Kitabı oku: «The Temptress», sayfa 8
Chapter Sixteen
Dolly’s Indiscretion
In London, evening was gradually creeping on. The mellow light that had penetrated into the studio in Fitzroy Square was fast fading, still Jack Egerton worked on in silence, glancing constantly across at the woman who sat motionless before him, straining her eyes over a novel she held in her hand.
Frequently he paused, and, stepping back a few paces, examined the effect of his work with a critical eye, comparing it with the original. Then he returned and retouched the picture again and again, until at last, after much perseverance, he apparently obtained the exact effect he desired. The picture was certainly attractive, and, although incomplete, yet fully sustained the artist’s reputation for faithful delineation of the female form. It was a representation of Dolly Vivian reclining on a silken divan, attired in the flimsy gauzes, with rows of sequins across her forehead, heavy bangles upon her wrists and ankles, and her light brown hair, unbound, falling negligently about her shoulders. One tiny crimson slipper had fallen off, revealing a well-shaped naked foot, the other being bent under her as she lay with one bare arm flung over her head.
Her attitude of languor and repose among her cushions added to the Oriental character of the picture, and the richness of the silk with which the couch was covered, enhanced her beauty.
He had christened the picture, “The Sultan’s Favourite.”
While he worked she always preserved perfect silence. It was their rule. For hours she would sit scarcely moving a muscle, her attention engaged by a newspaper, a novel, or some fancy needlework, unless, perhaps, he addressed her, asking an opinion or advice. Then she would usually reply briefly and to the point, and resume her reading without disturbing her pose in the smallest degree.
Beside her, on a little inlaid pearl table, stood the cup of tea Mrs O’Shea had brought her an hour before, but which had been left almost untasted, so absorbed was she in her book. She did not notice that the artist had laid aside his palette, and was cleaning his brushes, until he exclaimed, —
“That will do for to-day, Dolly. You must be awfully tired and cramped, for we’ve had an unusually long spell.”
His voice recalled her to consciousness. Stretching both arms above her head, she gave a stifled yawn, and slowly rose from her couch with a languid grace. Slipping her foot into the shoe, she stepped down to where he was standing.
“Why, what’s the time?” she asked, noticing it was growing dusk.
“Half-past six,” he replied. “I’ve an engagement to dine at the Vagabond Club at the Holborn at seven, therefore I haven’t much time to lose. By Jove!” he added admiringly, “you look absolutely bewitching, my little houri. If Hugh could only see you now, ’pon my honour he’d go down on his knees and propose straight away.”
“You think so, do you?” she asked artlessly, laughing and glancing down at her gauzy dress, a fair, bright-eyed odalisque. Then she grew serious, and examined the picture. “You’ve certainly made very good progress this afternoon with everything except the hand. The high light is scarcely perfect,” she added, fixing her gaze upon the canvas, and moving across the studio to study the effect from the opposite direction.
“I must finish that to-morrow,” the artist said, as he carefully wiped a small brush, and placed it aside. “The light has not been good for the last hour or more.”
“The fingers, too, want retouching. They look just a trifle too stiff,” she continued, with the air of a critic.
“Yes, I have noticed that. But I must now go and make myself presentable, for I haven’t a moment to lose. Run and dress yourself, there’s a good girl.”
Already she was plaiting her hair, and coiling it deftly upon her head.
“Very well,” she said, and tripped lightly away; but, losing a slipper in her walk, she was compelled to stop and recover it.
Then she disappeared into the small room adjacent, sacred to her use for purposes of dressing, and sometimes of resting after the fatigue of posing for prolonged periods.
Egerton, who laughed over the refractory slipper, and chaffed her good-humouredly, declaring that she let it slip off in order to attract his attention to the smallness of her foot, cleaned his palette, knocked the ashes from his pipe, and also left the studio.
When alone in her room, Dolly drew from her pocket a letter in a firm, masculine hand, which she had received at her home before leaving that morning.
“An evening at the Empire will perhaps brighten me up. At all events, it will be a change,” she thought, after she had glanced over the note. “Besides, what harm is there? I don’t care two pins for the fellow, but – nobody cares for me,” she added, with a little disconsolate sigh.
