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

straightforward precision she narrated her adventure of the night.

“I ran away from Glasgow,” she said, boldly. “Joan died, and I hated

him. He was a brute, and he tried to beat me. I threw a plate at his

head and cut one cheek open. It was a horrid gash,” said this young

virago, with a shudder; “but I didn’t care; he was a brute; I had to

run then, and I came here. I had some money; Joan gave it to me; I have

some yet, and might have taken a cab when I got to Paris as well as not,

and gone to your theatre, but the streets were so bright and dazzling,

the shops so splendid, I thought I would walk. I was a fool for my

pains. I don’t know what would have happened, only Mr. Dennison came.

Ah, I like him—he was awfully good.”

“But surely, surely, child, you did not tell him who you were?” madame

cried in horror, as she listened to this outspoken confession.

“I told him nothing,” Gordon answered, proudly, “only my name, and where

I came from, and how I got lost, and that I wanted to find you. He said

he knew you, and would take me to you, and here I am.”

“It is the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of,” madame said,

bewildered; “and you are the most extraordinary child. Surely there is a

Providence that watches over children and fools.”

“I am no child, and I am no fool. I’ll thank you not to call me either,”

cried little spitfire, blazing up.

“No, no, certainly not. Why, child, will you be angry with me, your own

mother?” madame said, in her sugarest tone.

“You don’t look very glad to see me, if you are my mother,” retorts Miss

Kennedy, sulkily.

“You have surprised me so much, don’t you see, and I don’t want it

known that you are my daughter. It would be a very bad thing for me,

and create no end of talk.”

“You are ashamed of me, I suppose?” the young girl cried. “I knew you

would be. You are a fine lady, and I am—yes, look at me. I am a

miserable, draggle-tailed object, am I not?”

“What a temper you have,” madame said, still smiling, still holding her

hands. “Don’t speak so loudly. I am not in the least ashamed of you.

Properly dressed you will be quite like me.”

The black eyes lit.

“Do you think so,” eagerly; “Joan always said I was like you, but you

are so beautiful, and I am so thin, and black, and pale. You will let me

stay with you, then, will you?”

“Certainly—that is for the present. I think I shall send you to school.

You would like to go to school, would you not, Gordon. By the bye, I

would rather not call you that.”

“Joan called me Donny.”

“Donny be it, then. I will dress you properly and send you to school,

and you are not to say a word—no, not a whisper—about our

relationship. You can keep a secret, I think, by your face.”

“Try me,” the girl said, proudly. “I’d die before I’d tell, if I

promised not.”

“And you do promise. It would never do for me, Donny, at least not

just yet, to acknowledge you. People here do not know I ever was

married.”

“If you wish it—yes, I promise,” the girl said, a wistful light in the

great eyes.

“Then for the present you shall remain here—for a few days, that is.

You shall sleep in my dressing-room, and I will tell my maid and the

rest that you are my cousin—yes, a cousin from Scotland. And now, as it

is late, and have been travelling and are tired, I will see you safely

in bed myself.”

“And may I see him again—the gentleman who was so kind to me?” the

girl asked, only half satisfied after all.

“Mr. Dennison? Oh, well—yes—I suppose so. Tell him you are a cousin,

and I will indorse your story.”

“I hate telling lies,” Donny muttered, rather sullenly; but madame

prudently took no notice. In her own mind she had resolved that long

before Prince Di Venturini’s return to Paris, this obnoxious daughter

should be safely out of sight for good and all.

With her own hand she led her to the dressing-room, helped her to

arrange the little lace-draped bed there, and saw her safely in it

before retiring to her own room.

It had been a very unexpected and rather disagreeable ending to a

pleasant evening. Contretemps will occur, and must be made the best of.

Madame had reached that age when we learn the folly of disturbing

ourselves for trifles. A composing draught of wine and spices stood on

the table. She rang for her maid, and dismissed her, drank her sleeping

potion, and went calmly to bed.

CHAPTER V.

WHAT LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM SOMETIMES COMES TO.

It is twelve o’clock, more or less, by all the clocks and watches of

Paris—high noon by the broad brightness which is pouring a flood of

golden light through the blue silk curtains, over the glass, and silver,

and china of a dainty breakfast-table set for two, over two blonde

English heads—Lord and Lady Dynely.

They are breakfasting t�te-�-t�te, and in profound silence. His

lordship hides a very sulky, dissatisfied and conscious face, behind

that day’s Moniteur. Her ladyship, on the other side of the big

shining urn, droops over her teacup, pale as the dainty cashmere robe

she wears, with blue eyes that look jaded and dull from want of sleep.

