A Mad Marriage, May Agnes Fleming [best big ereader .TXT] 📗

there, one half. My own,” says Terry, glancing

complacently at an opposite mirror, “was the noblest Roman of ‘em all!”

 

Miss Forrester giving the prominent feature Terry admired a rebuking tap

with her fan, led the way into an anteroom, hung with crimson velvet,

emblazoned with the arms and motto of the Dynelys:

 

“Loyal au mort.”

 

He glances at these emblazoned splendors as he passes, and follows his

fair leader into a long gallery, hung from floor to ceiling with

pictures.

 

“Lady Dynely is a lover of art, and her collection is very fine. Here is

a face by Titian, one of the gems of the room.”

 

“Doesn’t look unlike you, France—‘pon my word it doesn’t—the eyes, the

hair, and the yellowish complexion—well, it isn’t yellow, but you know

what I mean. One of his wives, isn’t it? These old masters always had

three or four, hadn’t they—one buried, ‘tother come on. You ought to

marry a man of genius, France; you would make a capital wife for one,

wouldn’t you? a sort of moral spur in his side, urging him on to

perpetual efforts. If he were in Parliament you would have him a

premier, if he were an artist you would have him a Michael Angelo, if

musical, a Beethoven, eh? wouldn’t you?”

 

“I have seen geniuses,” Miss Forrester makes answer, “I have also seen

their wives. And, my dear Terry, the wife of a man of genius is a social

martyr, who carries the cross while her husband wears the crown.”

 

“And vice vers�,” says Terry; “or, stay—is it vice vers�? The

husband of a woman of genius is a—”

 

“There are no women of genius,” answers France, with a little sarcastic

shrug. “You monopolize all that. Women never write books, or paint

pictures, or carve statues. George Eliot, Rosa Bonheur, Miss Hosmer,

etc., all are myths. Genius is the prerogative of our lord and

master—Man.”

 

“You infringe on your master’s prerogative then,” says Mr. Locksley,

smiling. “How very cynical you are pleased to be, Miss Forrester.”

 

“I have always thought it a thousand pities France wasn’t born in New

York,” cuts in Mr. Dennison. “She could mount the rostrum, as they all

seem to do there, and spout until the welkin rang on the subject of

down-trodden woman and her natural enemy and tyrant—Man. She is

fearfully and wonderfully strong-minded, is Miss France Forrester. And

now if you can possibly survive half an hour without me, France, I’ll

tear myself from your side. I am engaged for the next waltz, and I hear

the opening bars afar off.”

 

Then Mr. Dennison saunters leisurely away, and Miss Forrester and Mr.

Locksley are alone among the pictures. They linger long, criticising,

admiring, talking of Rome, of art and artists, and the picturesque,

poetic life there. “I think I was born to be a Bohemian,” she says, with

her frank laugh, “and have somehow missed my destiny. It is such a free,

bright, untrammelled sort of life, ever new and full of variety. Here it

seems to be over and over the same tiresome, treadmill round. I haven’t

wearied of it yet in spite of my scepticism, the bloom is not yet

brushed off my peach, but I know that day will come. Mr. Locksley,”

changing tone and subject, abruptly, “is your picture sold?”

 

“Sold two hours before I came here,” he answers, and tells her of the

hurried transaction over the garden gate.

 

“The Prince Di Venturini,” she repeats; “and for a lady. Who can she be?

The prince is here to-night—I shall ask him. I am sorry it is sold.

Lady Dynely wishes very much to add it to her collection. The face of

that woman has haunted me ever since.”

 

His bronzed face pales a little, a troubled look comes into his eyes.

She sees it, and her girlish curiosity deepens. She cannot understand

her interest in this man, her interest in that picture, but both are

there.

 

“Is she still alive?” she asks, carelessly—“your model?”

 

“Miss Forrester, I painted that picture from memory, as I think I have

told you.”

 

“Then, your model was in your mind. But you have not answered my

question. Is the owner of that wonderful face still alive?”

 

“I beg your pardon. I believe not—I hope not.”

 

“Mr. Locksley!”

 

“I hope not,” he repeats, moodily. “A wicked wish, is it not, Miss

Forrester? But such women as that are better out of the world than in

it.”

 

“How very beautiful she must have been,” France says, dreamily; “even

with that tortured look you give her, she is beautiful still.”

 

“She was. The most beautiful woman I ever saw.”

 

It is not a flattering answer, but France Forrester is not offended. A

little out of the line of demure young ladyhood, she certainly might be

frank and outspoken at times to a startling degree, but honest as a

child and vain not at all.

 

“I wonder if you are her judge and accuser in that picture?” she thinks,

and looks up at him. “I wonder in what way that woman ever wronged

you?”

 

He catches her glance and understands it. A smile breaks up the dark

gravity of his face as he looks down at her.

 

“You honor my poor painting too much, Miss Forrester, by your interest,”

he says; “for the story it tells—that is over and done with many a long

year ago. The woman I have painted is one not worthy a second thought

from you—a woman who spoiled my whole life, whom I have reason to

believe dead, and whom, were she alive, I would go to the other end of

the earth sooner than meet. Why I painted that I hardly know—it was the

whim of a moment—that it would have the success it has met with I did

not dream.”

