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

came. And I am very, very much obliged to you, sir,” concluded Miss

Gordon Kennedy, with another solemn, upward, grateful glance of the

lustrous eyes.

“And how do you know whether I am any better than the two men you fled

from?” Terry asked, with a half-laugh.

“Ah, sir, you are English, and you have a good face. I am not afraid of

you,” the girl answered, with a second profound sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” Terry said, still laughing; “it is the highest compliment

ever paid me in my life. Well, Miss Kennedy, it is getting on for two

o’clock, and is raining, as you see. Shall I look you up a convenient

church porch, or what shall I do with you? Even a church porch in Paris

on a wet night is not altogether a desirable lodging for a young lady of

sixteen. Where shall I take you?”

“I don’t know,” the girl answered, with an air of anxious distress. “If

it were not so late, so dreadfully late, I might try to find her. Tell

me, sir, are all the theatres closed yet?”

“Closed two hours ago. You don’t think of exchanging the church porch

for a theatre, do you, mam’selle?”

“Don’t laugh at me,” she returned, with a sudden flash of the black

eyes; “there’s nothing to laugh at. I want to find a person who belongs

to a theatre—a lady, an actress. She plays at the Varieties.”

“At the Varieties?” Terry repeated, a little startled. The flashing

black eyes had once more discomfited him by their resemblance to other

eyes he had somewhere seen. “I know some of the ladies who play at the

Varieties. May I ask what is her name?”

“It is Madame Felicia.”

They were walking swiftly along through the rain. At these words

Dennison suddenly stood still. The girl looked up at him in surprise.

Again, by the glare of the street lamps, that strange, striking

resemblance flashed upon him. Madame Felicia! Why, this child was

sufficiently like Madame Felicia to be her own daughter. Well—Terry

suppressed a whistle, and still stared blankly down at his little

companion.

“Well,” she cried, impatiently, “what is it?—Why do you look at me so?

Have I said anything strange? Do you know,” with a sudden glow of hope,

“Madame Felicia?”

“Come on,” was Terry’s answer; “you’ll get your death standing here in

the rain. Do I know Madame Felicia? Well—a little. Do you know her?”

“No.”

“You don’t! Then, why—if I may ask—”

The dark eyes look up at him again with another petulant flash.

“No, you may not ask! I can’t tell you. I want to find Madame

Felicia—the actress who plays at the Varieties. That is all I intend to

tell you. I have come all the way from Glasgow alone to find her. I

must find her—to-night, if possible. She is the only friend I have in

the world. Oh, sir, you have been very good to me. You have done me a

great service—I know you have a kind heart; take pity on me and, if you

know her, take me to her.”

“Does she expect you?” Terry asked, staggered.

“No, sir, she does not; but all the same she will take care of me.”

“You are quite sure of that?”

“Quite sure, sir.”

“Have you ever met Madame Felicia?”

“Never to remember her, but I know what she is like. It is a great many

years since she came to see me. We lived in Canada then.”

“We—whom?”

“Joan and me. Joan is my foster-mother, and she is dead. But I have no

right to tell you this. I won’t tell you!” with a child’s impatient

petulance again.

“You speak of Madame Felicia visiting you in Canada,” Terry went on,

taking no notice of the brief outbreak of anger; “you must make a

mistake, mademoiselle. The Madame Felicia I know was never in Canada in

her life.”

“Look here!” cried the girl, excitedly. She disengaged her arm, and

produced a photograph from the pocket of her dress. “Look at this! Is

your Madame Felicia anything like this?”

They pause again—again beneath a street lamp—and he looks at the

picture. Madame Felicia, sure enough—to the life—a softly tinted,

perfect likeness.

“Well?” the girl impatiently demands. He hands it back and looks at her

with strongest curiosity.

“That is my Madame Felicia. There is but one such face as that on earth.

And, I repeat again, she never was in Canada.”

“And I repeat she was!” she flashed out angrily. “Why do you

contradict me? I know better! It is very impolite! She was in Canada!

she was! she was! She lived there—I was born there—”

She paused. In her excited vehemence she had betrayed herself. She

clasped her hands and looked up at him wildly. “I—I—didn’t mean that!”

she gasped. “I—I—didn’t mean anything!”

“No, of course not,” Dennison responded, unable to repress a smile. What

a child she evidently was, what a passionate, excitable, wilful child!

“Oh, take me to her!” she cried, with a sort of sob. “It is so late, so

cold, so wet! I never was out at this time of night with a strange man

before. What would Joan say? Ah, poor Joan!”

She sighed bitterly and clung to him, looking about at the unfamiliar

scene, her eyes dusk with bewilderment and terror.

“Joan was your mother?” Terry insinuated; “no, by the bye, your

foster-mother?”

“It does not matter to you what she was!” retorts Miss Kennedy, with a

sudden return to sharpness. “Will you take me to Madame Felicia, or will

you not?—there!”

“My dear child, Madame Felicia will be in bed.”

