At the announcement by the servant "Mr. Wallace Armstrong" the crystal
ball fell from Laline's relaxed fingers and rolled upon the floor.
She stood as though paralysed, with her back to the window, through
which the last rays of a fast-fading sunset touched her bright hair,
making a halo of gold round her shadowed face. Her eyes were lowered;
she dared not lift them; dared not meet her husband's gaze; dared not
speak lest he should recognise her voice.
Wallace Armstrong, for his part, coming into the dark room, could
distinguish little but a tall, slender woman's figure in long white
draperies, a figure that neither moved nor spoke when the servant
announced him, but stood more like a wraith than a living thing between
him and the light. Was it a trick of the celebrated Mrs. Vandeleur, he
wondered, to receive strangers in this way? It was certainly original
and striking, if hardly calculated to set visitors at their ease.
"Is it Mrs. Vandeleur?" he asked. "I am afraid you dropped something as
I came in. May I find it for you?"
As he bent his head Laline looked down upon it, and remembered, with
a little quiver of repulsion, how often at the Rue Planché she had
noticed his thick curly black hair.
"Here it is!" he exclaimed, at that moment. "A crystal ball. It isn't
broken or even chipped. Is it a magic crystal, like the one Rossetti
wrote about?"
Still she did not answer, and found, to her horror, that he was looking
at her in surprise. Raising her eyes to his in a sudden defiant
impulse, she realised at once that Wallace had changed almost as much
as she herself had done. For one thing, the heavy dark moustache,
which four years ago had shaded his mouth, was close shaved; he wore
his hair much shorter than before, and the look of brooding sullenness
was gone from his brow. He was now to all appearance as perfectly "in
condition," physically and mentally, as before at Boulogne he had been
neglected and "run down." Under straight black eyebrows his brilliant
blue eyes glanced in searching interested fashion upon the face of
the still figure before him; but the old haggard insolence, the old
defiance and distrust, seemed to have entirely disappeared from his
voice, face, and bearing, and before she had even opened her lips to
speak to him, Laline felt that the horror and the hatred of years had
already begun to melt away within her heart.
"I hope you will forgive me, Mrs. Vandeleur," the visitor observed,
after a short pause, "for my intrusion. But I know so many of your
intimate friends very well indeed that I thought I might venture to
call, on the strength of the letter from Lady Moreham, which I sent to
you by messenger this morning. I hope, by the way, that you received
it?"
It was necessary for Laline to speak at last, and in very low tones she
informed Mr. Armstrong that Mrs. Vandeleur was out, and that she was
her secretary.
Her heart beat so violently as she spoke that it seemed to choke
her, and she almost feared that he would hear its throbbing. She had
often been told that her speaking voice was one of unusual depth and
sweetness, and she dreaded lest he should recognise its tones. But
though he inclined his head a little in her direction, the better to
catch her murmured words, Mr. Armstrong made no comment upon them, but
broke at once into talk upon the different objects of interest about
the room.
"May I wait here until Mrs. Vandeleur returns?" he asked; and, when she
bowed her head in response, he went on at once with his remarks. "Like
a page of old-world romance this room is. One might expect any wonder
amid such surroundings. Are you versed in occult lore, may I ask?
Miss Cavan, as I understand, admits that it has a kind of terrifying
fascination for her."
A light seemed to flash upon Laline. This man, Wallace Armstrong,
her husband, was none other than Clare Cavan's rich admirer, to whom
she had been introduced on the preceding evening. Why had not some
prescience taught her--Laline--who it was that Clare had described as
tall and strong, blue-eyed, black-haired, of Highland descent, and
next-of-kin to one of the richest men in London!
This man, then, had presented himself at Mrs. Vandeleur's house in the
character of her niece's lover, disregarding altogether the ceremony
which had bound him, more than four years ago, to a bride who had
escaped from him.
As to his gentleness of manner, Laline knew better than to trust to
that. Vividly, while he spoke, she recalled Wallace's good-humour and
kindness to her friends the children, and the treats he had given them
at the pastry-cook's, and afterwards in that memorable drive. All the
experiences of those three weeks seemed to crowd back upon the girl's
memory, the while Wallace, not unnaturally mistaking her awkward
silence for shyness, strove by talking to put her at her ease.
If only Mrs. Vandeleur or Clare would come, she thought, and end this
terrible _tête-à-tête_! She scarcely heeded the words he uttered, so
concerned was she in listening for tones in his voice which she could
recognise. She had never even asked him to sit down, nor did she dare
to ring for lights. So that she was standing just where he had found
her on entering the room, with her back to the window and her hands
clasped before her, when the door opened noiselessly, and Clare Cavan
crept towards them.
"Why, how dark it is!" she exclaimed. "And how stupid of Susan to have
shown you up here, Mr. Armstrong! How are you? I must ring at once for
the lamp. I had no idea that you were here."
"I think the servant was under the impression that your aunt had
returned," said Wallace, as he turned to shake hands with Clare. In an
instant Laline made a swift movement towards the door, hoping to escape
before he had clearly seen her; but in this design she was circumvented
by the sudden entry of Susan, who met her in the doorway, carrying in
her hands the upper portion of the tall lamp which usually stood by the
side of Mrs. Vandeleur's writing-table.
