CHAPTER XXVI.—THE PUPIL OF THE IMPECCABLE.
Within the charmed circle to which he was introduced by Ponto, Gavrolles was popular in the extreme. He possessed all the enthusiasm of the aesthetics, combined with an impudence and a knowledge of the world—especially of the gay world of Paris—which were exquisitely charming. He knew all the wits and poets of the Empire, and his acquaintance with scabreux literature was profound; yet he had sat at the feet of Victor Hugo, and was a Republican by profession. His own verses had been praised by the impeccable Gautier. He could talk glibly of Art for Art’s sake, of the heresy of instruction, of Villon and Bohemia, and of the Renaissance. He wore his hair long, had a willowy droop of the shoulders, and adored the culte of the lily. He had a shrill style, a shrill voice, a shrill disposition. Inspired young ladies found him charming, feeble young gentlemen paid him the homage of imitation.
On his return to London, Gavrolles took rooms in one of the bye-streets near Portland Place. They were rather high up, but he had them furnished in the best æsthetic style, with a few risky pictures and a small collection of books. ‘Come and see me,’ he would say; ‘I am only a poor artiste, but I have my books, and in these I live.’ On the whole they were not nice books—a Philistine might have even called them nasty; but many of them bore the autographs of the writers, and were priceless accordingly.
About this time the name of Gavrolles began to be a good deal talked about, as that of a young Frenchman with Communist views who had written some delightfully wicked volumes of verse. The ‘Megatherium,’ inspired by Ponto, had a good deal to say about him, classing him in the great bagnio of Art somewhere by the side of Gautier and Baudelaire; and taking occasion at the same time to express its horror of realists like Zola, who called a spade a spade, and reduced the fair features of vice to a caput mortuum.
One night, Crieff, who knew everybody, took Sutherland to the lodgings of Gavrolles, and introduced him. Quite a little symposium was there, including Ponto the fatuous; Cassius Gass, a lean and limp critic from Cambridge; Blanco Serena, and several other painters; young Botticelli Jones, and one or two more callow poets, not to speak of Wallace MacNeill, the editor of the ‘Megatherium.’
Sutherland sat very silent. After the first, quick look at Gavrolles, and a second shock of recognition, he remained quiescent, but quietly observant.
The talk was of ‘Lily and Rue,’ an anonymous poem which had just appeared, and which Ponto had just criticised with admiration.
‘I wonder who is the writer?’ said Botticelli Jones. ‘There are passages in it which are worthy of Byron.’
‘Byron was a Philistine,’ cried Ponto; ‘he could never have written a piece of this kind. Look at the technique of his verse! It would disgrace a schoolboy! No, this is a cameo cut by an artist.’
‘Shall I confess it!’ observed Gavrolles, smiling languidly. ‘I am of Henri Taine’s opinion, and prefer to your Byron our Alfred de Musset.’
Here Crieff, who was puffing carelessly at a briar-root pipe, threw himself back in his chair and laughed loudly.
‘I say! Is it possible you don’t know?’
‘What?’ cried several voices.
‘That MacAlpine——’
A shudder ran through the assemblage at the mention of the hated name.
‘That MacAlpine has acknowledged the authorship of this poem.’
‘What poem?’ demanded Ponto, trembling and turning pale.
‘Why, of “Lily and Eue.” Go and buy the third edition—you’ll find his name on the title-page.’
A terrible silence followed. The men looked in horror at one another. One man rose, livid and ghastly, put his hand to his head and left without a word. It was the editor of the ‘Megatherium.’
‘Poor MacNeill,’ cried Crieff, with another laugh. ‘This is the second trick of the kind that MacAlpine has played him; this is the second time that he has devoted columns of praise to an author whom he would gladly see handed over, like the old heretics, to the secular arm. It only shows what humbug criticism is!’
‘Excuse me,’ said Gass the critic, hysterically, ‘criticism is not humbug. It would be easy to show, on a profounder examination of this disagreeable work, that it is the work of a Philistine. The over-accentuation of the sensuous passages (which, by the way, are not sensuous, but prurient and ponderous), the want of finish in the trochaic couplets, the crudeness of the poetic terminology—’
‘Would all have been evident enough,’ interrupted Crieff, dryly, ‘if MacAlpine’s name had been on the title-page. Without that, even superhuman insight, like yours, could not detect them.’
And he laughed again; but no one joined in the laugh except Blanco Serena, who was not a little amused. There was a general feeling of discomfort, to relieve which Gavrolles went to his bookcase, and took down several new importations from France. Passed from hand to hand, these works were freely and generally discussed; but when they reached Crieff, that rude person again shocked the sensibilities of his companions.
‘The literature of the Lollipop,’ he said with a grin. ‘Somehow I never touch any of it without feeling nasty; “sticky” all over, as it were.’
‘To the mind of a Philistine,’ observed the critic Gass, severely, ‘such things do not appeal. I regret to see that a certain person, who shall be nameless, is drifting more and more into moral Philistinism. Well, he will at least be able to say, “Et ego in Arcadia fui,” when it is too late to return.’