“She will get up when she hears who I am. Oh! please take me to her

house—only to her house. She will let me in. She will take care of me

when she hears who I am.”

“When she hears who you are,” Terry thought, looking at the dark,

passionate, pleading, upturned face—at the large, dilated black eyes.

“She was in Canada, and you were born there! There is a story in the

past, then, that madame keeps as a sealed book. I always thought so—I

always thought there was more in her hatred of America than met the

eye.”

“Will you take me to her—say?” cried the girl, giving his arm an angry,

impatient shake, “or are you a wicked man after all, like the Frenchman

you knocked down?”

“A wicked man?” Terry repeated, laughing, and with a sort of pity in his

face for this unsophisticated child. “My dear little girl, no. I am the

incarnation of every domestic and Christian virtue, and I will take you

to Madame Felicia instanter. We are near her house now—I only hope she

will take you in. If she will not, some one else shall. Gracious

powers!” he thought, “if this outspoken child had fallen into other

hands.”

The girl drew a long breath, and gave the arm she had so lately shaken a

little, grateful squeeze.

“You are good. I am sorry I was so cross with you, but I hate to be

contradicted. She will take care of me; don’t you be afraid, and she

will thank you too. What is your name?”

“Terry, mademoiselle.”

“Terry what?”

“Terry Dennison; and yours you say is Gordon Kennedy? An odd name for a

young lady.”

“Yes, isn’t it? But the Gordon was after my father, and the Kennedy was

after Joan. Joan always called me Donny, for short.”

“The Kennedy was after Joan, was it? That’s odd too. Had your father no

other name than Gordon? Was that his family name?”

“I wish you wouldn’t ask so many questions!” was Miss Kennedy’s answer,

with still another return to sharpness. “It is awfully impolite to ask

questions. My name is Gordon Kennedy, and I want to go to Madame

Felicia—that’s enough for you to know.”

“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle,” Terry said, laughing; “I stand

rebuked. I won’t offend again. Here we are at Felicia’s, and lights are

burning yet. Stand here; I will inquire at the loge if madame is to be

seen.”

He left her and hastened to make inquiries. The household of madame had

not yet retired—madame’s chasseur, in gorgeous livery, was produced,

who in voluble French declared it to be utterly impossible to disarrange

madame at that hour.

“Call madame’s maid,” Dennison said, authoritatively; “it’s a matter of

the utmost importance to madame herself. I will explain to her.”

The maid was reluctantly summoned. Dennison hastened back to his waiting

prot�g�e.

“Have you any thing—a note, a token to send to madame that will prove

your identity? She will not see you else,” he explained.

The girl produced from her pocket a small sealed packet, and put it

confidently in his hand.

“Joan gave me that before she died,” she said. “She told me to give it

to Madame Felicia when I met her. You send it to her, and all will be

right.”

The femme de chambre appeared, sleepy and sulky. Madame could see no one

at such an hour. Madame had already retired—she could not dream of

disturbing madame. Monsieur’s business must wait until to-morrow.

Monsieur cut short the flow of French eloquence by slipping a glittering

Napoleon in one hand and the packet in the other.

“Give madame that, with Mr. Dennison’s compliments. Tell her that the

young lady—Gordon Kennedy—is here, just arrived from Scotland, and

waiting to see her.”

The Frenchwoman vanished. In silence, Dennison and the young girl stood

and waited. How would it end?

Would madame receive her? Or would she treat her as an impostor, and

send her away? His own pulses quickened a little with the suspense.

Five, ten, fifteen minutes, and the maid did not appear.

“Are you cold?” Terry asked very gently, as the girl gave an

irrepressible shiver from head to foot.

She looked at him, with those sombre, spectral dark eyes, so like, yet

so unlike Felicia’s own.

“I am afraid,” she answered, her teeth chattering. “I don’t know! what

if she will not receive me after all? She is a great lady—I am so poor,

so wretched. She may not want me. Oh, if she does not, what will become

of me?”

“I will care for you,” he answered kindly. “My dear child, don’t tremble

so. Ah! here comes the woman now.”

The maid returned, curiosity painted on every feature of her face.

“Madame would see mademoiselle. Mademoiselle was to come to madame at

once.”

With a little cry of joy the girl sprang forward.

“I knew she would! I knew she would!” she said, with a sob. Then she

reached out both hands to Dennison. “You were so good! I will never

forget you—never! I thank you with all my heart!”

He pressed the little cold hands kindly, and watched her out of sight.

Then he started at a rapid pace for his hotel.

“So!” he thought; “an odd adventure, surely! I seem destined to be mixed

up in Madame Felicia’s affairs. Will she be grateful, or the reverse,

for this night’s work, I wonder? That girl’s maternity is written in her

face—although, of course, she might be Felicia’s sister. I wish I could

get a hold upon her of any sort, yes, of any sort, that would make her

hear to reason about Dynely. Come what may, I don’t care how, he must

be freed from her