A Mad Marriage by May Agnes Fleming (best ebook reader android .TXT) đ
- Author: May Agnes Fleming
- Performer: -
Book online «A Mad Marriage by May Agnes Fleming (best ebook reader android .TXT) đ». Author May Agnes Fleming
unlike other girls of your age, so self-willed, and radical in your
opinions, that I fear for you. Not that you would ever marry
beneath you. I have no dread of that, you are far too proud; but
you may meet some one whom your fancy will idealize, whom you
cannot marry, and who will wreck the happiness of your life.
SomethingâI do not know what, tells me this will be so. Guard
against itâlet your engagement with Eric be announced to the world
immediately it takes place. And write at once, my dear, dear
daughter, to your most affectionate
âMARIAN CARYLL.â
She threw the letter aside with a quick gesture of irritated impatience.
As a rule, she was not petulant, and all Mrs. Caryllâs wishes carried
force, but just now she felt intolerant of this husband thrust upon her,
whether she would or no.
âEric Dynely,â she said, âa masculine wax doll, a perfumed coxcomb, a
dandy of the first water! I hate dandies! I detest pretty men! I would
sooner marry Terry Dennison any day!â
One of the windows stood open; the soft, chill morning breeze stirred
the curtains of silk and lace; she put them aside and leaned out into
the fresh coolness, the faint light of the dawn glimmering on her pink
silk, her roses and diamonds.
âThe day for this sort of marriage should have ended a century ago,â she
thinks, full of impatient pain; âthis kind of alliance should be left to
royalty. But noblesse oblige, it seems to be my fate. He is very well,
the best waltzer I know, the best second in a duet, he has the bow and
grace of a Beau Brummelâthe good looks of an Apolloâwhat more can one
want? And yet one does. Loves me, does he, grandmamma? Ah, no! Eric,
Viscount Dynely, fell in love many years agoâwith himself, and will be
the victim of that passion all his life. And after all the dreams and
the hero worship they laugh at, I am to marry Eric Dynely!â
Then through the mists of the morning there floats before her a face,
brown, bearded, grave, with deep lines of care and thought seamed upon
it, with threads of silver gleaming through the fairness of his hair, a
man who had been a leader of men, a man who had lived and suffered.
âYou may meet some one your fancy will idealize, whom you cannot marry,
and who will wreck the happiness of your life.â
Was Mrs. Caryll among the prophets?
CHAPTER V.
LOVE TOOK UP THE GLASS OF TIME.
The leafy greenness of May, the soft and veiled warmth of June, had
passed; the feverish noontides of July had come, and Lady Dynelyâs only
son had not returned from his idle wanderings to woo and win his bride.
To France Forrester this first season of hers had been bright and
beautiful as a fairy tale. She had been presented by Lady Dynely, had
created, as the critics of the Academy had predicted, a sensation. A
certain royal personage, whose approval was a patent right and seal of
popularity in itself, had condescended to place his gracious stamp of
approbation upon her, and Miss Forrester awoke and found herself âthe
fashion.â âThe fashion!â these two magic words told the whole story.
Women slandered her fiercely, hated her bitterly, and copied everything
she wore, from her coquettish head-gear to her little boots. Men
diplomatized for the favor of a waltz, as they might for princely
preferment. In the ride, in the ball-room, and opera-box, Miss Forrester
was still the best surrounded lady of the assembly, the _belle des
belles_. âAnd why is it?â her envious compeers asked. âIt isnât her
beauty; there are scores more perfectly and classically beautiful than
she, with her dark skin and irregular features.â Was it the dashing
independence of her manner, the careless audacity with which she looked
into their eyes, and laughed at their flatteries, and threw them lightly
over as whiffs of thistle-down? She was so thoroughly heart-whole, so
perfectly indifferent to their homage, that she piqued their
vanityâalways a manâs strongest feelingâand rendered them, by that
imperious grace of hers, her veriest slaves. Whether she talked Italian
politics to Prince Di Venturini, with his wizen, murky face, and beady
black eyes, or the newest opera with Signor Carlo Dolce, the new
Venetian tenor, whether she discoursed art with long-haired, dreamy-eyed
students, and stately academicians, or the latest Belgravian gossip with
a dashing military duke, it was all the same. She was interested in the
theme, not the man; her heart, if she possessed one, was triply clad in
steelâno one, it seemed, had power to touch it. And then, presently it
leaked out that she had been engaged for years to Lord Dynely, and that
the engagement would be publicly announced to all whom it might concern,
immediately upon his return to England. âHe must have great faith in his
affianced,â said the sneerers; he certainly seemed in no hot haste to
join her. This was after Miss Forrester had said ânoâ to two of the most
eligible gentlemen of the season, and who had followed her about the
summer through, like her lap-dog or her shadow.