Replacing the note in its envelope, she quickly divested herself of her transparent garments, and assumed a more unromantic and conventional attire. Having finished, she went to Mrs O’Shea’s room to have her usual chat before returning home.
To-night, however, she did not remain long, for almost as soon as Jack Egerton had left the house she also followed.
The clocks were striking half-past seven as she entered Victoria Station, and was joined by a tall, dark man in evening dress, who raised his hat, smiled, and grasped her hand warmly. She had met him for the first time a fortnight before. While travelling in a train between Clapham and Waterloo he had spoken to her, and she being nothing loth to a mild flirtation, an acquaintance soon sprang up between them. Already they had spent several evenings together, and she had found him a very pleasant companion. Dolly Vivian was essentially a fin de siècle girl. Although admitting in her own mind that to dine and visit music halls with a man about whom she knew almost nothing was scarcely proper, yet the cause of her sudden longing for pleasure was not far to seek.
Since Hugh’s departure for Brussels she had been gloomy and despondent, for it had been proved to her beyond doubt that he cared nothing for her, but was madly in love with the voluble foreign woman, who seemed to exercise a power over him that was incomprehensible. She had bidden farewell to the man she loved with every fibre of her being, and was now growing world-weary and careless. Her sister had died a year before, and she now found life in a mean, gloomy lodging, with her aged mother, very lonely and dull. In this spirit she met Henry Mansell, her new acquaintance, and discovered that the pleasures of variety entertainments drove away her sad thoughts. Her Bohemian nature longed to penetrate into phases of society hitherto forbidden to her, and she looked upon this as an opportunity for gratifying it. Egerton, who admired both her beauty and her many sterling qualities, frequently took her to concerts and theatres, but as their friendship was purely platonic, and, as during the years of their acquaintance he had never hinted at affection, his companionship at places of entertainment had become monotonous. Mansell, who flattered her, indulged her whims, and paid her those delicate attentions that women love, was more to her taste in her present state of mind. He spent his money freely upon her, and appeared infatuated with her beauty, while she, neither inexperienced nor gauche, was content that he should entertain her. Briefly, she was but a London girl of to-day, a single example of thousands of others who have a penchant for fast life, and who gratify it without overstepping the bounds – who rub shoulders with the demi-monde, but who are not of it. True they copy the “creature” in her clothes, her appearance, and even her manners, but the imitation is due to the fact that to be considered a trifle “fast” is alas! nowadays considered good form.
Dolly’s movements that evening were scarcely those of the modest retiring girl she really was, and would have caused the artist much surprise had he been watching her.
From Victoria they drove to a café in Regent Street, where they dined together, walking thence along Coventry Street to the Empire Theatre. After half an hour in the stalls they went upstairs to the circle promenade, that recognised resort of the jeunesse dorée, and strolled up and down among the gay crowd. The brilliant light, the dreamy music of the ballet, and the ever-shifting figures around, combined, perhaps, with the wine she had taken, exhilarated her.
Among the crowd of men who passed up and down, there was one who watched them closely, but unobserved. A dozen times he sauntered past, cigar in mouth and hands in pocket, as if merely killing time like the others. Yet, had Dolly glanced up at the opportune moment, she would have seen meaning glances exchanged between her companion and the man who was keeping observation upon them so mysteriously.
But the pretty model was unsuspecting, and the man, after shadowing them for nearly an hour, went to the bar, and stood drinking, but in a position whereby he could observe their movements through the glass partition.
Presently Dolly and her companion returned to their seats, and sat for some time watching the performance.
“I must really be going now,” Dolly said to her companion, as, an hour afterwards, they sat opposite each other in a private room at a neighbouring restaurant finishing their meal. “I’ve enjoyed myself very much indeed; I’m sure it’s awfully kind of you to be so good to me.”
“Not at all. I’m pleased you haven’t been bored,” he replied gallantly. “And I hope you’ll honour me with your company on another occasion. Shall we arrange for one night early next week?”
“As you like,” she answered, smiling.
“Very well; I’ll write making an appointment, and we’ll spend an hour or two at some other hall – the Alhambra, or the Palace.”
“I left my cape outside in the passage. I’ll fetch it, and commence to get ready,” she said, and rising suddenly, left the room in search of her outdoor attire.
