That night Laline went to bed with her head in a whirl of emotion and
perplexity.
All through the evening she had had to endure the comments of both Mrs.
Vandeleur and her niece on the manners and appearance, the character,
and the prospects of Wallace Armstrong, and had had to listen, to all
appearance unmoved, while the possibilities of his falling in love and
marrying were freely discussed.
And all the while she knew that she was his wife, sold by an
impecunious father, bought by a penniless husband, unrecognised and
forgotten, but his wife none the less in the eyes of the law and the
sight of heaven.
She could have laughed aloud when Mrs. Vandeleur gravely stated that
Wallace Armstrong was a man of "singular nobility of character, of
fine artistic tastes, chivalrous instincts, and a high disregard of
mercenary considerations." She could not even join in praise of his
good looks.
"I think I have a prejudice against men with square jaws and black hair
and light eyes," was all that she said.
But there was a marked constraint in her tone, and Mrs. Vandeleur
glanced at her sharply.
"You seem to have taken a dislike against Mr. Armstrong," she said.
"It is curious, for his is a nature which should blend perfectly with
yours. I should certainly not have thought you had been born under
opposing planets."
"I don't feel that I ever want to meet him again!" said Laline,
emphatically.
"Above all, dear," exclaimed Mrs. Vandeleur, holding up a warning
forefinger, "don't attempt to run counter to such an instinct as that!
When your whole spirit seems to rise in arms against a personality, the
feeling of repulsion is given you as a token to beware of them; and, if
you feel as you say towards Mr. Armstrong, have nothing whatever to do
with him!"
"I will take your advice," said Laline, dutifully.
But the oddest little prick of vexation came to her as she spoke.
In spite of her dread of her husband, and her terror lest he should
recognise in her the lost Laline, she had been strangely interested in
him that afternoon. His gentleness and geniality she knew to be a sham,
his agreeable manners merely things he assumed and dropped at will.
None knew better than she that Wallace Armstrong was a man without
honour, principle, or remorse--one who would lie and cheat and drink
and swear, who would strike an old man and deceive a friendless girl--a
creature in whom no truth was to be found. And yet, in spite of all
this, and of the fact that he had entered Mrs. Vandaleur's house in the
character of Clare Cavan's favoured admirer, Laline could not rid her
mind of a secret hankering to see him again.
After all, he was her husband, although he did not know it. It would be
her duty not to let his courtship of Clare go too far. Reveal herself
she could not and would not; but she might at least contrive to learn
from him news of her father. With such excuses she tried to blind
herself to the fact that she wanted--greatly wanted, and yet as greatly
feared--to meet Wallace Armstrong again.
The thought of him was ever present in her mind, although neither Mrs.
Vandeleur nor Clare could contrive to draw from her another remark
concerning him. Her brain was fully occupied with him as she put her
head down on her pillow, and it was but natural that he should dominate
her dreams, through the whole course of which she fancied herself
alternately pursuing and fleeing from her husband.
Life at No. 21, Queen Mary Crescent was an entirely novel experience
for Laline. Mrs. Vandeleur breakfasted in her bedroom--a small but cosy
apartment on the ground floor, built out at the back of the house,
and adjoining the dining- and drawing-rooms. By eleven o'clock she
was visible, and Laline was required to read aloud to her, to copy
or write at dictation, and to listen to long, rambling accounts of
her employer's dreams, her opinions, or her psychic experiences. At
half-past one the secretary was sent down-stairs to her luncheon; and
from half-past three to half-past six or seven on four days a week Mrs.
Vandeleur received visitors by appointment, and was by them consulted
as to their past, present, and future.
There was no fixed rate of payment for these interviews; and, but for
Clare's insidious suggestions, Laline would have thought that Mrs.
Vandeleur cast horoscopes, read hands, and shuffled cards from pure
love of necromantic lore. But on this point Miss Cavan undeceived her.
"Of course, dear Aunt Cissy doesn't make fixed charges," she purred,
"because she knows its actionable. There's an absurd prejudice against
fortune-telling and all that sort of thing, you know, though it's only
really wicked when dirty old women do it at the back door! When ladies
call on Aunt Cissy, after Susan has shown them into the drawing-room,
and you have next gone in and taken stock of them and prepared aunt to
receive them, they talk to her about themselves and their characters
and their love-affairs, and ask her advice and so on, till she must be
perfectly sick of them! And, although she likes the importance of it
enormously, divination and all that sort of thing take it out of her
dreadfully. So it's only fair that she should get paid well for it.
People know that, and, when they go, they slip gold or a cheque under
the blotting-book on the writing-table. I peeped in once just before
a _séance_, and saw the ends of several cheques sticking out of the
shark's-skin cover of the blotter, and several loose sovereigns on the
table beside it, just to give visitors a hint, no doubt. Aunt Cissy
only has a mean little allowance from her husband--nothing like enough
to satisfy her desire for the beautiful. You can't surround yourself
with old oak and old silver and china and curios, and wear the whitest
diamonds and the finest lace on two hundred a year. Oh, Aunt Cissy's
very rich indeed--or she would be if she didn't waste so much money on
knick-knacks and lumber!"
