Part 25 (1/2)
”No, it is not the fatigue!” screamed a voice near him. It was old James Burdock, who, with his white hair streaming and his eye gleaming with fire, shook his fist in his master's face--”no, it is not the fatigue, you villain! It is you who have killed her, with your jezebels and harlots, you scoundrel!”
”Send the women here, James, for G.o.d's sake!” cried Mr. Vane, not even noticing the insult he had received from a servant. He stamped furiously, and cried for help. The whole household was round her in a moment. They carried her to bed.
The remorse-stricken man, his own knees trembling under him, flew, in an agony of fear and self-reproach, for a doctor!
_A doctor?_
CHAPTER XIII.
DURING the garden scene, Mr. Vane had begged Mrs. Woffington to let him accompany her. She peremptorily refused, and said in the same breath she was going to Triplet, in Hercules Buildings, to have her portrait finished.
Had Mr. Vane understood the s.e.x, he would not have interpreted her refusal to the letter; when there was a postscript, the meaning of which was so little enigmatical.
Some three hours after the scene we have described, Mrs. Woffington sat in Triplet's apartment; and Triplet, palette in hand, painted away upon her portrait.
Mrs. Woffington was in that languid state which comes to women after their hearts have received a blow. She felt as if life was ended, and but the dregs of existence remained; but at times a flood of bitterness rolled over her, and she resigned all hope of perfect happiness in this world--all hope of loving and respecting the same creature; and at these moments she had but one idea--to use her own power, and bind her lover to her by chains never to be broken; and to close her eyes, and glide down the precipice of the future.
”I think you are master of this art,” said she, very languidly, to Triplet, ”you paint so rapidly.”
”Yes, madam,” said Triplet, gloomily; and painted on. ”Confound this shadow!” added he; and painted on.
His soul, too, was clouded. Mrs. Woffington, yawning in his face, had told him she had invited all Mr. Vane's company to come and praise his work; and ever since that he had been _morne et silencieux._
”You are fortunate,” continued Mrs. Woffington, not caring what she said; ”it is so difficult to make execution keep pace with conception.”
”Yes, ma'am;” and he painted on.
”You are satisfied with it?”
”Anything but, ma'am;” and he painted on.
”Cheerful soul!--then I presume it is like?”
”Not a bit, ma'am;” and he painted on.
Mrs. Woffington stretched.
”You can't yawn, ma'am--you can't yawn.”
”Oh, yes, I can. You are such good company;” and she stretched again.
”I was just about to catch the turn of the lip,” remonstrated Triplet.
”Well, catch it--it won't run away.”
”I'll try, ma'am. A pleasant half-hour it will be for me, when they all come here like cits at a s.h.i.+lling ordinary--each for his cut.”
”At a sensitive goose!”
”That is as may be, madam. Those critics flay us alive!”