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

et sans reproche?” puts in young Lord Dynely.

 

“Without fear and without reproach. Yes, exactly. Not a man about town,

mind you; an elegant tailor’s block, too much in love with himself ever

to love his wife; but a strong man, a brave man, a hero—”

 

“‘I’m Captain Jinks, of the Horse Marines,’” hums Lord Dynely, that

popular ditty having about that time burst upon an enraptured world.

 

“A man I can look up to, be proud of, who will do something in the

world; anything but a handsome dandy who parts his hair in the middle,

who wears purple and fine linen, and whose highest aim in life is to lie

at young ladies’ feet and drawl out the eternal passion that consumes

him—a gentleman whose loves are as numerous as the stars, and not half

so eternal.”

 

In this spirited way Miss Forrester had been used to rebuff her would-be

lover, and did sometimes succeed in piquing Eric into deserting her in

disgust.

 

A young lady so strong-minded as this at sixteen, what was she likely to

be at twenty? He pitied her for her lack of taste—other girls went down

before those blue eyes of his, for which Miss Forrester expressed such

profound contempt. It had never really meant much with either of them

until this night on the terrace. And this night on the terrace Lord

Dynely had been in earnest at last.

 

In some way her honor was bound—more or less, while she had laughed at

the wished-for alliance, she had yet accepted it. Miss Forrester had a

very high sense of honor, and was an exceedingly proud girl. To play

fast or loose with any man, as Eric had said, was utterly impossible. In

no way was she a coquette. Men had admired her, had fallen in love with

her, had wanted to marry her; but the mistake had been of their own

making; she had never led them on. If, indeed, then, her honor and truth

stood compromised here, she must marry Eric. He did not love her—that

she knew as well now as she had known it always; if she married him, she

would be a most unhappy, unloved and neglected wife—that she also knew.

And yet if he held her to it, if Lady Dynely held her to it, if Mrs.

Caryll held her to it, what was she to do? To grieve those that loved

her was a trial to her generous nature, and she was of the age and the

kind to whom self-sacrifice, self-abnegation, look great and glorious

things. Yes, it would resolve itself into this—if Lord Dynely held her

to their compact, she must marry Lord Dynely.

 

And then out of the mist of the moonlight, the face of Locksley arose,

the grave, reproachful eyes, the broad, thoughtful brow, the firm,

resolute lips, hid behind that gold, bronze beard, France thought the

most beautiful on earth. She covered her face with both hands as if to

shut it out.

 

“I cannot! I cannot!” she said. “I cannot marry Eric. It is most

selfish, most ungenerous, most cruel to hold me to a promise I never

gave.”

 

Then there came before her a vision—a vision of what her life might be

as Locksley’s wife. With her fortune and his genius, loving and beloved,

what a beautiful and perfect life would lie before her.

 

Suddenly the carelessly spoken words of Eric came back to her:

 

“One of these mysterious men who have an obnoxious wife hidden away in

some quarter of the globe.” She turned cold at the thought. Was there

anything in it—anything beyond a jealous man’s malicious innuendo?

There was that strange picture, “How The Night Fell”—his own strange

remarks concerning it. Who was to tell what lay in the life behind him?

Somehow, he looked like a man who had a secret, who had lived every day

of his life, and that life no common one. She sighed; her train of

thought broke; she got up abruptly, closed the window, and went to bed.

 

She was looking pale next morning when she descended to breakfast, in

spite of the rose-pink cashmere she wore; a shade too pale, fastidious,

Eric thought, but very handsome, with the ease of high-bred grace in

every word and act; a wife, he repeated again, who would do honor to any

man in England. How well she would look at St. George’s in bridal veil

and blossoms, white satin and Honiton lace, and how all the men he knew

would envy him. In his love-making, as in every pursuit of life, self

was ever uppermost with Lord Dynely.

 

“Is this one of the Locksley’s painting days?” he asked after breakfast;

“because I want to see the picture. Does he come here or do you go

there? Does Mahomet come to the mountain, or does the mountain, etc.? I

must have that duplicate I spoke of, France. To possess the original

will not content me; I must have the counterfeit presentment also.”

 

This in a tender whisper and a look from under the long, blonde

eyelashes that had done killing execution in its time. It missed fire,

however, so far as France was concerned.

 

“I doubt if Mr. Locksley will take time to paint duplicates, Eric. Men

who make their mark, as he has done, do not generally devote themselves

to portrait painting. Here he comes now.”

 

Her color rose as she said it—her pale cheeks took a tint rivalling her

dress. Lord Dynely saw it and frowned. Mentally, that is; so ugly a

thing as a frown seldom marred the smooth fairness of that low brow.

 

“Capital fellow, Locksley,” he said, carelessly. “Saw a great deal of

him at one time in Naples. Can tell a good story, and knock off a neat

after-dinner speech better than any man I know. The set he lived

among—painting fellows all—used to drop hints, though, about that

discarded wife. There is one somewhere, depend upon it, and Locksley

didn’t act over and above well in the business, it was understood.”