The moment he was alone her admirer reached over the table quickly, and took up her emptied wineglass. From his vest pocket he produced a tiny phial, the contents of which he poured into the glass, then, taking up the champagne, filled both his own glass and hers, replacing the latter in the position where it had originally been. It was accomplished in a few seconds, for scarcely had he put down the bottle before she reappeared.
When she had assumed her cape, and tied her veil by the aid of the dingy mirror over the mantelshelf, she noticed her glass had been refilled.
“I really don’t think I ought to drink any more,” she exclaimed. “I’m not used to so much, and it might affect me.”
“Oh, I assure you it won’t,” declared Mansell, laughing. “It’s a good brand, and I can recommend it. Besides the night is chilly.”
He was watching her face narrowly, but he assumed a well-feigned air of unconcern. His argument, however, convinced her that another glass would do her no harm, thereupon she raised it to her lips and drank it. Being in a hurry to return home, she noticed no peculiar taste about it, and the man smiled faintly with self-satisfaction.
“I have to go to King’s Cross, so I’ll drive you home if you’ll allow me,” he suggested, as they descended to the street, and to this proposal she gladly acquiesced.
Outside they entered a brougham that was apparently awaiting them – and which Mansell incidentally remarked was his own – and were quickly driven along Shaftesbury Avenue, on their way to King’s Cross.
Scarcely had they been in the carriage five minutes when she was seized with a sudden giddiness and faintness. At first she struggled against it, trying to rouse herself, for she attributed it to the wine she had consumed, combined with the heated atmosphere. Recognising the disgrace which would fall upon her should she return to her mother intoxicated, she determined that her companion should notice no difference in her manner. In the shifting lights that flashed into the carriage she felt confident that he would be unable to detect any change in her. It was by her voice alone that he could discover her intoxication, and, therefore, she continued the conversation in what she believed was the same tone as before.
Yet, as they drove along, the strange, sickening sensation increased, her eyes burned, and an acute pain on the top of her head caused a feeling as if her brain were a leaden weight. With alarm she became aware that it was gradually taking possession of her senses, and that to bear up against it was unavailing. Confused noises sounded in her ears, her breath became short, and she fancied she was falling from a great height. Then all the objects and lights in the street seemed to dance about her, and, with a suppressed groan, she sank back into the corner of the carriage inert and insensible.
The man by her side watched her gradually lapsing into unconsciousness with evident satisfaction, and, having taken both her arms and worked them up and down violently to assure himself of her total insensibility, he shouted to the coachman that he would go to another address – one which necessitated the brougham being driven back towards the place whence they had started.
Two hours afterwards a strange scene was presented in a house that stood by itself in the centre of a market garden, in a lonely position surrounded by fields midway between Twickenham and Isleworth.
In a small, bare attic, carpetless and almost devoid of furniture, the inanimate form of Dolly Vivian lay crouched in a rickety armchair. The feeble light of a guttering candle revealed the closed eyes and deathlike pallor of the features, while her breathing was almost imperceptible, so completely had the drug accomplished its work.
Near her stood Mansell and the man who had dogged their movements during the evening.
The wind had risen and was moaning mournfully around the house, causing the windows to rattle, and creating weird noises in the stillness of the night.
Suddenly a door creaked below. Both men started, and looked at one another.
“Listen! What’s that?” asked Mansell in an awed voice.
“Nothing; merely the wind,” the other replied sharply.
Mansell tried to smile, and said —
“I suppose you’re right, but I feel as nervous as a cat.”
His companion, who had driven the carriage, and who had taken Dolly’s purse, handkerchief, and a letter from her pocket, and was scrutinising them carefully, uttered an exclamation of disgust and annoyance. The house being empty and untenanted, the wind, which had now increased to almost a hurricane, howled and sighed dismally.
“If anyone should find the brougham outside it would strike them as strange, wouldn’t it?” suggested Mansell.
“Never fear; we’re perfectly safe. It’s a by-road, and not a soul comes this way. Besides, whom do you expect would walk about this lonely part at such an hour?”
Mansell crossed to where the girl lay, and, taking up the candle, gazed into her face.
“It’s a pity to sacrifice her life,” he remarked sympathetically. “She has done us no harm.”
“Fool!” replied the other, with an impatient gesture, looking at him with threatening eyes. “Can’t you see that if she lives she can frustrate all our plans? Even now I believe she knows our secret.”