Crieff laughed good-humouredly.
‘I dare say it is my early training,’ he said, ‘and the fact that I was taught to respect all women in the person of my mother. But here is my friend Sutherland, who is a Philistine of Philistines, for he actually believes, with St. Benedict, that the law of purity is binding upon both sexes alike, and in his benighted eyes your Gautier, your Baudelaire, and “hoc genus omne” are simply dirty descendants of Sir Pandarus of Troy.’
‘I sincerely hope you are libelling your friend,’ observed the critic, glancing at Sutherland. ‘Personal purity, as you call it, is simply a reminiscence of asceticism, and one of the many fallacies we owe to the mediaeval perversions of Christianity.’
‘Bosh,’ returned Crieff, bluntly.
Sutherland, who throughout the conversation had scarcely taken his eyes off Gavrolles, now spoke.
‘I am neither an ascetic nor a Puritan, but I must frankly confess that the literature you are discussing excites my strongest abhorrence. Whatever is unfit for a pure woman to read is unfit to be read by a pure man. Would you give these books to your wives and sisters—that is the question?’
‘Certainly,’ cried Ponto from the other side of the room. ‘Provided their aesthetic education had been complete, they would find nothing but pleasure from the perusal. Why in Heaven’s name should Woman remain for ever the slave of Virtue? I would make her the archpriestess of the Beautiful, ministering to mortals in all the passionate nudity of Art.’
‘And you, monsieur?’ said Sutherland, turning suddenly to Gavrolles. ‘What is your opinion?’
‘Oh, I am an artiste,’ answered the Frenchman, with a shrug of the shoulders and an unpleasant smile. ‘I, too, would make woman the priestess of Beauty. Ah, yes, with the greatest of possible pleasure!’
The words were of little meaning, but the tone was significant, and a titter went round the room. Sutherland’s face darkened.
‘I presume that your experience of the sex is large?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘Gentlemen of your nation are generally fortunate——-’
‘I am no exception to the rule,’ answered Gavrolles. ‘My whole life has been une bonne fortune! But look you, as I say, I am an artiste—in affairs of gallantry as in all others. I do not suffer these things to cloud the equanimity of my artiste’s soul. When I have plucked a rose—observe! I smell it; I wear it a little while; then I take it from my button-hole and throw it away. You understand?’
‘I think so,’ said Sutherland, rising to his feet. ‘Pray does it ever occur to you what becomes of the rose afterwards! If it is trampled underfoot, who is responsible?’
‘Pardon me, that is the rose’s affair, not mine. Au reste, roses must bloom and fade; Art, Art—for which I live—is imperishable and divine.’
It was hard to say whether he was jesting or in earnest, for his manner was peculiar, a combination of mock-enthusiasm and flippant audacity. But despite his appearance of sang-froid, something in the face and manner of Sutherland thrilled him, and reminded him of an unpleasant meeting many years before.
He bowed profoundly as Sutherland prepared to go, and held out his hand—which the other did not seem to notice.
‘Au revoir!’he said gaily; ‘and au revoir, Monsieur Crieff. My friend Ponto will convert you presently; ah, yes!’
In another minute Crieff and Sutherland were in the street. The latter was very pale, and trembled violently.
‘My dear Sutherland, what is the matter?’
‘Nothing; only that man’s face and his talk have upset me. I could have strangled him.’
‘What an excitable fellow you are!’ said Crieff, taking his arm. ‘Upon my life, you take these things far too seriously. The other day you were seriously angry with Lagardère, and here you are actually distressing yourself over the prattle of a child like Gavrolles.’
‘You do not understand. I know the man, and have reason to remember him.’
‘That alters the case. Where did you meet?’
‘In France—some years ago.’
Crieff listened for further explanations, but none came. Pressed to say more, Sutherland shook his head, and relapsed into silence; so the little journalist proceeded to give his muscular friend a lesson in social philosophy.
‘You are too thoroughly in earnest, and in company your earnestness makes other people uncomfortable. Life would be impossible if every bit of idle chit-chat or ad captandum argument were taken au sérieux. Looked at in the proper light, Gavrolles is charming—a droll creature with a touch of genius. To you he is merely a dissolute young man, who reads improper books.’
‘To me,’ returned Sutherland, fiercely, ‘he is a thorough scoundrel, whom I should like to choke.’
Crieff soon perceived that remonstrance was useless, and, mentally determining not to introduce his companion to any more choice spirits, he changed the subject. The pair soon parted, Crieff to stroll down to the gallery of the House of Commons, Sutherland to pace the solitary streets, full of the troubled recollections awakened by that chance encounter.
Later on that evening Gavrolles sat alone in his lodgings. He now recollected Sutherland perfectly, and roundly cursed the unlucky chance which had occasioned a second meeting. On reflection, however, he felt confident that the Englishman could do him no serious damage in the eyes of his new acquaintances, even if he attempted to do so, which was doubtful.
