LOVED AND LOST.
“Will you read the letter aloud?” added Mrs. O’Hara, as he was turning
it over, and he began at once:
“MY DEAR AUNT----” [He always called her “aunt,” put in Norah,
parenthetically.] “A more miserable man than I does not exist. Lady
Teignmouth has thrown me over, as you warned me that she would when
it suited her purpose; you know how desperately I loved her; you also
know how she has kept me dangling at her skirts all these years,
luring me on to destruction with her sweet, false eyes. Life is
nothing to me without her, and, though she has sworn so often that
she loved me, she laughed me to scorn when I suggested that she and I
might be happy together in another country. You will say all this is
very wrong, aunt. Pauline is another man’s wife; but my only excuse is
that the first time we met I believed her to be free, and she did not
undeceive me, although she must have seen that I was badly smitten,
and ready to make a dolt of myself at her bidding. Now it has gone
so far that I could not draw back if I would, and I would not if I
could. You will scarcely understand such mad infatuation, but I am
not the only man who has preferred to put an end to his existence
rather than live without the woman he loved. I am to meet Pauline
to-night, and with a few words from her lips my fate will be decided.
When this reaches you I may be beyond the reach of everything but your
prayers, but I know that even if the whole world condemn me, you will
always--always have a kind word, and a kind thought, for the boy you
reared, although he died a guilty, despairing man.
GEORGE BELMONT.
“Turoy, 2d August, 19--.”
“You see that the poor, unhappy fellow took his own life in his
despair,” said Norah, wiping her eyes furtively. “He always spoke to me
very admiringly of Lady Teignmouth, but I had no idea that he cared for
her like that, or I would have saved him, somehow.”
“Do you intend to make any use of this letter?” inquired Colonel Dacre
quietly.
“No; I have had enough of revenge for the present. If Lady Teignmouth
were to come in my way, I should probably tax her with her deceit and
perfidy, because, you know, I never can keep things in; but we are
not likely to meet, and meanwhile you may have the letter if you will
promise to take care of it that I may have it for reference later, if
required.”
This Colonel Dacre readily guaranteed, and then he turned to Mrs.
O’Hara, and said:
“And now about yourself, Norah? What are you doing here?”
“Nothing in particular.”
“I heard you were going to be married to a Russian prince.”
She colored furiously.
“Who told you that?”
“Some fellow we met at Nice, but I can’t for the life of me remember
his name. I wouldn’t believe it, but Gwen said it was just the sort of
thing you would do.”
“Why?” she inquired sharply, keeping her face averted as she spoke.
“Well, she thought you would not care for a quiet, humdrum life in
England.”
A gleam of fierce scorn came into Norah’s violet eyes, and then flashed
out again, leaving them dim as with unshed tears.
“Whatever I might have cared for I am not likely to get.”
Her tone was sad, her face so wistful, Colonel Dacre forgot her bad
accent, and said with earnest sympathy:
“Anyhow, don’t make a mull of your life, Norah, in a fit of the blues.
There is no reason why you shouldn’t be happy.”
“None whatever,” she replied, with a forced laugh.
“Then it is true about the Russian prince?”
“Come, Lawrence, you have quite enough to do to attend to your domestic
duties!” she retorted gaily. “Go home and show that letter to your
wife--and--don’t meddle in my affairs. No man can serve two masters,
you know.”
“Still, I think he might serve his friend without being in the least
degree disloyal to his wife.”
“Perhaps, I really don’t know--but I fancy the interest of the
two would clash occasionally. However, I am not going to try the
experiment. But your wife will be wondering what has become of you.
Good-by, Lawrence;” and she held out her hand to him with a softened
air. “I should like you to tell Lady Gwendolyn from me, if you thought
she would care for the confession, that I am very sorry to have
misjudged her.”
“I know she will be pleased to hear that you have found out your
mistake.”
“Then tell her by all means, and good-by once more.”
He kissed her hand affectionately, and was moving toward the door, when
she called him back to say, with a flash of her old humor:
“A fellow I met at Nice told me that ere long there might be an heir to
Borton Hall. Is it true?”
