A Mad Marriage by May Agnes Fleming (best ebook reader android .TXT) đ
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complacently at an opposite mirror, âwas the noblest Roman of âem all!â
Miss Forrester giving the prominent feature Terry admired a rebuking tap
with her fan, led the way into an anteroom, hung with crimson velvet,
emblazoned with the arms and motto of the Dynelys:
âLoyal au mort.â
He glances at these emblazoned splendors as he passes, and follows his
fair leader into a long gallery, hung from floor to ceiling with
pictures.
âLady Dynely is a lover of art, and her collection is very fine. Here is
a face by Titian, one of the gems of the room.â
âDoesnât look unlike you, Franceââpon my word it doesnâtâthe eyes, the
hair, and the yellowish complexionâwell, it isnât yellow, but you know
what I mean. One of his wives, isnât it? These old masters always had
three or four, hadnât theyâone buried, âtother come on. You ought to
marry a man of genius, France; you would make a capital wife for one,
wouldnât you? a sort of moral spur in his side, urging him on to
perpetual efforts. If he were in Parliament you would have him a
premier, if he were an artist you would have him a Michael Angelo, if
musical, a Beethoven, eh? wouldnât you?â
âI have seen geniuses,â Miss Forrester makes answer, âI have also seen
their wives. And, my dear Terry, the wife of a man of genius is a social
martyr, who carries the cross while her husband wears the crown.â
âAnd vice versïżœ,â says Terry; âor, stayâis it vice versïżœ? The
husband of a woman of genius is aââ
âThere are no women of genius,â answers France, with a little sarcastic
shrug. âYou monopolize all that. Women never write books, or paint
pictures, or carve statues. George Eliot, Rosa Bonheur, Miss Hosmer,
etc., all are myths. Genius is the prerogative of our lord and
masterâMan.â
âYou infringe on your masterâs prerogative then,â says Mr. Locksley,
smiling. âHow very cynical you are pleased to be, Miss Forrester.â
âI have always thought it a thousand pities France wasnât born in New
York,â cuts in Mr. Dennison. âShe could mount the rostrum, as they all
seem to do there, and spout until the welkin rang on the subject of
down-trodden woman and her natural enemy and tyrantâMan. She is
fearfully and wonderfully strong-minded, is Miss France Forrester. And
now if you can possibly survive half an hour without me, France, Iâll
tear myself from your side. I am engaged for the next waltz, and I hear
the opening bars afar off.â
Then Mr. Dennison saunters leisurely away, and Miss Forrester and Mr.
Locksley are alone among the pictures. They linger long, criticising,
admiring, talking of Rome, of art and artists, and the picturesque,
poetic life there. âI think I was born to be a Bohemian,â she says, with
her frank laugh, âand have somehow missed my destiny. It is such a free,
bright, untrammelled sort of life, ever new and full of variety. Here it
seems to be over and over the same tiresome, treadmill round. I havenât
wearied of it yet in spite of my scepticism, the bloom is not yet
brushed off my peach, but I know that day will come. Mr. Locksley,â
changing tone and subject, abruptly, âis your picture sold?â
âSold two hours before I came here,â he answers, and tells her of the
hurried transaction over the garden gate.
âThe Prince Di Venturini,â she repeats; âand for a lady. Who can she be?
The prince is here to-nightâI shall ask him. I am sorry it is sold.
Lady Dynely wishes very much to add it to her collection. The face of
that woman has haunted me ever since.â
His bronzed face pales a little, a troubled look comes into his eyes.
She sees it, and her girlish curiosity deepens. She cannot understand
her interest in this man, her interest in that picture, but both are
there.
âIs she still alive?â she asks, carelesslyââyour model?â
âMiss Forrester, I painted that picture from memory, as I think I have
told you.â
âThen, your model was in your mind. But you have not answered my
question. Is the owner of that wonderful face still alive?â
âI beg your pardon. I believe notâI hope not.â
âMr. Locksley!â
âI hope not,â he repeats, moodily. âA wicked wish, is it not, Miss
Forrester? But such women as that are better out of the world than in
it.â
âHow very beautiful she must have been,â France says, dreamily; âeven
with that tortured look you give her, she is beautiful still.â
âShe was. The most beautiful woman I ever saw.â
It is not a flattering answer, but France Forrester is not offended. A
little out of the line of demure young ladyhood, she certainly might be
frank and outspoken at times to a startling degree, but honest as a
child and vain not at all.
âI wonder if you are her judge and accuser in that picture?â she thinks,
and looks up at him. âI wonder in what way that woman ever wronged
you?â
He catches her glance and understands it. A smile breaks up the dark
gravity of his face as he looks down at her.
âYou honor my poor painting too much, Miss Forrester, by your interest,â
he says; âfor the story it tellsâthat is over and done with many a long
year ago. The woman I have painted is one not worthy a second thought
from youâa woman who spoiled my whole life, whom I have reason to
believe dead, and whom, were she alive, I would go to the other end of
the earth sooner than meet. Why I painted that I hardly knowâit was the
whim of a momentâthat it would have the success it has met with I did
not dream.â
She colors slightly, he seems to have rebuked her irrepressible
curiosity. There is a romance then in this manâs lifeâgirl-like, that
thought deepens her interest in him. A gentleman born she instinctively
feels he is, this artist who paints for his daily bread, who has been a
soldier of fortune for twelve years. Miss Forrester is by nature a
hero-worshipper, as Terry has said. And Mr. G. Locksley, whoever he is,
takes his place immediately on some vacant pedestal in her mind, to be
numbered among the heroes of her dreams henceforth.