When the clock struck eight he lit a cigar and strolled out into the streets. As he walked along, his attention was attracted by a theatre bill in one of the shop windows. One of the names struck him immediately as that of the young actress whose portrait he had seen in the studio of Blanco Serena. He looked at the name of the theatre; it was the Theatre Royal Parthenon. He strolled away in the direction of that building.
On arriving at the theatre, however, he found the doors closed, and discovered that the theatrical season had ended on the previous Saturday.
Strolling carelessly along, he entered one of the smaller theatres in the Strand, a house devoted to opera bouffe. He paid his money and got a seat in the back row of the pit. There, perspiring and half-suffocated, he was listening to the hideous din and watching the insane performance upon the stage, when his attention was attracted by a movement in a box above him, and glancing up he beheld a face he knew.
The face of a woman, young and very beautiful, though trifle pale and sad. She was plainly clad in black satin, with an opera cloak of snowy white, with fringe of down encircling her white neck. No ornaments in her hair, no jewels on her person, and surely she needed neither, for her simple pathetic beauty was better unadorned.
With her was a gentleman, not young, but with the fresh face and manners of a boy. He looked very happy and proud, and gazed less at the stage than at his companion, as, indeed, was natural.
These two were our heroine and her husband, James Forster.
A child might have gathered, from the man’s looks of pleasure and admiration, that Forster loved the beautiful creature by his side. His eyes scarcely left her, he was eager to respond to her slightest look or word. When she talked, he hung upon her speech; and when she was silent he waited for her to speak again.
Gavrolles comprehended the situation directly—almost as rapidly as he recognised Madeline. For the rest of the evening he occupied himself in looking up, with a keen and cat-like gaze. How beautiful she seemed! How much fairer and riper than when he had seen her last, in her wild girlish gaucherie! Pardieu, she was a child then; but now!
As he gazed his thoughts went back to the days when he had seen her first, a giddy schoolgirl, a very will-o’-the-wisp among the decorous young French damsels of the ladies’ seminary. He remembered her wild ways, her odd sayings in schoolgirl’s French, her pretty fits of petulance, her innocent entanglement with him, the ever-seductive Gavrolles—or Belleisle, as he then called himself. He thought of the mad elopement, and the strange days that followed, when the fluttering bird was in his power.
‘After all,’ he reflected, ‘I was a fool to let her go.’
And the man with her, who seemed so greatly to adore her, who was he? Surely her lover; perhaps her husband—but no, that was scarcely possible. A rich man, certainly; yes, with all the style and manner of a rich man. She, too, with her popular fame, her great artistic position, was no longer poor. Perhaps, after all, it was for the best that he had let her go, since fortune had been kind to her, and what was lost could be easily regained.
Gavrolles smiled. Once, when the audience was busy applauding the actors, his exhilaration was so great that he impulsively kissed his hand in the direction of the box. The action was unnoticed, of course, but it seemed to place him en rapport with his old love.
‘Courage, Gavrolles!’ he said to himself. ‘You are Fortune’s favourite, after all. Just when you were in despair, just when your purse was empty and your great soul in despair, the cards befriend you, and a good angel appears in the distance. Madeline, mon ange, I greet you. You will be my guardian spirit after all.’
When the opera was over, Gavrolles stood in the corner of the box lobby, and watched Madeline go past on Forster’s arm. He kept his face well averted, for he did not wish to be recognised, just yet. Then, following the pair to the theatre door, he saw a brougham draw up, smiled upon the pair as they entered and gaily lit a cigar as they drove away.
CHAPTER XXVII.—ADELE LAMBERT.
Cigar in mouth, Gavrolles strolled leisurely along the streets in the direction of Regent Circus. Arrived in Waterloo Place he found the pavement thronged with those painted faces,
“Which only smile by night beneath the gas,
and saw what, to a man with any pity in his soul, is the saddest sight beneath the sun.
Bright jets of gas were flaming over the Criterion Restaurant, the night houses on every side were opening their foul jaws, and from the darkness of every street and lane were fluttering forth the moths of night. Painted and bedizened creatures, fluttering gladly in the gaslight; some faint and feeble, as if already scorched with the destroying flame; others splendidly merry, with the new flush of the infernal brightness upon them; many beautiful beyond measure, with faces as pure and sweet as those of little children that know not sin.
With the smile and swagger of one who knew his company, Gavrolles made his way from group to group, accosted from time to time by some passing figure, and more than once plucked softly by the sleeve. Once, as he paused under a lamplight, a slight form, clad in the thinnest of silk, paused before him, and a baby face leered hideously up into his; but he pushed the shape softly aside, and swaggered on. To him, as to many of his class, the sight was quite proper and pleasant; his fine nerves were not shocked, his noble soul was not sadly stirred; indeed, such a man might walk confidently by the side of the very flames of Hell, and be conscious of nothing but the picturesque lights and shadows of the dreadful place. Yes, for as Swedenborg has sublimely guessed, Hell is Heaven to the devilish nature, and the penalty of the morally damned is not to know that it is Hell.
