CHAPTER IX.
Mrs. Walcot Valbry's Ball.
Mrs. Walcot Valbry's balls were always amusing functions, and one that she gave in the July following the revival of the Duchess of Malfi was more than usually crowded and more than usually talked about.
In the first place she had a large detached house which had once belonged to a famous Academician, and where the studio, built out beyond the reception-rooms, made an ideal ball-room—it was used as the supper-room at her ordinary "At Homes." Indeed, secondly, Mrs. Walcot Valbry had a reputation for suppers. Her champagne was beyond praise, and her guests were not obliged to file down in relays to a long, narrow board and a sort of table d'hôte collation, at which people ate in fear of their neighbours' elbows. They were provided with a number or small tables, with special waiters for each, and abundance of room in which to take a leisurely repast, and to feast their minds as well as their bodies with sallies of wit and genial conversation. Then, too, she was a kind of purveyor of American beauty, and more than one lovely lady celebrated in higher circles had made her début in London society under Mrs. Walcot Valbry's wing. Moreover, everyone knew that she went in for stars of the theatrical profession, and everyone remembered the performance of the Improvisatrice that spring—much quoted since the Dionysian revival—and everyone took it for granted that the Duchess of Malfi—as they called Beatrice—would be present.
For the Duchess of Malfi was the rage, and when London sets up an idol she certainly does not stint her incense. Beatrice's photographs were everywhere—in shop windows and on drawing-room tables. Certain great ladies dropped cards of invitation at the little house in Regent's Park, and certain distinguished gentlemen made requests for her presence at their supper-parties. Newspaper people interviewed her, painters begged for remission to take her portrait; she was pestered with entreaties to hold stalls at fancy fairs, and to assist at charitable entertainments. The lesser crowd of lion-hunters besieged her, and love-letters from the mashers of the stalls rained upon her. Mrs. Cubison's position as sheep-dog was just now no sinecure.
The play at the Dionysian was never over till past eleven, and Lendon knew that Beatrice could not arrive at Mrs. Walcot Valbry's till long after the dancing had begun. He was at the theatre as usual; indeed he had made himself rather conspicuous by his constant attendance, which was hardly now to be excused on the plea of his part in the revival. Again he had delighted eyes and heart, and had followed line by line, mood by mood, the exhibition of that rare and spiritual passion, that absolute self-surrender of the actress to her ecstasy of love which yet seemed all a madness of soul with no part of sense. It was to him a foretaste of almost unrealizable bliss to watch this beautiful creature as she thrilled with the emotion of her part, and to know that he alone had a lover's right to the exquisite lips, that for his own secret delight were reserved all those graces of womanhood, and that for his ear was destined love-talk tenderly intimate and heavenly sweet as, in those short days of wedded bliss, the ill-fated Duchess whispered in the ears of Antonio.
Strangely enough, he had never during the love-scenes—some of them emotional and impassioned enough, between the Duchess and Antonio—felt any thrill of jealousy on account of the smoothly locutionary lover.
To-night it seemed to him that Beatrice was finer than usual. The interest had risen to enthusiasm. Stalls and boxes were full, and the pit and galleries were densely packed. The curtain was raised several times at the end of each act; and at the close of the performance the calls and shouts of "Brava!" were deafening, till Beatrice appeared once more before the curtain, and, pale and overwrought, bowed her acknowledgments of the applause. Lendon went round to the stage entrance and waited till the actress came out. He was in the habit of seeing her and Mrs. Cubison, who usually accompanied her, into their brougham; but he had never, since the first night of "The Duchess," gone behind the scenes. The management at the Dionysion was despotic, and not even to the leading lady might note or message be conveyed till her part for the evening was over. To-night Beatrice came out alone. Mrs. Cubison, she explained afterwards, had a headache and was resting in preparation for her labours of chaperone at the ball later on. The girl looked white and weary, and he fancied a little distraught, as though the emotion of those harrowing scenes was still racking her. She gave him to hold, as was her custom, the little bag in which nightly she carried home the jewels she had worn, and put her hand through his arm with an air of gladness and relief.
"Oh, Bernard," she whispered, "it was nice of you to come round. I wanted you to-night."
"Why to-night?" he asked anxiously. "Darling, are you ill?"
"No, not ill. But I have a strange feeling—I have had it all day—a feeling of sadness and dread, a sort of presentiment of coming evil. Don't laugh at me, Bernard. You know I am not made of the same sort of stuff as your practical matter-of-fact people. I believe in these things."
"Indeed, I am too anxious and unhappy about you to feel inclined to smile at your presentiments," he said.
