32 Oh! Serpent Heart Hid With A Flowering Face
LADY VALENTINE,” says a somber voice, “be good enough to let me say a word to you.”
Dolores, leaning over the wire rail that separates one of the stiff Queen Anne gardens from the park, turns her head carelessly, but does not otherwise move. She holds in her hands a great bunch of garden roses and heliotrope. Her straw hat lies on the grass beside her, her glorious hair falls in its old unconstrained fashion, rippling down her back. She wears a crisp white dress, for the May morning is warm and sunny, and in the blue ribbon that clasps her slim waist, is thrust a second great bunch of pink and purple sweetness. In this muslin dress, with all that feathery hair, she looks so girlish, so fair, so much of a child, that even grim Mistress Dorothy Valentine pauses, for a moment, struck by it with a sort of pity and compunction for what she is about to say. Still she will say it—that way duty lies—and Mistress Dorothy would march up to the stake and be broiled alive, sooner than forego one jot or tittle of duty. It is mid forenoon—eleven o’clock—and these two ladies seem to have the place to themselves. Sir Vane and Miss Routh are exceptionally lazy people, and rarely appear before luncheon, to the silent exasperation of Miss Valentine. To her silent exasperation, for whatever she may be nominally, she is no more mistress of the house than is Sir Vane’s wife. She stands in very considerable awe of the baronet, and, if the truth must be told, of Cousin Camilla also.
“Good-morning, Miss Valentine,” my lady responds, going back to her roses; ”yes—say on.” But the ease of manner is but surface deep, an impatient sense of pain and irritation fills her. Can she never be free, morning, noon, nor night? Is she to be nagged at, girded at, taken to task, on all sides? What is her crime now? Miss Valentine wears the expression of the judge on the bench, at the moment of rising and putting on the black cap.
“And the sentence of the court is, that you be taken hence, and hanged by the neck until you are dead,” thinks Dolores, filled with dismal apprehensions. “I wish they would—it would shorten the misery, and not hurt half so much as this perpetual fault-finding from dawn till dark.”
“Lady Valentine,” resumes the somber voice, “do you know how many days it is since you met Colonel Deering first?”
“Oh-h!” thinks the culprit, “that is the indictment.” Aloud. ” No, Miss Dorothy, I do not. I take no note of time. In this house the days fly on such rosy wings, that they come and go before I am aware of them. And I never could count worth a cent, as they say over in my country. You are more correctly informed, no doubt. How many is it?” It is a flippant speech; it. is meant to be so. She is stung, reckless, at bay. Miss Valentine looks and feels unaffectedly shocked. She adjusts her spectacles more firmly on her polished aquiline nose, with its shining knob in the middle, and regards her young sister-in-law through them, with strong and stony disapproval.
“You take this tone with me, and on such a subject? Dolores, I felt inclined to be sorry for you, a moment ago, you looked so young, so—” Miss Valentine clears her throat, ”so child-like, I may say, so almost irresponsible. If you answer me like this, I shall regret what I am obliged to say no longer. It is precisely nine days, then, since Colonel Deering first saw you in this house, and in those nine days how often, may I ask, have you and he met?”
“You may ask, but I doubt if I can answer;” her tone is still light, but a deep flush has risen to her cheek. A flush of conscious guilt, it looks to Dorothy Valentine, of impotent anger in reality. “Let me see. That night, next day out riding, the following evening at Broughton Hall, yesterday at the rectory—oh! I really cannot remember, but quite frequently. Why?” She looks up with an innocence, an unconsciousness, so deliciously naive and true to life, that the exasperated spinster tingles to box her ears.
“Why? You ask that! Lady Valentine, you are playing with me, with the truth. There is not a day of those nine days you have not met Colonel Deering in your rides. Do not attempt to deny it.”
“Why should I deny it?” The blue eyes meet the stern lunettes with a quick, fiery flash.” I have met Colone l Deering daily in my rides. And what then?”
Something in her look, in her challenging tone, disconcerts her inquisitor. Miss Dorothy clears her husky throat before speaking again. “If my brother knew,” she is beginning.