Not far away, that very night, walked another man, one of nobler fibre, with the shuddering sense of infinite pity and despair. He, too, was familiar with the sight of moral leprosy and spiritual disease, and as he gazed on those painted things, all and each of whom were infected with the goitre of incurable infamy, he felt weary of the world. ‘So long as this is possible,’ thought Edgar Sutherland, ‘how can the dead Christ rise?’
Crossing the street at the Quadrant, Sutherland saw, standing in the lamplight of the corner, two figures, one an elderly woman with a face swollen and deformed by drink, the other a wild-looking girl, poorly clad, coughing violently as if in sharp physical pain. As he was passing he heard them speak to each other in French; he paused and listened.
‘You are a fool, Adèle,’ said the elder woman. ‘Come and have some brandy—you will be all right then.’
The girl laughed hoarsely and uttered a coarse oath, then the cough seized her again with a paroxysm so violent that her whole frame shook like a leaf.
‘Devil take the cough,’ she said. ‘I shall have to go into the hospital after all.’
A few more words passed, and then the elder woman, impatient to reach the bar of some neighbouring public-house, ran across the street. The young girl was feebly following, when Sutherland stepped forward, lifting his hat.
‘Good evening, mademoiselle,’ he said, speaking in her own language. ‘I am afraid you are ill?’
Something in the tone startled her, and the gentle voice, the respectful gesture, acted like a charm. She replied courteously, with a polite inclination of the head, ‘I am not very well, monsieur; I have been ill for some time.’
‘I am very sorry. If you will take my advice you will go home—you are not fit to be in the streets.’
She gazed at him strangely, and then said—
‘Pardon, monsieur, but you are not a Frenchman?’
‘No.’
‘I think I have seen your face before? You have been abroad,—in Brussels?’
As she spoke, something in her form and face seemed familiar; with an exclamation he took her by the arm, and drew her close under the light of the lamp.
‘Is it possible?’ he cried. ‘Adèle Lambert? Do you remember me?’
That she did so was now clear; for with a hysterical cry she shrank from him and hid her face in her hands. Two years before, in Brussels, he had found this poor creature, then a pretty girl, in the power of infamous people, who had decoyed her to ruin; with infinite trouble and great pecuniary expense he had released her and restored her to her friends; and when he had last heard of her she seemed on the threshold of a new and purer life. And now, this was the sequel! He shuddered in horror, as he looked upon her spectral face.
‘My poor girl,’ he said gently, ‘what brought you to England?’
Then she told him, with many tears; for the sight of him and the remembrance of his former charity touched the deep springs of sorrow in her poor outcast soul. She had indeed gone home, but not to stay. Soon after her return her mother had died, and her father had taken another wife; her life was not happy, and the taint of her shame still clung to her; and at last, in despair, she had drifted back to Brussels, finding all ways of life closed to her but one.
‘And since then, monsieur. I have suffered so much. I was never strong, and now I am—as you see. A year ago they took me to the hospital in my own country—would to God I had died there! but I came out, and after that I went from bad to worse. Two months ago I came with that woman to England. I thought no one would know me here, and now—is it not strange?—I meet with you.’
As she spoke, another figure came sauntering up in the full light of the lamp. It was Gavrolles, indifferent and happy, smoking his cigar. The moment the girl’s eyes fell upon him, her manner changed; and, to Sutherland’s astonishment, she uttered a cry, and rushed up to the newcomer.
‘Let me look at your face,’ she cried. ‘Quick! It is he!’ And she clung with strange fury to Gavrolles, who in vain attempted to shake her off.
‘Let me go,’ he said in English The woman is drunk. I will call the police.’
With a fierce shriek she raised her hand and struck at his face with her clenched fist.
‘You devil! You devil!’ she cried in French. ‘I have been waiting so long to see you, and now at last we meet. If I had a knife I would stab you. It is I—Adèle.’ ‘I do not know you!’
‘It is false. You are a liar and a devil.’
And she struck him in the face with both hands. Livid and trembling, Gavrolles threw her off; she fell back screaming, and would have fallen had not Sutherland caught her in his arms. While he held her she struggled madly, hysterical with an overmastering passion. A crowd of outcast women and well-dressed men already surrounded them, and a policeman, pushing his way into the circle, roughly demanded the cause of the disturbance.
Gavrolles forced a laugh.
‘It is nothing,’ he said. ‘Only a drunken woman, as you see.’
The policeman approached the girl and touched her on the shoulder.
‘Come now, just you move on, or I’ll have to run you in,’ he said; and as she spoke rapidly in her own language, he shook his sagacious head and continued, ‘We don’t want none of your parleyvoo. Leave the gentleman alone, d’ye hear, and move on.’
‘The woman is not drunk,’ said Sutherland. ‘She is ill, and—look, she has fainted!’
Overmastered by her excitement, she had indeed fallen into a sort of faint or fit. Sutherland supported her gently, while the crowd, with cries and murmurs, pressed close! round them. In the commotion which ensued Gavrolles slipped away, stepped into a hansom, and was driven off.
‘Keep back—give her air!’ cried Sutherland. ‘Does any one know where she lives?’