“She does?” gasped the other breathlessly.
“Yes.”
“But are there no other means of silencing her?”
“No. She must die!”
The man, whose sinister face wore a heavy, determined expression, had drawn a long-bladed knife from its sheath, and it flashed in the light as he held it in his hand. Mansell noticed it, and shuddered.
“I cannot stay and see her murdered,” he cried in horror.
“Very well; if you’re so chicken-hearted, wait outside,” the other replied roughly.
He saw it was useless to intercede for the life of the girl whose beauty he had admired, so obeyed the injunction. Pale and agitated, he waited upon the landing in the darkness.
The seconds seemed hours, but presently his companion emerged from the room carrying the candle, which, however had been blown out. As he struck a match, Mansell saw blood upon his hand.
Neither spoke, but both quietly descended the stairs. Then they again blew out the candle and left the house, locking the door after them.
A short distance away the brougham was standing without any one to look after it, the horse grazing quietly at the roadside.
Mansell entered, while his companion mounted the box, driving along the private road, and turning into the highway towards Twickenham.
Chapter Seventeen
Laroche
Upon a veranda overlooking the clear, rippling Ourthe, and protected from the hot sun by a striped awning, Valérie and Pierre were laughing and sipping kümmel. Lounging lazily in a loose-fitting cotton dress she looked cool and piquante, while he, attired in a suit of light tweed, with a soft felt hat set jauntily on his head, sat on the edge of the table, smoking a cigarette with an air of insouciance.
In the whole of rural Belgium it would probably be difficult to find scenery more picturesque than that surrounding the small town of Laroche. Ten miles distant from the Liège-Marloye Railway, it lies in the very heart of the Ardennes, nestling beside the gurgling Ourthe at the junction of five beautiful valleys. Above, rise bold, bare crags and high hills covered with sombre pines, while from a dark, rugged height frown the ivy-clad ruins of an ancient château.
The little place is charming, although to the gregarious, who find pleasure amid the summer turmoil of the Rhine, with its crowd of cheap-trippers and overflowing hotels, it presents the aspect of a veritable village of the dead. Its inhabitants have not yet become demoralised by the advance of progress; for, although a few rusticating Belgians from Brussels and Liège and one or two English families visit it during the summer, still its beauties are comparatively unknown. The streets are crooked and narrow, the houses quaint and old-fashioned, and pervading the whole town is an old-world air that is distinct and delightful. Kindly, genial, and honest, the people are an average specimen of the simple, rustic dwellers in the Walloon country, who look askance at the increasing number of tourists who intrude upon their solitude and alight at their unpretentious hotels. Modern improvement is almost unknown in this Arcadia. True, there is a steam tramway to Malreux, forming the link which connects the Larochois with the outside world, but the place itself is still, quiet, even lethargic; in fact, it is very much the same to-day as it was a century ago. The dusty, lumbering old diligences, with bells upon the horses, rumble through the streets at frequent intervals, always stopping at the Bureau de Poste; and it is so antiquated as to possess a guardian of the town in the person of a garde du nuit, who blows every hour upon his tin trompette from eleven o’clock at night until five in the morning – truly a relic of an age bygone.
It was a month since Hugh had left London, and the weeks that passed in Brussels after the reunion had been pleasant ones. He saw her daily, and was only content when in her company, driving in the Bois de la Cambre, shopping in the Montagne de la Cour, or taking her to the theatre. During this time he had been introduced to one of her relatives – the first he had known. When he called upon her as usual one evening, he found a man some ten years her senior seated in the drawing-room. His bearing was that of a gentleman. He was well-dressed, wearing in his coat the crimson button of the French Legion of Honour, and was introduced by Valérie as the Comte Chaulin-Servinière, her cousin.
The men shook hands, and quickly became friends. At first Hugh was inclined to regard him with suspicion and distrust, but on closer acquaintance found him a genial, reckless man of the world, who was possessed of plenty of money, and whose tastes were similar to his own. Being apparently a prominent figure in Brussels society, he introduced Hugh to various people worth knowing, and soon became his constant companion.
Had he known that the Comte Lucien Chaulin-Servinière was the same person as one Victor Bérard whose name was inscribed upon a rather bulky file preserved in the archives of the Préfecture of Police in Paris, it is probable that he would have shunned his companionship, and many evil consequences would thereby have been avoided.
