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

and well. He is a noted duelist—three times has he killed his man;

lighting his cigar coolly and walking away while his adversary lay dying

hard among the sweet summer grasses. He is a skilled swordsman, a dead

shot. More than once, since the beginning of his flirtation with the

fair Felicia, has Lord Dynely been told that. And he—of fencing he

knows next to nothing—a pistol he has not fired three times in his

life. And “a friend will wait upon him to-morrow,” and the morning

after, at the farthest, he will meet Di Venturini somewhere amid the

wooded slopes of Versailles.

Physically, Lord Dynely was the farthest possible remove from a coward.

Life may be tolerably pleasant, and still a man may face the possibility

of leaving it with good grace, if his conscience lie dormant. To fear

death, one must fear what comes after death. Of that, like most men of

his stamp, wholly given up to the pursuit of pleasure, Lord Dynely never

thought. After all, taken with all its dissipations, even at its best

and brightest, here in Paris, life was a good deal of a bore—not so

desirable a thing to keep, by any manner of means, that one should make

much of a howling at resigning it. And that the day after to-morrow,

when he stood face to face with Di Venturini, under the leafless trees

of Versailles, or the Bois de Vincennes, he must resign it, he was as

certain as that he lit his cigar now, and strolled slowly homeward under

the white, shining stars. Yes, life was a bore; a man tired of all

things. A pretty face with two blue eyes bewitches him, he marries it,

and is wearied to death or satiety in a fortnight. One grew tired of

women, of wine, of horses, the rattle of the dice, the croak of the

croupier, the shuffle of the cards, the whirl of the ball-room, the

glare of the gaslight, of all things in this wearisome, lower world.

Even swarth-skinned, topaz-eyed actresses pall after a few weeks, after

a few thousand pounds spent upon them in presents, for which “becks and

nods, and wreath�d smiles” are but a flat return. Vanitas Vanitatem!

The song Solomon sung so many thousand years ago is wearily echoed by

his sons—the jeunesse dor�e of to-day. And one other day must end it

all. There would be the trip down the Seine to-morrow, sunshine above

them, music around them, a golden blue river below them, and two yellow,

black, lustrous eyes smiling languidly upon him. The morning after, in

the gray, cold dawn, there would be that silent woodland meeting, the

sharp report of two pistol shots, a yellow, Neapolitan prince flying in

haste out of the imperial dominions of Napoleon the Third, and a man

lying stark on the blood-stained grass, his dead face upturned to the

sky. As in a vivid picture before him he saw it all. And then there

would be a wedding in Italy a few weeks later, and the topaz eyes would

smile for life on the Neapolitan prince. For the dead man—well,

for him, in the creed of the man himself, the best of all

things—annihilation!

He walked home very slowly, smoking and half dreamily, thinking all

this. He must keep the matter from his womankind, and he must find a

friend. There was Boville—yes, Boville would do—he would see him the

first thing to-morrow, and refer Di Venturini’s second to him. Under

ordinary circumstances, Terry Dennison would have been his man, but

under present circumstances Dennison was not to be thought of. For a

second quarrel had taken place between the two men—a quarrel bitter and

deep; and for the same cause—Dynely’s neglect of his wife. It had

occurred three days after the sudden and somewhat surprising departure

of Gordon Caryll. Eric still held fast, body and soul, by Felicia,

Crystal still drooping with that pathetic, heart-broken face. By command

of Lady Dynely, m�re, Terry had taken Crystal for a drive in the Bois,

and there, face to face, in the yellow afternoon sunshine, they had come

upon the glittering little equipage of Felicia the dancer. Lying back in

her silks and sables and seal skins, her “flower face” smiling behind a

little lace veil, her English cavalier, Lord Dynely, beside her, so Lord

Dynely’s wife had come upon them full. For a second, four pairs of eyes

met—then the bright carriage of the danseuse flashed past, and

Felicia’s derisive laugh came back to them on the breeze.

“Mon Dieu! Eric, a pleasant rencontre for you?” she cried, unaffectedly

amused by the situation. “What is the matter with Mr. Dennison? He gave

me a look absolutely murderous as we passed.”

Crystal had fallen back with a gasping cry as though a brutal hand had

struck her.

“Oh, Terry! take me home,” she had sobbed, as once before, and Terry, in

silence, with flashing eyes and lowering brows and compressed lips, had

obeyed.

Four hours later and there was a “scene” in the salon of the Dynelys.

Crystal, sick heart and soul, was alone in her room; Eric, waiting for

dinner, was reading the evening paper, when Dennison strode in and

confronted him.

“Dynely!” he passionately demanded, “how is this to end?”

Lord Dynely looked up, the conscious blood reddening his transparent,

girl-like face.

“How is what to end? May I request you to take a somewhat less

aggressive tone in addressing me, Mr. Dennison?”

“Your neglect—your shameful neglect of your wife. It is brutal, it is

murderous—you are killing her by inches, before our eyes!”

The flush faded from the blonde face of Viscount Dynely. The livid

whiteness of deadly anger took its place. He laid down his paper and

spoke with ominous calm.