The light fell full on Laline's face, and quick as thought Wallace
Armstrong turned and gazed upon her features thus revealed to him. As
though to facilitate his inspection, Susan, lamp in hand, paused by the
door to inform Miss Grahame of Mrs. Vandeleur's return; and Wallace
Armstrong gazed his fill, and all his life remembered vividly just
how her face looked then--the lovely flesh-tints paled with agitation
and fear, the soft dark eyes distended, and between the level brown
eyebrows two perpendicular lines indicative of worry and distress.
Every curve of the parted red lips, of the firmly-modelled chin and
long well-rounded throat, he learned by heart in those few seconds,
and his eyes lingered with wondering admiration upon her small pink
ear, set far back, and enhanced in beauty by the bright hair, almost
yellow at this point, which half-veiled the upper portion of its curled
outline.
Clare Cavan noted with astonishment and indignation the direction of
Wallace's eyes--noted, too, the perceptible start he gave as he first
beheld Laline's face in the full light, and the fixed intensity of his
gaze. A keen stab of venomous jealousy shot through Clare's heart,
and she mentally registered a vow to be even with Laline for having
provoked Mr. Armstrong's attention.
Left alone with Clare, Wallace surprised her by making no reference
to Laline. He began, on the contrary, at once to talk of the various
persons whom they had met on the preceding evening--light desultory
conversation, not at all after Miss Cavan's heart, which he continued
until the entrance of Mrs. Vandeleur broke up their _tête-à-tête_.
Wallace Armstrong was a man of considerable determination and strength
of character, as might be guessed by the squareness of his jaw and the
firm lines of his handsome mouth. He had fully made up his mind this
afternoon to please Mrs. Vandeleur, and he succeeded admirably. The
genuine interest he took both in her personality and her pursuits made
it easy work for him to please her, the more so as the little lady was
greatly swayed by the outside appearance of those she met, and Mr.
Armstrong's finely proportioned figure, handsome face, and frank and
courteous manners were well calculated to satisfy the most exacting of
women.
To him the experience was unique and delightful. This picturesque
little old-young lady, with her powdered hair, her odd talk and
pretensions to hidden powers, her shimmering gray-satin gown redolent
of some faint Eastern perfume, her dainty lace frills and cuffs,
her small fingers sparkling with diamonds, and her searching dark
eyes peering at him from behind her jewelled eye-glasses, Wallace
considered a most interesting and delightful personage; while,
as offering a contrast to her _rococo_ charm, Clare Cavan, in a
tea-gown of sea-green cashmere and silk, her untidy yellow-red hair
crowning her alluring white face, appeared to supply just the note of
flesh-and-blood actuality which would otherwise have been wanting in
the scene.
Clare made tea, and hovered near him as much as possible. Not once
did Mr. Armstrong allude to his meeting with the secretary; but he
questioned Mrs. Vandeleur closely as to the properties of the crystal
which he had seen fall from Laline's hands when he entered the room.
"The story is that only certain special temperaments can discover
anything in it, isn't it?" he asked, while he held the ball in his
hands and examined it carefully.
"It is a gift," said Mrs. Vandeleur--"a gift given to few. Happily I
have discovered a young girl whose mind is so finely tempered that in
time she may go very far, very far indeed, in the study of the occult."
"Indeed! May I ask how you came across her?"
"Outsiders would tell you by accident; but my creed does not admit of
accident. I put certain words in a public print, and directed them to
one particular type of mind. I wanted that especial spirit; I appealed
to that, and it came to me as surely as a needle comes to a magnet.
That was all."
"But you had heaps and heaps of unsuitable replies as well, aunt," put
in Clare, sweetly.
It was by such remarks as this that she daily alienated her aunt's
liking more completely; but for reasons of her own Clare did not wish
the conversation to turn upon Laline.
"They do not count," said Mrs. Vandeleur, loftily, though with a shade
of annoyance on her brow. "The world will always be composed of the
two or three who understand and the millions who do not. Suffice it
that I found the temperament I required--a creature of perfect purity
and truth, unsullied by thoughts of love or money."
"'Her soul was pure and true;
The good stars met in her horoscope,
Made her of spirit, fire, and dew,'"
quoted Wallace Armstrong, looking steadily in the fire, as though he
saw some picture there--a picture, it might be, of a tall and slender
maiden, in straight white draperies, with her sweet face lowered and
the light making an aureole of her hair.
"Whose lines are those," asked Mrs. Vandeleur, much interested, "and
why do you quote them?"
"They are from Browning's 'Evelyn Hope,' and they seemed appropriate to
such a woman as you were describing."
"You have seen Miss Grahame, my aunt's secretary, of whom she is
speaking, Mr. Armstrong," said Clare, hardly able to control her
vexation, but speaking very sweetly. "She was here with you when I came
in."
"There was a lady here when I entered, and I supposed that she was Mrs.
