“Ah, yes, but that was a different matter. If he had married Celia Franks he would have had her money to invest. I withdrew my offer directly the girl so foolishly threw away her fortune. You cannot expect me to take him into partnership if he hasn’t a farthing to put into the business—now, can you, Dinah?”
“No, I suppose not,” she answered dejectedly, scarcely knowing what to say.
A knock at the door interrupted their conversation. The same clerk who had attended to Dinah came in to state that the head of a contemporary firm wished to see Mr. Rosen on important business.
Dinah jumped up and drew on her gloves, thinking she had taken up enough of her brother-in-law’s valuable time. Mike flicked the ash off his cigar.
“Well, I will have a serious conversation with David when he returns,” he said, as the clerk withdrew. “And if I can see my way to promote him, I will do so, for your sake, little girl. Anyway, I’ll give you all your house-furniture for a wedding-present, and a handsome cheque besides. So keep your pecker up, Di; I’ll see you through.”
Then, with a hasty farewell, he ordered the clerk to call a hansom and pay the driver. Dinah appreciated the attention, and quite enjoyed her free ride home. She was delighted with the result of her mission, for she knew that her brother-in-law would be as good as his word.
As for Mike, he went home and told his wife everything; and, as usual, asked her advice. Adeline hemmed and hawed, and cross-questioned her spouse until he marvelled at the shrewdness of womankind. Finally she said—
“Di won’t be happy till she gets him, Mike. We had better let her have him, and between us all we’ll manage to keep him straight.”
And so it was, that within the next fortnight the engagement between Dinah Friedberg and David Salmon was formally announced.
It was a Sunday afternoon in November. Outside, a grey mist hung over streets and squares, filling the air with unpleasant dampness; but inside—in this particular St. John’s Wood drawing-room, at least—there was warmth and comfort. The lamps under their crimson shades combined with the crackling fire to generate a cheerful light and heat, the pleasant effect of which was heightened by the clink of tea-cups and the buzz of human voices.
A stranger had merely to glance casually around to know that this was the apartment of one who was in some way connected with the drama. There were portraits everywhere: on the walls, the mantelpiece, the boudoir grand piano, and on both sides of a large screen; in fact, in every nook where there was the smallest space. Most of them portrayed the charms of well-known actors and actresses, some of them being the leading lights of the dramatic profession in England, America, and France. Art and music were also represented, although in a lesser degree; and each portrait was signed by the autograph of the original, in some cases supplemented by a friendly inscription.
The latest addition to this collection was a panel portrait of Celia Franks, in the character of Galatea, which was the last part in which she had performed at the Academy; and in close proximity to it sat Celia herself, carelessly stirring her tea. She was talking to the famous and marvellously beautiful actress, Mrs. Potter Wemyss, who, having at Haviland’s request attended the dress rehearsal of the new play, was so delighted with Celia’s acting as to wish to give her a few hints before the important first night. This was a great honour, for Mrs. Potter Wemyss did not usually trouble to give a novice the benefit of her advice; so Celia, appreciating it as such, listened with eager attention.
There were several other people in the room, including a little woman in black, who poured out the tea and spoke to nobody—she was the insignificant mistress of the house; Guy Haviland himself, genial as ever; his sister Grace, who was talking to Mrs. Neville Williams; and Lord Bexley, who sat silent in a far-off shadowy corner.
Bexley looked preoccupied as he absent-mindedly twirled his moustache. He watched Celia Franks and Mrs. Potter Wemyss, and wondered which of the two distinct types of beauty were the more perfect from the artistic point of view. Mrs. Potter Wemyss was Irish, with typical Irish eyes, and plump yet delicately moulded features. Celia, although her profile reminded him of a Greek statue, had the advantage of her Semitic descent; and with her red-gold hair would have made an excellent study for the Madonna, the accepted ideal of Jewish virginal beauty.
Bexley admired lovely women, especially when they were women of intelligence also, so that to gaze unobserved at these two afforded him keen pleasure. Their every movement was a graceful pose—perhaps studied in the case of the elder woman, but not so with the younger; and their long clinging gowns served to enhance the beauty of their well-proportioned forms.
“A pretty picture,” remarked Mrs. Neville Williams, in an undertone, suddenly appearing beside his chair. “Age instructing youth in the way of vice.”
She glanced towards the pair as she spoke. Her words jarred on Bexley in his present mood.
“I do not know why you should think that,” he returned with warmth. “I should say that Mrs. Potter Wemyss would be more likely to teach virtue than vice.”
“Oh yes”—with a laugh that was half a sneer,—“I know she is very good. Goes to church regularly, refuses to travel on Sunday, and won’t act during Lent. But it’s just a fad, you know, which she, being at the top of the ladder, can afford to indulge. It’s a good advertisement too. An actress does not usually possess a reputation of that kind.”
Bexley wondered what it was that made Mrs. Neville Williams so ungenerous to those of her own sex. Whenever he met her, which was very frequently of late—more often, if the truth be known, than he desired,—she always had something spiteful to say about one of their mutual acquaintance. He did not admire this trait in her character, and generally felt called upon to defend the lady who happened to be under discussion.
“It is hardly fair to take it for granted that Mrs. Wemyss is guilty of hypocrisy,” he said with a touch of asperity. “I consider it very praiseworthy on her part to stick to her Christian principles even though she is on the stage. Her example is one which might be followed to advantage by the lesser luminaries of her profession.”
“That sounds very nice,” Mrs. Williams replied with a shrug. “But I am afraid that I do not believe in such goodness. The world—especially the theatrical world—is too full of sham and make-believe.”