“May I inquire if my wife has sent you here to tell me this?”

“Your wife knows nothing of my coming—that you know as well as I. But I

swear, Eric, this must end! You are breaking, brutally breaking your

wife’s heart. All Paris is talking, is laughing over your besotted

infatuation for that old woman—Felicia the dancer! You spend your time,

you lavish your gifts on that painted Jezebel, while Crystal dies day by

day before your eyes. And only seven weeks since you married her!”

Eric rose to his feet—the light of deadly rage filling his eyes, but

before he could speak Dennison interposed:

“Stay!” he cried, lifting his hand, “hear me out! I pledged myself once

never to quarrel with you, do what you might, say what you would. That

promise I mean to keep. It is the farthest possible from my wish—the

thought of quarrelling with you. But, Eric, I say again this must end.”

“Indeed! You speak of my very pleasant platonic friendship with the most

charming woman in Paris, I presume. May I ask how you propose to end

it?”

“For Heaven’s sake, Eric, don’t sneer! I speak to you as a friend, as a

brother. You cannot be quite heartless—you cannot have quite outlived

your love for Crystal. Don’t you see you are killing her—poor, little

soul, don’t you see she worships the ground you walk on, the least thing

your hand has touched. She would die for you, Eric; and you—you neglect

her more shamefully than ever bride was neglected before; you insult her

by your devotion to this worthless woman. If you had seen her after you

had passed to-day–-” he stops suddenly and walks away to a window.

“Don’t let us row, Eric,” he says hoarsely; “I have no wish to interfere

with or dictate to you, but in some way I stand pledged to Crystal since

her happiness is at stake. Our friendship of the past has given me the

right to be her protector at least.”

“The right of a jilted lover!” Eric returns, that bitter sneer still on

lips and eyes. “Let us understand each other, Dennison. This is the

second time you have interfered in this matter. I warn you now, let it

be the last. I have listened to your insolence, because I wish to drag

my wife’s name into no public scandal, or quarrel with you. It is the

last time I will be so forbearing. Be kind enough to quit these rooms at

once, and enter them no more! Be kind enough, also, to discontinue your

acquaintance with Lady Dynely. If I were inclined to take umbrage

easily, I might with reason object to you, her jilted lover, as I said

before, playing the r�le of attendant cavalier, but I let that

pass—this once. I shall order my wife to receive your visits no longer,

and I think she will hardly venture to disobey. After to-day, Mr.

Dennison, you will understand our acquaintance is at an end.”

And then, before Terry could speak, his lordship had quitted the salon,

and nothing was left but to obey. And the only result of his

interference was frigid coldness on the part of Lord Dynely to his wife,

and increased devotion, if that were possible, to Felicia. They had met

more than once since, and Dynely had cut him dead. So matters between

those two, who had grown up as brothers, stood to-night. Verily, a woman

is at the bottom of all the ruptured masculine friendships of this lower

world!

The early dawn was breaking before Lord Dynely reached his hotel.

Crystal, pale as a shadow, wasted and wan, lay asleep. A pang of

something like actual remorse shot through him as he looked at her, so

changed in those few brief weeks.

“Poor little soul!” he thought, “if—if the worst does happen to-morrow,

it will be hard lines on her.”

Of no use going to bed, he thought; he could not sleep. He threw himself

on a sofa in the dressing-room adjoining, still in his evening suit, and

in ten minutes was fast as a church.

The breakfast hour was past when he awoke, and Crystal was seated beside

him, watching him with eyes of unutterable pathetic yearning. She

started up confusedly, as he opened his eyes, coloring, as though caught

in some guilty act.

“Waiting for me, Crystal?” he said, rising on his elbow, with a yawn.

“You were asleep when I came home, and I would not disturb you. What is

the hour? Ten, by Jove! Is breakfast ready? I have an engagement this

morning, and must get off at once.”

Breakfast dispatched hurriedly, his dress changed, a note sent in hot

haste to Boville, Lord Dynely was waited upon by a tall,

fiercely-mustached, soldierly Frenchman. The interview was brief, and

strictly private. Boville sauntering lazily in, encountered monsieur

swaggering out.

“Who’s your military friend, Dynely?” he inquired, “and what the deuce

do you want of a man in such a hurry as this?”

“My military friend is Monsieur Raoul De Concressault, Captain of

Zouaves; his business here, to bring me a challenge from Prince Di

Venturini; and I have sent for you in such a hurry to be my second in

the affair. Take a seat, Boville, and a cigar.”

“By Jove!” cried Boville, taking the seat, but not the cigar. “I thought

it would come to this. Of course Felicia is at the bottom of it?”

“Of course—is not her charming sex at the bottom of all the mischief

and murder on earth? Also, of course everything is strictly _sub

rosa_—it won’t do to let it get wind.”

“Certainly not,” Boville answered gravely. “Tell us about it, Dynely. I

thought M. le Prince was safely away for another week.”

“So did I—so did Felicia,” Dynely said, with a slight laugh. “He turned

up in most dramatic fashion at the bal masque at the