it was early in may. the academy had been open about a week, long enough for the newspaper critics to tell the public what it ought to admire. strange to say, this year the critics were unanimous in bestowing their highest praises on a piece of statuary, and a great future for the sculptor was predicted.
no. 1460 in the catalogue appealed to no one by cheap sentiment or sensational treatment. it was but the lightly-draped figure of a beautiful girl; one in the first flush of womanhood. she was in the act of stepping hastily forward. her arms were extended as if to welcome, perhaps embrace, some one who was coming towards her. her face bore a smile of eager delight. the grace, the likeness, the life of the figure arrested each passer by. the fall of the drapery, the position of each well-rounded limb, conveyed the idea of rapid motion. it was indeed hard to believe that she was doomed to remain forever in one fixed attitude. the stock remark of the spectators was that in a minute they expected to see her at the other side of the room.
this statute bore no distinguishing title, but those persons who turned to their catalogues found, under the number and the artist’s name, a few words of poetry:
“her hands outstretched
to greet the new love; whilst her feet
tread, scornful, on the old love’s gifts.”
after reading this one turned, of course, to her feet, and found that one of them was treading on flowers—roses and large star-shaped blossoms.
several people, whilst admiring the statue, fancied they had somewhere seen the original of that beautiful face; but, save the sculptor, only one, james herbert, knew the truth. he cursed leigh’s impertinence, but was too wise to take any notice of it. yet he determined to keep eugenia from the academy, if possible.
she was in town, and in a week’s time was to be married to sir ralph. two months after mrs. cathcart had taken her niece abroad, the baronet joined them, and renewed his proposals; this time with success. the girl stipulated that the marriage should not take place until the spring. the truth is she wanted some months’ delay in order to get rid of the memories of gerald leigh, and by the time she returned to england flattered herself she had successfully completed the operation.
she had in the last few days heard some talk about the statue, but had steadfastly kept her eyes from the art criticisms, fearing to see gerald’s name. nevertheless, she wished to visit the academy, and was surprised when james herbert, now amiability itself, refused to take her there.
“you mustn’t go this year,” he said; “that fellow’s statute is creating quite a furore.”
“well, what of that!” asked eugenia, coldly.
“he has had bad taste enough to represent you. the likeness is unmistakable. it is a maudlin thing—a girl deserting her old love, or some such nonsense. still, you’d better not go.”
eugenia said no more, but all day long she was[185] thinking of her brother’s words, and longing to see what gerald had wrought. that evening she dined out. at the table were several persons who worshipped art, and eugenia’s cheek burned as she heard the praise bestowed on the new sculptor and the great future prophesied for him. had she, after all, been wrong? would it not have been better to have followed the mandates of her heart? had she not been weak and mercenary? no matter; it was too late now to repent. poor gerald! she must see this wonderful image of herself.
early next morning she went alone to burlington house. unlike others, she knew the meaning of the statue, knew the mute reproach it conveyed, knew why the marble foot trod down those particular flowers. she had never told him the fate of his boyish gift; but gerald had often and often recalled his first meeting with her. eugenia’s heart swelled as she remembered his brave words and confidence in himself—how sure he felt of success. he had, indeed, succeeded, but the first great work from his hands was a memento of his love for a faithless woman—herself.
two gentlemen were at her side. they were talking of the work and the sculptor. one of them she knew. he was a lord, famous for his love of art and encouragement of rising artists.
“i tried to buy it,” he said, “but found it was not for sale.”
“commercially speaking,” said his companion, “it is as well you cannot buy it.”
“why? the man must go to the top of his profession.”
“i think not. indeed, my belief is he will do little more. i have inquired about him. he does not live the life a genius must live in these days if he wants to succeed.”
“i am sorry to hear it,” said lord ——, moving away.
miss herbert left the academy with an echo of gerald’s extravagant statement that life or death hung upon her love sounding in her ears. the conversation she had overheard distressed her greatly. the thought that her treachery had ruined a life full of promise would not be dismissed. she spent a most miserable day, and its misery was not diminished by the truth, which she could no longer conceal from herself, that she still loved gerald. she loved him more than ever. too late! too late! and eugenia herbert wept, as many others have wept, that the past could not be undone.
sir ralph norgate and james herbert dined that evening at mrs. cathcart’s. their society was little comfort to eugenia. she felt now that she hated her lover—hated his polite, hollow society ways and expressions—hated that blasé look which so often settled on his face. she had never cared for him. their love-making had been of a frigid kind—not, be it said, by sir ralph’s wish. he was proud of, and perhaps really fond of, the beautiful girl he had bought; so it was scarcely fair that eugenia should compare his polite wooing with that of the impassioned boy’s, which recked no obstacles—heeded no consequences.