Blissfully ignorant, however, and confident of Valérie’s love and devotion, Hugh was perfectly happy as the weeks glided by, until one day she announced that she was compelled to depart at once for Namur to visit an aunt who was ill, and not expected to recover.
It was thereupon arranged that she should travel to Namur by herself, visit her relative, and that the Comte and Hugh should meet her three days later at Laroche. The suggestion was the Comte’s, for he declared she was looking worn, and that a sojourn of a week or two in the invigorating and health-promoting Ardennes would do her good.
Valérie left on the following morning, but the dying aunt was a pure invention, and instead of remaining at Namur, she proceeded at once to Malreux, and thence to Laroche, where she arrived after spending the greater part of the day in performing the journey. At the Hôtel Royal she found Pierre Rouillier awaiting her, for the meeting had been prearranged, and it was for a more important and beneficial purpose than exploring the beauties of the neighbourhood that Mademoiselle Dedieu had journeyed so far.
Like everything else in the little town, the arrangements of the hotel were of Walloon simplicity, and scarcely suited to patrician taste, although there was a decided touch of novelty in dining at midday with only the “beer of the country” as beverage, and suppers at seven consisting of fresh eggs, the fare throughout being of a genuinely homely character.
They were sitting on the veranda on the second morning after her arrival. Having finished their liqueurs, Pierre suggested that, as he desired to talk confidentially, they should take a stroll in order to avoid the possibility of eavesdroppers. To this Valérie readily acquiesced, and, having obtained her sunshade, the pair started off up a by-path for a ramble up the steep hillside.
“You know your way about this place very well, I suppose?” she remarked, as they walked together.
“Yes, considering I have buried myself here for several months, and have no other occupation beyond strolling about or killing time in deserted estaminets. The winter here was most abominably dull; in fact, were it not for your sake – ”
“You mean for the sake of your own neck,” interrupted mademoiselle, smiling.
“Well, I admit it is not for your sake alone that I’m in hiding, but personating a dead man has its drawbacks. Within twenty-four hours of leaving London I arrived at this sleepy hole, and my name has since been Adolphe Chavoix, gentleman, living on his means. From the time I first set foot in the place I’ve never been five miles from it, and I expect I shall be compelled to remain here for months, perhaps for a year longer,” he said dismally.
“Is it a safe retreat?”
“Safe! I should think it is! Why, I’m as well-known as the doyen himself. The rustics fancy I’m a decent sort of fellow, and I’m on visiting terms with almost everybody, from the imbecile old Burgomaster downwards. Why, the police commissary of the district is one of my closest friends. Bless you, I’m as safe here as if I lay in my coffin. But, tell me, what progress are you making?”
“As much as can be expected,” she replied, taking his arm and leaning upon him in the stiff ascent. “I explained to you yesterday the plan we propose; but, of course, it is highly dangerous.”
“For boldness and impudence I’ve never heard its equal,” declared Pierre candidly.
“Bien, then you recognise how imperative it is that our arrangements should be elaborated before the coup is made. There were many obstacles in our path, but one by one these are being removed. When the course is quite open we shall act.”
“He still loves you?”
“Yes,” she replied with a grim smile.
“It will prove an expensive pastime for him,” exclaimed her companion, laughing.
“But profitable to us. Think what it will mean if we succeed.”
“We must succeed, sooner or later.”
“Never draw hasty conclusions,” remarked mademoiselle. “One awkward incident and the whole scheme might collapse. Even now I’m almost at a standstill for want of funds.”
“Have you spent all the last?”
“Yes; and moreover, the man who furnished my place in Brussels two years ago threatens to take possession because I can’t pay him, while I have heaps of other unpaid bills.”
“Can’t you sell your jewels?” suggested Pierre.
“They went long ago. All that I have now are only paste,” she replied disconsolately.
“Wouldn’t Trethowen lend you some if you told him some pitiful tale?”
“How could I ask him? You forget that he believes me to be rich, with the fabulously wealthy Comte Chaulin-Servinière as my cousin.”
“Rather a new character for Victor,” laughed the smart young man at her side.
