The Countess was a pretty little Englishwoman, married to a foreign adventurer, who had made an enormous fortune in certain obscure branches of trade. While yet a maiden2 Miss Aurelia Blackeston was well known in aesthetic3 circles as the writer of many charming volumes of verse, and as the favoured lady to whom a certain great and titled poet addressed the lines commencing
‘Aurelia, pretty one, brightest of blues4!’
As a wife and a lady of title the same lady doubled her social charms. Her husband, standing5 quietly in her shadow, watched her with morose6 adoration7, whilst she dispensed8 hospitality to all the lions of the land.
For Aurelia loved a lion, just as some people love a lord. On each occasion there were new ones to be sought out, secured and made much of, before the party could be complete. In difficulties of this sort she generally appealed to her old friend and admirer Serena, who, being full-manned and leonine himself, was a good judge of the noble animal in demand. Serena, we may remark en passant, had painted the Countess in every attitude and from every conceivable point of view; as a Pythoness, as a ‘Psyche by the Waters of Love’s Wanness,’ as ‘A Study in Rose Pink,’ as ‘Vivien the Enchantress,’ in which doleful composition the painter himself appeared as Merlin; and most of these portraits adorned9 the walls of the cerulean house at Barnes, on the banks of the Thames.
One morning, early in the season, Madeline, sitting at breakfast with her husband, received the Countess’s invitation; accompanying it was a little note from Serena. ‘I hope you will come; indeed, you must come,’ wrote the great man, ‘since on this occasion the fair Aurelia’s rooms will be graced by the presence of a gentleman whom I wish particularly to make known to you, a charming creature whose soul is redolent of music and divine song. He comes to my rooms, he contemplates10 your picture by the hour—he vows11 that so divine a creature cannot exist. I wish to show him that she does exist, and that, in trying to place it upon canvas, my poor hand has signally failed.’
Madeline read the letter with a smile, then she handed it to her husband.
‘The Countess is not content with mere12 lions this year,’ she said. ‘She evidently intends to make a lioness of me. Shall we go?’
‘Yes, we had better go, my dear,’ returned Forster quietly. ‘Beneath all her humbug13 the Countess is an excellent person; she would be really pained if we stayed away.’
So without more ado—without more thought—the step was taken which was to become the great turning point in Madeline’s life.
Breakfast over, Forster went to the City, while Madeline wrote a little note accepting the lady’s invitation; then put the whole matter from her mind, ordered her carriage, and an hour later was driving down Regent Street, with the little boy who was now her constant companion.
The life into which Madeline had entered on her marriage had proved so far to be a happy one. James Forster, always kind and considerate, was devoted14 to his young wife; while Madeline tried to repay some of his kindness to her by lavishing15 her affection on his child. ‘He shall never repent16 marrying me,’ she said to herself a hundred times a day. ‘He alone knows I did not bring him honour, but I will bring him happiness.’ And she tried to keep her word.
Meantime, the days flew past, and at length the momentous17 one arrived on which Mr. and Mrs. Forster were to appear at the Countess’s house at Barnes. Forster went to the City as usual, but promised to return early; he was detained, however, so that when he reached home he found his wife already arrayed for the night. He looked at her, then gently kissed her.
‘Madeline, my dear,’ he said, ‘I never saw you look more lovely’: then he added quietly—‘Should you mind very much, my love, if I stayed at home to-night?’
‘Stayed at home?’
‘Yes, I have had one of my nervous headaches all day, and I don’t feel equal to facing the Countess’s crowded rooms.’
‘Then you shall remain at home, and I will remain with you.’
‘Not so, my love: you must go, and Margaret shall accompany you.’
‘But I would rather stay.’
‘Nonsense, Madeline. If you talk like that I shall go, and punish you for your perversity18 by being more than usually disagreeable.’
So it was settled, the carriage was ordered, and Madeline drove down to Barnes with Miss Forster by her side.
The gathering, as we have said, was always numerous, but this time it seemed of greater importance than ever. The street on the river side was so blocked with carriages that some time elapsed before Forster’s brougham could pull up at the door, and when at length it did, and the ladies passed over the carpeted pavement into the hall, they found themselves in so dense19 a throng20 that it was with difficulty they made their way along at all. At length, however, they reached the top of the crowded staircase, at the door of a crowded room. Here Madeline paused; her eyes, lately accustomed to the darkness, were dazzled by the brilliant glare of light which met them, so that at first she could find out nothing very distinctly; in a moment, however, the feeling of confusion passed away, and with one swift glance she took in the scene.