At this moment the woman whom he had first seen in her company stepped forward.
‘Yes, monsieur, we lodge together. Look up, Adèle! What ails you?’
‘Help me to take her home,’ said Sutherland, in a low voice.
The policeman called a cab, and Sutherland raised the girl in his arms and placed her in it; then he stepped in himself, followed by the other woman.
They drove to a wretched lodging-house in Gerrard Street, Soho, a dismal fetid den, presided over by a hideous old Frenchwoman, who at first refused to take her in.
‘You’d better drive her to the hospital,’ said this person, blocking the doorway. ‘She owes me two weeks’ rent already, and I can’t take care of her.’
The sight of Sutherland’s purse, however, worked wonders; and with many protestations of sympathy the hag suffered the girl to be carried to a room upstairs. The fainting fit had by this time passed away, to be followed by an attack of hysterical weeping and coughing. Sutherland shuddered, for as she coughed, and spat he saw on her lips a thin tinge of crimson blood.
He had her well cared for that night, and the next day he called with a physician, and found her in bed, wild and ghastly, as if she had not got long to live.
‘Ah! monsieur, forgive me!’ she cried, with a sad smile, reaching out her wasted hand. ‘I was méchante last night, but to see that man made me mad. I think I should have killed him had I been able. I was good and gentille when he first knew me, and he coaxed me away from my friends and took me to that evil place where you found me. But for him I might have been a good woman—you comprehend.’
‘Do not speak of it now. This gentleman is a doctor, I have brought him to see you.’
‘All, monsieur, how good you are!’ sobbed the girl, with a look of ineffable gratitude; and she raised his hand to her feverish lips and kissed it.
Edgar Sutherland was not the man to do any good deed by halves. Thanks to his generosity, Adèle Lambert was removed to a better lodging, and comfortably nursed; the doctor’s opinion being that the disease, though certainly mortal, would progress slowly, and that much might be done to alleviate her distressing condition. Not content with assisting her with money, the young man visited her almost daily, and did his best to lighten her miserable lot; talked to her cheerfully, read to her; and without obtruding any moral or religious sentiment, contrived to turn her bewildered and despairing thoughts in the direction of some heavenly compassion.
In the course of these kindly visits he learned the whole story of the unfortunate girl’s connection with the French adventurer, whom he had again recognised. That story cannot be told here; it would be too shocking for a society that hushes up revolting truths, and bases its moral security on the existence of an evil which philosophers contemplate with tranquillity, and men of the world with pleasant cynicism. Not even in the pages of a fiction with a purpose can an English writer print the record of what is at the best an accursed human sacrifice, a trade to which the slave trade was venial; a social abomination which destroys the body and too often obliterates the germinating soul.
I know well how, in discussing this question, philosophy and sentimentalism are at issue; how statistics have been twisted to show that actual seduction is rare, and rarest upon the man’s side; how the majority of the lost live happily, healthily, and long; how their existence is a necessity of civilisation, the security of virtue, the protection of the household, the safeguard of the morals of the State. Well, I say with Sutherland, God help our civilisation if this be so! So long as such a canker exists, so long as the moral holocaust continues, there is no hope for any living woman, and the Kingdom of Heaven upon earth, which poets have dreamed of, is whole eternities away.
CHAPTER XXVIII.—AT THE COUNTESS AURELIA’S.
Once or twice during the season it was the custom of the Countess Aurelia Van Homrigh to give a literary party. This party had at first been but a small social gathering, invitations being issued only to a few of the most select of the lady’s literary and scientific friends, but every year the invitations had grown more numerous, until the yearly reunions became quite the mode, and each one was an event to which the world of art, science, and letters looked forward with delight.
The Countess was a pretty little Englishwoman, married to a foreign adventurer, who had made an enormous fortune in certain obscure branches of trade. While yet a maiden Miss Aurelia Blackeston was well known in aesthetic circles as the writer of many charming volumes of verse, and as the favoured lady to whom a certain great and titled poet addressed the lines commencing
‘Aurelia, pretty one, brightest of blues!’
As a wife and a lady of title the same lady doubled her social charms. Her husband, standing quietly in her shadow, watched her with morose adoration, whilst she dispensed hospitality to all the lions of the land.
For Aurelia loved a lion, just as some people love a lord. On each occasion there were new ones to be sought out, secured and made much of, before the party could be complete. In difficulties of this sort she generally appealed to her old friend and admirer Serena, who, being full-manned and leonine himself, was a good judge of the noble animal in demand. Serena, we may remark en passant, had painted the Countess in every attitude and from every conceivable point of view; as a Pythoness, as a ‘Psyche by the Waters of Love’s Wanness,’ as ‘A Study in Rose Pink,’ as ‘Vivien the Enchantress,’ in which doleful composition the painter himself appeared as Merlin; and most of these portraits adorned the walls of the cerulean house at Barnes, on the banks of the Thames.
