad memories in her
heart had been too much for her, and she wondered fearfully if this
woman had come to take her husband from her as she had taken Percy Gray
from poor Lady Maria.
“She is tired, poor child!” he said to himself; and, leaving word
with her maid that she was not to rise a moment earlier than she felt
inclined, on his account, as he was going for a walk, he amused
himself with a morning visit to the Palais Royale.
Returning about ten o’clock, he was met at the door of the salon by
Phœbe, who said that her mistress begged him to excuse her, as she had
a tiresome headache, and would lie down for another hour. This was the
first time Colonel Dacre had been called upon to breakfast without the
fair fresh face of his spouse near him at table, and an expression of
disappointment came into his gray eyes.
Nevertheless, he said with admirable self-abnegation:
“Tell your mistress not to get up on any account, if she feels better
in bed. But I suppose I shall be able to see her before I go out?”
“My lady desired particularly that she might not be disturbed, sir.
She said she thought she should be well enough to take a drive in the
afternoon if she kept quiet for the next few hours.”
“Oh, very well!” answered Colonel Dacre. And he might have been
unreasonable; but somehow he felt snubbed. “What has her ladyship
taken, Phœbe?”
“A strong cup of tea, sir; that was all she would have.”
And the girl, who was already attached to her young mistress, looked
quite distressed. Colonel Dacre was obliged to assume a tranquillity he
did not feel to reassure her.
“Rest is sure to do her more good than anything, Phœbe. Be sure and
tell her ladyship when she rings for you that I was obliged to go out
this morning; but shall hope to see her at luncheon time.”
Phœbe bowed, and left the room. Then Colonel Dacre swallowed a cup of
coffee, ate part of a roll, and then, telling the waiter to get him a
cab, prepared for his visit to Mrs. O’Hara.
He found his old friend reclining on a sofa in an exquisite peignoir of
pale blue cashmere, trimmed with lace, while a coquettish little cap
rested on the top of her brown hair. She held out to him her jeweled
hand languidly.
“I am so glad to see you, Lawrence. How is your wife?”
“She is rather tired this morning.”
“I hope that is all.”
“I hope so, too. She is not delicate, naturally, neither is she very
strong, and we have been walking more than she is accustomed to do
since we came to Paris.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Rather more than a week?”
“You are on your way to England, I suppose?”
“I believe so; but we have scarcely decided yet.”
“I presume you would hurry home if anything happened to your uncle, Sir
Lawrence?”
“Naturally. But we heard from him just before we left Biarritz, and he
then said that he was remarkably well, so that I do not anticipate a
sudden recall.”
Mrs. O’Hara had a letter in her hand; but she put it down on the table,
and lifted those wonderful Irish eyes of hers to his face.
“Lawrence,” she said quietly, “will you answer me one question?”
“Nay, a dozen, if I can, Norah.”
“One will be enough. Has the accusation I made against Lady Gwendolyn
that day at the ‘Langham’ ever troubled you in the slightest degree?”
He reflected before he answered:
“I don’t think it has. I have such full faith in my wife, you see.”
“Still, you know me well enough to understand that I should not make a
statement of this sort unless I believed it to be true.”
“No; but we are all liable to error, Norah.”
“And you may as well add that a person of my impulsive temper is doubly
liable. I certainly did think that Lady Gwendolyn had been the cause of
my poor brother’s death, and had destroyed him by her cruel coquetries;
and, as I am not in the habit of bridling my tongue, or disguising my
feelings, I told her plainly what I thought. But since then I have
discovered my mistake.”
“Go on,” he said eagerly.
She pointed to the letter on the table.
“Read that,” she said, “and it will save my breath. You will see by the
signature that it was written by my poor brother himself, and is dated
the second of August.”
“The day before his death?”
“Exactly. It is in pencil, as you will perceive, but is quite legible,
and has the ‘Dragon, Turoy, Westmoreland,’ printed in colors on the
paper.”
“Yes, I see. The landlord of the ‘Dragon,’ who is quite the gentleman
in his way, must have lent it to him. I remember that he affected all
those little refinements.”
“Very well, now read it through, and tell me what you make of it.”
“Would you mind telling me, first of all, to whom this letter was
written?”
“To a Miss Pindar--a relation of my mother’s, who brought us up when
our parents died. Poor George, with all his faults, was very much
attached to her, and always kept her _au courant_ as to his movements.
She was his favorite of us two, and I know she scraped and saved in
order to send him money for his pleasures. But he did mean to make it
all up to her,” added Mrs. O’Hara. “I saw the letter he wrote to Miss
Pindar directly he came into his property.”
It occurred to Colonel Dacre that promises did not cost much, but he
refrained from any hint to this effect, seeing how much it comforted
Norah to accredit her brother with good intentions.