A Mad Marriage by May Agnes Fleming (best ebook reader android .TXT) 📖

worse still, forfeits his stall

at the Varietes, to do escort duty for his harem, to the Opera aux

Italiens. But since he is in for it, he does it with tolerably good

grace, and Crystal’s wan, moonlight little face lights, and smiles come

to the pale lips. She says little, but she is happy. Eric has been her

very own all day—will be her very own until noon to-morrow. Beyond that

she does not look—“unto the day, the day.”

 

Dinner ends, and they go to the opera. Patti sings, and the grand opera

house is brilliant with ladies in marvellous toilettes. If France were

only here, Eric thinks, as he struggles manfully with his tenth yawn, it

would not be so bad, but a man cast over wholly to the tender mercies of

his mother and his wife, is an object of compassion to gods and men.

 

About the time the Dynely party take their places in their private box

on the grand tier, Gordon Caryll opens the door of his mother’s room,

and passes out.

 

He goes up to his room, where his valet awaits him, and gives his few

orders. A portmanteau is to be packed at once—he (the valet) is to

follow with the rest to Liverpool, before the end of the week. That is

all—and the man listens with an immovable, wooden face, outwardly, in

direst, blankest wonder within.

 

“Blessed,” he says, as his master departs, “if this here ain’t a rum go!

I thought we was going to be married, at the British Hembassy; and now

we’re up and hoff ‘ot foot, with all our luggage, hover to Liverpool. I

wonder where we go hafter that?”

 

“We” were going to America once again—to

California—Nevada—Oregon—all the wild, new lands, whither “we” had

never set foot yet. Not to forget—that could never be! But life, it

seemed, amid perpetual hardship and adventure, amid wild regions and

wilder men, would be more easily dragged out without hope than

elsewhere.

 

He had told his mother; and she had listened in such wonder, such pain,

such pity, as words cannot tell. She had set her heart on this match,

and it was never to be. Her whole happiness in life was wrapped up in

her son, and he was to be taken from her. He must go—since this woman

stood between him and France forever, better, far better, they should

part.

 

“I would rather go,” he had said; “not to forget, not to suffer less—I

do not hope that, I do not even wish it; but I cannot stay and face the

wonder, the scandal, that will ensue. I am a coward, if you like, but I

underwent the ordeal once, and—” he set his teeth hard and stopped.

 

“Yet, I will stay if you wish,” he said, after a moment’s pause. “I will

stay with you, and,” another pause, “she can return to England with

Lucia Dynely.”

 

But the mother, whose life was bound up in him, clasped her arms about

his neck, and answered:

 

“You must go, Gordon. France is right—she can never be your wife, while

that woman lives, and so parting is best for you both. You must go, and

may Heaven’s blessing be with you.”

 

And then there had been a parting, so sad, so solemn, last words so

sweet, so motherly, a parting prayer so earnest, so holy, that the

fierce wrath and hot rebellion had died out, and somehow calm had come.

He had left the hotel, very pale, very grave, a great sadness on his

face, but otherwise unchanged.

 

He must see Dennison before he left. He went to the Louvre and found

him, providentially, lounging aimlessly about, and looking bored.

 

“De do, Caryll,” Terry began, abbreviating the formula, and swallowing a

gape. “Awfully slow work this. Haven’t seen a face I know since noon.

Was at your place, and found the family invisible—dead or sleeping.

Eric is doing the r�le of Master Tommy Goodchildd—trotting out the

madre and Crystal, and making a martyr of himself, I know. But I say,

old boy, anything wrong, you know? On my life, now I look again, you

seem awfully seedy.”

 

“We can talk in the street, I suppose?” Caryll answers, abruptly, and

taking his arm. “I have something of importance to say to you. Come this

way. Dennison, I’m off to-morrow!”

 

“Off?” Terry repeats the word and stares.

 

“Off for good and all—to return no more—to the other end of the world.

It’s all up between me and—Terry, can’t you guess? I thought you did

last night. Madame Felicia is my divorced wife.”

 

There is a pause, a speechless, breathless pause. Mr. Dennison looks at

the moon, the stars, the sky, the streets, the gaslights, the people,

and all spin round. At last, “By Jove!” he breathes, and is still.

 

Caryll does not speak—his mouth is set rigid and hard behind his beard.

They walk on, and the silence grows uncomfortable. Terry in desperation

breaks it first.

 

“I thought she was dead,” is what he says.

 

“So did I,” Caryll answers; “so did they in Canada, so the papers said.

She is not, however. Madame Felicia seventeen years ago was my wife; the

girl you rescued on the streets two nights ago my daughter.”

 

“Little Black Eyes! By Jove!” Terry aspirates again.

 

“I fancied you must have suspected something of this since last

night. I recognized her at the theatre. I visited her this morning.

There is not a shadow of doubt. The dancer, Felicia, is my divorced

wife.”

 

“By Jove!” once again is all Terry can say, in his blank amaze. “And

France?” he asks, after a pause.

 

“All is at an end there. In France’s creed there is no such thing as

divorce. I am as much the husband of Felicia as though that divorce had

never been.”

