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

moment—a moment that was an age of agony. Then he

turned, and silently and swiftly went out into the melancholy,

rain-beaten night.

 

CHAPTER XVI.

 

“LOYAL AU MORT.”

 

Straight to the Faubourg St. Honore, straight to the rooms of Lady

Dynely, Terry went. Crystal might be dying—was, no doubt, and he would

be before any of Eric’s messengers to break the news to Eric’s mother.

His teeth were set, his fists unconsciously clenched, his blue eyes

aflame. The blow, that for a moment had blinded him, burned on his face

still, like a brand of fire—the savage that is latent in all men, in

far better and deeper-cultured men than this big dragoon, was uppermost

now. Eric had struck him, basely and dastardly struck him. If by lifting

his finger, he could have saved Eric’s life, in this first blind fury he

would not have lifted it.

 

He strode into her private sitting-room, and inquired for Lady Dynely.

Yes, my lady was at home, had but just come, was on the verge of again

going out, but was at home. She would be with Mr. Dennison directly.

 

She was with him as the servant said it. She came rustling in, her pale,

flowing silks sweeping behind her, a cloak of velvet and fur falling off

her shoulders. Her dainty Parisian bonnet was on her head, a flurried,

wild look on her ever pale face, an excited sparkle in her light blue

eyes. As she entered, Dennison thought, with a thrill of recollection,

of the very first time he had seen her as she entered the Irish cabin in

the wet twilight, to change all his life for evermore. Had she changed

it for the better? If she had left him to grow up ignorant, and poor,

and unlettered, among his mother’s people, there in the wild Claddagh of

Galway, might he not have been a happier man to-night?

 

“Terry,” she cried, coming excitedly forward, both hands outstretched,

“what is this I hear? I was just starting for the Louvre as you were

announced. Half an hour ago I was at Lady Clarendon’s reception, and

there the rumor reached me of this horrible affair. Oh, Terry! speak and

tell me, it is only a rumor, that he will not be so mad, so wicked, so

utterly reckless, as to risk his life.”

 

So! that was told! He drew in his breath hard. All must come out now.

 

“Of what do you speak, Lady Dynely?”

 

“Do you not know? Oh, then it must be false. If it were true you would

be the very first Eric would tell. Wretched boy! he is always worrying

me to death of late—yes, ever since his return last August. And now his

neglect of his wife, poor little creature, and his running after this

horrible dancer. Oh! what a trouble sons are to mothers. Terry, I heard a

shocking story whispered about at Lady Clarendon’s. Captain de

Concressault dropped in there for ten minutes, and it seems he set the

ball going. But, it cannot be true.”

 

“Captain de Concressault is a good one to keep a secret,” thought Terry,

grimly.

 

“What was it De Concressault said?” inquired he, aloud.

 

“Oh! a most scandalous thing. It would break my heart if I thought

it true. That Eric went to a masked ball, at one of those places

here, with that woman, Felicia; that there he met Prince Di

Venturini, who had followed to watch them, that a dreadful quarrel

ensued, and that Eric knocked the prince down again and again.

Everyone was horrified—naturally. And I left immediately and came

here, to change my dress and go direct to the Louvre. Terry, you are

silent; you look—oh! good Heaven! Terry, don’t tell me it is true!”

 

But Dennison stood silent, his head bent down, his eyes averted, his

hat, which he had not yet removed, shading his bruised and discolored

face.

 

“Terry, I command you! Speak and tell me—is this story true?”

 

“Lady Dynely—I am afraid it is.”

 

She laid her hand over her heart, turning ghastly pale.

 

“And Eric went there with that woman, his wife ailing at home—went to

that wicked dancing-place, and insulted Prince Di Venturini?”

 

“My lady—yes.”

 

He spoke reluctantly, each admission dragged from him. Falsehoods came

never readily to Dennison, and then, of what use were falsehoods here?

She must know.

 

“He insulted Di Venturini, a man who fights duels upon the smallest

provocation—who will take no insults from any one. Terry, tell me—tell

me the truth, I command! Has Di Venturini challenged Eric?”

 

“Lady Dynely, I am sorry, sorry to have to say once more—yes.”

 

Her blue eyes dilated, the last trace of color faded from her face.

 

“And Eric?” she said, in a sort of whisper. “Eric has–-”

 

“Accepted. There was no alternative. I am very sorry,” Dennison said

again.

 

She sat down suddenly on a sofa near, so ghastly that he drew close in

alarm.

 

“Lady Dynely, good Heaven! you are going to faint. Shall I–-”

 

She motioned him to be still, the sick, giddy faintness that was like

death, holding her speechless.

 

“Wait,” she said, with a gasp. “I—I won’t faint. Oh, Terry! What is

this? Oh, my Eric! my son, my son.”

 

She buried her face in her hands and was still, whether crying or

praying Terry could not tell. He stood uneasily looking at her, feeling

horribly uncomfortable, not knowing in the least what to do or say.

 

She looked up after a moment. Her eyes were red and inflamed, but she

was not crying.

 

“When do they meet? The truth, I insist.”

