A Mad Marriage by May Agnes Fleming (mini ebook reader .TXT) 📕

“Wait one moment,” he says, in the same quiet, resolute tone. “You are

angry, and excited, and jealous. Jealous! faugh! of such a woman as

that! Do you know that your infatuation for her—your neglect of your

wife—is the talk of Paris—the talk of London?—for in London it

reached me.”

A furious oath is Eric’s answer as he wrenches his arm free.

“And you came after me as my keeper, as a d–- spy!” he cries, hoarse

with passion.

“I came after you as your friend, as hers,” Terry answers, his own

eyes kindling. “It is early days, Dynely, to neglect your bride—to

leave her there, utterly forsaken and alone, to break her heart in

solitude, while you fling gifts in the lap, and sit at the feet of a

Jezebel like that. I do not set up as your keeper—as any man’s—but I

will not stand by and see her heart-broken, her life blighted, while I

can raise my voice to prevent. Eric! if you had seen her as I did, three

hours ago, pale, crushed, heart-broken—”

“‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife!’ My wise Terry, my virtuous

Terry, my pink and pattern of all morality, did you ever hear that?

You’re as much in love with Lady Dynely as you ever were with Crystal

Higgins. I only wonder you took the trouble to come. Would it not have

been pleasanter to have stayed behind and soothed her sorrows with your

pathetic and pious conversation?”

Terry looks at him—at the flushed, furious face—at the blue eyes lurid

with rage, in wonder—almost in horror.

“Good Heaven!” he says, “is this Eric? If any other living man had

said as much, or half as much, I would have knocked him down. But I see

how it is; that devilish sorceress has turned your brain. Well—she has

turned stronger brains, but she shall not make an absolute fool of you.

Eric! dear old man, I’m not going to quarrel with you, if I can help it.

You don’t know what you are saying. I promised little Crystal to fetch

you home in an hour. It’s awfully lonely in that big hotel for her, poor

child, and she was never used to being alone, you know.”

His voice softened. “Ah, poor little Crystal!” he thinks, with a great

heart-pang, “if your married life begins like this, how in Heaven’s name

will it end!”

“So!” Eric says between his set teeth, “she sent you after me, did

she?—a naughty little boy to be brought home and whipped! Perhaps she

also told you where to find me?”

“She told me nothing—nothing, Eric, and you know it,” Terry answers,

sternly. “Is it likely she would discuss her husband with anyone? It

wasn’t difficult to find you. The very street gamins could have told me,

I fancy, so well is your new infatuation known. Eric, old fellow, we

have been like brothers in the past, don’t let us quarrel now. Keep

clear of that woman—she’s dangerous—awfully dangerous, I tell you. She

has ruined the lives of a score of men—don’t let her ruin yours. Don’t

let her break Crystal’s heart—Crystal, whose whole life is bound up in

yours. Pity her, Eric—poor little soul—if you have none for

yourself.”

Again Eric laughs harshly and long.

“Hear him, ye gods! Terry Dennison in the r�le of parson! Is your sermon

quite finished, old boy?—because here we are. Or is this but a prelude

to a few more to come? How well the patronizing elder-brother tone comes

from you—you, of all men—the dependant of my mother’s bounty. She

comes to Paris next week—what fine stories you will have to tell

her—what eloquent lectures you can prepare together. Let me tell you

this, once and for all, Dennison,” he says, white with anger, his blue

eyes aflame—” I’ll have no sneaking or spying on my actions—I’ll be

taken to task by no man alive, least of all by you! Let there be an

end of this at once and forever, or by—you’ll repent it!”

Then he turns, dashes up the wide stairway, and Terry is alone.

CHAPTER III.

IN THE STREETS.

Terry stands for a while irresolute. One by one the clocks of the great

city chime out the hour after midnight; a few belated pedestrians, a few

fiacres fly past. Even Paris is settling itself for its night’s sleep,

but Dennison has no thought of sleeping. It is of no use mounting to his

cockloft under the eaves in his present disturbed state of mind—sleep

and he will be strangers for hours to come. Eric has robbed him of more

than one night’s rest since last September—since that eventful day of

the Lincolnshire picnic, when all that was brightest and sweetest in his

life went out of it forever. Well, so that he had been true, so that he

made her happy, Terry could have borne his pain with patient heroism to

the end; but to-night, the old, half-healed pang comes back sharp and

bitter as ever. Only six weeks a bride—six weeks, and neglected,

outraged already—his brief, hot fancy dust and ashes—Felicia, the

actress, preferred before Crystal, the wife.

“He’s a villain,” Terry thought, savagely; “he’s worse than a

villain—he’s a fool! Yes, by Jove! as they say over here, a fool of the

fourth story.”

He glanced up at the window where four hours ago Crystal had wistfully

sat. Lights still burned there. Was Eric taking her to task for what

he had done—little Crystal, to whom no one ever spoke a harsh word!