In a suite21 of lofty rooms running from one to another, like a picture gallery, and almost as thickly covered with works of art, were ladies and gentlemen of all shapes and ages, the majority of the ladies clad in what is now known as the aesthetic, or high-waisted, style, and the greater number of the gentlemen resembling one another in a certain limp and flaccid self-consciousness of attitude. Scattered22 here and there, as a sort of leaven23, were swarthy artists, with beards, spectacled savants and scientists, stout24 literary ladies, and acidulous25 lady members of the London School Board. It was, indeed, a scene too familiar to need much describing. The chatter26 was deafening27, reminding an irreverent spectator of the noise in the monkey-house at the Zoological Gardens.
While Madeline and Miss Forster stood hesitating within the threshold of the room, they were espied28 from a distance by Serena, who immediately made his way over to them, and forthwith, in the manner of one having authority, led them to the lady of the house.
The Countess, who was shining resplendent in a dress composed entirely30 of Indian shawls folded tight round her lissome31 figure, welcomed Madeline with effusion, and gave the tip of her fingers to Miss Forster; then after a little desultory32 prattle33, she introduced Madeline to a limp gentleman standing near, and floated away to another part of the room.
‘A charming creature the Countess,’ said the limp gentleman. ‘So far above the vulgar prejudices of our too crowded civilisation34, with no creed35 but Beauty, and no God but Art.’
‘Yes,’ murmured Madeline, scarcely attending, as she gazed rather vacantly round the room.
‘Have you seen Botticelli Jones’s picture of her ladyship as “A Lily of Languor36 in the Garden of Proserpine”? No? Well, Ponto says it is the most superbly sane37 and cosmic thing——’
He was interrupted by a cry from Madeline, who, leaving his side without a word of apology, crossed the room rapidly, and approached a grim-looking person with a light beard, clad in a very shabby dress suit and rather disreputable boots.
This was no other person than Jack38 Bingham, an artist by profession, of the old ‘pipe and beer’ school, and a bosom39 friend of Marmaduke White.
‘What, Jack!’ she cried, holding out both her hands.
Everybody called him Jack.
As she spoke40 the grim face relaxed into a smile.
‘What, is it you?’ returned Jack, with a delighted laugh.
‘Yes, and I am so glad to see you. But who would have thought of meeting you here, of all the places in the world? Dear, dear Jack, the very sight of you calls up old times.’
And tears stood in her eyes as she gazed upon his homely41 face. Jack was affected42 too in his rough way, so he made a diversion.
‘Beastly slow, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘There doesn’t seem to be a smoke room, and none of the fellows are my sort.’
‘Why haven’t you come to see me?’ asked Madeline, nodding.
‘Since your marriage?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I don’t know—you didn’t ask me—and your husband’s a swell43.’
‘He’s nothing of the sort, Jack, and as to not being asked, you ought to have known my house was open to every friend of my dear guardian44. You might smoke in the drawing-room if you liked, and no one would object.’
Jack laughed.
‘I’m not quite such a beast as that; but there, I’ll come since you wish it, and have a talk about old times.’
At this point they were interrupted by Blanco Serena.
‘Mrs. Forster,’ said he, ‘permit me; I wish to make two clever people known to each other.’
Madeline placed her hand on Serena’s proffered45 arm, and with a smile and a nod to Bingham moved a few steps away. Presently she paused and looked up into her companion’s face.
‘Mr. Serena,’ she said, ‘who is the person? Nobody very clever, I hope; I am so afraid of very clever people.’
‘I am going, my dear Imogen, to introduce you to one who, if the “Megatherium” is to be trusted, is one of the greatest minds of the age. A man who is all spirit, whose soul is a combination of music and song, whose——’
‘Dear me,’ broke in Madeline, ‘he must be a dreadful person. Suppose you point him out to me before we meet him, in case I get quite overcome.’
Serena gazed round the room. The crowd was so great he could not at first find the individual he sought, and with Madeline’s hand still upon his arm he moved a few more steps forward. Suddenly he paused again, gazed across the room, and Madeline, following the gaze with her eyes, beheld46 a form the first sight of which chilled her to the soul.