 

“To-morrow morning at daybreak,” he answered, almost under his breath.

 

“And they fight with pistols?” she shuddered, convulsively, from head to

foot, as she said it.

 

“With pistols.”

 

“And Di Venturini will kill him!” she cried out, rising up. “Oh, I see

it all! I see it all! They will meet there in some lonely place at

day-dawn, and my boy, my darling, my Eric, will be foully murdered. Oh,

Heaven, have mercy on me and on him!”

 

She flung herself once more upon the sofa, her whole body convulsively

quivering.

 

“He will kill him! he will kill him. This time to-morrow my darling will

be dead! Oh, I cannot bear it! I will not bear it!” She started up

madly. “This is murder!” she cried shrilly; “foul, cold-blooded murder.

It must be stopped.”

 

He stood silent, thrilled to the soul by her agony. But again—what

could he say, what could he do?

 

“Terry!” she cried, seizing him by the arm and shaking him in her

passion, “why don’t you say something? Why don’t you do something? Why

don’t you tell me what to do? Oh, you don’t care! No one cares. You

stand there like a stone and tell me that to-morrow at daybreak my boy

is to be murdered. I asked you to take care of him, to keep him from

danger, and you promised, and this is how you keep your word. You stand

here safe and well, and to-morrow—oh, my heart! to-morrow Eric is to be

shot! Go!” She flung him from her with passionate strength. “You are a

coward and a traitor! You swore to me, and you have broken your oath.

You might have prevented this, and you have not. Terry Dennison, I hate

you!”

 

He put out his hand blindly, as though to ward off a blow.

 

“For God’s sake, mother!” he said, hoarsely.

 

“Don’t call me mother!” she cried, in her insane frenzy. “I wish I had

never seen you. I wish I had left you there, in Galway, to live and die.

Oh! you might have saved him—you might—you might—and you would not.

You come here and tell me that to-morrow you will stand by and see him

shot. But you shall not!” she shrieked. “I will go myself—now—this

instant, to Eric, to Di Venturini, and on my knees I will beg for my

darling’s life. I know the prince—he will listen to me—to me, a most

wretched mother.” Her horror, her fear, had driven her for the moment

absolutely distraught. She would have rushed from the room but that

Dennison caught her.

 

“Lady Dynely, you must not go. For pity’s sake stay a moment longer.

Eric will never forgive you if you do this.”

 

“He will not be alive to-morrow morning if I do not do it! Let me go,

Terry Dennison! You will not lift a finger to save him—your own

brother—so I must. Let me go.”

 

But he held her fast.

 

“Wait a moment,” he said; and something in his tone, in his face, even

through all her madness, made her stop.

 

She looked at him with eyes all wild and wide with terror, and for the

first time saw the bruised and swollen disfiguration of his face. She

snatched off his hat and looked at him full.

 

“Terry!” she exclaimed, “what is this?”

 

He turned crimson—a burning, shameful crimson, from brow to chin. In

those supreme moments of life, the perceptive faculties are

preternaturally sharpened—like a flash the truth burst upon her.

 

“Terry!” she cried out in new horror, “Eric has done this!”

 

He did not speak—he could not. Like inspiration, something of the real

truth came to her.

 

“You and he have quarrelled, and he has struck you! Terry I—you—you

have not struck him back?”

 

“No,” he said, hoarsely and breathlessly, “I did not strike him back.

Mother, be silent! the devil has been in me strongly enough once

to-night. Let me forget this blow if I can.”

 

She flung her arms around his neck, and kissed the brutal mark of her

darling’s handiwork.

 

“Forgive him, Terry!” she said. “He is your brother—your only brother,

and he does not know what he does. Forgive him, have pity on me. In some

way you can, you must, prevent this duel. He is all I have. I have loved

him so fondly—oh! with more than mother’s love—I have been so proud of

him, of his beauty, of his grace, of his talents. Everywhere he has gone

people have loved and admired him. He is all I have—all I ever had. My

heart is wrapped up in him. He worries me—he troubles me, but I could

not live if I lost him. Terry! Terry! pity me—pity him. He is so

young—life is so bright for him. Pity his wife, whom you love—and in

some way– oh, in any way! save his life.”

 

Her arms held him close—her pale passionate face, over which the tears

poured, was upheld to his. So in the supreme selfishness of mother love,

she pleaded. In some way she instinctively felt that her only earthly

hope was in Terry Dennison.

 

He stood still—a horrible struggle going on within him. He had gone

to Eric in all good faith and fellowship, ready to take his place

to-morrow before Di Venturini’s pistol. And Eric’s answer had been a

blow. No man had ever struck him before—no man ever was likely to

again. It burned like a brand at this moment. And he was called upon

to forgive this—this and the hundred other insults Eric Dynely had

offered him, and at all risks save his life.

 

“Terry,” Lady Dynely said, still holding him close, “do you remember

that afternoon last August? We were alone together at Dynely, and I told

you your story. I need never have told you—who was there to make me?

You knelt at my feet, and I put my arms around you, and kissed you for

the first time. I loved you then—I have loved you