"Did you not see to-night how real it all was?" she went on. "I was not acting. I was not the Duchess of Malfi. I was Beatrice Brett parting for ever from the man she loves. Bernard"—and as they stood outside the little paved lane she clung to him almost wildly—"something is going to part us. I know it; I feel it. Oh! fight against it. Don't let it happen. Keep me safe."
"My dearest," he said gravely, his voice trembling with emotion, "nothing shall part us on this side of the grave—nothing, except your own will, Beatrice. Don't be frightened, dear. See, you are trembling with nervousness and exhaustion. That play takes too much out of you. If you weren't overdone, you couldn't have fancies like this."
"Ever since I was a child I have had fancies, as you call them. I have always had a foreshadowing presentiment before any great event in my life. Something will happen to me soon, and it will not be for good. But I'm not going to give way to morbidness, Bernard. I shall go home now and dress for my ball, and try to put dark thoughts aside."
He put her into the carriage and let her take the bag with her trinkets from him. Then, instead of closing the door, he got in after her.
"No, no," she exclaimed, "I have alarmed you quite needlessly. I assure you I am perfectly well."
His only answer was to take her in his arms and kiss her passionately. He rarely allowed his love for her to have its full vent. Perhaps it was something impersonal and cold in her which checked its overflow. She never seemed to him so much an ordinary woman as an ideal to be reverenced. But to-night he could not restrain himself, and she yielded herself with a little sigh of content to his embrace. They scarcely spoke; but she let her head rest upon his shoulder, and his arm was round her, and his lips brushed her hair as he rapturously pictured to himself the time when she would be all his own. They drove quickly on. He had never driven with her alone so at night before. The lights of the hansoms flashing by, the clusters of lamps, the intoxication of the caress—all seemed part of some wonderful dream. The carriage stopped at last. She raised herself with a little laugh.
"Now you must get into a hansom and drive quickly to Mrs. Walcot Valbry's, and tell her that as soon as I am dressed I am coming along."
"Dearest," he said, "are you well enough for a ball to-night?"
"Why, Mrs. Walcot Valbry would be just mad if I disappointed her, and all her grand people who want to stare at the poor little American actress! I had a frantic note from her this morning, begging me not to be late. And, besides, I have never danced with you, Bernard; and I'm so fond of dancing, and we are going to waltz together to-night."
She jumped from the carriage while she spoke, waving him back as she ran along the paved causeway to the house. "Quick," she cried, "tell them I am coming," and disappeared within the hall-door which Mrs. Cubison, on the watch, threw open.
Lendon remembered, as he drove along, that Countess Adrian had that morning laughingly engaged him to dance the first waltz after midnight. She had insisted upon his coming up to her, no matter with whom she might be talking, exactly as the clock struck. "It will be the first time that I shall have danced," she said, "for five years."
"Why is that?" he asked.
"Because the doctor, who found out that my heart was affected, told me to avoid any violent exercise or excitement. That was in the days of the whirling deux temps," she added with a laugh; "but you and I to-night will dance a slow and graceful measure to celebrate the completion of the portrait, and the happy course of our friendship."
Remorsefully he reflected now that midnight was passed.
She was the first person who greeted him after he had paid his respects and delivered Beatrice's message to Mrs. Walcot Valbry. She was coming towards him on Sir Donald Urquhart's arm, which she relinquished as he approached. "You are too late," she said.
"Countess, a thousand apologies. The fact is that"
She stopped him with a gesture, at the same moment taking his arm, and dismissing Sir Donald with a smile and a nod. "Don't tell me that you forgot me. That would be a sore wound to my vanity, and I am in the mood to enjoy myself to-night."
"Forgive me, Countess. I was unavoidably detained by the illness—of a friend."
"A friend!" she repeated.
"They are playing another waltz now," he rejoined hastily, as the band broke into a prelude that he knew. "Will you give it to me instead?"
"No, we will not dance this one," she answered. "I am tired. I want to talk. Take me to the conservatory, and let us wait there for the next waltz."
They threaded their way through the long room. The dream-like feeling was upon him still. The reflection of the electric lights on the parquet floor reminded him of the lamps shining on the asphalte as he had driven with Beatrice from the theatre, and the thrill of Beatrice's touch stirred him yet.
Strange how a mood inspired by one woman reacts again upon another woman! It was as though Countess Adrian were touched with something of the same dream-like magic. It seemed to him that her voice had a note of ineffable tenderness, as she said—
"I have so looked forward to to-night, since we parted."
"This morning, Countess;" Lendon answered.
"Yes, only this morning; but does not one sometimes live years in a day? I have sat alone—alone, thinking, dreaming, wondering, during the hours that have passed since I left you."