The room was long and vast, and the further end of it curved off into a kind of alcove47, which at this moment was filled with an admiring group, such as Du Maurier loves to draw—aesthetic ladies, for the most part tall and limp, and lean gentlemen, crowded together, who stood gazing in rapt admiration48 upon a figure who stood in their midst. It was upon this figure that Madeline’s eyes had fallen. In this wonderful creature, this new lion of the night, she recognised, with a sickening shock of surprise, none other than her old friend and tormentor49, Belleisle!
For a moment all power of speech deserted50 her, the room, the crowds, melted away—she stood as if alone, gazing upon the figure of a man in overwhelming fear—all the blood had deserted her cheeks, the hand which lay upon her companion’s arm was cold and death-like.
She was recalled to herself by the sound of Serena’s voice.
‘Mrs. Forster,’ he said, ‘will you come on now—may I be permitted the honour of presenting you to my friend Gavrolles?’
But Madeline neither moved nor spoke. Her companion turned towards her, and noticed the ghastly hue51 of her face.
‘Good heavens!’ he exclaimed. ‘What has happened? My dear Mrs. Forster, let me trust you are not ill?’
Madeline clutched nervously52 at his arm.
‘Hush, not so loud,’ she whispered; then forcing a faint smile to her bloodless lips, she murmured, ‘I am not feeling well, Mr. Serena, but indeed there is no cause for alarm. The rooms are hot, you see, and I have grown a little faint. Pray let me sit for a moment, but take no further notice of this, I beseech53 you.’
Utterly54 bewildered as to what it all meant, but feeling instinctively55 that something wrong had happened, Serena did as he was requested. He led Madeline to an ottoman; she sank down on it with a sigh.
‘Now let me fetch you a glass of wine, or something to take away the faintness,’ he said anxiously; and Madeline bowed her head in silent acquiescence56.
The moment he had gone she turned her weary, bewildered eyes upon the gay crowd surrounding her, and gazed again with a sickening sense of shrinking fear towards the spot where the man had stood.
Had her eyes deceived her, had it been some hideous57 vision conjured58 up to cast a black shadow upon the happiness which was hers at last? Madeline turned her eyes, hoping, half believing this might be so; but one look gave the death-blow to all her hopes, and made her terror more terrible than it had been before.
Yes, there he stood, the man who had blighted59 her young life, who had dragged her into the mud, from which, in spite of him, she had arisen. He was changed, certainly, but what changes could disguise him? His hair, once short, was now long and luxuriant, he was clothed in garments of the newest cut, he was talking rapidly, twisting his body into various contortions60, for the benefit of the small crowd about him. There was no mistaking those pitiless eyes, that cruel mouth. Yes, it was Belleisle, the man who had cheated her into becoming his mistress, who had made her the decoy of a gambling61 hell, who had dragged her into the very depths of dishonour62 and pollution.
She sat for a time concealing63 her face with her fan, but gazing upon him in a wild fascination64; then a terror seized her that the dreadful figure might approach and she would be recognised. The mere possibility sent a cold thrill through all her frame, and she realised for the first time all the evil which one word from the man’s lips could bring upon her head. Serena returned with a glass of wine and a biscuit. She sipped65 the wine, but put the biscuit from her. Then she turned her white face towards Serena, and whispered eagerly—
‘Mr. Serena, I must go home!’
‘Go home! My dear Mrs. Forster, the evening has hardly begun. We cannot lose one of our brightest ornaments—besides, I have yet to introduce you to——’
‘Hush,’ interrupted Madeline, eagerly, ‘do, pray, let me go. Take me downstairs, I can bear this place no longer. I will wait in the hall for the carriage, and you can bring Miss Forster to me.’
So saying, and without giving Serena time to reply, she rose, took his arm, and drew him out of the crowded room, down the stairs. Once clear of the room she seemed to breathe more freely, but her cheek still retained its ashen66 grey hue, and the hand which rested upon his arm trembled violently. He led her to the hall, wrapped her cloak about her, and ordered her carriage; then, at her request, he returned to the room to fetch Miss Forster.
It was yet early, carriages continued to drive up to the door, and new streams of people made their way into the dwelling67, but in the confusion no one noticed Madeline. She had withdrawn68 into the shadow, and stood now tremulous with excitement and eager to be gone, and inwardly thanking God that she had escaped the Frenchman’s eye.
Suddenly she felt herself lightly touched upon the arm. She turned quickly, and found herself face to face with the very man she feared!