One morning, early in the season, Madeline, sitting at breakfast with her husband, received the Countess’s invitation; accompanying it was a little note from Serena. ‘I hope you will come; indeed, you must come,’ wrote the great man, ‘since on this occasion the fair Aurelia’s rooms will be graced by the presence of a gentleman whom I wish particularly to make known to you, a charming creature whose soul is redolent of music and divine song. He comes to my rooms, he contemplates your picture by the hour—he vows that so divine a creature cannot exist. I wish to show him that she does exist, and that, in trying to place it upon canvas, my poor hand has signally failed.’
Madeline read the letter with a smile, then she handed it to her husband.
‘The Countess is not content with mere lions this year,’ she said. ‘She evidently intends to make a lioness of me. Shall we go?’
‘Yes, we had better go, my dear,’ returned Forster quietly. ‘Beneath all her humbug the Countess is an excellent person; she would be really pained if we stayed away.’
So without more ado—without more thought—the step was taken which was to become the great turning point in Madeline’s life.
Breakfast over, Forster went to the City, while Madeline wrote a little note accepting the lady’s invitation; then put the whole matter from her mind, ordered her carriage, and an hour later was driving down Regent Street, with the little boy who was now her constant companion.
The life into which Madeline had entered on her marriage had proved so far to be a happy one. James Forster, always kind and considerate, was devoted to his young wife; while Madeline tried to repay some of his kindness to her by lavishing her affection on his child. ‘He shall never repent marrying me,’ she said to herself a hundred times a day. ‘He alone knows I did not bring him honour, but I will bring him happiness.’ And she tried to keep her word.
Meantime, the days flew past, and at length the momentous one arrived on which Mr. and Mrs. Forster were to appear at the Countess’s house at Barnes. Forster went to the City as usual, but promised to return early; he was detained, however, so that when he reached home he found his wife already arrayed for the night. He looked at her, then gently kissed her.
‘Madeline, my dear,’ he said, ‘I never saw you look more lovely’: then he added quietly—‘Should you mind very much, my love, if I stayed at home to-night?’
‘Stayed at home?’
‘Yes, I have had one of my nervous headaches all day, and I don’t feel equal to facing the Countess’s crowded rooms.’
‘Then you shall remain at home, and I will remain with you.’
‘Not so, my love: you must go, and Margaret shall accompany you.’
‘But I would rather stay.’
‘Nonsense, Madeline. If you talk like that I shall go, and punish you for your perversity by being more than usually disagreeable.’
So it was settled, the carriage was ordered, and Madeline drove down to Barnes with Miss Forster by her side.
The gathering, as we have said, was always numerous, but this time it seemed of greater importance than ever. The street on the river side was so blocked with carriages that some time elapsed before Forster’s brougham could pull up at the door, and when at length it did, and the ladies passed over the carpeted pavement into the hall, they found themselves in so dense a throng that it was with difficulty they made their way along at all. At length, however, they reached the top of the crowded staircase, at the door of a crowded room. Here Madeline paused; her eyes, lately accustomed to the darkness, were dazzled by the brilliant glare of light which met them, so that at first she could find out nothing very distinctly; in a moment, however, the feeling of confusion passed away, and with one swift glance she took in the scene.
In a suite of lofty rooms running from one to another, like a picture gallery, and almost as thickly covered with works of art, were ladies and gentlemen of all shapes and ages, the majority of the ladies clad in what is now known as the aesthetic, or high-waisted, style, and the greater number of the gentlemen resembling one another in a certain limp and flaccid self-consciousness of attitude. Scattered here and there, as a sort of leaven, were swarthy artists, with beards, spectacled savants and scientists, stout literary ladies, and acidulous lady members of the London School Board. It was, indeed, a scene too familiar to need much describing. The chatter was deafening, reminding an irreverent spectator of the noise in the monkey-house at the Zoological Gardens.
While Madeline and Miss Forster stood hesitating within the threshold of the room, they were espied from a distance by Serena, who immediately made his way over to them, and forthwith, in the manner of one having authority, led them to the lady of the house.
The Countess, who was shining resplendent in a dress composed entirely of Indian shawls folded tight round her lissome figure, welcomed Madeline with effusion, and gave the tip of her fingers to Miss Forster; then after a little desultory prattle, she introduced Madeline to a limp gentleman standing near, and floated away to another part of the room.
‘A charming creature the Countess,’ said the limp gentleman. ‘So far above the vulgar prejudices of our too crowded civilisation, with no creed but Beauty, and no God but Art.’
‘Yes,’ murmured Madeline, scarcely attending, as she gazed rather vacantly round the room.
‘Have you seen Botticelli Jones’s picture of her ladyship as “A Lily of Languor in the Garden of Proserpine”? No? Well, Ponto says it is the most superbly sane and cosmic thing——’
He was interrupted by a cry from Madeline, who, leaving his side without a word of apology, crossed the room rapidly, and approached a grim-looking person with a light beard, clad in a very shabby dress suit and rather disreputable boots.
This was no other person than Jack Bingham, an artist by profession, of the old ‘pipe and beer’ school, and a bosom friend of Marmaduke White.
‘What, Jack!’ she cried, holding out both her hands.
Everybody called him Jack.