“Tell me about the Russian prince first. Is that true?”
“Yes,” she said, hanging her head a little.
“So is the other, then.”
She nodded to him benevolently, but there were tears still in her eyes,
and he seemed to see only them as he turned for one last look at his
old friend’s widow ere she disappeared out of his life forever.
Lady Gwendolyn was reading in the salon as her husband entered, but,
instead of greeting him with a smile, according to her wont, she went
on with her paper, and did not even glance his way. He glided behind
her, placed his hands round her slender throat, and drew her head back
on his breast.
“Well, Gwen,” he said, trying to look into her eyes. “What is it, my
love?”
“Nothing,” she answered, with an air of assumed indifference. “I had a
bad headache this morning.”
“No wonder, as you cried yourself to sleep.”
She started violently.
“How do you know?”
“Through my eyes and my ears, Gwen.”
She lowered her long lashes, and her lips quivered.
“Well,” he added presently, “I am waiting to know what all this means.”
“It is nothing of the least consequence.”
“Pardon me, Gwen, anything that causes you tears must be of the
greatest possible consequence to me.”
“Oh! women cry for nothing, you know.”
“Some may, but you do not, Gwen. I have not seen a tear in your eye,
until last night, ever since our marriage.”
“I was so happy,” she sighed.
“And you mean to infer that you are no longer so?”
She was silent.
He sat down beside her on the couch, and put his arm about her waist.
“Gwen,” he said, very gravely, “we are husband and wife now, and a
difference between us would be a terrible thing. Lovers’ quarrels are
light things, and do to laugh over afterward; but if you are angry with
me, Gwen, it can be no laughable matter. I have too much faith in your
love to believe that you would blame me for nothing, and condemn me
unheard, especially as you promised on our wedding-day that you would
never keep anything from me.”
“Have you kept all your promises?” she asked, half sadly, half
resentfully.
“I hope so, Gwen. If not, you have only to remind me how and when I
have failed to find me eager to atone.”
“You promised,” she sobbed out, “to uphold me always.”
“And have I not done so?”
“No.”
“Do speak out, Gwen; you are torturing me,” he complained. “To be
accused of a want of loyalty to my wife and not to be able to defend
myself at once is terrible. What do you mean?”
“You spoke to Mrs. O’Hara yesterday, although you know her to be my
enemy, and I am sure you have been to see her this morning,” she
blurted out, at last, half ashamed, half afraid, and yet resolute
withal.
“That is perfectly true as far as it goes,” replied Colonel Dacre
gravely. “I did speak to Mrs. O’Hara yesterday; it would have been
very difficult to pass a woman I had known so many years without some
sign of recognition; I also went to call upon her this morning, at her
special request.”
Then he briefly gave her a summary of his interview with Norah, and
laid the letter George Belmont had written to Miss Pindar in Lady
Gwendolyn’s lap.
“Read that,” he said, rather coldly. “You seem so ready to suspect me,
Gwen, I am glad to be able to give you proofs that I am not deceiving
you.”
“Oh, Lawrence!” she said reproachfully; and she had an impulse to put
back the letter, saying she required no confirmation of his words, but
curiosity checked the generous movement, and she opened and read it
instead.
Her face lightened as she perused these lines, which seemed almost like
a message from the grave, and when she had finished she said eagerly:
“Why didn’t Miss Pindar produce this letter before?”
“Because she knew nothing of the post-mortem examination, and the
suspicious circumstances of his death. She lives in a quiet country
place, and seldom sees a newspaper; and when Mrs. O’Hara wrote to
say that her brother was dead, Miss Pindar was thankful to let
well alone--even tried to persuade herself that he had died by the
visitation of God, after all, and not by his own hand.”
“But Mrs. O’Hara knew that I had been unjustly suspected, and should
have taken care to exonerate me as quickly as possible.”
“She has only had the letter in her possession for a month, she told
me, and did not know of its existence before. She said she meant to
send it to Borton Hall directly she heard of our return there; but our
chance meeting yesterday has saved her the trouble.”
“And where is she going now?”
“Well, she is going to be married--if that is an answer to your
question.”