“And yet there is plenty of unaffected sincerity too, if we only know where to look for it,” the peer returned musingly, his eyes still on Celia and Mrs. Potter Wemyss. “Do you know, I used to think that when a human being ceased to believe in goodness, and in God as the Author of all goodness, he—or she—was no longer fit to live. Sometimes I think so now.”
Mrs. Neville Williams bit her lip, although it was not Bexley’s fault if she chose to apply the remark to herself.
“That is rather a strong expression,” she said, her small foot tapping the ground.
“Yes, one feels strongly sometimes,” he rejoined; then turned to Haviland’s little girl, who had just come into the room.
Mrs. Williams moved away wondering what had occurred to vex his lordship, for that he had been put out about something was evident. It was a question whether she would have been pleased, had she known.
That very morning Lord Bexley had proposed marriage to Celia Franks, and, to his sorrow, had been refused. She liked and respected him immensely, she said, and felt honoured that he should desire to marry her; but she did not love him, and, having once experienced an engagement without love, she was anxious to avoid a repetition of the mistake. It was no wonder, therefore, that he was not in the happiest of moods. He had known all along that, having given up her own fortune for the sake of her belief, his rank and wealth were not likely to carry much weight; but such knowledge did not make his disappointment any the less keen.
“I think I shall join my sister in the South,” he said, when, Mrs. Potter Wemyss having taken her departure, he was able to speak to Celia. “London seems suddenly to have become cold and grey. It will be a relief to see sunny Italy once more.”
Celia turned to him with an expression of regret. “You make me feel that I am sending you away,” she said, with a touch of self-reproach. “I am so sorry, Lord Bexley, sorry that I have had to hurt you, I mean.”
“Never mind, it was my own fault,” he rejoined, not wishing her to feel that she was in any way to blame. “It was foolish of me to imagine that you could fall in love with an old stager like myself. Oh, that’s all right”—as the girl was about to remonstrate,—“I am getting old, you know. Well, well, we will not say any more about it; only I do hope that when Mr. Right comes along, he will be worthy of you, Cely. You are a dear girl, you deserve to be made happy, and I sincerely trust that some good man will make you so.”
There was a suspicious moisture in Celia’s eyes. “Thank you,” she said simply, with one of her wonderful smiles. “It is very kind and generous of you to wish me all that; I hope, though, you won’t go away before Thursday,” raising her voice slightly, for Miss Haviland’s eyes were upon them. “I made sure that Lady Marjorie would be present at the theatre on the first night. I shall be dreadfully disappointed if you are away too.”
“Then I will stay,” he hastened to rejoin. “It is very kind of you to express such a desire.”
Thus ended Lord Bexley’s love affair, the only one he ever had.
The important Thursday came in due course, as every long-anticipated day comes, whether its advent be hailed with delight or dread. Celia was excited one moment, calm the next, and all the time cherished a secret fear lest she should be overcome with stage-fright at the crucial moment.
Late in the afternoon a large floral horse-shoe arrived from Mrs. Potter Wemyss. Haviland had it hung up in Celia’s dressing-room at the theatre, for luck. Accompanying the emblem was a note from the great actress wishing the author and his heroine a huge success. She was unable to attend the performance herself, having a professional engagement of her own to fulfil, but hoped to join them later at the Carlton, where Haviland was giving a supper in honour of the occasion.
Her good wishes were, happily, gratified. “The Voice of the Charmer” was a decided success. From the first ring-up to the final fall of the curtain, it went without a hitch. Beautiful scenery and costumes, good acting, a whimsical but fascinating plot—all these things were in its favour; and the audience being enthusiastic, ready to applaud on the slightest provocation, the good fortune of the play was thus ensured.
Celia’s cue did not occur until the latter part of the first act. She was heard singing in the distance until, after a melodious cadenza, she herself appeared. From the first moment of her entrance she held the stage. Opera glasses were immediately levelled and focussed, as with almost breathless interest the audience took in the beauty of her face and form, the profusion of bright hair falling over robes of filmy white; and then, the marvellous sweetness of her voice. Slightly nervous at first, she soon gained confidence; and, taking no heed of the audience, lost herself in the identity of Mallida, the hypnotist’s daughter, who, living in an old-world German town, lures men and women on by the magic power of her voice, until, arriving on her father’s domain, they are forced to submit to his evil machinations.
It was a curious play, recalling “Dr. Faustus” in the mystic impossibility of its first act, but becoming more plausible as it proceeded. The first scene was a secret cave in the heart of the Hartz mountains, where the hypnotist hid the spoil he had plundered from his victims; the last act represented, in striking contrast, a modern London ball-room; Haviland having run the whole gamut from the romantic to the commonplace.
The theatre was crowded in every part. Celia could not have desired a better reception than the one which was accorded her. Many of the people in the stalls and boxes had met her, when, like a meteor, she had flashed upon society under the chaperonage of Lady Marjorie Stonor. Claiming personal acquaintance, therefore, they were particularly interested, and vied with pit and gallery in thundering their applause.
Sitting far back in the stage-box sat Herbert Karne, who had arrived from Durlston the preceding day. Although he was naturally gratified at his sister’s success, he felt strangely unattuned to the spirit of the performance, and was not as elated as he should have been. The depression which had accompanied his convalescence seemed to have settled upon him with deeper gloom. Try as he would, he could not reclaim that buoyancy of disposition which had been his aforetime. The sudden departure of Lady Marjorie had affected him more deeply than he would have thought possible. Not only did he miss her cheering visits, her dainty attentions, her vivacious ways, but he also felt that, in spite of extenuating circumstances, he had treated her badly. A hundred times a day her face rose up before his mental vision—her face as it had been after he had told her of his past. And, however hopeless it might be, he loved her. Waking or sleeping, she was continually in his mind.