Instantly she shrank away, and a quick cry of pain escaped her lips. She put her hand to her head in a wild bewildered fear, and stared stupidly at her foe69.
The Frenchman was by no means disconcerted. He bowed politely before her, asked in an audible voice if he could be of any service to her, but whispered low——
‘I must see you alone to-morrow. Name a place where we shall meet!’
Madeline did not utter a cry this time, but she shrank farther and farther away. Then she raised her head and looked straight into the Frenchman’s eyes. For a moment she had been seized with a mad idea to disown any knowledge of him—that one look into his eyes convinced her that the device was hopeless.
‘Name a time and place,’ he repeated. Madeline knew that to refuse was impossible—so she said hurriedly—‘Albert Memorial to-morrow morning at 11.’ Then she gazed like a frightened child about her, and saw with dismay that Miss Forster stood close at hand. Had she heard or seen? Madeline could not tell, for the lady’s face betrayed nothing. She came quickly forward, and said, in her cold, unsympathetic voice—
‘What is the matter, Madeline?’
Madeline’s face, which had lately been so pale, suddenly became crimson70.
She stammered71 out that nothing was the matter.
‘Mr. Serena told me that you had been ill.’
‘I did not feel well,’ returned Madeline, regaining72 some of her self-command, ‘and I should like to go home—but, dear Miss Forster, if you will permit me I will go alone. It seems a pity to take you away so soon.’
The lady replied, coldly—
‘I have no wish to stay. I came because my brother wished me to come; that was all.’
By this time Serena, who had been busy hurrying up the carriage, came to announce that it was ready, to offer his arm to the ladies, and once more to express his deep grief at Madeline’s untimely departure. Madeline took his arm in silence. As she moved away, she turned and gazed uneasily around her.
The Frenchman was nowhere to be seen.
The drive home was made in profound silence. Miss Forster sat in stately reticence73 and gazed from the carriage window at the flashing lamps of the street, while Madeline threw herself into her corner, closed her weary eyes, and tried to persuade herself that the event of the last hour had been but a dream. She was a little bewildered as yet, and unable to realise all that the man’s presence might mean. To her as yet he had only recalled the horror of her past-life; he had cast no actual shadow over her home.
When the carriage was pulled up at the door and she stepped out, she felt herself shivering from head to foot, though in reality her hands and lips were burning. When she pleaded illness as the cause of her early return, Forster readily believed her, and while folding her in his arms he blamed his own folly74 for allowing her to go forth29 at all that night. Was it his fancy, or did Madeline really shrink from his embrace; yes, shrink from it, as she had never done before? He turned anxiously towards her, he noticed that her cheek was flushed, and that a strange light shone in her eyes; but he saw no mystery there.
Having satisfactorily explained her return, Madeline went at once to her room, where she found her maid awaiting her. The girl assisted her mistress to remove her dress; to take down her hair, and put on her dressing75 gown; then she was summarily dismissed for the night, and Madeline, after locking her door, sat down to think what it would be best for her to do.
What had she done? Nothing as yet. She had let the man see that she feared him, certainly, but then he needed no sign from her to assure him of that. She had, moreover, in her desperation and fear of exposure, made an assignation with him. But then that assignation need never be kept. There was one way open to her—one open, honest course; but she shrank from it appalled76. Her heart counselled thus—‘Go to your husband, tell him all, and throw yourself upon his sympathy;’ but her courage failed her, she shrank back like a contaminated guilty thing.
‘Go to him, look in his eyes, and say to him—“I have seen to-night the man who made me his mistress; with one word he can bring disgrace upon me, and you”————-’
No, she could not do it. Whatever her husband had heard of her past she hoped by this time he had forgotten. In Forster’s sight, at least, she would not be degraded; come what might, she would fight her battle alone.
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1
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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contemplates
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的第三人称单数 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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lavishing
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的现在分词 ) | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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acidulous
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| adj.微酸的；苛薄的 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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lissome
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| adj.柔软的；敏捷的 | |
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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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tormentor
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| n. 使苦痛之人, 使苦恼之物, 侧幕 =tormenter | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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58
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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59
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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60
contortions
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| n.扭歪，弯曲；扭曲，弄歪，歪曲( contortion的名词复数 ) | |
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61
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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62
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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63
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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65
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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68
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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70
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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71
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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73
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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74
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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76
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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