Trembling like a leaf in the wind, unnerved and weeping, Laline started
from her seat, and as the door closed on the servant held out her arms
towards her lover.
"You have come at last!" she sobbed out. "Oh, if you had stayed away
another moment, I think I should have gone mad!"
He hesitated for a moment and then advanced into the room. As he did so
she made a step towards him; but her limbs trembled so much that she
faltered and would have fallen had he not drawn her into his arms.
For an instant she clung to him, sobbing hysterically, while he held
her close against his breast smoothing her hair with one hand. Then
over her from head to foot passed a quiver of the same strong repulsion
and dread she had experienced a few seconds earlier. For a few seconds
she remained absolutely motionless while her very blood seemed to turn
cold drop by drop. Then, disengaging herself suddenly, she fell back
from him and stared through the obscurity at his face.
"Wallace," she cried--"it is not Wallace Armstrong!"
"That is my name, at your service, all the same."
She did not faint or scream. She stood perfectly still before him while
her heart seemed to turn to stone. She did not attempt to deceive
herself. No mistake was possible now. All the old happy delusion was
destroyed for ever by this man's touch, by this man's voice.
For, although she could not clearly see his face, although he had only
spoken a few words, the voice was the same as that which had uttered
the prophecy on Boulogne pier four years ago.
And at the sound of that voice all hope of love, all thought of
happiness died out of Laline's heart. Her dream was over. Not the man
she loved but this man whom she hated was her husband.
The whole truth poured in upon her brain as a sudden shaft of light in
those terrible moments of silence. Five words told the story. There
were two Wallace Armstrongs, and she had chosen to persuade herself
that the one she loved was her husband. This man who stood before her
now, with mocking laughter in his voice, an echo of which had haunted
her dreams--this man, whose very clothing exhaled a nauseous perfume
of spirits and whose accents were husky with drink, was the husband to
whom she had pledged herself until death should part them on that fatal
summer morning.
There was much to be explained, much that she could not understand;
but of this one awful fact she was convinced and needed no further
testimony. He had come into her life again, and already his sinister
shadow had darkened all its sunshine.
So she stood before him in the twilit room and lived a lifetime of
despairing grief before he spoke again.
"I am really exceedingly sorry to disappoint you," he said. "I suppose
you expected my cousin? Your servant made a similar mistake at first.
From your greeting I presume that I may congratulate him?"
"Yes, you presume," she said, and, passing him swiftly, she gained the
door.
"One moment, please," he interposed, before she had time to leave the
room. "I don't think there is any mistake on my part. I have come here
on an introduction to Mrs. Sibyl Vandeleur, the celebrated sorceress
or thought-reader or pin-finder--I don't quite know how she styles
herself. I was not aware, until I arrived at the house, of the--well,
the very intimate terms upon which my cousin was received here."
He paused, as though he expected her to speak. At every word he
uttered in those leisurely sneering tones which she ought never to
have forgotten Laline hated him a little more. She wondered now how
she could ever have believed that such a man as this could grow
gentle and chivalrous, unselfish and kind. Bitter and contemptuous
in manner he had always been, but there was about him now an added
recklessness--outcome of a savage scorn against himself and all the
world. In manner he was the antithesis of his cousin, and yet every now
and then Laline caught in his voice some inflection which reminded her
of the man she loved. Even by this light she realised that in figure he
was a little taller and of much heavier build than his namesake, and
already inclining to the unhealthy stoutness which comes of lazy and
dissipated habits.
It was strange that this time she felt but little of the fear of
recognition she had before experienced when she believed herself in
the presence of her husband. This man and she seemed in spirit so many
leagues asunder, and there was so strong a barrier of gross material
instincts between his mind and hers, that Laline intuitively knew he
would not remember her. One woman would be the same as another to him;
he would be incapable of differentiating between them. Moreover, any
other thought she might entertain about him was swallowed up in the
overpowering sensation of physical dislike with which he inspired her.
In this dislike fear had a part, but it was the shrinking horror of a
delicate and refined nature when confronted by one essentially coarse
and brutal, and not a personal fear lest he should know and claim her
as his wife which moved Laline.
