A Mad Marriage by May Agnes Fleming (best ebook reader android .TXT) đ
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seasonâfor Parliament closed early that yearâwas at its end, all the
world of western London were turning their thoughts countryward, the
last sitting for Lady Dynelyâs portrait was to be given. While she sat,
Miss Forrester prowled about as usual among the pictures, and lo!
brought one to light that was a revelation.
She had seen them all again and again. The Canadian winter scene for
the Marquis, a view from the heights of Quebec, with the river a
glistening ribbon of frozen silver-white, and the ice cone of
Montmorency Falls piercing the vivid blue skyâthe glimpses of green
Virginian forests, picturesque negro quarters, rich sketches of northern
autumnal forests, all gorgeous splashes of ruby-red maple and orange
hemlock, and anon a glimpse of Indian life, dusky white-veiled Arabs,
and dreary sketches of sandy plain. The companion picture for Madame
Felicia was not yet begun. And thus it was that suddenly France came
upon her treasure-trove.
It was hidden from view in a dusky corner covered by half a dozen larger
canvassesâa little thing, merely a sketch, but struck in with a bold
hand, with wonderful gradation of light and shade. This is what she saw:
An old-fashioned garden; a tangled mass of roses and heliotrope and
honeysuckle; a night sky, lit by a faint, new moon; the dim outline of a
stately mansion rising in the background over the black trees; a girl in
a white dress, her face uplifted to the night sky. In the dim distance,
a darker shadow among the shadows, his face entirely obscuredâthe tall
figure of a man stands unseen, watching. The face of the girl is
Franceâs own. The blood rushed to her forehead as she looked, with a
shock, she could hardly have toldâwhether of anger or joy. She
understood the picture in a moment, and in that moment understood
herself. The figure in the background was hisâand he was bidding her
a last farewell. That look of passionate love, of passionate
despairâhow dared he! With the crimson of conscious guilt still red in
her cheeks, her eyes flashed. Did he suspect what until this moment she
had never suspected herself? A suffocating feeling of shame, of terror,
seized her. Did he suspectâdid he dare suspect that she had stooped to
care for him unsought?
Yes, stooped! Was he not a nameless, struggling artist, one of the
toilers of the earth? And sheâand then France stopped and knew in her
inmost soul that though he were a beggar, he was the one man of all men
born to be her master.
She sat like one in a trance looking at itâheedless how time flew,
until suddenly a slip of paper attached to the back caught her eye.
It was a short printed poem that told the story of the picture.
Mechanically she took it and read:
âSo close we are, and yet so far apart;
So close I feel your breath upon my cheek;
So far that all this love of mine is weak
To touch in any way your distant heart;
So close, that when I hear your voice I start
To see my whole life standing bare and bleak:
So far, that though for years and years I seek,
I shall not find thee other than thou art.â
She laid it down. There was a step behind her, and then lifting her eyes
they met his full. He turned quite white, and made a motion as though to
take the picture from her hand.
âMiss Forrester! I did not mean that you should see that.â
âSo I presume. You must pardon me for having seen it, all the same. May
I ask for which of Mr. Locksleyâs patrons is this?â
âMiss Forrester does me less than justice,â he answered; âI have not
been so presumptuous as that. This picture is not to leave my studio.
Have you seen the poem? Yesâwell, the fancy took me to put the story it
told on canvas. Almost in spite of me the girlâs face became yours. It
is but an instantâs work to dash it out if it displeases you.â
âThe picture is your own; you will do as you please,â she said,
frigidly. âMa mïżœre, is the sitting over at last? Shall we go?â
âYour picture, France?â Lady Dynely said, glancing at the apple of
discord, and putting up her glass. âReally; and very well done. âThe
Last Parting.â But what a despairing expression you give her, Mr.
Locksley. Who ever saw France with such a look as that?â
âNo one, mother mine,â France said, gayly. There were times when she
called Lady Dynely by this title and thus gladdened her heart. âNor ever
will. But these artists have such vivid imaginations.â
âI should like you to paint Franceâs portrait, really,â said her
ladyship. âI have none. What do you say? Throw over your engagements and
come down to Dynely and do me this favor.â
âIt is quite impossible, madame,â the artist answered, moodily, standing
by his handiwork and looking down at it with gloomy eyes.
And then all of a sudden a change came over Miss Forrester. The look of
hauteur broke up, disappeared, and a smile like a gleam of sunshine
after a storm lighted her face.
âNo one ever says impossible to Lady Dynely,â she said, in her old,
imperiously charming tone; âleast of all with that look. And I really
should like to see myself as others see me, on canvas. That is not I,
for I could by no possibility ever wear such a look as that. You shall
paint my picture not once, but twiceâonce for Lady Dynely and once for
a dear old lady in Rome, who will prize it above rubiesâGrandmamma
Caryll.â
He looked up, a faint flush under the golden tan of his skin.
âYou mean that?â he asked.