This season, which had been such a brilliant career of victory to Miss
Forrester, had been a very busy one for Mr. Locksley the painter. Orders
flowed inâhis fame and fortune seemed made. Madame Felicia sent by the
prince for a companion picture to âHow the Night Fell.â The Marquis of
St. Albans had ordered a Canadian winter scene. Lady Dynely wished to
have her own portrait painted for her son. The sittings for this
portrait necessitated many visits to the Brompton Studio, and Miss
Forrester was almost invariably my ladyâs companion. She wandered about
among the paintings at will, whilst the elder lady sat or lay back, and
listened with half-closed eyes to Mr. Locksley talking whilst he
painted. He talked well, and as he seemed to have been pretty much
everywhere, found subjects enough. Anecdotes of his Indian life, the
fighting, the campaigning, the pig-sticking, stories of the American
civil war, thrilling and vivid as truth could make them, of Canada, with
its brief, hot summers, and long, cold winters, until the hours of each
sitting were gone like a dream.
âReally, Mr. Locksley is a charming companion,â Lady Dynely was wont to
say; âtalks better than any man I know. What a traveller he has
beenâbeen everywhere and seen everything.â
It was a subject upon which Miss Forrester was suspiciously
reticentâMr. Locksley and the charm of his conversation. And yet,
though she would not have owned it even to herself, those hours in the
Brompton cottage, sitting by the open window watching the afternoon sun
sink behind the tree-tops, leaving a trail of splendor behind, with the
scent of the summer roses perfuming the air, while Mr. Locksley painted
and talked, and Lady Dynely sat and listened, were the pleasantest hours
of her life. All were pleasant; this summer took a glory and a bliss
none other had known; but these were the foam of lifeâs champagne.
She and Mr. Locksley met tolerably often elsewhere. He still attended at
intervals Lady Dynelyâs Thursdays, and there were literary and artistic
gatherings where Miss Forrester met him. It was curious on these
occasions to note the restless light in the great hazel eyes, the quick,
impatient glances at the door, the sudden stillness that came over her
when a new name was announced, the swift shade of annoyed impatience, or
the glad, quick light and warmth that spread over her face, as it was or
was not the name she wished to hear. And somehowâcertainly it was not
Mr. Locksleyâs doing; he was the most modest, least presuming of
menâpresently he found himself by Miss Forresterâs side, holding the
little gloved hand she extended in frank, friendly greeting, and basking
in the sunshine of her sunniest smiles. In the park, too, leaning over
the rails, smoking his twilight cigar, Mr. Locksley was often favored
with a gracious bow from a certain coroneted carriage, and a dark,
lovely face, framed in a marvel of Parisian lace and rosebuds, shone
upon him for an instant like a dusk star. That tall, soldierly figure,
that bronzed, bearded face, that grave smile of recognition, Miss
Forrester would have known among ten thousand.
And still Lord Dynely did not come.
âIt is very strangeâit is incomprehensible, it is most annoying,â
Lady Dynely said, over and over again, to herself, or to Terry, knitting
her blonde brows; âI canât understand. So fond as he used to be of
France, too, and see her now flirting with half the men in London.â
âI donât call it flirting,â Terry would respond. âFrance canât help
smiling on men and turning their heads any more than the
whatâs-its-nameâsunflowerâcan help turning the sun. And if the sun
scorches and shrivels them a little, I donât see that the sun is to be
blamed either. Sounds poetical, that, donât it?â said Terry, rather
surprised at his own performance.
âIt is unpardonable of Eric,â Lady Dynely would retort, vexed, and
almost angry with her darling; âand so I shall tell him when I write.
Here it is the end of July, and we go down to Devonshire next week. His
birthday is in August, and who is to tell us whether he will even come
then. Of course France must feel piqued, though she conceals her
feelings so well.â
âUncommonly well,â says Terry. âSo well that I for one am disposed to
think that she isnât in the least annoyed. Where is Eric loafing now?â
âEric is still in Spain, and is evidently enjoying himself,â says Ericâs
mother, irritably.
ââThe girls of Cadiz,ââ hums Terry, under his breath. âWell, donât
worry. Iâll go over and fetch him if you like.â
âNonsense, Terry! donât be a simpleton. What would France and I have
done all this summer without you for an escort? You have been the best
of boys, and I know you have been longing more than once to break away
and go down to Lincolnshire.â
âYour pleasure must ever be first with me,â Terry answers, but he
smothers a little sigh as he says it. Truth to tell, he has been
longing many times to break away from flower show and opera, party and
park, dining and dressing, and all the rest of it, and rush down into
Lincolnshire, to the old vicarage of his boyhood, where his loadstar
shines. But Lady Dynely wills it otherwise, and Lady Dynelyâs lightest
word is law to Terry.
âIf I could only have got off duty for a weekâjust a week,â he had said
pathetically once to France, âI wouldnât so much mind. You see, sheâs
just the dearest, sweetest little darling in the worldââ
âOf course,â interrupts France, gravely.
âAnd Iâve been awfully fond of her ever since I wore roundabouts, and
she short muslin frocks, tied up on the shoulder, and Iâm dying to tell
her the good news, my commission and the five hundred a year andâand
something else.â Terry suddenly turns very red. âA fellow could marry
and keep a wife on his pay and five hundred a year, couldnât he, France?
Just a little suburban villa, you know, a pretty parlor maid, and a boy
in buttons, and a one-horse shayâeh? Couldnât they, France? My tastes
ainât expensive, as Lady Dynely said the other day, and sheâah France!
I see lots of girls, you knowâjolly girls, and dashing girls, and
pretty girls, but not oneâno, I give you my word, not one-half as good,
or sweet, or pretty, as my little Crystal!â
Comments (0)