When the lights were switched on after the end of the second act, he recognized Lord Bexley, but avoided a direct glance. He was, perhaps, hyper-sensitive, but—although he might have been sure that Lady Marjorie would not tell even her brother of what had occurred—he felt that if Bexley were to approach him with a horsewhip, he would have no right to display resentment.
The peer was in an opposite box with friends. One of them, a lady, sat sideways, apparently studying her programme. There was something curiously familiar to Herbert Karne in the contour of her face. He was not able to regard her for long, however, for at that moment Guy Haviland appeared at the door of his box, offering to take him to the vicinity of the stage. He stayed there for the remainder of the performance, being much interested in the working behind the scenes.
Haviland and Celia received quite an ovation when the curtain fell for the last time, the author insisting in sharing the honours with his heroine. As soon as Celia had got rid of her make-up and changed into conventional evening dress, they all drove to the Carlton, where the flowers which had been presented during the evening were already displayed on the tables reserved for their party. Herbert Karne was allotted the place next to Mrs. Potter Wemyss, who had arrived with her husband a few minutes earlier. The two seats on his right were still vacant, but he was so absorbed in studying the radiant beauty of Mrs. Wemyss, that he did not particularly notice the fact.
“Good evening, Karne. Glad to see you again. How is the arm?” said a voice behind him; and, rising, the artist was confronted by Lord Bexley. With averted eyes he shook hands, and uttered a commonplace greeting; then started suddenly, scarcely able to restrain an exclamation of surprise.
A lady was standing by the side of the peer, the same he had seen in the theatre. Although dressed entirely in black, her appearance was by no means sombre, for her corsage, neck, and arms blazed with diamonds; the same jewels gleaming from amongst the unnatural brightness of her hair. Tall and erect, she towered above Herbert with an expression of calm triumph on her face; then, as Lord Bexley introduced him, held out her hand.
“I think we have met before,” she said with her peculiarly crisp accent, half French, half Scotch. “Perhaps Mr. Karne does not remember? It was in the Quartier Latin a few years ago.”
Herbert grasped the back of the chair; the whole room seemed to spin.
“Yes, I remember,” he answered thickly. “It would be impossible to forget——”
The lady prepared to take her place on his left. “How charming of you to say so,” she said, as she sat down. “We shall be able to talk over old times. To recall pleasant reminiscences is quite a favourite pastime of mine.”
It was a merry little supper-party. Guy Haviland kept the table going with his clever wit; he was a past-master in the art of entertaining. Although the evening had been a trying one, Celia did not seem to be fatigued. She enjoyed being made much of—what girl does not?—and her face glowed with happy excitement as she responded to the congratulations of her admirers.
Her brother felt like the death’s-head at the feast. Had Celia been less excited, she could not have failed to notice his unwonted moodiness. Mrs. Potter Wemyss made several efforts to sustain a conversation, but finally despairing of eliciting any but monosyllabic answers, left him to himself. His brain was in a whirl; he could not eat, nor could he speak. All he could do was to stare straight in front of him and marvel at the irony of fate. He had not caught the name of the woman to whom he had been reintroduced; he did not know in what guise she posed or how she came to be an honoured guest at Haviland’s table. It was enough for him that she was there; and being there, claimed recognition.
She confined her conversation principally to her partner, with whom she seemed to be on terms of intimacy. Several times, however, she turned towards the artist with a “Do you remember such and such a thing in Paris?” or, “We had delightful times in those old student-days, didn’t we, Mr. Karne?”
Herbert was amazed at her coolness, being unaware that on her part the meeting with himself had been anticipated. He was completely staggered, too, at the metamorphosis which had taken place in her. He had always credited her with being arrogantly clever, but how in those twelve years she had managed to transform herself from a rank Bohemian into a conventional society lady was more than even he could understand. Judging by the smiling bows of recognition which passed between herself and others who were supping at the Carlton, she was well known: that she had been in the company of Lord Bexley all the evening was in itself sufficient guarantee as to her social standing.
Not until the guests were dispersing did he get an opportunity of speaking to her alone; and then it was only for a second. She was standing in the vestibule, having just said good night to some friends whilst her cavalier went to see after her carriage. Herbert approached, and, with a gesture, drew her aside.
“Ninette!” he exclaimed; and then again, “Ninette!”
She smiled the slow tortuous smile he knew so well of old.
“Not ‘Ninette’ in England,” was her laconic answer.
“I must speak to you,” he said hurriedly, noticing that in spite of the difference in her age and position she was little changed. “Where can I see you, and at what hour? I must have an explanation.”
She drew herself up with dignity. “There is no ‘must’ where I am concerned,” she replied haughtily. “But if you care to call and see me to-morrow, I shall be at home. Here is my card.”
He took it hastily and placed it in his card-case. “At what time?” he asked again. “Ten o’clock?”
“You surely do not expect me to be up at that unearthly hour of the morning?” she answered in an aggrieved tone. “You can come at twelve.”
At that moment Lord Bexley reappeared, and, with a bow, the artist moved away. Then, when he had taken leave of Celia and was on his way to his hotel, he paused under a street lamp to examine the card.
“Mrs. Neville Williams,
150 Cromwell Mansions,
South Kensington, S.W.”
Such was its inscription.
