A Mad Marriage by May Agnes Fleming (mini ebook reader .TXT) 📕
I threw off my shawl and bonnet, laughing for fear I should break down and cry, and took my seat. As I did so, there came a loud knock at the door. So loud, that Jessie nearly dropped the snub-nosed teapot.
"Good gracious, Joan! who is this?"
I walked to the door and opened it--then fell back aghast. For firelight and candlelight streamed full across the face of the lady I had seen at the House to Let.
"May I come in?"
She did not wait for permission. She walked in past me, straight to the fire, a
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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
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