A Mad Marriage by May Agnes Fleming (best ebook reader android .TXT) đ
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going into the house; âa personage of rank, orâstay! this popular
danseuse from over the water, whose name rings the changes through
London, and whose beauty and whose dancing are the talk of the town. The
Prince is known to be the most devoted of her devoteesâsome men lay
heavy odds heâll marry her. I must drop in, by the by, some night at the
Bijou, and look at her. So, my picture is sold at my own price. Lady
Dynelyâs fashionable doors are thrown open to meâsurely a turn in
fortuneâs wheel, this.â
He laughs slightly. He is the possessor of more money this evening than
he has owned any time the past sixteen years. In the days that are gone
he has known poverty in its bitterest shape, the bitter poverty of a
man born to the purple and fallen from his high estate.
He divested himself of his picturesque, paint-stained, velvet blouse,
and got himself into a dress-coat and tie. All the while he kept
wondering vaguely who had purchased his picture. âIf by any chance the
Prince is present at Lady Dynelyâs, I will inquire,â he thought, as he
pocketed his latch-key and left the house; âI really should like to
know.â
He really would, no doubt. Interested as he was in this unknown lady, he
would have been more interested probably had he been present in the
academy that afternoon.
The rooms, as usual, were filled; as usual, too, the centre of
attraction was âHow the Night Fell.â Very shortly after the doors were
thrown open there had entered a lady and gentlemanâwhose entrance
created a sensation, and who divided the interest with the pet picture
of the year. The gentleman was the Neapolitan Prince, the lady the most
popular danseuse in London, Madame Felicia.
She came moving slowly through the throng, seeing and enjoying the
sensation she created, a plump, rather petite beauty, her dark face lit
by two wonderful eyes, long, sleepy, yellow-black. She was of a beauty,
in a dark way, simply perfect, and she was dressed in the perfection of
taste. A silver-gray silk, with here and there vivid dashes of scarlet
and touches of rare old lace, the masterpiece of a masculine mantua
maker of the Rue de la Paix. Every eye turned to gaze after this lionne
of Coulisses, the most perfect dancer they said that ever bounded before
the footlights since the days of Taglioni. The Prince hung devotedly
upon her lightest word, but she turned impatiently away from him,
glancing with a scornful little air of disdain along the walls.
âAlways the same,â she said, pettishly; âsimpering women, glowering
women, wax-doll misses with yellow hair and china-blue eyes, insipid as
their own nursery bread and butter. Bah! why does one take the trouble
to come at all?â
âWill madame condescend to look at that?â
He led her before the pictureâthe group surrounding it fell back a
little. She lifted her eyes, bored, disdainful, thenâa sudden stillness
came over her from head to foot. All languor, all ennui, fled from her
face, its rich coloring fadedâshe grew ashen gray to the very lips. So
for the space of fully five minutes she stood.
âHow does madame find it?â the suave voice of the Italian asked.
She neither moved nor answered. She never took her eyes from the
picture. Slowly life and color returned to her face, slowly into the
great topaz eyes, sleepy and half-closed like a pantherâs, there came a
vivid light. One small gloved hand crushed her catalogue
unconsciouslyâas if fascinated she stood there and gazed.
âThou art pleased with the picture then, madame?â Di Venturini said,
softly, in French.
âPleased with it?â she repeated, a slow, curious smile dawning on her
lips. âPrince, I must have that picture!â
âBut, if it is already sold? True, the star is not affixed, butâ-â
âI must have that picture!â madame repeated, with a flash of the black
eyes; âsold or not, I still must have it. How do they call the artist?â
She looked at the catalogue. ââG. Locksley.â The name is newâis it not,
Prince?â
âAltogether new, madame. If you really wish it, I will discover this M.
Locksley and purchase the picture if still in the market.â
âI do wish it, Monsieur Prince. That picture I must have though it cost
half a fortune. âHow the Night Fell!ââ
She turned back to it, and looked and looked as though she could never
look enough.
âIt is an odd fancy,â said Prince Di Venturini, after a pause; âan
absurd one, you may think, madame, but the face of that woman in the
picture is very like yours. Not one half so lovely, but very like,
nevertheless. Does madame perceive it?â
âDoes madame not?â madame responded, that slow, sleepy smile still on
her lips. âWho could fail? And yet, mon Prince, you cannot fancy me with
that expression, can you? He is leaving herâis it not? and her heart
is breaking. Bah! it is like the egotism of men, they desert us and we
dieâor so they think! Prince, that picture must be mine before I sleep.
You hear?â
âAnd live but to obey!â with a most profound bow; âthe picture shall be
yours!â
He escorted her to her carriage.
At sunset across the gate of the Brompton cottage the bargain was
struck, and âHow the Night Fellâ became the property of Madame Felicia,
the actress.
CHAPTER IV.
LADY DYNELYâS THURSDAY.
Brilliantly lit, brilliantly filled, Lady Dynelyâs elegant rooms were a
study of color in themselves for a painter when Mr. Locksley arrived. He
was rather lateâdancing was going on, as he made his way to his
hostessâ side to pay his respects.