her bitter thoughts made it impossible for her to sit out the dinner. very soon she pleaded headache and went to her own room to resume her self-revilings. she made no further attempt to banish gerald from[187] her thoughts. she lived again every moment she had spent in his company—heard again every word of wild love—felt his hand close on hers—his lips press her own—and shuddered as the dismal words “life or death,” seemed echoing through her ears. if she could but undo the past!
why not! the thought rushed through her. what hindered her save the false gods to whom she had bent? she was still legally free. gerald was in the same town. why should she heed her friends? why trouble as to what people would think or say? by one bold step she could right everything. if to-morrow—nay, this very hour—she went to gerald and bade him take her and hold her against all, she knew he would do so. he would forgive. to him her action would not seem bold or unmaidenly. in his eyes she would rank as high as ever; and what mattered the rest? to-morrow they might be miles away, and the bliss of being gerald’s wife might well compensate for what people would say about her conduct. she herself could forget all, save that she was now bound forever to the man she loved!
she would do it. with feverish impatience she threw off her rich dress and wrapped herself in a plain cloak. she put on the quietest hat she could find, stole down stairs, and was out of the house before second thoughts had time to bring irresolution. her heart beat wildly. she hailed a cab and was driven to nelson studios. on the way she remembered it was an unlikely hour to find an artist in his studio, but, nevertheless, now she had set out, resolved to complete her journey.
she walked quickly to gerald’s door. she knocked[188] softly, but met with no response. she dared not wait longer outside. the pictured consequences of her rash act were assuming tremendous proportions in her brain. another minute’s delay and she must leave the spot never to return. she turned the handle of the door and entered the room.
now, miss herbert’s half-formed plan of action when she found herself face to face with her ill-treated lover, had been something like this—she would walk up to him and simply say, “gerald, i am come.” the rest must be left to him, but she believed, in spite of her weakness and treachery, he would freely forgive her all.
gerald was not in the studio. the gas was half-turned down, and the clay casts on the wall looked grim and spectral. but, if gerald was not in the room it was still inhabited. on a low couch—a couch covered by a rich oriental rug—lay a woman, fast asleep.
she crept across the room and gazed on the sleeper. even by the dim gas-light she knew that she gazed on beauty before which her own must pale. the woman might have been some five years older than herself, and those wonderful charms were at their zenith. the rich, clear, warm color on the cheek, the long black lashes, the arched and perfect eyebrows, told of southern lands. the full, voluptuous figure, the shapely, rounded arms, the red lips, the soft creamy neck—before these the heart of man would run as wax before a fire. eugenia, seeking her lover, found this woman in her stead.
a bitter, scornful smile played on miss herbert’s lips as she gazed at the sleeper. somehow that oval,[189] sunny face seemed familiar to her. well might it be. in london, paris, everywhere, she had seen it in the shop windows. there were few people in france or england who had not heard the name of mlle. carlotta, singer, dancer, darling of opera-bouffe, whose adventures and amours were notorious, who had ruined more men than she could count on the fingers of her fair hands.
eugenia recognized her, and her smile of scorn deepened. the sight of a half-emptied champagne bottle close to the sleeper, a half-smoked cigarette lying on the floor just as it had fallen from her fingers, added nothing to the contempt miss herbert’s smile expressed. gathering her skirts together to avoid any chance of contamination by touch, she was preparing to leave the studio as noiselessly as she had entered it, when suddenly the sleeper awoke.
awoke without any warning. simply opened her splendid dark eyes, stared for half a second, then, with wonderful lightness and agility, sprang to her feet.
“que faites vous la? why are you here?” she cried.
without a word eugenia moved towards the door. mlle. carlotta was before her. she turned the key and placed her back against the door.
“doucement! doucement! ma belle,” she said. “permit me to know who honors me with a visit?”
“i wished to see mr. leigh. i suppose he is out. be good enough to let me pass.”
“are you a model, then? but no; models look not as you look.”
“i am not a model.”
“not! fi donc! you are, perhaps, one of those young misses who write geraldo letters of love. a la bonne heure! i wish to see one of them—moi.”
with a saucy smile carlotta pocketed the key, turned up the gas, and commenced a cool scrutiny of her prisoner. eugenia blushed crimson.
“qui vous etes belle, ma chere—belle mais blonde, and geraldo, he loves not the blonde.”
“let me pass!” said eugenia, stamping her foot.
her tormentor laughed, but not ill-temperedly.