They say no more about âHow the Night Fell.â They linger, though, yet a
little longer among the immortals in the long gallery. Mr. Locksley
seems in no haste, and France feels an odd, altogether new pleasure, in
lingering and listening to his grave, quiet remarks, an odd distaste for
returning to the perfumed warmth, and glitter, and crush of the outer
rooms. But they go there presently, for all that, and at her suggestion.
She will be missed, and she has a vague recollection that she has
promised the Prince Di Venturini a waltz.
âAnd I will find out who has purchased Mr. Locksleyâs picture,â the
little diplomat says to herself; âit is evident he is as curious about
it as I am.â
Prince Di Venturini is talking Italian politics eagerly to a knot of
starred and decorated gentlemen, but he breaks away, and comes up to
France as their waltz begins. As they float slowly away she plunges into
her grievance at once.
âIt is unpardonable of you, prince, to have purchased the gem of the
Academy. I mean of course âHow the Night Fell.â I intended to have had
it myself.â
âMais, Mon Dieu!â cried the prince, in his shrill Neapolitan French.
âI did not purchase it. All the ladies fall in love with it at sight, I
believe. How fortunate are these artists.â
âYou did not purchase it!â France repeats in surprise. âMr. Locksley
told meââ
âAh, yes, Mr. Locksley told you, without doubt. Still, I did not buy the
picture for myselfâI am not the pet of the public. I have not thousands
to throw away on a whim. It was Felicia.â
âFelicia, the actress! theââ
âStar of the Royal Bijou Theatre. Yes, mademoiselle, and at a most
fabulous price. To wish and to have are synonyms with Felicia.â
There is silence as they float around. Miss Forresterâs dark,
rose-crowned head is lifted over the top of his small, yellow
excellencyâs two good inches. She feels it to be something more than
annoyingâa positive adding of insult to injury, that this popular
danseuse should have won what she has lost.
It wears late; the evening ends. One by one coroneted carriages roll
away, and Mr. Locksley comes after some lofty personage, with ribbons
and orders, and takes leave of Lady Dynely.
âWe hope to see you every Thursday, Mr. Locksley,â that lady says, very
graciously, and Mr. Locksley murmurs his acknowledgment, and pledges
himself to nothing.
âHow do you like your genius, France?â inquires Terry Dennison. âDoes he
bear the ordeal of close inspection, or does distance lend enchantment
to the view, as in the case of the Cheapside tailorâs son?â
âMr. Locksley isnât a genius,â Miss Forrester replies, trailing her silk
splendor up the stairs, âonly a clever artist, who has painted one good
picture, and may never paint another. There are many such in all walks
of life, my dear child. Good-night, Terryâpleasant dreams.â
âGood-night, Franceâmorning rather; and my dreams will not be of you.â
âIngrate! Of whom then?â
âOf a little girl down in Lincolnshire. You donât know her, Miss
Forrester, and she would stand abashed in your regal presence. But, ah!
thereâs nothing like her under the London sun.â
And Terryâs blue eyes are absolutely luminous as he vanishes.
âAnother heart gone!â reflects Miss Forrester, as she closes her door;
âand so it goes on. âMen may come and men may go, but that goes on
forever!â Poor, good, honest Terry! I hope your course of true love
will run smooth at least. You are one of the exceptional men who do make
the women you marry happy.â
Miss Forrester rings for her maid, and her mind goes off at another
tangent.
âSo Felicia has purchased Mr. Locksleyâs picture! The dancer has taste.
By the bye, weâre due at the Royal Bijou to-morrow night. She is very
handsome; but these people owe all their beauty, I suppose, to paint,
and powder, and wigs. She dances exceptionally well, too; but she need
not have been in such haste buying that picture.â
She pauses in her wandering thoughts. Her eye falls upon a letter lying
on her dressing-table, under the clustering wax-lights. It bears the
Roman post-mark, and, with a little exclamation of joy, Miss Forrester
snatches it up.
âFrom grandmamma!â she says.
Mrs. Caryll is in reality but her fatherâs distant cousin, but so it
pleases France to call her. She breaks the seal and reads eagerly
through. After a few preliminary paragraphs, this is what the letter
said:
âYou say nothing, my dear France, of Ericâs return. Has he not
returned then? It is really unpardonable of him to linger so long,
knowing you are in London. Oh, my daughter! I hopeâI pray nothing
may occur to break off this alliance. I am fond of EricâI love
you. To see you his happy wife is the desire of my heart. It is his
motherâs dearest wish also. In every respect it is most
suitableâboth dowered with youth and wealth and beauty. He loves
you I am sure, France, and would have spoken before now had you let
him. But you have laughed at him and made light of his wishes
hitherto. And you are of so
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