Part 23 (1/2)

”Yes, I love you dearly, Hugh,” she declared, trying to subdue her emotion. ”This day is one of the happiest of my life. If we are married, I swear I will be a true wife to you, notwithstanding the calumnies you have heard.”

Thus, after months of estrangement, Hugh Trethowen again fell an easy prey to her fatal power of fascination; and he, blind and headstrong, saw her only as a beautiful woman, who was unhappy, and who loved him.

Yet it has been the same through ages. Men, under the spell of a daughter of Eve, a temptress who is more than pa.s.sing fair, become weak and impressionable as children, and are ruled absolutely by the woman they wors.h.i.+p, be she good or evil.

Until the sunset streamed into the pretty room, and the silver bells of the dainty ormolu clock chimed six, they sat together undisturbed. Many were the pledges of undying affection they exchanged; then he left, promising to call next day.

When he had gone, Valerie reseated herself, and gave herself up to one of those debauches of melancholy in which she sometimes indulged; for, after all, she was not entirely devoid of sentiment.

Could Hugh have overheard the conversation between Victor and the woman who was his affianced wife an hour later, he would, however, scarcely have congratulated himself upon the result of the interview.

Victor Berard and Valerie were together in a hired brougham on their way to the Theatre Moliere, where they had previously secured a box.

”So you are friends again, eh?” Victor was saying, laughing. ”Well, I must congratulate you upon your wonderful tact and diplomacy. The manner in which you have acted in leaving him to follow you here has allayed suspicion, and as long as you can exercise your power over him, we have nothing to fear as to the ultimate success of our plan.”

”It was as good as a comedy,” declared she, laughing heartily. ”I told him how lonely I was, and did the emotional dodge--squeezed a tear or two, just to add to the realism--and it brought him to the point at once. You should have been there; you would have been highly amused, for he's such a believing idiot, that I can do just as I like with him.”

”You're a clever girl, Valerie. With all your airs and graces, I believe you'd deceive the Evil One himself, if it was to your own interest to do so.”

”I don't know whether to regard that as a compliment or not,” she remarked merrily, as she drew her opera cloak more closely around her shoulders, and leaned back in the carriage listlessly. ”I suppose, however, from our point of view, the amount of deceit and craftiness I display in dealing with him will secure the more or less successful issue of our scheme.”

”If he knew everything, our position would not be a very enviable one, would it?”

”Scarcely. But, you see, my dear Victor, he doesn't know all, and will not, unless Egerton peaches, which he dare not do on account of his own neck. Therefore, we are quite safe, and can negotiate the little affair without interruption.”

”I believe that you really care for the fellow a little--just a little,”

her companion said, with a sarcastic laugh.

”And supposing that I did? I am my own mistress and can act as I please,” returned she, a trifle annoyed.

”_Bien_! you know best how to manage him, for you've had experience. I only urge you to be careful, and avoid any sentimental humbug.”

”Bah! I want none of your advice,” was all she replied, and a long silence ensued, which was not broken until the carriage drew up at the door of the theatre.

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 att.i.tude of languor and repose among her cus.h.i.+ons 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,--