“he will soon be here,” she said mockingly. “surely mademoiselle will wait. he will be enchanted to see one of the young misses.”
mlle. carlotta, when not injured, was not vindictive or unkindly; but she was as mischievous as a monkey. no doubt, having teased the girl to her satisfaction, she would have soon released her, but it happened that eugenia turned her head, and for the first time the light shone full upon her face. her gaoler started. she sprang towards her, seized her arm and dragged her across the room. still holding her captive, she tore down a sheet and revealed the clay model of the statue which had made gerald famous. she looked from the lifeless to the living face then burst into a peal of derisive laughter. eugenia’s secret was discovered.
“ha! ha! ha! the young miss that geraldo loved. the one who threw him away for a rich lover! yet, she wishes to see him again—so at night she comes. ah, mademoiselle, you have w-r-r-recked him, c-r-r-rushed him, r-r-ruined him, still would see him. good; good! it is now his turn. my gerald shall have revenge—revenge!”
eugenia, thoroughly aroused, commanded her to let[191] her go. carlotta laughed in her face, was even ill-bred enough to snap her fingers and poke out her tongue at her prisoner. eugenia humbled herself, and implored her by their common womanhood. carlotta laughed the louder. eugenia appealed to her venality, and tried to bribe her. carlotta lowered her black eyebrows and scowled, but laughed louder than ever. “he will come very soon,” was all she said. “he will not stop long away from me—carlotta.”
miss herbert was at her wit’s end. yet, even through the shame of the situation, the anguish of her heart made itself felt. after having wrought herself up to make such a sacrifice, such an atonement, it was pitiable to find gerald no better than the rest of his sex! she sat upon a chair longing for release, yet dreading to hear the step which would herald it.
half an hour passed. mlle. carlotta whiled it away by emptying a glass of champagne, smoking a cigarette, and making comments upon gerald’s prolonged absence. presently she cried, “ah, mademoiselle, this is dull for you; see, i will dance to you,” and therewith she raised herself on her toes and went pirouetting round her captive, humming the while an air of offenbach’s. her dress was long, but she managed it with marvellous skill, and eugenia, whilst loathing, could not help watching her with a sort of fascination. she was as agile as a panther; every attitude was full of grace, every gesture alluring.
suddenly she stopped short. her great eyes sparkled even more brightly. she glanced at her victim. “hist!” she said. “i hear him. i know his step. he comes!”
a moment afterwards the door was tried. eugenia covered her face with her hands. she knew not what the woman meant to do or say, but she felt that her crowning shame was at hand. yet her heart beat at the thought of seeing gerald once more, and a wild idea of forgiveness on either side passed through her.
mlle. carlotta turned down the gas, unlocked the door, and, as it opened, threw herself into the arms of the new-comer. eugenia heard the sound of kisses given and returned, and her heart grew like stone.
“geraldo, mon ami,” she heard the dancer say in passionate tones, “dis moi, que tu m’aimes—que tu m’aimes toujours!”
“je t’adore ma belle—tu es ravissante!”
“tell me in your own dear barbarous tongue. swear it to me in english.”
“i swear it, my beautiful gipsy. i love you.”
“me only?”
“you only;” and eugenia heard him kiss her again and again.
“dis done, my geraldo. you love me more than the pale-faced miss who scorned you?” he laughed a wild, unpleasant sounding laugh.
“why not? you can love or say you can love. she was the changeable white moon; you are the glorious southern sun. she was ice; you are fire. better be burnt to death than die of cold and starvation. men have worshipped you—men have died for you. i love you.”
they came into the room. his arm was round her. her radiant face rested on his shoulder. again and again he kissed those beautiful lips. his eyes were only for her and saw not eugenia.
miss herbert rose. her face was as white as her marble prototype’s. she might have passed out unobserved by gerald, but mlle. carlotta was on the watch. she pointed to her, and gerald turned and saw eugenia.
he had but time to realize it was no vision—then she was gone. with a wild cry he turned to follow her, but the woman twined her arms around him and restrained him. she was strong, and for some moments detained him. her resistance maddened him. with a fierce oath he grasped her round arms and tore them from his neck, throwing her away with such force that she fell upon the floor. then he rushed after eugenia.
she was walking swiftly along the road. he soon reached her side; but, although aware of his presence, she neither spoke nor looked at him.
“what brought you here?” he said hoarsely.
she made no reply—only walked the faster.
“tell me why you came?” he said. “i will never leave you until you answer me.”
she turned and looked at him. fresh from that scene in the studio—with those words still ringing in her ears—even the great change she saw in his face did not move her to pity.