“What? has not Riddle, the groom, his spy, told him? That is strange. I took it for granted that was his mission, and thought it such a pity he should have nothing to tell for all his trouble. I believe I allowed the colonel to escort me for the very purpose. And he really only has told you? Now, l wondered Sir Vane had not taken me to task. However, it is not too late. You can inform him at any time.”
” Child, what do you mean? What an extraordinary tone you take—what extraordinary things you say. Are you altogether reckless—altogether mad?”
“Another difficult question to answer. I sometimes wonder I do not go mad under all I have to endure. Oh, Miss Valentine, leave me alone. lt is a pity to waste your time scolding me, when you may be so much more usefully employed over your account books , and tracts for the poor. I have not been brought up properly, you see—no one ever found fault with me in my life until I was married. Since then there has been nothing but fault-finding, and that sort of thing does not seem to agree with me. I never could assimilate bitter medicine. Reckless! Yes, I am that! Leave me alone, Miss Dorothy; you, at least, have no right to insult me. Do you think,” turning on her with sudden, hot passion—”do you dare to think I am in love with Colonel Deering?”
“Dolores—no! I never thought so. You are foolish, hot-tempered, impulsive to rashness, but a flirt, a married coquette—no! . Do not look at me with such fiery eyes, child. I am sorry for you—I mean this for your good. You are unhappy—I see that, and I regret it. I may seem stern to you. I cannot pet you as your grandmother used, but I like you—yes, I honestly Iike you, and believe, with judicious training, you have it in you to be a noble woman—an excellent wife.”
Dolores laughs—a sad, incredulous little laugh enough. “Thank you, Miss Dorothy. And this is your idea of judicious training. Well, such a wretch as I am should be thankful for even small mercies. And you like me! Now, I confess,” with a second short, bitter laugh, “I should never have found that out. If I am not in love with this dashing and dangerous heavy dragoon, where is the guilt of an accidental meeting?”
“They are not accidental, Lady Valentine,” solemnly; “no, do not fire up again—hear me out—on his part, I mean. You are not in love with him, but he fell in love with you the first time he ever saw you.”
“Indeed!” There is something so suddenly funny in the grim Dorothy’s perspicacity on this tender point, that she laughs outright through the passionate tears that fill her eyes.
“You have an eagle glance, Miss Valentine.”
“I have,” with increased solemnity; “I watched him that evening. He looked at you, and at no one but you, from the moment you came into the room. He left Camilla Routh, and lingered by your side, like the most devoted lover, all the rest of the time.”
“Ah!” exclaims Dolores,” now we come to the Head and front of my offending! He deserted Camilla Routh for me! Yes, and I meant that he should! Her motto is ‘Slay, and spare not’—I made it mine for that once. And I won, Miss Valentine. There would have been no fault found, if I had failed—if Miss Routh could have kept her captive.”
“That is beside the question. Camila Routh is single—you are a married woman—”
“Helas!” sighs Dolores, under her breath, but the other hears.
“Do not make me think you wicked as well as weak,” she says, harshly. “You are married; you have nothing to do with Colonel Deering, or any other man. You will be talked about—you are being talked about already. My brother has not yet overheard—you can imagine how he will feel when he does.”
“Ah! I can imagine. I have seen Sir Vane in most of his moods and tenses. Does it ever occur to him—to you—that I may feel too? I am not in love with your brother,” cries Dolores, now utterly and altogether reckless, “but I am his wife. Do you think his very pronounced devotion to Miss Routh is an edifying or agreeable sight?” Miss Valentine winces—the ground is suddenly cut away from under her feet. She takes off her spectacles, and wipes them, and clears her throat, and is silent. “You say nothing, Miss Dorothy. You do well. It is a poor rule that will not work both ways. But I have nothing to do with that. You may mean well—kindly—I do not know. This I will say. I met Colonel Deering first in my husband’s house. I infer then he is a gentleman, and I may know him. I have met him in my daily rides, purely by accident, on my part at least, and he has been agreeable and courteous as any gentleman may be to his friend’s wife—no more. I am no coquette, I never will be, please Heaven—not for your brother’s sake, understand, Miss Valentine—for my own. And now what is it you will have me do? Give up my daily ride altogether? I will do it if you say so.”