She has not slept all night, and it tells upon her not used to “tears o’

night instead of slumber.” In the garish morning sunshine, the pretty

little face looks woefully wan and piteous, poor child, and he sees it;

how can he fail to see it, and is in a fine rage with her and with

himself in consequence. No words have passed between them concerning

last night—no words as yet. That pleasant conjugal debate is still to

come. He had found her feigning sleep, the tears undried upon her

cheeks, so peachily plump only five weeks ago—then like the heart of a

blush rose—now paler than the palest lily. This morning only

monosyllables have been exchanged, but the tug of war is to come, and

although he dreads it horribly—as he dreads and hates an things

unpleasant to his own super-fastidious selfishness—his lordship throws

down the paper at last and begins.

“I suppose,” he says, in a voice he tries not to render harsh, but which

is. “I suppose you know Dennison came last night? Confounded meddling

prig! I suppose you know, or will know, he followed me, and tried to

play parson for my benefit. I wonder now I did not knock him down for

his impertinence—I will, by Jove, if he tries it again. I hope,

Crystal, you did not send him?”

She shrinks and shivers away at his tone—at his words. He sees it, and

the sting of remorse that follows and tells him he is a brute, hardly

tends to add to his good-humor.

“Did you send him?” he angrily repeats.

She lifts her eyes for an instant to his irritated face, then drops

them, shrinking into herself more and more.

“I sent no one,” she answers, in a voice so low as to be hardly audible.

“Oh,” Eric says, in a grumbling tone. “You saw him though. He was here?”

“He was here—yes.”

“How did he know so well where to find me then? I told you I was going

to dine with some fellows at the Caf� de Paris.”

“Yes, you told me,” she repeats, in the same faint voice. Then she looks

suddenly up at him and her blue eyes flash. “We went to the theatre,

Eric,” she says, boldly.

“To the—,” so astounded is Lord Dynely that the last word fails on his

lips.

“To the theatre—yes,” Crystal goes on quickly and gaspingly. “I wanted

to go—it wasn’t his fault, poor fellow—I asked him to take me—I made

him take me.”

“And may I ask,” says his lordship, with labored politeness, and turning

quite white with anger, “which theatre you honored with your preference?

Les Italiens, no doubt?”

“We went to the Varieties. We saw that woman. We saw you,” she answers

in the same gasping tone.

His lips set themselves with slow, intense anger—his blue eyes gleam

with a dangerous light.

“You saw that woman! Be more explicit, if you please, Lady Dynely. You

saw what woman?”

“That actress. That wicked, painted, dancing woman. And we saw you. You

threw her the flowers I gave you. She wore them in her hair. And then

you were in the box with her—as if—as if—”

But Crystal can say no more. At the recollection of his looks as he bent

over that woman, she breaks utterly down, covers her face and bursts

into passionate weeping.

He is white to the lips now—white with an anger that has something

quite deadly in it. She is his bride but six weeks, and she sits yonder

sobbing her heart out, but he never softens or relents. Who is to gauge

for us of the capabilities of evil that are within us? All his life Lord

Dynely had been taken by superficial observers for a kind-hearted

gentleman, free of hand and large of heart, who would not willingly

injure a worm—all his life he had taken himself to be a good-natured

fellow—tender-hearted, indeed, to a fault; and now he sits watching his

wife with a glance that is absolutely murderous. With it all he is so

astounded that it is a moment before he can speak.

“You did this?” he says at last, in a slow, cruel, suppressed sort of

voice. “You played the spy upon me—you! You gave your old lover the

cue, did you—you dragged him after me to the theatre to spy upon me.

You’re a fool, Crystal; and, by Heaven, you’ll live to repent it!”

She gave a gasping cry. He arose from his seat, flung down his paper,

and stood before her, white with rage.

“It is a thousand pities,” he says with a sneer, that for the moment

blots out all the fair Greek beauty of his face, “that I did not let you

marry Dennison. He’s in love with you yet—no doubt your old penchant

too is as strong as ever. It was not his fault, poor fellow. May I ask

where you and Mr. Dennison are going together to-night?”

She looks up at him—her eyes all wide and wild, with a bewildered sort

of horror. Eric has insulted her—_insulted_ her. She tries to speak,

but only a gasping sound comes. Something in her eyes—in her face

frightens even him, in his blind fury, into remorse and relenting.

“Don’t look like that,” he says with a strident sort of laugh. “I didn’t

quite mean what I said; but when a man finds his wife running about to

theatres in his absence, with her old lover—Well, sir! what do you

want?”

For a servant has entered with a card upon a salver, and presents it

with a bow. Lord Dynely takes it up and utters an exclamation.

“Miss France Forrester!” he exclaims. “The plot thickens. They’re

here, too, are they? Where is the lady?” he demands of the man.

“In the salon, my lord.”

“Very well, tell her we will be there in