had duplessis, flowers in hand, sued his forgiveness at any time, she was not the woman to be stern. that was not in her; she was at once too sensitive to the flattery of the prayer, and too generous to refuse it. but at this particular time she felt very strong; fresh from communion with her friend, secure in him, she felt equal to judging a dozen tristrams—and to judging them leniently. “they know not what they do.” that was why she had smiled so wisely to herself on her way upstairs; and it may have been why she wore some of his flowers in the waistband of her gown that night. it was one of her most charming gowns, too; mouse-coloured tulle. in the belt of this she set crimson roses, of tristram’s offering.
she dined out, and went on to a party. duplessis was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs; they went up together. he had never yet taken possession of her in that manner, and cannot be excused of brutality. but he was quick to presume; was not at all a good object for generosity. her eyes had answered his inquiry—“forgiven?” before he touched her hand; she had said “of course,” and the rest followed as a matter of course. he assumed from it his right to be offensive, and her privilege to be unoffended. she went upstairs by his side, so far as he was concerned, possessed to all intents and purposes—under his protection. she did not know it then or even feel it; her lightness of heart buoyed her up. had she not been encouraged in adventure?
by the time they were well past their hostess at the door tristram had resumed this air of the vaguely irritated lion. he looked grandly about him over heads—his height gave him pretence.
“what are we to do here—? all these people—a wilderness of monkeys—” when a young man, sure of welcome, had come up on toe-tips to shake hands with mrs. germain—had bowed, prattled, bowed and gone, duplessis showed more than fatigue. he had seen his crimson flowers at her belt, and they bretrayed him. “i want to talk to you. let’s go and sit down somewhere. it can’t be here.” he spoke shortly, as if he meant it.
she took his arm without question, and he pushed a way through a couple of full rooms. beyond these was a little boudoir, beyond that a library, empty. she sat, and he stood fidgeting with reviews on the table, taking up and throwing aside like a child sick of toys. and she sat softly there with cast-down eyes, waiting until he chose to remember her.
she was very conscious of his mood, and not unsatisfied with it. the whole thing was a game, an adventure, say, and this a recognized move in it. “have your adventures—don’t shirk them. sincerity is the great matter. be yourself whatever happens.” he had been plucking up the grass at her feet as he told her that, and she had not been able to see his face, though she had tried. he spoke deliberately, as if he was screwing the words out one by one—as if they ought to be said, cost him what they might to say. had they cost him anything? ah, if she could have known that!
but—“be yourself whatever happens!” had she a self? what was it? was it that of a young woman who—of one of those women who like to be coveted, are ready to be owned, who indeed always are owned by one or another? “his servant or his maid, his ox or his ass—” must she be property, personal property? ah, but let her never forget that, such as she was, jack senhouse was to be her friend—always—at the call of her need. then she remembered the patteran, and smiled to herself.
presently she looked up at tristram, scowling over the deux mondes. “what are you going to do with me, now i am here?” she asked him lightly; whereupon he turned short, and sat down near her.
“what can i do with you? what’s possible? what am i allowed to say? i feel like a caged cat. am i to pay you compliments, ask you if all’s well? has it come to that? i know what you would say if i did. you are not happy. it’s evident.”
it was only in this man’s company that she failed of self-possession. with men far greater than he, such as kesteven; with men defter than he, men of the wing vein, she could, as it were, hold the reins, and feel the mouth. with duplessis she was always liable to strike back upon former days. at any moment, had he but known it, he could have put her, so to speak, into a white muslin frock, turned her into the fluttered village coquette. oddly enough, with all his wits, he had never known it until this moment; he had always read her new position into her old ways. but now it was too plain to mistake; he had but to lift his hand and—! the discovery ran through his veins like a strong wind—to make him shiver.
she was looking down at her hands in her lap, picking up her fan plumes one by one, and running them between her fingers. a latent trembling possessed her, which he felt rather than saw. the same fever caught him.
“where’s germain?” he spoke masterfully.
her reply was studiously simple. “he’ll come for me by-and-by. he’s at the speaker’s dinner.”
“he’s always somewhere else.” mischief prompted her to ask if he complained of that; but he was not to be drawn.
“if you were my wife,” he told her, “i should never leave your side. if you were my wife, i should be your lover always.”
here was a lie, obvious even to her; but the devout imagination in it was enough to thrill her. watching her closely, he saw that she was thrilled.