 

She colors slightly, he seems to have rebuked her irrepressible

curiosity. There is a romance then in this man’s life—girl-like, that

thought deepens her interest in him. A gentleman born she instinctively

feels he is, this artist who paints for his daily bread, who has been a

soldier of fortune for twelve years. Miss Forrester is by nature a

hero-worshipper, as Terry has said. And Mr. G. Locksley, whoever he is,

takes his place immediately on some vacant pedestal in her mind, to be

numbered among the heroes of her dreams henceforth.

 

They say no more about “How the Night Fell.” They linger, though, yet a

little longer among the immortals in the long gallery. Mr. Locksley

seems in no haste, and France feels an odd, altogether new pleasure, in

lingering and listening to his grave, quiet remarks, an odd distaste for

returning to the perfumed warmth, and glitter, and crush of the outer

rooms. But they go there presently, for all that, and at her suggestion.

She will be missed, and she has a vague recollection that she has

promised the Prince Di Venturini a waltz.

 

“And I will find out who has purchased Mr. Locksley’s picture,” the

little diplomat says to herself; “it is evident he is as curious about

it as I am.”

 

Prince Di Venturini is talking Italian politics eagerly to a knot of

starred and decorated gentlemen, but he breaks away, and comes up to

France as their waltz begins. As they float slowly away she plunges into

her grievance at once.

 

“It is unpardonable of you, prince, to have purchased the gem of the

Academy. I mean of course ‘How the Night Fell.’ I intended to have had

it myself.”

 

“Mais, Mon Dieu!” cried the prince, in his shrill Neapolitan French.

“I did not purchase it. All the ladies fall in love with it at sight, I

believe. How fortunate are these artists.”

 

“You did not purchase it!” France repeats in surprise. “Mr. Locksley

told me—”

 

“Ah, yes, Mr. Locksley told you, without doubt. Still, I did not buy the

picture for myself—I am not the pet of the public. I have not thousands

to throw away on a whim. It was Felicia.”

 

“Felicia, the actress! the—”

 

“Star of the Royal Bijou Theatre. Yes, mademoiselle, and at a most

fabulous price. To wish and to have are synonyms with Felicia.”

 

There is silence as they float around. Miss Forrester’s dark,

rose-crowned head is lifted over the top of his small, yellow

excellency’s two good inches. She feels it to be something more than

annoying—a positive adding of insult to injury, that this popular

danseuse should have won what she has lost.

 

It wears late; the evening ends. One by one coroneted carriages roll

away, and Mr. Locksley comes after some lofty personage, with ribbons

and orders, and takes leave of Lady Dynely.

 

“We hope to see you every Thursday, Mr. Locksley,” that lady says, very

graciously, and Mr. Locksley murmurs his acknowledgment, and pledges

himself to nothing.

 

“How do you like your genius, France?” inquires Terry Dennison. “Does he

bear the ordeal of close inspection, or does distance lend enchantment

to the view, as in the case of the Cheapside tailor’s son?”

 

“Mr. Locksley isn’t a genius,” Miss Forrester replies, trailing her silk

splendor up the stairs, “only a clever artist, who has painted one good

picture, and may never paint another. There are many such in all walks

of life, my dear child. Good-night, Terry—pleasant dreams.”

 

“Good-night, France—morning rather; and my dreams will not be of you.”

 

“Ingrate! Of whom then?”

 

“Of a little girl down in Lincolnshire. You don’t know her, Miss

Forrester, and she would stand abashed in your regal presence. But, ah!

there’s nothing like her under the London sun.”

 

And Terry’s blue eyes are absolutely luminous as he vanishes.

 

“Another heart gone!” reflects Miss Forrester, as she closes her door;

“and so it goes on. ‘Men may come and men may go, but that goes on

forever!’ Poor, good, honest Terry! I hope your course of true love

will run smooth at least. You are one of the exceptional men who do make

the women you marry happy.”

 

Miss Forrester rings for her maid, and her mind goes off at another

tangent.

 

“So Felicia has purchased Mr. Locksley’s picture! The dancer has taste.

By the bye, we’re due at the Royal Bijou to-morrow night. She is very

handsome; but these people owe all their beauty, I suppose, to paint,

and powder, and wigs. She dances exceptionally well, too; but she need

not have been in such haste buying that picture.”

 

She pauses in her wandering thoughts. Her eye falls upon a letter lying

on her dressing-table, under the clustering wax-lights. It bears the

Roman post-mark, and, with a little exclamation of joy, Miss Forrester

snatches it up.

 

“From grandmamma!” she says.

 

Mrs. Caryll is in reality but her father’s distant cousin, but so it

pleases France to call her. She breaks the seal and reads eagerly

through. After a few preliminary paragraphs, this is what the letter

said:

 

“You say nothing, my dear France, of Eric’s return. Has he not

returned then? It is really unpardonable of him to linger so long,

knowing you are in London. Oh, my daughter! I hope—I pray nothing

may occur to break off this alliance. I am fond of Eric—I love

you. To see you his happy wife is the desire of my heart. It is his

mother’s dearest wish also. In every respect it is most

suitable—both dowered with youth and wealth and beauty. He loves

you I am sure, France, and would have spoken before now had you let

him. But you have laughed at him and made light of his wishes

hitherto. And you are of so