More than once Laline asked herself if she was not tacitly condoning
a fraud by accepting her position in the establishment. But it was so
clear that Mrs. Vandeleur thoroughly believed in herself, and also
so certain that her intuition was little short of marvellous and her
advice generally excellent, that Laline could not esteem her less on
account of her professional fortune-telling.
Only on very rare occasions was Laline present at the interviews
between Mrs. Vandeleur and her clients. The secretary herself, slim
and tall, in her straight, white draperies, was a fascinating addition
to the little sibyl's household, her pure profile and dreamy dark eyes
proving specially attractive to Mrs. Vandeleur's male visitors. Clare
Cavan, listening to all that passed between Laline and these latter
from behind the plush curtains between the dining- and drawing-rooms,
clenched her fists with envy, and could scarcely repress her scorn for
a girl who let slip such splendid opportunities of securing valuable
presents and the possibility of a brilliant marriage.
"It's aunt's wicked jealousy which makes her forbid me to see anybody
who calls on business," Miss Cavan told herself. "That fool Lina
snubbed a Russian prince yesterday! If I had been in her place,
and he had offered me jewelry, I wouldn't have let him off under a
hundred-guinea bracelet. I know as well as she does how to take care of
myself; but an offer like that deserves something better than a frigid
'I have no jewels, and I require none! I will tell Mrs. Vandeleur you
wish to consult her on your domestic affairs, and will explain by whom
you are introduced.' Lina is a prude, or else she is much deeper than I
am."
Meantime Clare was somewhat concerned because a whole week had elapsed
since Wallace Armstrong's visit. It was true that he had written to
Mrs. Vandeleur, asking whether she and her niece and secretary would
care to pay a visit to the ancient house over Alexander Wallace's bank,
to take tea there with himself and his uncle; but the wording of his
letter had been far from satisfactory to Miss Cavan.
"I know how much interested you are in all that is ancient and
historical," he wrote, "and I feel sure that, with your vivid
imagination and insight, you would people some of the old rooms with
occupants long since dead. My uncle, who declares himself too old to
pay visits, and who is indeed verging on seventy, is very desirous
of making your acquaintance. His early Scotch training inclines him
to especial interest in second sight and similar phenomena, and I am
certain that you would have many subjects in common. He particularly
loves to see bright young faces about him, and would, I know, be
delighted to welcome those charming young ladies, Miss Cavan, and your
secretary Miss Grahame, under his roof. So that I hope you will be able
to fix an afternoon next week on which to honour the old house with a
visit."
Mrs. Vandeleur had shown this letter to Clare, whose anger over one
portion thereof had been extreme.
"Those charming young ladies, Miss Cavan and Miss Grahame," was the
line that especially stuck in Clare's throat. By some means Lina
Grahame must be kept away from this visit, which should be made to
serve the very desirable purpose of introducing Clare to her future
husband's uncle. That Alexander Wallace would take a great fancy to her
Clare never doubted. Old men always admired her, her striking colouring
and beautifully-rounded figure appealing even to the purblind. And she
meant to be a very good niece to the wealthy banker, and a devoted wife
to Wallace, so long as she should remain in love with him; and at the
present time she did not foresee the possibility of her quick passion
waning, as it had done on previous occasions. But Lina Grahame must not
be present to spoil her plans; and Clare was greatly relieved when that
young lady flatly refused the invitation as soon as it was announced to
her.
"I shall ask Mrs. Vandeleur to let me stay at home," she said, while a
deep flush spread over her face.
It was not only that she dreaded seeing more of her husband, in spite
of the lurking fascination which he exercised over her, but that she
felt unequal to the signal hypocrisy of meeting face to face that
kindly-natured old Alexander Wallace, whose letter welcoming her as
his niece she so well remembered reading in the streets of Boulogne
more than four years ago. Naturally truthful and sincere, Laline felt
that it would be impossible for her to grasp the old man by the hand
and sit at his table, the while she was rewarding his hospitality and
friendliness with mean deceit, and that she would be untrue to herself
were she to submit to such an ordeal.
Clare understood none of the thoughts which flew through her
companion's brain, but she could not fail to note the changes on
Laline's face, the sudden blush and the agitated expression in her eyes.
"I think you are quite right not to go," she said, soothingly. "Of
course aunt and I and the nicer sort of people one meets appreciate you
thoroughly, and know that you are a lovely and charming and well-bred
lady. But I have heard that dear Mr. Armstrong was at one time rather
go-ahead, and men are so stupid about little social distinctions;
they never seem to realise the difference between a secretary and a
lady's-maid, especially if both are pretty!"