He could not stand there with the thought in his mind—he turned, and

without knowing or caring whither, made his way through the now almost

silent city streets.

The drizzling rain that had begun to fall at midnight was falling still,

not heavily, but with a small, soaking persistence, that showed it

meant to keep it up until morning. Smoking as he went, his hands thrust

deep into the pockets of his overcoat, Dennison strolled on and on,

quite heedless where he went, or how far. His thoughts were still with

Crystal—what should he do for her? how help her? It was useless, worse

than useless to remonstrate with Eric—no one knew better than Terry how

hopelessly and utterly obstinate opposition made him. If he could only

induce him to quit Paris. His mother was coming; but Terry knew how

little influence his mother had over him where the gratification of his

own fancy was concerned. For Eric himself it did not so much matter—he

could afford to spend a few thousands in bracelets and bouquets for the

dark-eyed dancer, until his feverish fancy burned itself out as so many

scores of other feverish fancies had done; it was Crystal who was to be

considered—Crystal, who lived but in his love, who drooped already like

a broken lily—whose heart he was breaking as thoughtlessly and as

surely as ever careless child broke the toy of which it had wearied.

“I’ll speak to Felicia herself,” Terry thought, with a last desperate

impulse; “she can’t be all bad—no one is, they say, and I have heard

stories of her lavish generosity to the poor, and all that. Even so

insatiable a coquette as she is may spare one victim. I’ll go to her

to-morrow and tell her how it is, tell her of the poor little girl-wife

he neglects for her, and ask her to shut the door in his face. She told

me once, I remember, after that runaway scrape, to ask any favor I

chose, ‘though it were half her kingdom,’ and I should have it. I never

wanted anything of her before—let’s see if she will keep her promise

to-morrow.”

The idea was a relief. His train of thought broke—much thinking was not

in Terry’s line—he paused suddenly and looked about him. For the first

time he became aware that he had lost his way, that the night was

advancing, that it was black, chill and rainy, and that the sooner he

retraced his steps the better. As he turned, a cry, faint and far off,

reached his ear—a cry of pain or fear—then another, then another. It

was a woman’s voice, a woman in trouble. Instantly Terry plunged in the

direction, running full speed. The cry was repeated, nearer this

time—a shrill, sharp cry of affright. He made for the sound, turned a

corner, and found himself in a narrow, dark street, high houses frowning

on either hand, and a woman, flying, panting, and crying out, with two

men in hot pursuit.

“Hallo!” Dennison cried, sending his strong, hearty, English voice

through the empty, silent street, “what the deuce is to pay here?”

With a shrill scream of delight the flying figure made for him and

clutched his arm, panting for breath.

“Oh, sir, you are English,” she gasped, in that language; “save me from

those horrid men!”

Terry passed his right arm around her. One of the men, a beetle-browed,

black-bearded Frenchman, came insolently up, and without further parley

Mr. Dennison shot out his left in the most scientific manner, and laid

him on the pavement. His companion paused a second to see his fellow’s

fate, and then precipitately fled.

“And unless we want the gendarmes to come up and march us to the

station, we had better follow his example, I think,” said Mr. Dennison

to his fair friend.

He looked down as he spoke with some curiosity. An Englishwoman alone

and belated at this hour, in the streets of Paris, was a curiosity. The

light of a street lamp fell full upon her. A woman! why, she was a

child, or little better, a small, dark, elfish-looking object, with two

wild black eyes set in a minute white face, and a dishevelled cloud of

black hair, falling all wet and disordered over her shoulders.

“Who are you?” was Dennison’s first astounded question.

The wild black eyes lifted themselves to his face—two small hands

clutched his arm tightly. Where had he seen eyes like those before?

“Oh, sir! don’t leave me, please! I am so afraid! it is so late.”

“Late! Egad, I should think so. Rather late for a little girl to be

wandering the streets of any city, French or English. You are a little

girl, aren’t you?” doubtfully.

“I am sixteen years and six months—and I didn’t want to wander the

streets. I lost my way,” was the answer, somewhat angrily given.

“Who are you?”

“I am Gordon Kennedy.”

“And how do you come to have lost your way, if I may ask, Miss Gordon

Kennedy?”

The big black eyes lifted themselves again to his face in solemn,

searching scrutiny. Evidently the gaze was reassuring; she drew a long

breath of relief and clung confidently to his arm. But again Terry was

nonplussed—_where_ had he seen some one like this before?

“I came from Scotland—from Glasgow,” the girl answered, with a certain

old-womanish precision. “I came in search of a person residing in Paris.

I reached here in the train to-night. I have very little money, hardly

any, and I was foolish enough to try and find the person I wanted on

foot, instead of in a cab. I lost my way naturally; and I know so little

French, and speak it so badly that I could not make myself understood. I

did not know what to do; I wandered on and on; it grew dreadfully late;

I thought I would stay in a church porch until morning out of the rain.

While I was looking about for one, those two dreadful men followed and

spoke to me. I ran away