As she spoke the grim face relaxed into a smile.
‘What, is it you?’ returned Jack, with a delighted laugh.
‘Yes, and I am so glad to see you. But who would have thought of meeting you here, of all the places in the world? Dear, dear Jack, the very sight of you calls up old times.’
And tears stood in her eyes as she gazed upon his homely face. Jack was affected too in his rough way, so he made a diversion.
‘Beastly slow, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘There doesn’t seem to be a smoke room, and none of the fellows are my sort.’
‘Why haven’t you come to see me?’ asked Madeline, nodding.
‘Since your marriage?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I don’t know—you didn’t ask me—and your husband’s a swell.’
‘He’s nothing of the sort, Jack, and as to not being asked, you ought to have known my house was open to every friend of my dear guardian. You might smoke in the drawing-room if you liked, and no one would object.’
Jack laughed.
‘I’m not quite such a beast as that; but there, I’ll come since you wish it, and have a talk about old times.’
At this point they were interrupted by Blanco Serena.
‘Mrs. Forster,’ said he, ‘permit me; I wish to make two clever people known to each other.’
Madeline placed her hand on Serena’s proffered arm, and with a smile and a nod to Bingham moved a few steps away. Presently she paused and looked up into her companion’s face.
‘Mr. Serena,’ she said, ‘who is the person? Nobody very clever, I hope; I am so afraid of very clever people.’
‘I am going, my dear Imogen, to introduce you to one who, if the “Megatherium” is to be trusted, is one of the greatest minds of the age. A man who is all spirit, whose soul is a combination of music and song, whose——’
‘Dear me,’ broke in Madeline, ‘he must be a dreadful person. Suppose you point him out to me before we meet him, in case I get quite overcome.’
Serena gazed round the room. The crowd was so great he could not at first find the individual he sought, and with Madeline’s hand still upon his arm he moved a few more steps forward. Suddenly he paused again, gazed across the room, and Madeline, following the gaze with her eyes, beheld a form the first sight of which chilled her to the soul.
The room was long and vast, and the further end of it curved off into a kind of alcove, which at this moment was filled with an admiring group, such as Du Maurier loves to draw—aesthetic ladies, for the most part tall and limp, and lean gentlemen, crowded together, who stood gazing in rapt admiration upon a figure who stood in their midst. It was upon this figure that Madeline’s eyes had fallen. In this wonderful creature, this new lion of the night, she recognised, with a sickening shock of surprise, none other than her old friend and tormentor, Belleisle!
For a moment all power of speech deserted her, the room, the crowds, melted away—she stood as if alone, gazing upon the figure of a man in overwhelming fear—all the blood had deserted her cheeks, the hand which lay upon her companion’s arm was cold and death-like.
She was recalled to herself by the sound of Serena’s voice.
‘Mrs. Forster,’ he said, ‘will you come on now—may I be permitted the honour of presenting you to my friend Gavrolles?’
But Madeline neither moved nor spoke. Her companion turned towards her, and noticed the ghastly hue of her face.
‘Good heavens!’ he exclaimed. ‘What has happened? My dear Mrs. Forster, let me trust you are not ill?’
Madeline clutched nervously at his arm.
‘Hush, not so loud,’ she whispered; then forcing a faint smile to her bloodless lips, she murmured, ‘I am not feeling well, Mr. Serena, but indeed there is no cause for alarm. The rooms are hot, you see, and I have grown a little faint. Pray let me sit for a moment, but take no further notice of this, I beseech you.’
Utterly bewildered as to what it all meant, but feeling instinctively that something wrong had happened, Serena did as he was requested. He led Madeline to an ottoman; she sank down on it with a sigh.
‘Now let me fetch you a glass of wine, or something to take away the faintness,’ he said anxiously; and Madeline bowed her head in silent acquiescence.
The moment he had gone she turned her weary, bewildered eyes upon the gay crowd surrounding her, and gazed again with a sickening sense of shrinking fear towards the spot where the man had stood.
Had her eyes deceived her, had it been some hideous vision conjured up to cast a black shadow upon the happiness which was hers at last? Madeline turned her eyes, hoping, half believing this might be so; but one look gave the death-blow to all her hopes, and made her terror more terrible than it had been before.
Yes, there he stood, the man who had blighted her young life, who had dragged her into the mud, from which, in spite of him, she had arisen. He was changed, certainly, but what changes could disguise him? His hair, once short, was now long and luxuriant, he was clothed in garments of the newest cut, he was talking rapidly, twisting his body into various contortions, for the benefit of the small crowd about him. There was no mistaking those pitiless eyes, that cruel mouth. Yes, it was Belleisle, the man who had cheated her into becoming his mistress, who had made her the decoy of a gambling hell, who had dragged her into the very depths of dishonour and pollution.
She sat for a time concealing her face with her fan, but gazing upon him in a wild fascination; then a terror seized her that the dreadful figure might approach and she would be recognised. The mere possibility sent a cold thrill through all her frame, and she realised for the first time all the evil which one word from the man’s lips could bring upon her head. Serena returned with a glass of wine and a biscuit. She sipped the wine, but put the biscuit from her. Then she turned her white face towards Serena, and whispered eagerly—
‘Mr. Serena, I must go home!’