"Has anything happened—tell me—in those hours?"
"Nothing, my friend, except perhaps the end of a friendship."
"You speak of our friendship?" he said eagerly.
She bowed her head.
"Surely," he added, "that need not end because the portrait is finished?"
"I think it will," she answered. "There are more ways than one of ending a friendship. Are you sorry the portrait is finished?" she asked suddenly.
"Yes," he answered unhesitatingly. There was in his mind no shadow of falsity to Beatrice. If some faint doubt of Countess Adrian's feeling for himself had ever glanced across it, he had dismissed the fancy with a smile at his own vanity. Remembering what she had told him, taking her at her own showing as a trusty comrade—a woman in need of friends and not finding them readily among her own sex, believing that she was-world-worn, satiated with admiration, hard to please, with indeed a heart that could only be roused by some glittering prince of romance who would appeal to that element of the dramatic, the luxurious, and the splendid which formed so large a part of her nature, it would have appeared to him absolutely impossible that she could fall seriously in love with a work-a-day artist in prosaic London, who professed nothing more for her than friendship. He liked her; she interested him intensely, speaking in the abstract, in her way, perhaps, quite as much as Beatrice. He delighted in her beauty, her curious grace, the charm of her conversation, and the frank audacity with which she laid herself bare before him. But love! That belonged to a secret inner chamber of which Countess Adrian could never possess the key.
"I have had a pleasant task, Countess," he went on. "To watch you, to paint you would have been almost pleasure enough to an artist; but when the charm of hearing you talk is added, and the privilege of being admitted to a certain extent into your confidence, why then the artist is a favoured mortal, indeed."
"We won't talk the language of compliments to-night," she said, with a melancholy that deeply touched him; "I have had too much of that; I should like something different from you."
"If mine is the language of compliment, at least you will believe it is sincere," he said.
They were standing in the conservatory which was a fairy-land of palms and blossom, cushioned lounges and pale electric stars. At the furthest end was an archway draped with Moorish curtains. "Have you seen Mrs. Walcot Valbry's Eastern room?" she asked. "Come; we shall be quiet there." She drew aside the curtains which fell behind them as they passed through. They found themselves in a wonderful "Liberty" apartment—draperies, divans, canopied ceiling, soft shaded lamp of quaint designs, idols, and orchids, the whole pervaded by a delicate Oriental perfume—a "flirtation corner" which did not appear as yet to have attracted the attention of Mrs. Walcot Valbry's guests. Countess Adrian sank upon a divan. "Sit here," she said.
Lendon did not at once comply with the invitation, but stood looking at her, his artist eye taking in and enjoying the beauty of the picture she presented.
"I wish," he said, "that I had seen you before in that dress. I should have liked to paint you in it."
The soft amber stuff, with its shining embroidery, was certainly well suited to her clear ivory skin and dark eyes and hair, and was made in a fashion that showed to peculiar advantage the magnificent lines of her throat and bust. Her arms were bare to the shoulders and clasped with barbaric looking armlets of gold set with uncut stones. Her breast heaved beneath its transparent drapery, as if with some pent emotion. Her lips parted in a dreamy smile; the expression of her eyes as they gazed into his was indescribably alluring, and the dark brown shade beneath the lower lid enhanced their penetrating lustre. There was about her a conscious witchery and abandon which, in spite of himself, in spite of the image enshrined in his heart, set his blood coursing faster. She might indeed at that moment have postured as the embodiment of sensuous charm.
"Tell me" she began, still looking at him with that curious intentness, then stopped.
He seated himself beside her, "What is it that you wish me to tell you?"
"No!" she answered. "I will tell you something. Do you remember what I once said to you about my superstition in regard to this year?"
"Perfectly," he replied.
"The astrologer, who foretold that this year would be fateful to me, fixed the very time at which the crisis would take plate. That time is now."
"Now!" he repeated, startled.
"Yes, now! The first and second hours of the morning. These are the hours which will decide my destiny. That is why I begged you to come to me when midnight struck. I wanted to see your face—to feel that you were near me. I wanted you to share the ordeal with me." She laid her ungloved hand softly upon his. It was dry and hot, and he felt the fingers quivering as they touched his flesh.
"Countess, what do you mean?"
"Do you think I am working up a melodramatic effect for your especial amusement? Ah! I assure you that I am too serious to be melodramatic. My whole life is at stake, and I am tortured by anxiety—hope—doubt—dread. I watched for you. I waited. You were late. The clock struck. You did not come. It was an ill portent."