Herbert read it aloud. “Mrs. Neville Williams.” The name seemed to have a familiar ring about it. Where had he heard it before? Suddenly he recollected. It was the name of the Vicar of Durlston’s brother-in-law, the late Dr. Neville Williams of Harley Street. Good Heavens! Could Ninette have had the audacity to pose as the doctor’s wife?—or of what had she been guilty?
A cold sweat broke out upon his brow as he thought of it. In whatever way she had disgraced him, she was still his wife; and now that she had suddenly crossed his path again, there could be no more ignoring of the fact.
What would society say if the scandal were exposed? he wondered dully.
What would Marjorie say?
There was no sleep for Herbert Karne that night.
“Did you notice what magnificent diamonds Mrs. Neville Williams wore last night?” said Celia to her brother the following morning. “Mrs. Haviland says they belong to the Wallingcourt family, and that there has been some amount of litigation about them. Fancy her wearing jewels that are not her own!”
Herbert Karne made no remark, for to discuss Mrs. Neville Williams with his sister was impossible under existing circumstances. Celia had called for him at his hotel; and was engaged in looking over a pile of newspaper cuttings concerning the performance of the previous night. Opinion was divided as to the merits of the play; but the critics were unanimous in their praise of the acting of Mallida.
“I feel frightfully flat this morning,” she continued, stifling a yawn. “It is the reaction from last night, I suppose. I think a walk would do me good. Will you come for a stroll over the heath, Herbert? Mr. Haviland wants me at the theatre at two o’clock, but I am free until then.”
Herbert rose from the table and looked out of the window.
“It is not a very nice day for the heath,” he replied. “It seems inclined to be foggy. Besides, I have an appointment in Kensington at twelve.”
“A business appointment?” she asked with interest.
“No, a private appointment,” he answered briefly, apparently disinclined to be communicative. Then with a gesture of weariness he passed his hand across his forehead and sighed.
Celia tossed the papers aside, and regarded him with solicitude. There was a furrow on his brow which hitherto she had not noticed, and his eyes had deep lines under the lids. He seemed thoroughly dispirited, though for what reason she did not know.
“I wish you would tell me what is the matter, Herbert,” she said gently. “You are not your own bright self at all. I noticed it directly you arrived on Tuesday. Is anything troubling you, dear?”
He sighed again—for the sixteenth time according to his sister’s calculation—then confessed to being “a bit worried,” but would not divulge what was the source of his trouble.
“Won’t you tell me what it is?” she urged. “Perhaps I could help you if I knew.”
He shook his head. “It’s a trouble for which there is no help,” he replied; and all her coaxing could elicit no more.
When he parted from her an hour later, he hailed a hansom and drove to Kensington, where he found the neighbourhood enveloped in fog. The cabman, unable to see his way clearly, had some difficulty in finding Cromwell Mansions; but after making a circuit of the whole district, eventually arrived at the destination he sought.
With a nervousness quite foreign to his disposition, Herbert paid the man and rang for the elevator. He had not chafed at the delay; quite the contrary, even though the fog were more or less unpleasant. He was going to see his wife, but what the result of that interview would be, he had not the slightest idea: his mind seemed a positive blank.
Arrived at the third floor, he pressed the electric bell, and was immediately admitted by a trim parlour-maid, who ushered him into an artistically furnished room of octagonal shape. An ugly pug, who lay coiled up on the hearthrug, was the only occupant, and greeted the visitor with a snarl. Herbert quieted it with a word; then, as the servant went to inform her mistress of his arrival, proceeded to look about him.
Some of the outside fog had penetrated within; and the only illumination was that obtained from an electric lamp, which, under a heavy golden shade formed to represent a daffodil, cast a subdued light over the room. As soon as his eyes had become accustomed to the dimness, he discovered that the appurtenances certainly suggested taste and refinement. Books, pictures, music, and the many dainty knick-knacks which women delight in, all these were there. Of the pictures, two he recognized as his own handiwork, painted at the time of his infatuation for Ninette. The sight of them brought back a host of recollections. Quite vividly he could see again his old studio overlooking the chimney-pots of Paris; and Ninette perched on the dais with her favourite poodle in her arms. In the next atelier there had lived a pianist, who shared the room with an artist brother, and practised Liszt’s fourteenth rhapsody energetically every day. Herbert could almost hear the crisp, dotted notes of that rhapsody now. It is strange how, in our minds, a certain musical phrase will persist in connecting itself with certain past events; and we can never think of the one without the other recurring to us also.
The creak of the door as it swung back on its hinges broke his reverie, and in another moment Ninette stood beside him. In the half light he could not see her very distinctly, but she was clad in a loose tea-gown trimmed with a profusion of ribbons and lace.
“Good morning,” she said as coolly as though his visit were of daily occurrence. “I hardly expected you in this fog. Won’t you sit down?”
He touched the tips of the fingers she held out as though the action almost hurt him.
“Thanks; I prefer to stand,” he answered briefly. “I suppose you are prepared with your explanation, Ninette?”
She sank on to an arm-chair with an air of weary languor, the pug nestling against the folds of her gown.
“Yes, I am quite prepared,” she answered calmly. “But, first of all, I do not wish to be called Ninette any more: the sobriquet savours too much of Paris and Bohemianism. My real name, as I thought you were aware, is Marie, which my late husband preferred to translate into Mary. I was always plain English Mary to him, never the frivolous Ninette you knew.”
“Your late husband,” repeated Karne, a trifle cynically. “To whom do you allude?”
“To my second husband, of course,” she returned evenly. “Dr. Percival Arthur Neville Williams, of Harley Street, London, and Bolton Lawns, Surrey.”