The man was sunk enough, but not so sunk that he failed to recognise,
even in the twilight of Mrs. Vandeleur's room, how this slenderly-made,
sweet-voiced girl, who had clung so tenderly to him when she mistook
him for his cousin, shrank from him, once her error was made known
to her, in aversion none the less plain that it was not expressed in
words. Wallace Armstrong the elder was a very handsome man, and had
won some cheap reputation as a "lady-killer;" consequently this girl's
antagonistic attitude piqued and angered him.
"Can I wait here for Mrs. Vandeleur?" he inquired, with mock
politeness. "Or can I wait somewhere else--because, if you expect my
cousin, I fear I shall be rather in the way?"
"Mrs. Vandeleur is out. She expects no visitors to-day, and I do not
know when she will return."
"But you expect my cousin? I am sure he will be delighted to see me if
you will allow me to wait until he arrives."
"If Mr. Wallace Armstrong is your cousin," Laline said, frigidly, with
her hand on the door, "he has certainly never mentioned you. Under the
circumstances, perhaps it would be better if you communicated your
business to Mrs. Vandeleur by letter. She only receives strangers by
appointment."
She was desperately anxious to get rid of this man, to stir his pride
so that he should leave at once and never gain a footing within the
house. His presence tortured her, and she longed to escape to her room
that she might consider the new and horrible situation in which she
found herself. But before the unwelcome visitor could do more than
make one step towards the door, it was suddenly flying open, and Clare
Cavan, in walking-dress, hurried in, and held out her hand cordially
towards him.
"Good-afternoon, Mr. Armstrong! So good of you to come on such a
horrid foggy day! Why--have I made a mistake? Susan said it was Mr.
Armstrong----"
"And it is Mr. Armstrong. Unfortunately my cousin and I were given
precisely the same name by our respective mothers, both of whom were
sisters to Alexander Wallace the banker, and anxious to propitiate him
by making us his godsons. Two sisters married two brothers, you see.
I was the unlucky result in the one case, and my Admirable Crichton
of a cousin was the satisfactory result in the other. I come with an
introduction to Mrs. Vandeleur; but it seems I am rather _de trop_----"
"Pray don't say so. I am sure we are delighted to see you!" exclaimed
Clare, effusively. "I am Mrs. Vandeleur's niece, and my name is Cavan.
Any friend or relation of Mr. Armstrong's is extremely welcome here.
Isn't that so, Lina dear?"
Laline did not respond. A combination between Clare and this man
suggested all manner of vague dangers. She longed to quit the room,
and yet feared to leave them alone together lest they should discuss
her and make she knew not what discovery thereby. Meanwhile Clare was
flitting about, ringing the bell for the lamp and chattering gaily to
her aunt's visitor, apparently bent upon putting him at his ease.
"Detestable weather to-day, isn't it, Mr. Armstrong? This fog is so
fearfully depressing! And I have been calling on a family, half of
whom were down with the influenza and the other half deadly afraid
of catching it. London on a foggy Sunday afternoon is a most ghastly
place, isn't it? I like church, but I do hate church bells! In the
country--across meadows and all that sort of thing--they sound musical
and soothing; but in town they are most funereal and out of tune with
other sounds, and always suggest that one will be late, and that one's
glove-buttons will come off at the last minute, and one will walk into
church after the service has begun all red and perspiring and plain!
And that's an awful ordeal!"
The lamp was brought in during the foregoing speech, and by its
light, toned down by the amber silk-shade which veiled it, Wallace
Armstrong the elder gazed curiously at the two other occupants of the
room. Laline had resumed her usual low seat by the fire, but it was
not to her that his glance was at first directed. Clare Cavan stood
immediately before him, and his bold eyes ran approvingly over the
voluptuous curves of her figure, the dead whiteness of her skin, and
the red and yellow lights in her untidy coil of hair. Her white eyelids
and pale lashes were lowered to all appearance modestly under his
scrutiny, but out of the corners of her eyes she too was taking stock
of him.
What she saw was by no means wholly pleasing. Even by the subdued light
of the lamp and fire it was easy to read in this man's appearance the
deterioration of his moral and physical nature. Originally handsomer
than his cousin, he had at thirty years of age acquired the look of
a man ten years older. His plentiful curly hair, which fell heavily
over his forehead, was already streaked with gray. His cheeks were
haggard and pale, contrasting with the puffiness of the skin under his
eyes and about his chin and jaw, and his eyes, beautiful in shape and
colour, were bloodshot and red in the lids. There was undoubtedly a
strong family likeness between himself and his cousin; both men were
tall, broad-shouldered, and well made, black-haired, blue-eyed, and of
regular features, but there all resemblance ceased. Wallace Armstrong
the elder was clearly on the downward road. His voice and manner had
become coarse and rough, and the bitterness of his nature showed
itself in almost every word he uttered. Especially in his allusions
to his cousin did this sneering tone assert itself; and as if she
perceived this and wished to ascertain the reason for it Clare led the
conversation at once to the topic of the younger Wallace Armstrong.