“I think it will be well, for the present,” responds Miss Valentine, more softly. “Cæsar’s wife should be—”
“Oh!” cries impatient Dolores, “do not quote that, I beg! Cæsar’s wife! If she was not above reproach for her own womanly pride’s sake, for her own soul’s sake, why should she be for Cæsar, or any other man? No doubt Cæsar amused himself well in his own way. Had he a cousin, I wonder, with green eyes, like a cat? Is my lecture over, Miss Valentine?” wearily; “there is the sweet Camilla beaming on us through the window, in India muslin and pink ribbons. Colonel Deering comes to breakfast, by the bye, does he not? If you have quite said your say, I will go in.”
“You are a strange young woman, Dolores,” says Miss Valentine, looking at the flushed, fair face, more in sorrow than in anger. “I think it is a pity you married Vane.”
“So do I. Oh! Mon Dieu!” the girl cries out, clasping her hands with sudden passionate despair. “So do I. A pity, a pity, a pity!”
“What I mean is,” says Miss Dorothy, half alarmed, half angered, “that there is an—hem—incompatibility of temper, of age, of thought, of—”
“Heart, soul, mind—yes, everything. It has been a deadly, desperate mistake—who should know that better than I ? Here is your bete noir coming, Miss Valentine, singing, too, as though no guilty passion for a married woman consumed him. Until we meet at table, then, au revoir. I fly before the wolf.” She laughs as she goes. Colonel Deering, sauntering up the path, switching the flowers, and singing to himself as he saunters, sees the white flying figure with the amber hair, and grim Dorothy Valentine blocking up the path like any other dragon, guarding an enchanted and enchanting princess. He smiles to himself, and uplifts his fine tenor voice a little for Miss Dorothy’s benefit. These are, to Miss Dorothy’s suspicious ears, the sinister words he sings:
“’I will gather thee,’ he cried,
Rosebud, brightly blowing.’
‘Then I’ll sting thee,’ it replied,
‘And you’ll quickly start aside,
With the prickle glowing.’
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud, red,
Rosebud brightly blowing.”
“How do you do, Miss Valentine?” says this audacious dragoon, cheerily. “I am not behind time, I hope? You look as if you might be waiting.” He takes off his hat, bows to Miss Routh at her window, and goes with Miss Valentine into the house. Everything that there is of the most chilling and austere is Miss Valen tine’s greeting, but Miss Routh amply makes up for all that, by the warmth and cordiality of hers. Sir Vane, too, seems a shade less sour than usual, which fact is accounted for by some letters lying near his plate, informing him of a marked increase in the yield of certain Cornish coal-mines that have been rather unproductive lately. “I must run down to Flintbarrow,” he says, “and see about it, presently. A little fortune lies in these mines, properly worked. I shall attend to it at once.”
“Not quite at once, I hope, Vane,” says Camilla, “there is Lady Ratherripe’s ball, to-morrow night. You must not miss that.”
“I don’t greatly care for balls; still, as we have accepted—yes, I will stay and run down the following day. I may be detained some time in Cornwall;” taking up his letters again. “Challoner speaks glowingly of what can be done, with very little expenditure, either.”
“I petition for to-morrow night’s first waltzes, now,” says the colonel. “Miss Routh, you have already promised. Lady Valentine—”
“I am not sure that I shall go,” indifferently.
“Not go?” Sir Vane looks sharply up. “And offend Lady Ratherripe! Nonsense, Dolores. Certainly you will go.”