Herbert paced the room in agitation. “You say that the late Dr. Neville Williams was your second husband,” he said incredulously. “Have you forgotten, or do you pretend to ignore the fact of your marriage with myself?”
“I do neither,” she rejoined, lifting the pug on to her knee. “As it happens, however, my marriage with you was annulled on the very day that the ceremony took place.”
The artist stood still and confronted her with amazement. He could hardly believe his ears. The marriage annulled! How could it have been annulled? Surely Ninette was trying to fool him, as she had so often done before. Judging by her manner, she attached but light importance to her words; her calmness quite irritated him. It might have been a little thing to her, but it meant a great deal to him.
“Listen!” she commanded, not heeding his evident excitement. “If you will be so good as to desist from tramping round the room like a caged lion, I will tell you everything. I need not tell you unless I like—I have kept it back all these years—but, for a certain reason, it pleases me that you should know now. To begin at the beginning: At the age of eighteen I was legally and properly married, in the presence of relatives and friends, to Armand Douste, an engineer in the French navy. Shortly after the wedding he was sent on a voyage from Marseilles to Hong-Kong, where he stayed two months. The boat on which he returned—the ill-fated Marie Antoinette—went down off Aden with all hands on board. There were five survivors, according to the newspapers, but Armand’s name was not amongst them; and after many futile inquiries, I naturally concluded that my husband had perished with the rest. The sudden bereavement was, of course, a great shock; but I could not afford to allow sentiment to affect my appetite, and I made as light of it as I possibly could. I stayed in Marseilles a few months longer; but meanwhile my mother died; and my father having lost heavily on the turf, I was obliged to consider some means of earning a livelihood. Armand had left me with only his current salary to live upon, intending to be back before the next quarter came due. I went to Paris, and adopted the profession in which you found me. My good looks and my talents were my sole stock-in-trade, so I was obliged to use them to the best of my ability. Then I met you; and although I had loved Armand devotedly, I rather admired your handsome face, and your quiet English ways. I was tired, too, of my mode of living at that time, and, wishing for a change, accepted your proposal of marriage. What happened then, you know. You were called home on the day of the wedding; I was left in Paris to await your return. Scarcely an hour after your departure, however, I was told that a gentleman wished to see me. I went into the salon, and to my astonished bewilderment, there stood my husband, Armand Douste! He seemed to me like one risen from the dead; and indeed he looked nearer death than life. He had been picked up by an English vessel bound for Singapore; where, having landed, he lay too ill to be moved for nearly eight months. As soon as he recovered, he worked his way back to Marseilles, and not being able to discover me there, eventually traced me to Paris. There, by dint of arduous perseverance, he found me, just married to another man!”
She paused to sip a fluid out of what looked like a medicine-glass. The talking seemed to tire her, and frequently she put her hand to her side as if in pain. Her interlocutor sat like one immovable. If what she were saying were true, he was free—free! Oh the joy of that thought! But he could not believe it—yet.
“Why did you not inform me immediately of what had occurred?” he managed to articulate as she placed the glass on the table again, and prepared to continue her story.
“Because, if I had done that, I should have had no further claim on you,” she replied promptly. “And knowing that you were in prosperous circumstances, I was obliged to make use of that knowledge. Armand had scarcely a sou in the world; I had very little more. Money we were forced to secure from somewhere, and you were our only hope.”
“But can’t you realize how cruel it was to have kept me in ignorance all these years?” he pursued reproachfully. “I would willingly have done my best for you and—your husband, if I had known the true facts of the case.”
“Ah, that is what you say now,” she rejoined dubiously. “I doubt if you would have said so then. Well, to continue my story, Armand, never having properly recovered from his illness, gradually grew weaker and died, leaving me in very low water for a time. Then, luckily for me, I came across an English lady, a Mrs. Hall. She was only a chance acquaintance, for I met her in a circulating library where I happened to find a pocket-book she had lost, but she took a liking to me at first sight. After having visited her constantly, I went to stay with her for a time, and eventually she introduced me to her friend, Lady Elstree, of Portland Place, London, who was in need of a companion. Lady Elstree was one of those shrinking kind of women who always seek refuge behind a stronger mind, and want even the most trivial matters decided for them. Before I had been with her a month, I was able to rule her whole household as though I were its legitimate mistress. Her husband, Sir Richard, although not a doctor, dabbled in therapeutics and hygiene, and spent most of his time in his laboratory, never troubling much about how his wife amused herself. He paid her bills with automatic regularity, and fortunately failed to notice that they almost doubled themselves during my régime. Being so pleasantly situated, my old love for the turf revived; and taking my advice, Lady Elstree backed certain horses that I happened to fancy. Sometimes they won, more often they lost; but when they did win, I retained five per cent. commission. Very soon I became familiar with London life and the ways of English society. Wherever I went, I was always introduced as Lady Elstree’s ‘friend,’ never as her companion. One day I happened to pick up a society paper containing an account of a reception I had attended. My name was included in the list of guests, and I was described as the ‘beautiful and brilliant Mdme. Douste.’ This fired my ambition, and I determined to become a society leader—a second Corinne, or Mdme. Pompadour. Then Dr. Neville Williams appeared upon the scene——”
“It is a wonder you did not seek some one in a higher position than a mere body-healer,” interposed Herbert, with a touch of satire.