"Now that I see you by the light," she said, "you are really very much
alike. But I think your eyes have more gray about them; your cousin's
are wholly blue."
"My hair has more gray about it too," he remarked, sardonically.
"Has it? I hadn't noticed that. But do you know I so much admire gray
hair on young men? It is so piquant, I think! Then you are taller and
bigger than the Wallace Armstrong we know; and you wear a moustache,
while he is clean-shaved."
"Yes--a moustache is the one thing Lorin can't cultivate successfully,"
he sneered. "But he is so eminently lucky in every other respect that
he ought not to mind that one deficiency."
"Then your voices are different, very different," Clare continued,
standing before him with her head on one side reflectively, and
speaking with the air of ingenuous innocence she knew so well how
to assume. "There are just tones now and then which resemble your
cousin's, but not many."
"My voice is not adapted to cooing and flattering, as his is!" he
retorted, with sudden savagery. "It has had no practice in such arts."
"It is odd," Clare said, affecting not to notice his growing anger,
"that we did not see you when we visited your uncle's house last
Wednesday afternoon!"
"Oh, I am kept in the background!" he returned, with a short laugh. "I
am not pretty or nice-mannered enough to be shown to visitors; and
they have never thought of a cage for me, with 'Keep away--he bites!'
as a warning inscription. My cousin is the show animal, with nice,
tea-drinking, tennis-playing manners. My roughness frightens people.
Why, I have already frightened your friend here, as you see."
Clare glanced at Laline. The latter was sitting with her eyes fixed, in
fascinated dislike, upon the third occupant of the room. Perhaps she
hardly realised how clearly her features expressed the disgust with
which he inspired her. But Wallace saw it and winced under it. No woman
in his sober moments had contemplated him like that yet, and he felt he
hated both her and himself for that look.
"I ought to have introduced you!" cried Clare. "How stupid of me! Lina,
this is our Mr. Armstrong's cousin, and he thinks he frightened you.
Isn't that absurd?"
"Very. I am not at all afraid of Mr. Armstrong."
"By----But you shall be!" was the thought that sprang into life in
Wallace's mind as he noted the quiet scorn of her tones. He turned
to look at her as she sat by the fire in her soft white draperies,
with slender hands clasped loosely round her knee, one foot on a
stool before her, and her head a little thrown back. She looked very
beautiful at that moment and her beauty struck into his heart like a
dull pain. There was something proud and aloof in her appearance of icy
purity and reserve; and when he contrasted her present haughtiness of
bearing with the passionate demonstrativeness with which she had, as
she thought, flung herself into the arms of his cousin a few moments
before, a bitter anger was stirred within him.
Why should she lavish caresses upon Lorin and treat him--Wallace--like
a dog?
He would make her pay for it, for certain, and he was not a man to
register a vow of vengeance against any one and fail to make it good.
He could not guess that Laline's appearance of scornful quiet was to a
great extent the result of the tumult of emotions which agitated her. A
fierce despair held possession of her heart. She seemed to see, lying
in ruins about her feet, the beautiful castle in the air that love had
built; and the dirge of a love that must die was ringing in her ears
as an accompaniment to every word he uttered. This extreme tension of
feeling kept her rigid as a statue, outwardly cold, but with heart and
brain on fire. Her every nerve was in quivering rebellion against Fate,
which had linked her to this man she hated, while with all her soul she
longed to be the wife of another. And so she sat, within a few feet
of her husband, preternaturally pale and still, her heart throbbing
with a woman's passionate love and as passionate grief under her white
conventual gown; and Wallace looked and hated her for her scornful
pride, and hated his cousin for having won her love, and told himself
that he would punish the pair of them if the chance should come in his
way.
But to Clare his visit was a disappointment.
"He is rough and rather dreadful," she said to herself, "but
comparatively sober. I hoped he would be mad with drink, as he was
last Wednesday, and as he often is, or I would never have asked him to
come."