“you’re not happy,” he said, “and i’m not happy. you made a frightful mistake—but mine was worse.”
it was hardly the moment to assure him that he was quite wrong. if a gentleman does you the honour to discern misery, even where none exists, it proves attention, at least, to your circumstances. it’s an oblique compliment.
she said gravely, “i don’t think we ought to talk about such things. i have never given you any reason to think me dissatisfied with——”
“oh,” he broke in, “we’re not considering the creature comforts, i imagine. you came here in a carriage from your big house—and you’ll go back to a big house in your carriage. i can understand that these are pleasant arrangements; and after two years of them, for what they are worth, you may well confuse them with the real thing. but that—! a full cup, nodding at the brim! life together! no world, nobody in the world but two souls—ours! and work: work together! good god, it’s ghastly to think of.”
he looked haggard, and there was a hollow ring in his voice, the hoarseness of a consumptive. her heart went out to him in pity, and her hand was laid for a moment on his sleeve. “you are not well—you work too hard. please don’t.”
“work!” he said, “i have none. i wish i had. i’ve quarrelled with jess.”
“i know. i’m very sorry. i wish that we—that i——”
he suddenly and squarely faced her. “look here, molly,” he said, and made her heart beat and her eyes quail. he, and he only, had called her molly. “you know what’s the matter. there has hardly been a day since you’ve been in town that i haven’t seen you—i’ve found out where you were to be—and i’ve been, too. you possess my mind; i think of nothing else, can’t sleep for thinking. i believed that i should get over it, and perhaps i should if i hadn’t seen you again last autumn. there was the mischief. i vow to you i didn’t want to come, shouldn’t have come if jess hadn’t insisted. a confounded ass—! it all began again then—and now, i tell you fairly i shan’t get over it. i’m not going to try. it’s stronger than i. . . . and i believe that you care, too. i do believe that, i know you do. you wouldn’t sit there so still if you didn’t—you wouldn’t hide your eyes if you didn’t. you dare not show me how bright they are. ah, but i know how bright they can be, and what makes them shine! no, no, you and i belong——”
“oh, don’t, don’t—please don’t!” the cry was wrung from her, and the courage to look at him came. but then, as she turned her head away, she said faintly, “you mustn’t,” and made things ten times worse.
his next words beat her back. “i love you, do you hear? i adore you—i care for nobody, no rights or claims in the world; i can’t live without you. if you won’t listen to me, if you drive me too hard, i shall—no, no, that’s wicked. molly, i’ll do you no harm, i swear to that. but you and i have got to be together, or i shall go mad. now you know it all.”
she rose, and he with her. both were shaking; but she spoke first.
“let me go now, please—take me back. i mustn’t be found here.” he was ready.
“i’ll take you away, now. i’m glad i’ve had it out with you. now you know the facts at least.”
she put her face in her hands. “it’s dreadful. i ought not to have listened to you. it was very wrong. what are we to do?”
“love each other dearly,” said tristram, and took her in his arms and kissed her. she shuddered and shut her eyes, but did not try to move. her lips were parted; there came a long sigh. “my darling, my darling girl,” he said, and kissed her again. they heard steps, and sprang apart. her terror was manifest. “come,” he said, “we must get out of this.”
she took his arm—she looked as sleek as a stroked dove. they went into the rooms without another word. she was almost at once confronted with people whom she knew, and duplessis left her with the first group she encountered. she saw him shoulder his way through, nodding to right and left in his grand, careless way; she saw him go out and knew that he would not come back. engaged in the chatter usual to such times, she talked at random, laughed without knowing what amused her. when she was told that mr. germain had been seen—was here looking for her, she gathered her wits at once and went to find him.
he was talking in his calm, superior way to a great lady. his court dress suited him—he looked like his ancestor, sir william, pictured in the dining-room at southover.
the great lady put up her glasses and smiled at mary. “here comes that pretty person you’ve given us. how d’ye do, my dear. what’s the secret of your bright eyes? late hours agree with you, it’s plain; but this poor man of yours wants care.”
“yes, indeed,” said she, thankful of the turn-off.
mr. germain made her a bow. “if you have come to take me away, my dear, i shall not deny you the pleasure. the whole duty of a wife in the season is to take her husband from parties. am i not right, duchess?”
“my dear man,” said she, “i don’t pretend to such privileges. my husband has been in bed these two hours. good-night, you happy pair. now, my dear, when will you come to me? the 20th, of course—my ball. i trust you for that. but do come in to luncheon—positively any day except to-morrow and thursday—oh, and saturday. saturday is hopeless.” she tapped mary’s cheek with her fan—“what a dawn colour!”—and smiled herself onwards, fat, satiny, and benevolent. the germains gained their carriage, and he was asleep before they were in carlos-place. she sat absorbed, gazing out of the window, still under the spell of tristram’s love-making. she went to bed—lay wide-eyed in the dark for a while; then sighed deeply, and smiled, and slept. her last waking thought was sophistical. “he told me to have adventures—and to be myself. and he’s my friend, whatever happens.” entrenched behind her philosopher, she had no dreams.