“Yes, I might have done so, it is true; but I was rather struck with Neville Williams, although his disposition was the direct opposite of mine. He was then at the zenith of his fame, too, having managed to cure a royal princess by a special treatment of his own when all the highest physicians in the land had failed. He could have been knighted for that, had he wished. I saw a good deal of him, for he was a great friend of Sir Richard Elstree’s, and came often to Portland Place. We were married at St. George’s, Hanover Square—oh, you need not look sceptical; it was a bonâ fide marriage. Percival’s brother-in-law, the Rev. J. W. Milnes, officiated, assisted by the clergy of St. George’s.”
“And was your ambition realized?”
“Partially. Society was inclined to look askance at me first of all, but it was not able to withstand me for long. I was a woman, I had a tongue, I could talk. I had the knack of finding out whatever I wanted to know about certain people too. They discovered by experience that it was unwise to offend me. They called me a dangerous woman behind my back, but conciliated me to my face. The only drawback to my happiness was that Percival was comparatively poor, and although I managed to get long credit, I was continually pressed for ready money.”
“I had often heard of Mrs. Neville Williams from the Milnes’ family,” said the artist, musingly, “but of course I never dreamt of connecting her with you. Geoffrey Milnes used to say—pardon my telling you—that her extravagance, or rather yours, was the ruin of his uncle.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “It may have been so, but he should not have married if he could not afford to keep me in proper style. He left me almost penniless when he died, and the house in Harley Street was mortgaged right up to its full value.”
“And how did you get on then?”
“Oh, the Duke of Wallingcourt—one of my greatest admirers—paid off the mortgage and set me on my feet again. Then there was the property in Surrey, which Percival had settled on me at the time of our marriage; that fetched nearly fifteen hundred pounds. Afterwards I became engaged to the duke, who, as you know, died a fortnight before the wedding was to have taken place. That was hard luck, for as Duchess of Wallingcourt I should have society at my feet.”
“Did it never occur to you to re-marry me after the death of either of your husbands?” asked Karne, still inclined to be satirical; “or was I altogether out of the running, as you would say?”
“I did think of it,” she answered equably. “But you lived in the country, which was a disadvantage, for I could not possibly exist for any length of time out of London or Paris. I heard also that you were very friendly with Percival’s people, the Milnes; and I feared that if you were as straitlaced as themselves, you would be too prim for me.”
Herbert could not resist a smile, but his countenance quickly resumed its gravity. He rose from his seat and glanced out of the window. The fog had almost melted away.
“So that is your story!” he said meditatively. “How am I to know that it is true?”
“Do you doubt my word?” she asked with pique.
“Well, not exactly,” he replied hesitatingly. “But you must admit that when I knew you, you did occasionally deviate from the truth.”
“Which means, in vulgar parlance, that I told lies,” she rejoined evenly. “Thank you for the compliment. As it happens, however, I have told you the exact truth. My reason for telling you was that I wish to settle up all my affairs. I am shortly going away—a little further than my beloved Paris. In plain words, Herbert, I am dying.”
The last statement was made so calmly that Karne thought he could not have heard aright. He glanced at her in astonishment, almost dumbfounded by the news.
Mrs. Neville Williams, with a swift movement, extinguished the lamp, and pulling up the window-blinds allowed the daylight to flood the room. Then she called the artist to her side.
“Now,” she exclaimed, turning her face towards him, “look at me!”
He looked, then gave an exclamation of horror. Could it be possible that this was the handsome and brilliant woman of yesternight? Her cheeks were haggard and drawn, the cheek-bones protruding with undue prominence; her eyes were sunken, her complexion yellow. Already the hand of death seemed to have set its seal upon her face. Yet only last night she had appeared before him, magnificent and splendid. What had happened in one short night to change her thus?
He turned aside, not knowing what to say. She sank on to a chair with a mirthless laugh.
“A clever woman, am I not?” she said, with feigned cheerfulness. “Clever to the last. You saw me last night, so you know how I looked. I shall look just as well when I am dressed for dinner this evening; I have a treasure of a maid, thank heaven. Any other woman afflicted with my disease would allow herself to be treated as an invalid, would eschew society, and go to bed. I have more pluck than that. And yet before the year is out, I shall probably be dead. A truly cheerful prospect, is it not?”
Herbert felt himself grow cold. That she spoke the truth now, he could not doubt; but it was positively gruesome to hear her talk like that.
“How long have you been so ill?” he asked, in a subdued voice. “Is there no cure?”
“None,” she answered resignedly. “It is over two years since I first contracted the complaint; but since last month I have rapidly grown worse. My husband’s consulting physician, Sir Dighton Forbes, has made me consent to undergo an operation on the 1st of December, although I do not at all like the idea of being butchered to satisfy the doctors.”
“Perhaps it may cure you,” suggested Karne, optimistically. “You must not lose hope.”
But Mrs. Neville Williams shook her head; she was convinced that she was doomed.
“Why do you bother yourself about society—now?” he asked, after a moment’s silence. “What is the use? If you really believe that your last days have come, why not spend the time that remains to you in peace and quietness?”
She gave a gesture of dissent.
“What you call peace and quietness would be misery to me. It would give me too much time to think. I should go mad with thinking. Besides, I am loth to leave the good things of this world. To wear magnificent jewels, to be the best-dressed woman in the room, the cynosure of all eyes—it’s the breath of life to me—the breath of life! When I can no longer shine in society, I’ll die. I am not one of those devil-sick-was-he-devil-a-monk-would-be kind of persons. I’ll die ‘game.’ But do not let us talk about it any more; it is an unpleasant subject.”
Herbert rose and buttoned his overcoat. “I must be going,” he said. “But there is one thing I wanted to say. Did it never occur to you, in all the years of your silence, that I, too, might have my hopes and ambitions?”