“Then may I entreat—”
“I shall not dance,” brusquely; “at least, I do not think I shall. And I never pledge myself ahead of time. Unto the day, the day.” Colonel Deering’s dark, bright eyes look across and regard her for a moment. Something wrong, he sees. Have these confounded old maids been nagging at her? They both look as if they could nag with a vengeance, by Jove! She must lead the deuce and all of a life in this dull old house, with these three old women! Poor girl!—what a casting of pearls before swine, when she was given to this latter-day Othello. And the dry, elderly prig is in love with this middle-aged, simpering, insipid Miss Routh. In this disrespectful way does the gallant colonel stigmatize the blonde Camilla, and the dignified baronet. He has decidedly lost his head over Sir Vane’s fair girl bride, but he has sense enough to leave her alone just now, and devote himself to Miss Routh. He will meet her at the ball, and have these waltzes, or fail where he wishes to win for the first time.
The night comes. Sir Vane and Lady Valentine are there. And Dolores is lovely. She wears white taffetas, embroidered in silver, diamonds and lilies of the valley in her hair, a collar of diamonds, with a great star-like pendant, clasping the slender throat, lilies of the valley everywhere about her. She is a glittering, bride-like figure, looking almost unreal in her extreme fairness and translucent robes. People stand, and look, and admire—audibly even; introductions are demanded. She is a bride and a beauty, and, beyond compare, the fairest of all the fair women in the rooms. There is something almost dramatic about this dazzling last appearance—it is commented on afterward. For it is the last time—the first for many, the very last time for all, that they ever see her thus. She has flashed upon them like a meteor, to vanish after into outer darkness and be seen no more!
Some feeling—not of course that it will be so, but some instinct that it will be well to take the goods that the gods provide, and enjoy herself if she can, comes to her as she stands here, the center of many eyes. She has not desired to come, her husband has angrily insisted; she has not wished to dance, he has irritably told her not to be an idiot, not to attract attention, to do as others do. Very well—she will take him at his word. It is a wife’s duty to obey. Colonel Deering scribbles his name on her tablets many times—there are dozens of aspirants she might dance every dance three times over · jf she chose.
She is only a girl—and the music sets every young nerve tingling. Colonel Deering is past-master of the art of waltzing, and she floats like a fairy or a French girl. She floats—a dazzling creature—all silvery taffetas, flashing diamonds, fragrant lilies, golden hair, and blue, blue eyes. Colonel Deering is not the only man conquered to-night—she might count almost as many captives as names on her tablets. But she thinks nothing about it, or them; they are her partners in the dance, one the same as another. Life holds some bright moments still, when one may laugh and forget, even though it be spoiled as a whole.
The Valentine ladies are all three there, the stony Dorothy as Medusa-like as ever, looking grimly at all this foolish gyrating disapprovingly through her spectacles. She disapproves of her sister-in-law most of all, of this glamour, this dazzle of uncanny beauty—this flashing sort of radiance fit to turn the heads of all these frivolous men. What does she mean by it? She is only a pretty, fair-haired girl on ordinary occasions-—he is a beauty to-night! And Colonel Deering’s infatuation is distinctly indecent—is atrocious! He takes no pains to hide it; it looks out of his bold black eyes for all the world to read. It is altogether wrong, and to be reprobated, and she hopes that Vane—She looks round for Vane; he is just quitting the ball-room, with Camilla Routh on his arm. And Camilla Routh’s face wears a Iook Dorothy Valentine knows very well, and has quailed before very often, strong-minded vestal that she is. The green eyes burn with a baleful glow; jealousy, hatred, rage—many evil passions look out of them as they glitter on her cousin’s wife. His two duty dances over, Colonel Deering has not once come near her, and even during those duty dances his eyes were with his heart, following his neighbor’s wife. And Miss Routh’s impotent jealous fury is not to be put in words.
“Take me out of this room, Vane,” she says, almost in a gasp, “I stifle in it. Take me out of the sight of your wife.”
“My wife is not here,” says Sir Vane, looking round.
“Nor Algernon Deering!” she cries, with repressed passion. “No doubt they are happy somewhere together. Take me out on the balcony—the heat here is unendurable.”
He does as he is told—together they go out on the balcony. The ball-room windows give on it, and they stand under the stars, the cool wind of the May night blowing upon them, tall pots of flowering shrubs on every hand. “You will catch cold,” he says; ” I will go and get you a wrap.”
“I wish,” she answers, between her set teeth, “I could catch my death! Better be dead than alive—a miserable, neglected, disappointed woman!”