"Countess Adrian, you bewilder me. This is a modern London ball; and you and I were engaged to dance a waltz together. Surely, the days of astrologers and magic and portents are passed; and my experience of destiny is, that she works in common-place fashion and does not usually prepare so elaborate a mise-en-scène, when she deals out her crushing calamities, or her most precious benefits."
"You are right. Destiny is a poor stage-manager as a rule, and for to-night I would have chosen a different mise-en-scène. But destiny only knows whether the curtain is to fall on a tragedy, or on wedding bells—and perhaps for either, a ball-room is the most appropriate background."
"Tell me, Countess, since we are friends—what is it that you hope for? What is it that you dread?"
"Shall I tell you—Bernard?" She lingered with musical cadence on his name; it was the first time she had ever called him by it. "I said to you the second time we met, that everything had happened to me—everything—except death and love. Suppose that the one supreme experience for which I have longed, and that yet has filled me with terror, has come to me at last—silently, overpoweringly. Suppose that for the first time in my lifeIlove."
"To suppose that, Countess," he said, with a forced lightness that seemed to him at the moment a mockery of himself, "is to suppose that at least there is one happy man in the world."
"You think," she said slowly, "that I could make any man love me?"
"Would he not be curiously insensible if you could not touch his heart?"
"But if," she said, "if the man whom I love had once been sorely wounded by a woman's treachery, and had hardened himself against all other women—if he were of a self-contained nature, slow to believe that he could inspire love"
"Surely in that case only time and opportunity are needed. Love has a way of breaking down such barriers."
"But if he had been given an opportunity—if all that a woman could say had been said, and if he had never by word or look conveyed that he cared for her in any way other than as a friend"
She broke off agitatedly; but she had said too much. Her full meaning flashed upon him. He gave a startled exclamation, and drew slightly back. Her throbbing fingers tightened on his hand. She bent over towards him, her head thrown back, her breath coming quickly, her glowing eyes burning upon his, every pulse in her quivering with emotion.
"Would he be strong enough—cruel enough to repulse such a woman as I am, Bernard?" she went on in low tremulous terms—"if for his sake she, this woman, were to cast away her womanly pride—she to whom so many have poured out love, and who has accepted it so disdainfully—if she were to say to him with all the fulness of her soul, 'I love you. Take me. Do with me what you will. Make me your slaveonly love me.'"
"And if that were impossible," Bernard answered, no less agitated than she herself. "If, while admiring her above all women, valuing her friendship, honouring her for her noble frankness, he were yet unable to give back the love she offered him, and which under other conditions would have made his happiness—if this were so—became his heart had been given before he knew her, and another woman claimed all his devotion"
She interrupted him with a little inarticulate cry; but only the more closely did she cling to him, "Love me, Bernard," she murmured, and all the passion of her being seemed concentrated in the appeal. "Love me. Let the other woman go. She does not love you as I love you. She cannot charm you as I would charm you. She cannot give you what I could give you." As Countess Adrian spoke she raised herself closer to him. Her arm stole round his neck, her palpitating form pressed against his, and her lips met his in an impassioned kiss. Thus for a moment they remained locked in each other's embrace. For that moment he was like a man giddy and overcome by some subtle magnetism, which enervated his will and robbed him of all power of resistance. For a moment he gave himself up to the intoxication of the contact—of her perfumed breath, of her warm soft lips. He would have been more than man had he kept his senses. "Agnes," he whispered, as he strained her closer. Then with a sudden shock of revulsion came the thought of Beatrice and of her pure love. It steeled him and gave him new strength. He rose from the divan and put Agnes gently from him. She seemed instinctively to realise that his mood had changed; her arms relaxed and the flame in her sank.
"Agnes," he said, "forgive me this moment of madness. Let us forget it. Let us keep our friendship. I could not bear to forfeit that."
"You!" she cried wildly. "What have you done? I offered you my love, it is I who am shamed."
"There is no shame in love." He bent his head and with great respect kissed her hand. "I am not worthy that you should do me this honour. Six months ago I could have loved you with all the ardour that you could wish. Yes, there's no treason to her in saying that. But now, it is she who has all my heart, and this is impossible."
Countess Adrian moved away from him as he spoke. She drew a deep long breath like the moan of a wounded animal. The sound cut his very heart. All the glow and transport had gone from her face, leaving an ashy pallor and strange stillness. She stood for a second or two perfectly silent, her hand pressed against her side as if she were suffering. Presently she said, in a voice that had utterly changed:
"It is all over then—I want to know—who is it that you love?"
"I am engaged to marry Miss Beatrice Brett," he answered.