 

France turned upon him, herself again, a look of cool contempt in her

eyes.

 

“Eric, don’t be ill-natured. I hate womanish men, and there’s nothing on

earth so womanish as to slander absent friends. We do that; but let us

retain the copyright.”

 

And then she turns away and goes over to Mr. Locksley, looking proud and

lovely, and holds out her hand in cordial welcome.

 

“One may have a look at the portrait, I suppose, Locksley?” Eric

suggests, unabashed.

 

Mr. Locksley assents; and they adjourn to the painting-room—Terry, who

drops in, following in their wake. It is in an unfinished state as yet,

lacking in all details, but it is a beautiful and striking picture.

 

From a cloud of misty drapery the face looks vividly out, the lips

gravely smiling, the serene eyes earnest and luminous to their very

depths, an etherealized expression intensifying its beauty. He has

idealized it unconsciously—a handsome girl has sat to him—he has

painted a divinity.

 

France stands and looks, and her face flushes. Ah! she has never worn

that look. She knows she is of the earth, earthy—very little of the

angel about her, after all. And he has painted more an angel than a

woman.

 

“He’m,” says Eric, with his hand over his eyes, critically, “very

good—very pretty, indeed. Paint a halo round her and call it St.

Teresa, or St. Cecelia at once—it looks like that sort of thing, you

know. It’s a pretty picture, but it isn’t you, France; that is not your

natural expression.”

 

“No,” France says, under her breath. “I am sorry to say it is not.”

 

“And I prefer your natural expression,” goes on Eric. “It is very well

done, as I said before, but it doesn’t do you justice.”

 

“And I think it is grossly flattered,” puts in Terry, gruffly.

 

France bestows upon him a look of absolute gratitude.

 

“Flattered! I should think so, Terry. That face Mr. Locksley has

painted out of his inner consciousness, and is what France Forrester

should be—what, I regret to add, she is not.”

 

Mr. Locksley takes no part in the discussion; he goes steadfastly on

with his work. Terry yawns loudly, whistles in an aimless way, thrusts

his hands in his pockets, and stares at the artist’s rapid movements,

until France, whose nerves he sets on edge, orders him peremptorily to

leave the room. Eric lingers, lounging in a deep window, looking

unutterably patrician and handsome in his black velvet morning coat,

contrasting so perfectly with his pearl-like complexion and fair hair.

He remains all through the sitting, he follows France out into the

Italian rose garden when it is over, he hangs about her like her shadow

all day, and makes tender little speeches when he can. At dinner it is

the same—in the evening it is worse. He is really and truly in earnest

for the time. Whilst he was sure of her he was indifferent—now that he

stands a chance of losing her he works himself into a fever of devotion.

She is in love with Locksley, Locksley with her—that he sees. That hit

about the hidden wife has stung. The green-eyed monster blows the slight

fire of his affection into a blaze. He will win and wear Miss Forrester,

or know the reason why. France endures it as long as she can. That is

not very long. At no time are patience and meekness her most notable

virtues; as Eric bends persistently over the piano for an hour at a

stretch, the slight thread of that patience gives way at last.

 

“Eric, do give me a moment’s peace,” she cries out. “Go and play chess

with your mother; go and talk to Terry or Mr. Steeves; go and make love

to Miss Hanford; go and smoke a cigar in the dew; anything, only leave

me alone.”

 

He starts up, his pride fairly stung.

 

“As you please. As I am so disagreeable to you, suppose I take myself

away from the Abbey altogether.”

 

“I wish you would,” she answers cordially, “for this week at least. You

irritate me beyond measure haunting me in this way. Leave me alone,

Eric, if you really care for my decision.”

 

“If I really care!” he reproachfully repeats.

 

“The more generous you are, the better your chances will be. When the

week is up, come back if you like, for—for your answer.”

 

“France! and if that answer be favorable. If! Good Heaven, it must be,”

he cries.

 

“Then”—her voice trembles, she turns her face away from him in the glow

of the wax-lights—“then you will never more hear me complain of your

attentions.”

 

He lifts her hand and kisses it.

 

“I will go,” he says, gently. “Forgive me, France, but the thought of

losing you is so—”

 

“Don’t,” she says, in a voice that is almost one of pain. “Where will

you go?”

 

“To Lincolnshire—to Sir Philip Carruthers’ place. I have had a standing

invitation to Carruthers’ Court for the past two years.”

 

“What’s that about Lincolnshire?” Terry asks, appearing. “I’m off

there—are you on the wing again, Eric?”

 

“For a week, yes—to Carruthers’. You’re a Lincolnshire man, Terry—do

you know it?”

 

“Do I not? It is three miles from Starling vicarage. Shall be glad to

meet you there, dear old boy. Capital fishing, best trout streams

anywhere, prime shooting a little later on. We will—”

 

“‘We will hunt the bear and bison, we will shoot the wild raccoon,

We will worship Mumbo Jumbo in the Mountains of the Moon!’”

 

spouts France. “There are nine pretty Misses Higgins—aren’t there,

Terry? Don’t let Eric poach on