“To whom?” inquired Lady Gwendolyn, her eyes sparkling. “Any one I
know?”
“That I can’t tell you; but it is a Russian prince.”
“Nonsense, Lawrence!” exclaimed his wife, melting altogether now,
although the news seemed too good to be true. “It isn’t, really, the
least probable.”
“It is the improbable things that always come to pass, I find.”
“I suppose she will live abroad?” said Lady Gwendolyn, with a great
affectation of carelessness.
“I dare say.”
“Don’t you mind?” she asked, drawing quite close to him and speaking
coaxingly.
“Why should I mind?”
“You are such old friends.”
“Exactly. But, you see, I shall have to cut all my old friends now,
since my wife takes it into her head to be jealous of them.”
“Oh, Lawrence!”
“It is true, Gwen!”
“Not quite,” she answered, with sudden candor. “I have never been
jealous of any one but Mrs. O’Hara.”
“And why of her, Gwen? We were both free eight months back, and if we
had cared for each other, what need have hindered our marriage?”
Lady Gwendolyn hung her head.
“I never thought about that.”
“No; my wife took a foolish fancy into her head, and, instead of doing
her best to banish it, allowed it to take quiet possession of all her
thoughts. The consequence was that I could not shake hands civilly with
an old friend without being supposed to care more for her than the
woman I had sworn to love and cherish before Heaven! Confess that you
have been very absurd, Gwen.”
“I am afraid I have, Lawrence,” she answered penitently, as she nestled
close to him and laid her head on his shoulder. “But you may be sure
I shall trust you for the future, for my own sake. I have suffered
dreadfully since yesterday afternoon.”
“I know that, and you deserve a severe snubbing; only I am so weak
where you are concerned, that, if I began to scold, I should end
ignominiously by caressing you, I fancy.”
“And what a nice ending, dear.”
Lawrence was only a man, and his wife was very fair; so that we may
be sure he readily responded to this naive invitation. But he had a
mind to improve the occasion before he let the subject drop; so he gave
her a little lecture on the terrible result of any want of confidence
between husband and wife; and she was so glad to be forgiven, that she
not only promised all he required, but even forgot to remind him that
he did not always practise what he preached.
But the Borton mystery had almost faded from her mind by this time,
and, moreover, she thought it better to “let sleeping dogs lie.”
That was a happy evening, and one Lady Gwendolyn often looked back upon
with longing afterward. They had tickets for the Opera Comique, but
decided at the last moment that they should be much happier at home;
and, dismissing the carriage, drew their chairs up to the log fire, and
chatted merrily until bedtime.
Lady Gwendolyn did not cry herself to sleep that night, nor was she
troubled by any evil presentiment of coming trouble. As she seemed
tired, Colonel Dacre was careful not to rouse her when he went to his
dressing-room. But half an hour later he came hurriedly back, with an
open letter in his hand.
“Gwen, darling,” he said, “I am so very sorry, but I must go to England
directly upon urgent business. The hurried journey would be too much
for you, even if I were able to wait until you got ready; but I shall
not be away more than three or four days, and I am sure you will not
mind being such a short time alone.”
He looked so troubled and anxious that she said at once:
“I am afraid there is something serious the matter that you will not
tell me.”
“My uncle, Sir Lawrence, is dead!”
“Is that all?” an inward voice prompted her to say.
He colored faintly, and a little spasm of pain contracted his firm lips
as he answered:
“Isn’t that enough, Gwen? However, I must not stand talking here. I
have only just time to catch the boat-train.”
He took leave of her hurriedly, but very tenderly, promising to write
to her from Dover, and then caught up the traveling-bag he had been
filling as he talked, and hurried away; turning back at the door to
give her a last loving glance and smile.
No sooner had she heard his fiacre drive off than she jumped out of bed
with almost a guilty air, and, picking up a telegram she had seen drop
out of his pocket, read the following words:
“Come the moment you receive this. There will be an exposé if not,
as she is very violent and restless. She says she wants to find her
husband, and we have only been able to keep her quiet by promising
that she should see you to-night.”
Was her husband indeed lost to her?