"The actress! I might have known that." Again she paused. "Mr. Lendon, you are right. This has been a moment of madness, and there is nothing for us but to try and forget it. Spare me now, and do not let word or look in the future remind me of my humiliation."
"Ah! do not misjudge me. Should I not value you more and not less for this? Surely, you and I can stand—soul to soul—outside conventions."
"That was the agreement we made," she said, with a wan smile. "Very well, let it be so. You are great enough for a woman to be safe with you. But—it is not so certain that I can be safe with myself. After to-night I shall never willingly see you again. But I shall not misjudge you, and I shall wish you happiness. Come, let us go into the ball-room."
He led her out in silence. The waltz was still going on. As they stood at the entrance of the conservatory he saw Beatrice enter. She was all in white, flushed and radiant, with a bouquet of lilies in her hand. So beautiful was she, so pure, and so ethereal, that her presence, following on that strange scene, seemed to him like that of some rebuking heavenly visitant. She recognized him and smiled. Countess Adrian also was watching her. Again he heard that low curious moan and looked at her in alarm. Her deathly paleness struck him. He saw that she was commanding all the force of her will to sustain her strength.
"Countess," he exclaimed, pierced with remorse, "you are not well."
She looked up bravely. "I am quite well—well enough to keep our engagement. This waltz is mine, remember. We will dance—for the first and last time."
He put his arm around her, and they glided out among the dancers. Presently the waltz changed its strain. It had been a plaintive and dreamy air. Now it clashed out in wild, fast rhythm that had something uncanny in its discords. His partner's form undulated with the music. Tall and magnificently framed as she was, so lightly did she dance, so entirely was her every movement in harmony with the measure, so rapid was the gliding pace she kept, that it seemed to him as though he were guiding a being possessed. Three mad whirls they made, then there was a rush, a shrieking of the violins, a long drawn closing chord, and the waltz was at an end.
They paused at the spot where Beatrice was standing. She was leaning against a crimson-draped pillar, fanning herself slowly, and talking to Sir Donald Urquhart, who was by her side. The two women faced each other. At the sight of Countess Adrian, the light went out of Beatrice's eyes. The motion of her fan ceased. She shrank back a little and cast a look at Lendon as if imploring his support. The Countess took her hand away from his arm, and he moved a step, ranging himself, as it were, on the side of the woman he loved. Countess Adrian advanced. "Miss Brett," she said, "I am Mr. Lendon's friend. Will you let me offer my congratulations to his future wife?" Lendon watched Beatrice's face. He saw the same dazed expression creep over it as upon that occasion when her performance had been interrupted by Countess Adrian's malign influence. The fan dropped from her hand. With an effort she appeared to try and brace herself, staggering a little as she moved forward. She looked wildly around, and half extended her hand, then her limbs drooped flaccidly again. She tottered against the pillar, and every drop of blood seemed to leave her cheeks. The Countess took her hand and stood tall and erect before the shrinking girl. Her bosom dilated as if she were drawing in strength. For a moment she did not speak. It was a strange scene. Lendon felt his heart throb with fear and suspense. He looked from Beatrice to Countess Adrian. Never had he seen so sudden and curious a change in the face of any human being. It was like the contrast between dead grey ashes and living fire. The impression she gave him was one of demoniac power. Her eyes glowed with an unearthly lustre from her white face. Her features were rigid, her frame tense as though she were concentrating all her force in one superhuman effort of will. It only lasted for a second, and Beatrice's eyes, large, blank, cowed, were drawn as by a magnet into that terrible compelling gaze. The girl trembled and yet looked fascinated, like a helpless victim before the snake makes its fatal spring. Countess Adrian went nearer. She spoke with a low, intense utterance words that burned like fire into Lendon's heart.
"You are going to be his wife," she said. "To you is given all that has been denied to me. I will give you more and yet more. I will give you the desire with which I have desired him, the yearning, the doubt, the agony with which I have striven for his love. I will give you the passion with which he has filled my heart, to be my torment and my heaven. I will give you of my strength and of my life. I will give you of my spirit and of my sense, till my soul itself shall live in you, and in loving you he shall love me whom he has scorned. This shall be my bridal gift to you, and with my kiss I seal it."
The red ripe lips of Countess Adrian bent down to Beatrice's lips and clung to them in a vampire kiss which seemed to drain the very life-breath from the girl's body. She uttered no sound, but as Countess Adrian moved from her she sank white and limp into Lendon's arms. Countess Adrian stood for a moment, rigid, and with staring glassy eyes. Then, with a sudden piercing cry, she pressed her hands to her heart, her body swayed, and she fell dead upon the floor.