âMost certainly. Let Felicia wait, and you may follow us down to
Dynely.â
âI shall take it as a favor,â chimed in Lady Dynely.
There is a momentâs pause, of strong irresolution, France can see. Then
he looks up and meets her eyes again.
âYou are both very good,â he says, quietly. âI will come.â
CHAPTER VI.
âTHE LORD OF THE LAND.â
Walking up and down the pier of Saint-Jean-sur-Mer, on the Brittany
coast, under the broiling sea-side sun, waiting for the English packet
anchored out in the roads, is a young English gentleman. The July sky is
blazing blindingly here by the sea; the heat quivers like a white mist
over the water; not a breath of air stirs the chestnuts or laburnums,
and the streets of Saint-Jean lie all baked and white in the pitiless,
brassy glare of that fierce midsummer sun.
But in all this tropical dazzle and heat the young Englishman saunters
up and down, and looks cool and languid still. His summer suit of palest
gray is the perfection of taste; his boots, his gloves, perfection also;
and the handkerchief which he flirts once or twice across his face is of
finest cambric, embroidered with a coronet and monogram, and perfumed
with attar of violets. He is tall and very blonde, as shapely as a
woman, broad-shouldered, slender-waisted, long-limbed, and very
handsome. His complexion is delicate as a girlâs; for such blue eyes and
blonde curls many a fair one might sigh with envy; very handsome, very
effeminate. He has a little golden mustache, waxed into minute points; a
straw hat is thrown carelessly on his fair hair. He is the most
beautiful, the most noble, the most perfect of all men, in one womanâs
eyes at least. He is Eric, Lord Viscount Dynely. He walks up and down,
and waits for the boat which is to convey him across the channel, to his
home and the lady he is to marry. But he is in no hot haste about it; he
has put off the evil day as long as possible.
France Forrester is a pretty girl, an elegant girl, a clever girl; a
suspicion has entered Lord Dynelyâs handsome blonde head more than once
that she may be even cleverer than himself. That is a drawback. In
common with all men of good taste and sense, he dislikes clever women; a
suspicion of blue in the stockings would outweigh the charm of the
daintiest foot and ankle on earth. Still it is a settled thing among the
powers that be, and poor France expects it, no doubt; and it is less of
a bore, on the whole, to yield gracefully, and sacrifice himself in his
youth and loveliness on the altar of filial duty, than make a fuss about
it. And, besides, as a wife, he really doesnât know any lady he would
prefer to Mrs. Caryllâs heiress.
At half-past ten he came down to the pier; it is a quarter of eleven
now, as he sees by the small jewelled repeater he draws from his pocket,
and Lord Dynely frowns a little.
âConfound it!â he mutters; âshe promised to be here at half-past, sharp,
and now it is a quarter of eleven. The boat starts at eleven. Wonât she
come after all? and have I been ruining my complexion and eyesight in
this beastly glare for the last thirty minutes for nothing?â
Then he pauses, stops, smiles. She is comingâa dark-eyed, coquettish
little Frenchwoman, charmingly dressed, and who possesses the good looks
that come from youth, good health, good taste, and fine spirits. She is
Lord Dynelyâs last flirtee, met at a Saint-Jean ball, where in ten
minutes she had waltzed herself completely into his fickle affections.
He had come to Saint-Jean, from his Spanish loiterings, with the
intention of crossing over at once, and lo! a fortnight had passed and
two merry black eyes and a vivacious French tongue had held him in rose
chains ever since. The two weeksâ passion had grown triste now, and he
was going, and madame had promised to trip down and bid him adieu on the
pier. Such was the gentleman decreed to become France Forresterâs lord
and master.
The fifteen minutes pass; they talk very affectionately, he with his
tall, fair head bent devotedly over her, his eloquent blue eyes speaking
whole encyclopedias of undying devotion. He is one of those men who
naturally delight to play at love-making, and throw themselves into the
momentâs rïżœle with all the depth that is in them. One of those men born
to be worshipped by women, and to make them suffer mercilessly at his
hands. Not robustly bad in any way, but simply without an ounce of
ballast in him, body or soul.
Eleven strikes from all the clocks of Saint-Jean-sur-Merâthe fatal hour
has come. There are tears in madameâs black, doll-like eyes as she
whispers adieu; beautifully pale, sad and tender Lord Eric looks. He
waves the perfumed coroneted handkerchief from the upper deck as long as
she is in sight, still mournful and pale to look upon despite the height
of the thermometer. Then he laughs, puts the handkerchief in his pocket,
lights a rose-scented cigarette, selects a shady spot on deck, orders
his valet to fetch him that last novel of George Sand, and in five
minutes has as completely forgotten the woman he has left asâthe girl
he is going to.
He reaches London. It is a desert, of course. Everybody has gone. Some
three million are left, but they donât count. He looks in weary disgust
at the empty, sun-scorched West End streets, at the bleached parks, the
forsaken Ladiesâ Mile, and goes down at once to Devonshire. And in the
cool of a perfect summer evening he reaches the village station, and as
he is
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