“Oh, but he has assumed the part well, I assure you,” she declared. “He looks after my welfare to just the right extent in the circumstances, and his bearing and appearance give him the stamp of the aristocrat, which is, of course, only due in some degree to the new suit he had for the occasion.”
Pierre laughed heartily. He had never seen Hugh Trethowen, yet with the instinct of the adventurer who wages war against those possessed of money, it was a source of satisfaction to him to know that the victim was falling an easy prey.
By this time they had ascended the Chemin des Morts, and were pausing at the summit gazing upon the charming landscape outspread like a panorama at their feet. The spot itself was interesting, inasmuch as a quaint legend is connected with it. As they rested there he related it to her. It is alleged that once on a time a Seigneur of Harzé, who had died leaving behind him an unenviable reputation, was being carried to his last resting-place in the parish churchyard, when one of the bearers slipped, and the body fell over the cliff, and then from rock to rock, till it reached the river. The affrighted mourners saw in this terrible accident an unmistakable judgment of heaven, and did not dare to interfere.
When he had narrated the circumstance they continued their walk, passing through a small fir plantation until they came to a time-worn rustic cross. Near it, and overshadowed by some large bushes, was an old seat, upon which they sat continuing the discussion of Bérard’s merits.
The shade was welcome after toiling up the hill, and Valérie, taking off her hat, allowed the soft breeze to fan her temples, while he lit a cigarette, handing her one also.
“I’m puzzled to know how we are to bring matters to a crisis without more money than we have at present,” she said reflectively, after they had been talking some time.
“That’s really a difficult problem,” her companion replied quickly. “Don’t you know anybody who would advance you a little?”
“No. Besides, it would be unsafe. We must now be exceedingly careful how to act.”
“There is only one thing that I can suggest,” said Pierre thoughtfully watching the smoke curling upward.
“How?” she inquired expectantly.
“Rook him at cards.”
“Ma foi! An excellent suggestion!” she ejaculated enthusiastically.
“You could work it easily enough. Victor and he will be here to-morrow, therefore I should suggest that I start to-night for Spa. You three can follow after a day or two. There you can meet me, introduce me as a friend, and then I can proceed to pluck him of a few hundreds. I’m quicker with the paste-boards than Victor.”
“He’s a good player, I believe.”
“That doesn’t matter. If you can persuade him to play, I’ll soon have some money.”
“My dear Pierre,” Valérie said, laughing, “he will do anything for me. I’m sure he would lose ten thousand francs without a murmur, if he thought he was pleasing me by tempting fortune. He does think such a lot of me that – that I sometimes feel inclined to love him genuinely. I’m almost sick of the base part I am playing.”
Her face assumed a serious look, and she sighed. Pierre regarded her in astonishment.
“What? Giving way to sentiment, now we have gone so far!” he exclaimed. “It’s all nonsense. To think of throwing up the game now would be sheer folly. Such a chance as the present does not always fall to our lot; therefore, it is only right, in our own interests, that we should take advantage of it. If you really love him – well, it will, perhaps, add to the realism of the incident, and won’t do much harm to either of you. But then, you’ve loved others before – in fact, you loved me once – yet now I’m nothing in your eyes beyond a willing assistant in your various little affairs. No,” he continued bitterly, “you have no real affection for any one. I am able to speak from personal experience. Yet you would bar our way and wreck our chance of making our fortunes, because you fancy you’ve fallen in love with this ass of an Englishman? You must be mad to think of such a thing.”
“You misunderstand me,” she said, her beauty heightened by the flush of anger that suffused her face. “Although I have neither intention nor desire to depart from the plan already laid down, I regret that it will be necessary to resort to the extreme measure in order to accomplish our purpose. That is all. As for your suggestion, it shall be carried out. You will go to Spa to-night, if you think there is no danger in the visit.”
“Don’t trouble yourself. I shall run no risk. You get him to play, then leave the rest to me. Within a week the money shall be yours. What do you think of the suggestion of making him defray the cost of his own misfortune, eh?” he asked, laughing.
“Decidedly ingenious, but it won’t work!” shouted a voice in English, causing them to start.
There was a rustling among the thick bushes behind them, and next second Jack Egerton emerged into the path.
“Why are you here, spying upon us?” demanded Pierre, springing to his feet, and assuming a threatening attitude.