Sir Vane stands silent. He has been through this sort of thing before, and does not like it. “What is the matter with you, Camilla?” he asks, sulkily. “What is wrong now?”
“Do you ask!” she cries, panting—” you, for whom I have wasted my life, for whose sake I have grown into what your wife’s odious servant calls me—an old maid!” He stands with folded arms, and gazes moodily before him at the dark, star-lit stretch of garden and lawn. “You are but a poor creature, after all, Sir Vane Valentine! You ordered this woman to go, and she defies you to your face—she and your wife! She is at Valentine still, and means to stay—”
“She shall not stay,” sullenly, “she will go. I have said it, and I keep my word.”
“And to-night,” goes on Miss Routh, still in that tense tone of fierce anger, “did you watch your wife to-night? She has been with Colonel Deering the whole evening; her conduct has been scandalous—you hear? —scandalous! For me—but what does it matter for me? I gave up my girlhood—my youth—to waiting for you. You were my lover; you were to return to marry me; you made me swear—almost—to be true to you. And I kept my word—fool, fool that I was! How did you keep yours, Vane Valentine? You returned with a bride of nineteen, and I and my years of weary waiting were forgotten—forgotten—forgotten!”
“Not forgotten, Camilla—never forgotten! By my sacred horror, no! I loved you then—only you! I love you still—you alone! She is younger—fairer, it may be, than you, but not in my eyes—I swear it! You are the one woman in all the world I have ever wished for my own! You know why I married her—why I was forced to marry her, with no love on either side. By all my hopes, if I were free to-night, I would marry you tomorrow!”
There is no one to hear this impassioned speech; they stand quite alone on the balcony—this modern, middle aged Romeo and Juliet—with the peaceful stars looking down, and the tall acacias and syringas screening them. Cautious even in her excess, Miss Routh looks round to make sure. But though Miss Routh’s eyes are as sharp as that of any other cat in the dark, they cannot pierce the satin draperies of the open French window, where, enjoying the cool freshness of the night, a lady and gentleman stand. And the gentleman is Colonel Deering, and the lady is Dolores—Lady Valentine.
They hear every word; they see Camilla Routh drawn, half reluctant, half yielding, into a quick embrace. They have had no time to fly, it has all been so rapid. Colonel Deering starts up, honestly shocked for her sake. For her—is she in a trance of white horror, that she stands frozen here, looking, and, for the moment, feeling absolutely unable to stir. “There are times when I hate her,” Vane Valentine is saying, and no one can hear his strident voice and disbelieve, “since she stands between me and you. I love you, Camilla! I could not bear my life if I lost you!”
“Shall we go, Lady Valentine?” says Colonel Deering in a smothered voice. It is growing too much even for him, and the stone-white face of his companion frightens him. He touches the gloved hand on his arm, and it is like ice. She does not seem to hear him; she looks as though she were stunned into a trance by the atrocious words that fall on her ear. ” Lady Valentine,” he gently repeats, and draws her with him back from the window.
The motion awakes her; she looks at him with two dull, blind eyes—eyes that see, but, for the moment, do not seem to know his face.
“Shall we go back, Lady Valentine?” he asks, still very gently, motioning toward the brilliant ball-room. And then she seems to come back with a shock from that stunned torpor into which her husband’s brutal words have struck her. “Do come,” he says, uneasily; “you are cold; you are whiter than your dress.”
“Come?” she repeats; “where? Oh, back there,” with a gesture of indescribable repulsion. “No; not yet. Leave me alone, Colonel Deering, I like it best here.” There is that in her face that compels him to obey. He goes, but reluctantly, slowly, and looking back. Of all the unutterable asses it ever has been his fortune to meet, commend him to this pig-headed baronet, he thinks. The music of the Strauss waltz floats to her—a sigh in its gay sweetness. She stand alone, and looks out at the stars, at the tall plants, at the balcony, deserted now.
A marble goddess is beside her; the chill, pale gleam of the stone face is scarcely stiller or paler than the living one. She has heard the whole truth—at last!