In his ceremonial costume, the artist looked something more than well,
and that military air of his was more conspicuous than ever.
âYou may break, you may shatter the vase if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still,â
quotes Miss France Forrester to Mr. Terence Dennison. âI would know the
stalk of a trooper (and have seen it more than once) under the cowl of a
monk. Your Mr. Locksley, Terry, is the most distinguished-looking man in
the rooms.â
âI never said he was my Mr. Locksley. So you find the painter as
attractive as the painting, France, and you will be good to him, and
smile upon him, and turn his head, for the space of a week. The last
victim was the popular new poet, the Cheapside tailorâs son. Ah! poor
Locksley!â
âTerry,â Miss Forrester says severely, âsmall boys should never attempt
the sarcasticâyou least of allâfor some years to come. I am interested
in aspiring geniusesâas a soldierâs daughter, in all soldiers. Where
did you say Mr. Locksley had served?â
âIndia and America. Indian mutiny, and American civil war, with great
distinction in both. A professional freelance, and, I have heard, brave
as a lion.â
âHe looks it,â France said, dreamily. âHe has the true air noble.
Surely that man is well born, or else the old adage, that blood tells,
is false. And Lady Dynely says he resembles Gordon Caryll.â
âNever saw Gordon Caryll,â Terry sleepily responds, âHeard of him
though. Went to perdition for a woman, didnât he? A common case enough.
And you take him to your heart of hearts for that resemblance, donât
you, Miss Forrester? I know you have set up this Gordon Caryll as a sort
of demi-god, my hero-worshipping young lady.â
She smiled, then sighed. She was looking brilliantly handsome to-night
in pink silk, pink roses in her brown hair, caught back by gleaming
diamonds. She had a love for bright colors and rich gems, and looked
with contempt on the white tulle and pale pearls of her young lady
friends.
âWhat clergyman was it said once when he introduced operatic airs into
his choir, that it was a pity the devil should have all the good
tunes. On the same principle, I say it is a pity your married women
should monopolize the brightest colors and richest jewels. The English
Miss has been trampled upon long enoughâlet me be the heroine to
inaugurate a new era.â
This is what Miss Forrester had said to Lady Dynely, this very evening,
when slightly remonstrated with on the subject of her magnificence. The
vivid colors, the vivid gems, the roses and laces, suited her dusk, warm
loveliness, and she knew it.
Terry had been her companion for the past hour. The Canadian heiress had
a very affectionate regard for Mr. Dennison, and made no secret of it.
âI am awfully fond of Terry,â she was wont to say; âthe best fellow
alive and the greatest simpleton ever created.â
âShe treats me like a small boy of ten, at home for the holidays,â Mr.
Dennison would supplement with a groan.
They both pause for a moment while they discuss Mr. Locksley, and look
at him. Many others look, too. âHow the Night Fellâ has made a
sensation; they feel a languid interest in the painter.
âFrance,â Mr. Dennison says, after that pause, âI have an idea.â
âHave you, Terry? Cherish it then, my dear boy, for you are never likely
to have another.â
âMadame,â Terry responds, âyour sex protects you! Here is my idea. What
if that fellow should be the long-lost heir of Caryllynne, returned to
the halls of his fathers, and all that sort of thing, once more, to cut
you out of a fortune. It would be uncommonly like a thing on the stage,
now wouldnât it?â
âCertainly like a thing on the stage,â Miss Forrester disdainfully
replies; âtherefore very unlike anything in real life. Ah, no! that
would be too good to be true. Gordon Caryll, poor fellow, is dead. The
likeness Lady Dynely sees, if indeed she sees any, is but a coincidence.
See, she is beckoningâlet us go over.â
They cross the room. Miss Forrester, with a frank smile of welcome, and
looking very bright and lovely, gives the artist a most gracious
greeting.
âI saw you were not dancing, France, and want you to do the honors of my
picture gallery. You could not have a better cicerone, Mr. Locksley.
France has lived as she says in an atmosphere of paintings all her
life.â
âAnd familiarity breeds contempt,â murmurs Mr. Dennison.
âOnly in the case of stupid dragoons,â retorts Miss Forrester. âHow
often have I tried to impress upon you, Terry, that sarcasm isnât your
forte. I shall have much pleasure in displaying our art treasures to
your critical eyes, Mr. Locksley. I always feel en rapport immediately
with artistsâthey were the staple of my acquaintance in Rome. It is the
hot-bed of genius. You have studied there, I can see.â
âFor three years, Miss Forrester. And,â he smiles as he says it, and
Miss Forrester marvels to see how that smile lights up his dark, grave
faceââI have seen you there many times.â
âIndeed! But you must, of course; I spent half my life sketching in the
galleries. The very happiest days of my life were spent in Rome.â
He looks down upon the dusk lovely face with gravely admiring eyes.
âBut so little of your life has come,â that gaze says to her, âyou have
not yet begun to live.â
âThere is one thing about Rome which must strike the most casual
observer,â says Dennison, suddenly, seized with a second idea, âand that
is, the lamentable dearth of Roman noses! They were snubs, give you my
word, when I was
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