‘Go home! My dear Mrs. Forster, the evening has hardly begun. We cannot lose one of our brightest ornaments—besides, I have yet to introduce you to——’
‘Hush,’ interrupted Madeline, eagerly, ‘do, pray, let me go. Take me downstairs, I can bear this place no longer. I will wait in the hall for the carriage, and you can bring Miss Forster to me.’
So saying, and without giving Serena time to reply, she rose, took his arm, and drew him out of the crowded room, down the stairs. Once clear of the room she seemed to breathe more freely, but her cheek still retained its ashen grey hue, and the hand which rested upon his arm trembled violently. He led her to the hall, wrapped her cloak about her, and ordered her carriage; then, at her request, he returned to the room to fetch Miss Forster.
It was yet early, carriages continued to drive up to the door, and new streams of people made their way into the dwelling, but in the confusion no one noticed Madeline. She had withdrawn into the shadow, and stood now tremulous with excitement and eager to be gone, and inwardly thanking God that she had escaped the Frenchman’s eye.
Suddenly she felt herself lightly touched upon the arm. She turned quickly, and found herself face to face with the very man she feared!
Instantly she shrank away, and a quick cry of pain escaped her lips. She put her hand to her head in a wild bewildered fear, and stared stupidly at her foe.
The Frenchman was by no means disconcerted. He bowed politely before her, asked in an audible voice if he could be of any service to her, but whispered low——
‘I must see you alone to-morrow. Name a place where we shall meet!’
Madeline did not utter a cry this time, but she shrank farther and farther away. Then she raised her head and looked straight into the Frenchman’s eyes. For a moment she had been seized with a mad idea to disown any knowledge of him—that one look into his eyes convinced her that the device was hopeless.
‘Name a time and place,’ he repeated. Madeline knew that to refuse was impossible—so she said hurriedly—‘Albert Memorial to-morrow morning at 11.’ Then she gazed like a frightened child about her, and saw with dismay that Miss Forster stood close at hand. Had she heard or seen? Madeline could not tell, for the lady’s face betrayed nothing. She came quickly forward, and said, in her cold, unsympathetic voice—
‘What is the matter, Madeline?’
Madeline’s face, which had lately been so pale, suddenly became crimson.
She stammered out that nothing was the matter.
‘Mr. Serena told me that you had been ill.’
‘I did not feel well,’ returned Madeline, regaining some of her self-command, ‘and I should like to go home—but, dear Miss Forster, if you will permit me I will go alone. It seems a pity to take you away so soon.’
The lady replied, coldly—
‘I have no wish to stay. I came because my brother wished me to come; that was all.’
By this time Serena, who had been busy hurrying up the carriage, came to announce that it was ready, to offer his arm to the ladies, and once more to express his deep grief at Madeline’s untimely departure. Madeline took his arm in silence. As she moved away, she turned and gazed uneasily around her.
The Frenchman was nowhere to be seen.
The drive home was made in profound silence. Miss Forster sat in stately reticence and gazed from the carriage window at the flashing lamps of the street, while Madeline threw herself into her corner, closed her weary eyes, and tried to persuade herself that the event of the last hour had been but a dream. She was a little bewildered as yet, and unable to realise all that the man’s presence might mean. To her as yet he had only recalled the horror of her past-life; he had cast no actual shadow over her home.
When the carriage was pulled up at the door and she stepped out, she felt herself shivering from head to foot, though in reality her hands and lips were burning. When she pleaded illness as the cause of her early return, Forster readily believed her, and while folding her in his arms he blamed his own folly for allowing her to go forth at all that night. Was it his fancy, or did Madeline really shrink from his embrace; yes, shrink from it, as she had never done before? He turned anxiously towards her, he noticed that her cheek was flushed, and that a strange light shone in her eyes; but he saw no mystery there.
Having satisfactorily explained her return, Madeline went at once to her room, where she found her maid awaiting her. The girl assisted her mistress to remove her dress; to take down her hair, and put on her dressing gown; then she was summarily dismissed for the night, and Madeline, after locking her door, sat down to think what it would be best for her to do.
What had she done? Nothing as yet. She had let the man see that she feared him, certainly, but then he needed no sign from her to assure him of that. She had, moreover, in her desperation and fear of exposure, made an assignation with him. But then that assignation need never be kept. There was one way open to her—one open, honest course; but she shrank from it appalled. Her heart counselled thus—‘Go to your husband, tell him all, and throw yourself upon his sympathy;’ but her courage failed her, she shrank back like a contaminated guilty thing.
‘Go to him, look in his eyes, and say to him—“I have seen to-night the man who made me his mistress; with one word he can bring disgrace upon me, and you”————-’
No, she could not do it. Whatever her husband had heard of her past she hoped by this time he had forgotten. In Forster’s sight, at least, she would not be degraded; come what might, she would fight her battle alone.