Laline knew by this time quite enough of Clare to understand that the
latter wished her to remain at home, and she almost laughed outright
at the idea that she must not meet her own husband, lest she might
spoil another girl's chances of marrying him. But there was no thought
of marriage yet, and there would be time enough to speak out before
then. Laline felt that she had reached a point in her life when to look
forward was impossible. Wallace himself knew that he was married, and
surely that knowledge should be sufficient to deter him from creating
false hopes within another girl's heart! But in Wallace's honour, as
Laline knew well, but little reliance was to be placed, and a pang of
pity went through her as she looked at Clare and noticed the eager
brightness of her eyes.
"Are you really fond of this Wallace Armstrong?" she asked her.
"My dear, I simply adore him! Do you wonder? Oh, I forgot that
you didn't admire him! But you must admit that he is handsome and
fascinating."
"I dare say many people would think so. But you told me just now
that he had been wild. Surely you could not love a man of really bad
reputation!"
"Oh, he has sown his wild oats by this time, no doubt! I should think
he is nearly thirty. Besides, all men go the pace a little--I'm sure
I should if I were a man. It's really too bad that we women should
have to be so very, very good! Besides, I didn't hear anything very
bad--only that he'd gambled a little bit and got into debt and been
sent abroad for a time to cool him down. You can't cut a man for
that sort of thing, otherwise one would have to drop all one's male
acquaintances except school-boys."
Laline said no more. It was obviously impossible under the
circumstances to warn Clare. Sometimes the girl wondered whether she
should confide in Mrs. Vandeleur; but again she hesitated. Might not
that lady--who, if her niece spoke truly, was of the world-worldly--be
inclined to advise her young secretary to leave off the difficult
struggle for life of a penniless girl, and, by simply announcing her
identity, become reconciled to an easy and prosperous existence with
a wealthy husband, who to strangers' eyes appeared to be all that was
handsome, well-bred, and charming?
The mere idea was horrible to Laline. Never so long as she lived would
she forget that scene of which she had been an unsuspected witness
on her wedding morning. At any moment she could close her eyes and
recall her father's flushed face and the angry pallor of her husband,
could see both men, excited by drink and hate, struggling within a few
feet of where she stood. At any moment she could recall the callous
tones in which her newly-made husband had spoken of her as a "lanky,
half-fledged school-girl," who would be a "drag and a burden" on his
life after having served his purpose by procuring for him his uncle's
money and favour, and could hear again the sinister menace in his tones
when he alluded to the possibility that she might refuse to tell lies
to Alexander Wallace on his behalf.
That scene in the little _salon_ of the Rue Planché had been the
turning-point of Laline's career, and had suddenly transformed the
dreamy, lonely child, super-sensitive to kindness and of grateful,
docile nature, into a woman, alert and thoughtful beyond her years, and
armed with self-control, with suspicion, and with reserve.
Her nature was not meant to tend towards independence and mistrust of
others. Love had been a necessity to Laline as a child; she had loved
her mother intensely, and had felt her loss as irreparable. Torn from
the refined seclusion of her early home, she had tried to adapt herself
to the impecunious Bohemianism of her father's house, and had tried
also very hard indeed to love her father. Had Wallace Armstrong not
shown himself in his true colours on his wedding morning, she would in
all probability have grown much attached to him, in spite of his sullen
temper and dissipated habits. Already he had appeared to her eyes as a
hero, a fairy prince, who had come to rescue Cinderella from Bénoîte's
back kitchen and eternal darning, cooking, and dish-washing. But when,
by the half-open _salon_ door, she had stood and heard her husband and
father quarrelling over the terms of the sale by which she had become
Wallace Armstrong's property to free him from his money difficulties,
her child's heart broke within her breast; she seemed to see the very
minds and souls of the two men, vicious, sordid, and cruel, and her
pure spirit shrank in horror at the sight. The impression was one
which neither time nor the wear and tear of life would ever efface; and
even now, when Wallace Armstrong had again appeared within her life, to
all appearance a reformed character, with little trace of his former
self remaining between her and her thoughts of him, the black soul of
the scoundrel who had married her seemed to rise in warning against the
folly of trusting such a man.
It was on a Saturday that Clare had discussed with Laline the
invitation to the bank, a day that Laline ever afterwards remembered,
bleak and wintry, the sky a chill gray, deepening to saffron near the
horizon. On Saturday and Wednesday afternoons Mrs. Vandeleur drove out,
sometimes with her secretary and sometimes alone. On this particular
day she was bidden to a conference between patrons of the "occult" and
distinguished sceptics at the house of a well-known woman of title
interested in every new craze. Before four o'clock Clare also left
the house to go to one of the many "At homes" at which her beauty and
liveliness rendered her a most popular guest; and Laline found herself
for the first time since her arrival in London alone and free, with at
least three hours at her own disposal.
Twenty-one Queen Mary Crescent was by no means a cheerful house
after dusk, being full of creaking boards and a general "eeriness."
Laline wanted to think, and had never lost her old love of wandering
about alone in the open air. Within ten minutes of Clare's departure
therefore she emerged from the house in her blue serge gown and a long
fur-lined black cloak, and struck at once from the High Street into
Kensington Gardens, her cheeks rosy under the touch of frosty air, and
her heart beating with a strange excitement, which seemed to presage
some unusual experience.