“I wondered what you were doing,” she answered evasively. “If I had met you sooner, I would have told you before. I have all but met you so many times since Celia Franks made her début. By-the-by, Karne, take my advice; look after your sister well. She has a lovely face—a face that will turn men’s heads. If you want her to be happy—quietly happy in your own way—take her off the boards.”
He looked at her in approval. “You are right,” he said, half surprised at such counsel coming from her. “Celia only went on the stage in deference to Guy Haviland’s wishes. She has promised me that, however great her success, she will accept no further theatrical engagements. Do you feel ill?” he added suddenly, as she pressed her hands against her forehead. “I am afraid I have tired you with so much talking.”
“It is the pain,” she explained, when the spasm had passed. “It comes and goes. Last night I thought I should have had to leave the theatre. I shall lie down this afternoon. You will come and see me again?”
“I am going back to Durlston at the end of the week,” he replied, holding out his hand. “But I will try to come again before I go.”
Then, after an expression of sympathy, he left; and, taking his place in the elevator, descended into the damp atmosphere of the streets once more.
The fog had lifted; and it seemed to Herbert that a weight had been lifted off his heart at the same time. He felt happier than he had done for months, although as yet he could barely digest and realize all that he had heard. Of one thing he was certain, however, that he was free—free to marry his beloved. This thought superseded all the rest.
The first thing Herbert Karne did, when he had thought over matters calmly, was to go to St. George’s Church, and with the assistance of the verger, look over the marriage register; where, to his satisfaction, he found the names of Percival Arthur Neville Williams, bachelor, and Marie Douste, widow, correctly inscribed. It was not exactly that he doubted Ninette’s word—she would always be “Ninette” to him—but he wished to settle the question of his freedom beyond the shadow of a doubt before informing Lady Marjorie Stonor of what had occurred. He also wrote to Harry Barnard, the friend who had been in his secret from the first, asking him, as he happened to be in Paris, to scour the cemeteries at Montmartre and Père Lachaise for the grave of Armand Douste. The same post also carried a letter to the curé of the church of S. Vincent de Paul, Marseilles, where Herbert was under the impression the marriage of Douste and Ninette had taken place; but not knowing the priest’s name or address, he had not much hope of eliciting a reply to this epistle.
Celia noticed the change in her brother’s manner at once, for it was strikingly evident in the brightness of his eyes, the briskness in his voice, the alertness of his step. He seemed like a man suddenly endowed with a new aim in life; his depression had vanished as at the touch of a magic wand.
She asked him the reason, but he did not see fit to tell her just then, promising she should know within a month. Her curiosity was whetted, however, and although she did not usually endeavour to obtain information that was not spontaneously vouchsafed, she was very anxious to know, in this case, at once. So she set herself the task of cross-questioning him, making fantastic guesses as to the cause of his jubilance.
“Perhaps it has something to do with Lady Marjorie?” she finally suggested.
“Perhaps,” he returned laconically, with a face as inexpressive as a mask.
“I am surprised at your looking so happy about it, then,” the girl continued, “considering that she is so ill.”
“Ill!” exclaimed Herbert blankly. “Who said she was ill?”
“Lord Bexley. He had a letter from her friend yesterday. Lady Marjorie recently took it into her head to go slumming, and on one of her expeditions managed to catch the malarial fever. Fortunately it is only a mild attack; but, according to her friend’s account she is very poorly and depressed. I should love to pay her a surprise visit, just for the sake of cheering her up.”
“Yes, so should I,” rejoined her brother fervently; and then on a sudden impulse he told Celia his story.
It took a long time to tell, but he was glad, after all, that she should know. It was a relief to be able to talk over his secret with a fellow-creature, and Celia was intensely sympathetic. Her astonishment was unbounded when she discovered that it was Mrs. Neville Williams of all persons who had been, at one time, her brother’s pseudo-wife. She felt half inclined to say hard things about her at first, but her resentment was soon abolished when Herbert informed her of Mrs. Williams’ serious condition. It is impossible to cherish harsh thoughts against the sick or dying.
Mrs. Neville Williams, however, looked neither sick nor dying when they happened to meet her at a fashionable restaurant on the following evening. The way she managed to get herself up was nothing less than remarkable. Enveloped in a long and loose theatre-cloak of silk trimmed with ermine, she carried herself more firmly erect than any other woman in the room. Sparkling eyes, crimson lips, and a complexion like a rose; no wonder she was able to vouch for the excellence of her French maid! It was, as it happened, almost her last appearance in society. A week later she was confined to her room; even her indomitable energy being powerless to resist the oncoming of the dark and mighty foe.
Herbert Karne, in fulfilment of his promise, went to see her the day before he returned to Durlston, but she was unable to receive him, and he knew that he would in all probability never meet her again.
When he arrived back at St. John’s Wood, he found a letter awaiting him. It was from Harry Barnard, stating that by consulting the books at the cemetery of Père Lachaise, he had easily found the grave of Armand Douste. There was no doubt, therefore, as to the authenticity of his death, and the date of his decease. Herbert was relieved at the news, although, under the circumstances, it scarcely mattered. Ninette was dying, so that in either case he would soon have been loosed from his bond.
He wrote a long letter to Lady Marjorie, detailing all that had happened, and asking her to come back to England as soon as she was well enough to travel. At the same time, he sought out Lord Bexley, in order to inform him of his matrimonial intentions, for Bexley was shortly going to join his sister in Rome. This accomplished, he went back to Durlston to finish his paintings, and to await the return of his bride.