 

There is another uncomfortable silence. What is Terry to say? Fluency

and tact are at no time his. But silence is better than speech just

now.

 

“So I am going away,” Caryll resumes, steadily; “and I leave my mother

and France in your charge, Dennison. I go to-morrow. When does your

leave expire?”

 

“In a fortnight.”

 

“There will be ample time, then. My mother proposes returning to

Caryllynne; you will escort her thither. For the rest, Lady Dynely will

be told the truth, but no one else—least of all, Eric. There will be no

end of conjecture, and gossip, and mystification, no doubt, but since

none of us will be here to hear it, it won’t greatly matter.”

 

“But,” Terry hazards, “will she keep the secret? They say women never

can, you know?”

 

A cold smile lights Gordon Caryll’s lips.

 

“Trust them when it is to their own interest. Felicia has fooled M. Di

Venturini into offering to make her his wife. The wedding, I am told, is

to take place soon. He has no idea that she has ever been married—she

has lied to him from first to last. It is her interest to hold her

tongue, and now that her revenge is satisfied she will.”

 

“It’s a deuced bad business, Caryll, old fellow,” Terry says, gloomily.

“I’m awfully sorry. Confound the woman! she seems born to work mischief

and deviltry to every man she meets.”

 

“Another thing, Dennison,” Caryll pursues, taking no heed; “what I

principally wished to speak to you about, is my daughter. By fair means

or foul, she must be taken from her mother and given to me. And, Terry,

for this I look to you.”

 

“To me?” Terry repeats, blankly; “but how? I can’t go to Felicia and

demand her, I can’t watch my chance and steal her away. Hang it, no!

She’s a female fiend, and I owe her no good turn, but still she is the

girl’s mother, and as such has a right to her. I suppose she is fond of

her?”

 

“She is not. Felicia never was fond of any human being but herself. She

would send the girl adrift to-morrow, only it adds to her revenge to

retain her. She will not treat her kindly, of that I am sure; and before

the week ends the poor child will need but the offer to fly. My mother

will gladly receive and care for her. Terry, you must see her for me.

Let her know the truth. You have been of service to her and she will

trust you. Explain everything; tell her a better home and kinder

relatives than she has ever known await her. She will go with you of her

own free will—take my word for that.”

 

“Well, I’ll try. I’ll do my best,” Terry said. “Hang it, Caryll! there’s

nothing I wouldn’t do for you and France. I suppose they—your mother

and Miss Forrester—are awfully cut up.”

 

“Naturally. Don’t speak of it, Terry. I know I can trust you; and if

anything could help me now, it would be that knowledge. There is no more

to be said, I believe. Look after the mother and France—get the child

away from Felicia—make Eric leave Paris for his wife and mother’s sake

if you can. A multiplicity of tasks, dear boy, and the last the hardest

by far; but I know it will be no fault of yours if you fail. I will bid

you good-by and good speed here.”

 

They clasped hands hard in silence, then, without one word more, parted,

and each went his own way. Terry lit a cigar, and with his hands deep in

his pockets made his way gloomily back to the Hotel du Louvre.

 

“And if ever the fiend incarnate came on earth to work mischief in human

shape,” Mr. Dennison inwardly growls, “he has come in the form of

Felicia the dancer. Devil take her! is there no end to the trouble she

is destined to make?”

 

Next morning, Lady Dynely, to her surprise and annoyance, finds herself

breakfasting alone. Neither Gordon Caryll nor France Forrester is to be

seen when she enters. She waits half an hour—still they fail to put in

an appearance. Lady Dynely hates solitary breakfasts, and rather

pettishly rings the bell.

 

“It’s very odd,” she thinks annoyedly; “all day yesterday, and now

again this morning, neither Gordon nor France is to be seen. And both

are such preposterously early risers.”

 

Her own maid answers the summons, and her ladyship impatiently sends her

in quest of the truants. Ten minutes, and Simpson returns.

 

“Miss Forrester has not yet left her room. She is suffering from

headache, and begs my lady to excuse her until luncheon. For Mr.

Caryll—Mr. Caryll, my lady, has gone.’

 

“Gone!” my lady repeats with a blank stare.

 

“Yes, my lady. Norton, his man, received his orders last night to pack

up and follow him at once to England. Mr. Caryll left the hotel himself

late last evening, and has not since returned.”

 

Lady Dynely listens to this in dazed incredulity. France ill!—Gordon

gone! Now what does this mean? Her first impulse is to go to Mrs. Caryll

and inquire, her second to eat her breakfast and wait quietly, until she

is told. She acted on the second, ordered in breakfast, and sipped her

chocolate as best she might for the devouring curiosity that possessed

her.

 

An hour later, and Miss Forrester came down. The dainty morning toilet

was as fresh and unexceptionable as ever, the pretty rich brown hair as

perfectly coiffed. But out of the dark bright face all the color was

stricken, out of the clear brown eyes all the youthful gladness, all the

loving, happy light. She went to Mrs. Caryll’s room. The elder lady sat

in her