“i came,” she said, “on the eve of my marriage, to ask forgiveness of a man whom i fancied i had wronged. i am glad i came. i found him happy, and in society after his own heart.”
her voice was cold and contemptuous. he quivered beneath her scorn. at that moment a cab passed. eugenia called it.
“leave me!” she said to gerald. “leave me! our paths in life shall cross no more.”
he grasped her wrist. “do you dare to reproach me? you! eugenia, i told you it was life or death.”
“life or death!” she repeated. “death, at any rate, seems made very sweet to you.”
still holding her wrist, he looked into her eyes in a strange, hopeless way. he saw nothing in them to help him. he leaned down to her ear.
“yes, death,” he said in a solemn whisper; “but the moral and spiritual death comes first.”
his hand left her wrist. he turned, and without a word strode away. whither? even as tannhauser returned to the venusberg, so gerald leigh returned to his studio and carlotta.
eugenia wept all the way home. wept for herself and gerald. wept for the shame she had endured. wept for the uselessness of the contemplated atonement. wept for the life before her, and for a man’s future and career wrecked by her weakness.
the next week she married sir ralph norgate. the ceremony was surrounded by befitting splendor. yet, even at the alter, gerald leigh’s pale passionate face rose before her, and she knew it would never leave her thoughts. she loved him still!
on her wedding morning she received many letters. she had no time to read them, so took them with her, and perused them as she went north with her husband. among them was one in a strange handwriting; it ran thus:
“for your sake he struck me—carlotta! but he came back to me and is mine again. him i forgive; not you. we go abroad together to warm, sunny lands. some day we shall quarrel and part. then i shall remember you and take my revenge. how? that husband, for whom you deserted gerald, i shall take from you.”
eugenia’s lip curled. she tore the letter and threw the pieces out of the carriage window.
two years afterwards lady norgate was listlessly turning the leaves of a society journal. although she was a great and fashionable lady she was often listless, and found life rather a dreary proceeding. she read to-day, among the theatrical notes, that mlle. carlotta, the divine opera bouffe actress, was engaged to appear next month at the “frivolity.” although the woman’s absurd threat was unheeded, if not forgotten, her name recalled too vividly the most painful episode in lady norgate’s life. she turned to another part of the paper and read that the gentleman who committed suicide under such distressing circumstances, at monaco, had now been identified. he was mr. gerald leigh, the sculptor, whose first important work attracted so much attention two years ago. it was hinted that his passion for a well-known actress was the cause of the rash deed.
lady norgate dropped the paper, and covered her face with her hands. he had spoken truly. her love meant life or death!
had she believed, or troubled about the concluding paragraph of the notice, had she ventured to tell herself it was true that gerald had forgotten her, and carlotta was responsible for his death, her mind would soon have been set at rest.
like a courteous foe who gives fair warning, mlle. carlotta wrote once more:
“he is dead. he died for your sake, not mine. your name, not mine, was on his lips. look to yourself. i am coming to london.”
no doubt carlotta meant this letter as a first blow[196] towards revenge. she would hardly have written it had she known that lady norgate would cherish those words forever. poor comfort as it was, they told her that gerald had loved her to the last.
then mlle. carlotta, more beautiful, more enticing, more audacious than ever, came to london.
for some months it had been whispered in society that sir ralph norgate was not so perfect a husband as such a wife as eugenia might rightly expect. after carlotta’s reappearance the whispers grew louder, the statements more circumstantial. eugenia caught an echo of them and smiled disdainfully.
then the name of carlotta’s new victim became town-talk. yet eugenia made no sign.
not even when she met her husband, in broad daylight, seated side by side with the siren. the man had the grace to turn his head away, but carlotta shot a glance of malicious triumph at the pale lady who passed without a quiver of the lip. james herbert was with his sister, and found this encounter too much even for his cynicism. he was bound to speak.
“the blackguard!” he said. “but eugenia, i don’t think i would have a divorce or a separation. it makes such a scandal.”
“it is a matter of perfect indifference to me,” she said coldly.
she spoke the truth. carlotta’s romantic vengeance was an utter failure. lady norgate and her husband were, in truth, no farther apart than they had been for many months. eugenia was indifferent.
and, as time goes on, grows more and more so. indifferent to wealth, indifferent to rank, to pleasure, even to pain. she cherishes nothing, cares for nothing,[197] save the remembrance that she was once loved by gerald leigh—that he bade her give him life or death—that although she gave him death, he died with her name on his lips!