Meanwhile, the “Voice of the Charmer” was playing to crowded houses nightly, and it looked as if the piece would enjoy a long run. Celia secretly hoped that such would not be the case, for the late hours and constant excitement were already beginning to tell on her health. She was all right at night, and braced herself up to do her best; but each morning she experienced a dull feeling of weariness, accompanied by a most distressing headache. The Havilands used all their powers of persuasion to induce her to rest until midday; but she flatly refused to sleep away what she called “the golden hours.” The stage, too, was beginning to lose that glamour with which she had endowed it when her only point of vantage had been from the stalls. She was glad that her brother had made her promise to confine her abilities to the concert platform when her present engagement expired. She felt that she would care very little if she were forbidden to ever enter a theatre again.
One Wednesday morning, she attired herself in her prettiest outdoor costume, and sallied forth to witness the marriage of David Salmon and Dinah Friedberg. Although she ran the risk of being pointed out as the bridegroom’s “cast-off” fiancée, Celia made a point of being present at the ceremony, just to show her goodwill towards the happy pair. Her appearance certainly excited considerable attention, almost detracting from that due to the bride.
The synagogue presented a festive appearance, the space before the Ark being adorned with palms and choice white chrysanthemums, which contrasted prettily with the crimson velvet of the wedding-canopy. Dinah, with her curly hair and bright eyes, made a very charming bride. She appeared to be not a whit subdued by the solemnity of the occasion; and when the Chief Rabbi uttered his excellent words of admonition and advice, looked up at him as much as to say that she did not need to be instructed on how best to tread the path of conjugal felicity.
Her lover, in marked contrast, was nervous in the extreme. He trod on her train, almost dropped the ring, and performed the ceremonial breaking of the glass in the clumsiest way possible. Then, to add insult to injury, he had the audacity to declare—whilst the bride was signing the register—that he would be able to manage it better next time!
Celia, leaving her seat after the ceremony was over, mingled with the wedding-party, and joined in the general buzz of congratulation. Mrs. Friedberg, all smiles, with a conspicuous lace handkerchief in readiness to catch the tears of joy, kissed promiscuously all round—Celia receiving this mark of affection in the neighbourhood of the left ear. The Brookes were there, expressing their interest in the quaint Jewish ritual; and so was Mrs. Leopold Cohen—now a widow—who, despite her avowed disappointment at Celia’s secession from Judaism, greeted the girl with unaffected warmth, and invited her home to early dinner. Celia was unable to accept the invitation; but she appreciated it nevertheless, and readily promised to avail herself of it one morning in the following week.
Then, having shaken hands with the Friedberg family and some of their numerous friends, she took her departure, wondering if she would have looked as happy as Dinah, had she—instead of her friend—stood beside Salmon as his bride.
After lunch she went out again, this time to Kensington. She had promised Herbert to go and see Ninette, but for some unaccountable reason had hitherto shrunk from paying the visit. Now, however, her conscience pricked her for having delayed so long; so, taking some music, and a bunch of the brightest flowers obtainable, she went.
Mrs. Neville Williams was feeling a little better that afternoon; and, clad in a loose wrapper, lay on the sofa in her pretty drawing-room. She was not prepared to entertain, and on account of the haggardness of her natural complexion, refused to see any one who called; but Celia Franks was an exception, and she hailed her appearance with delight.
“How good of you to come,” she said effusively, inhaling the fragrant perfume of the flowers. “I thought you had a Wednesday matinée. No? Well, take off your things and make yourself cosy; but for heaven’s sake don’t look at me, child. I am as yellow as a guinea to-day.”
Celia loosened her fur, and drew off her gloves. She could not help looking, for the woman before her seemed to her a positive wreck. She made no remark, however; and Mrs. Neville Williams plunged into a conversation, chiefly society gossip, which showed that, however ill she might be, the joie de vivre was not yet extinguished within her breast.
“So your brother is going to marry that little Stonor woman,” she remarked, apropos of the mention of the artist’s name. “Bexley told me the last time I saw him. I should scarcely have thought he would have chosen a milk-and-watery creature like Lady Marjorie.”
“Why do you call her ‘milk-and-watery’?” said Celia reproachfully, “She is quite one of the sweetest women I know.”
“Yes, of course; but that is what I complain of—she’s too sweet. She looks as if she couldn’t say ‘bo!’ to a goose. And then her clothes, my dear! Why, she actually wore the same frock two seasons in succession! Did you ever hear of such a monstrous thing?”
“It was a crime, certainly,” the girl admitted with light satire; but the incipient and frivolous vanity of the woman almost shocked her.
“Do you think Herbert would mind deferring his marriage until after I have shuffled off this mortal coil?” went on Ninette complacently. “I don’t like the idea of Lady Marjorie crowing over me on her wedding-day. She never liked me, I know; and she will flatter herself that she has scored a triumph over me. I would much rather be out of the way first, so that she will be denied that satisfaction.”
Celia shivered. “Oh, Mrs. Williams, I don’t like to hear you talk like that,” she said. “I am sure Lady Marjorie is too nice to do anything of the sort. Besides, you may get better: I sincerely hope you will.”
“That is not likely,” rejoined Ninette, with a sigh, “although I am certainly a little more hopeful to-day. My nephew is coming over from Australia to assist at the operation, and I have great confidence in him.”
Celia pricked up her ears. “Dr. Milnes?” she queried, the colour rising to her cheeks.
“Yes. Oh, you know him, of course: I had forgotten. I received a letter from him this morning, in which he says he will arrive in England a week after I receive it. You can read it, if you like.”
She stretched out her hand for the missive, and passed it over to the girl, who devoured the contents with avidity.