Vandeleur at first," he answered, composedly; "but she hardly spoke,
except to tell me of my mistake, and it was much too dark to see her
face."
"I thought you saw her when the lamp came in," observed Clare,
innocently. "She is such a nice girl, full of fun, and does so enjoy
shopping! I hope you will like the tea-gown I got for her at Baker's
this morning, aunt. Lina much prefers stiff tweed or serge tailor-built
things; but I knew you insisted upon white dresses and flowing lines
for her, so I coaxed her into having them. I don't think I ever saw
anybody so fond of sweets; she is quite like a child in a grocer's
shop!"
By this artfully-planned speech Clare hoped that she had spoiled the
romantic effect of Laline's appearance. "Evelyn Hope" enjoying sweets
in a grocer's shop, and with difficulty restrained from purchasing
tweed tailor-made gowns, was surely sufficiently prosaic. Apparently
Wallace thought so too, for he did not pursue the subject, and the talk
presently drifted to palmistry.
"Some day you must tell my fortune, Mrs. Vandeleur," her visitor said.
"A good deal of it I can read in your face," said the little lady,
promptly. "You have considerable self-control, but you are capable of
going to the greatest lengths of what people would call folly for the
sake of one you love. You like many people; you love very few. But
where you love, it is a passion, a religion."
He flushed deeply, and then laughed.
"I don't think I am quite so fine a character as you are kind enough to
suppose me," he said. "There are no deep tragedies in the daily routine
of life at a bank for a rich man's nephew."
"Yet you have had some moving experiences," pursued Mrs. Vandeleur
thoughtfully, still scanning him through her eye-glasses--"experiences
involving much will-power and considerable self-sacrifice, and making
their mark upon your after-life."
"Has Lady Moreham told you much about me?" he asked, quickly.
"I do not need to be told by others what I can read in your face. Give
me your hand; now both hands."
She bent closely over first one and then the other for a moment, and
then looked up.
"Another's life, another's career is strangely involved in yours,"
she said. "Your line of fate is hampered by another's. It is an
association which will bring you nothing but harm. It still lies within
your power to sever it."
Clare Cavan, watching curiously, saw the young man's healthy colour
pale and a set look come into his mouth. But he did not speak, and Mrs.
Vandeleur continued.
"Just at this point in your career the easy life you have led of late
will be utterly changed. Your whole existence will be swerved from its
ordinary course, for a new and most powerful element will enter it.
From what I can judge, it will be love, the love of a woman."
A triumphant smile flashed into Clare's eyes. She was inclined to place
implicit faith in her aunt's prophecies, and had little doubt but that
a passion for herself would be the new element introduced into Wallace
Armstrong's career. Apart from his monetary position, she was really
very much in love with this extremely personable young man, who clearly
admired her, and was desirous of getting into her aunt's good graces.
Mrs. Vandeleur's Sibylline speeches about his future were therefore
profoundly interesting to Clare, who sat supporting her chin on her
hands in a picturesque attitude near the fire, listening with all her
ears.
"Your love-affairs will bring you a great deal of trouble," pursued the
little prophetess. "Or, rather, I should say, your love-affair, for you
will have but one."
"Won't she return my affection, then?" asked Wallace, half laughing,
but with a note of suppressed eagerness in his voice.
"There will be trouble and partings and evil wrought you by an enemy,
until death severs a link and you are free."
Mrs. Vandeleur spoke slowly and oracularly on her last words; she
dropped his hands, and, leaning back in her chair, passed her fingers
wearily over her eyes.
"I am tired," she said. "But I foresee trouble before you, and I should
like to warn you, for I take a great interest in you. Be very wary of
your friends. False love and false friendship are Will-o'-the-wisps, to
lead you to destruction. Now you must go. I have my work to attend to.
But you must come and see me again often, very often, for I like you."
With an imperial graciousness she stretched out her hand, which Wallace
lightly kissed, as he felt he was expected to do.
"I am really grateful for your kind forethought about my future," he
said, "and I shall certainly come again."
He was not in the least superstitious, and Mrs. Vandeleur's pretensions
to omniscience surprised and amused him; but he realised that she was
at least sincere in her charlatanism, and that she believed in herself
almost as much as she expected others to believe in her. Moreover, she
had touched a sore and secret place in his heart in her rambling talk.
No one knew better than he how the course of his life for the past few
years had been overshadowed by an association of ill omen, so far as
his own prospects were concerned, and Mrs. Vandeleur's intuition in
this respect impressed him considerably.
Clare Cavan led him down the stairs and opened the street-door for him,
looking strangely beautiful with the light from the ruby-coloured lamp
in the hall falling on her shining hair and white face, and Wallace
turned on the pavement to look back and bow again to her. But Miss
Cavan had closed the door, not finding the north-east wind to her
liking; and at the dining-room window, close pressed against the glass,
watching his retreating figure, was the face of the secretary, Lina
Grahame, wearing a look of unmistakable dislike and fear.
"That little old lady with the powdered hair is a witch!" Wallace said
to himself, as he pursued his way. "I am already in love, and already
in trouble over it."