May Agnes Fleming
Norine's Revenge, and, Sir Noel's Heir
CHAPTER XIX.
"WHOM THE GODS WISH TO DESTROY THEY FIRST MAKE MAD."
Norine! And like this, after four years, these two meet again.
Norine! His lips shape the word, but no sound follows. He stands before her destitute of all power to speak or move. Lost in a trance of wonder, he remains looking down upon the fair, smiling, upturned face, utterly confounded.
"I am very pleased to meet Mr. Thorndyke. By reputation I know him well."
These audacious words, smilingly spoken, reach his ear. She bows, taps her fan lightly, and makes some airy remark to her host. And still Laurence Thorndyke stands petrified. She notices, lifts her eyebrows, and ever so slightly shrugs her shoulders.
"Mr. Thorndyke does not spare me. To which of my defects, I wonder, do I owe this steady regard?"
"Norine!"
The name breaks from his lips at last. He still stands and stares.
She uplifts her graceful shoulders once more – the old French trick of gesture he remembers so well.
"I remind Mr. Thorndyke of some one, possibly," she says – impatience mingled with her "society manner," this time – "of some lady he knows?"
"Of some one I once knew, certainly, Mrs. – Ah, Darcy," he retorts, his face flushing angrily, his old insolent ease of manner returning, "I am not sure that you would call her a lady. She was a French Canadienne – her name – would you like to hear her name, Mrs. Liston-Darcy?"
"It does not interest me at all, Mr. Thorndyke."
"Her name was Norine Bourdon, and she was like – most astoundingly like you! So like that I could swear you were one and the same."
"Ah, indeed! But I would not take a rash oath if I were you. These accidental resemblances are so deceptive. Mr. Wentworth, if you will give me your arm, I think I will go and look at the dancers."
The last words were very marked. With a chill, formal bow to Mr. Thorndyke she took her escort's arm, and turned to move away. With that angry flush still on his face, that angry light still in his eyes, Laurence Thorndyke interposed.
"Mrs. Darcy, they are playing the 'Soldaten Lieder'. It is a favorite waltz of yours, I know. Will you not give it to me?"
She turned upon him slowly, a swift, black flash in her eyes that made him recoil.
"You make a mistake, Mr. Thorndyke! Of what I dance or what I do not, you can possibly know nothing. For the rest, my time of mourning for my dear adopted father has but just expired. I do not dance at all."
Then she was gone – tall, and fair and graceful as a lily. And Laurence Thorndyke drew a long breath, his face aglow with genuine admiration.
"By Jupiter!" he said; "who'd have thought it! In the language of the immortal Dick Swiveller, 'This is a staggerer!' Who'd have thought she'd have had the pluck! And who would have thought she would ever have grown so handsome?"
"You do know her, then, Thorndyke?" his host asked, in intense curiosity.
Mr. Thorndyke had forgotten him, but Mr. Allison was still at his elbow. His reply was a short, curious laugh.
"Know her? By Jove! I used to think so, but at this moment I am inclined to doubt it. Have you not heard her deny it, and ladies invariably tell the truth, do they not? 'These accidental resemblances are so deceptive!'" He laughed shortly. "So they are, my dear Mrs. Darcy! Yes, Allison, it's all a mistake on my part, no doubt."
He turned and swung away to escape Allison, and think his surprise out. His eyes went after her. Yes, there she was again, the centre of an admiring group of all that was best in the room. Her beautiful dark face was all alight, the black, beautiful eyes, like dusk diamonds, the waving hair most gracefully worn – by odds the most attractive woman in the rooms. Those years had changed her wonderfully – improved her beyond telling. The face, clear cut and calm as marble, the lips set and resolute, the figure matured and grown firm. About her there was all the uplifted ease, the ineffable self-poise of a woman of the world, conscious of her beauty, her wealth, and her power.
"And this is Norine – little Norry," Laurence Thorndyke thought in his trance of wonder. "I can hardly believe my own senses. I thought her dead, or buried alive down there in the wilds of Maine, and lo! here she crops up, old Darcy's heiress – beautiful, elegant, and ready to face me with the courage of a stage heroine – the woman who has done me out of a fortune. This is her revenge! And I thought her a love-sick simpleton, ready to lie down and die of a broken heart the hour I left her. By George! how handsome she has grown. It would be easy enough for any man to fall in love with her now."
She meant to ignore the past, utterly and absolutely ignore it – that he saw. Well, he would take his cue from her for the present, and see how the farce would play. But – was it Norine? – that self-possessed regal-looking lady! Could it be that those dark, calm, haughty eyes had ever filled with passionate tears at his slightest word of reproach? had ever darkened with utter despair at his going? Could it be that yonder beautiful, stately creature had waited and watched for him in pale anguish, night after night, his veriest slave? – had clung to him, white with direst woe, when he had seen her last? Proud, uplifted, calm – could it be? – could it be?
"Norine, surely; but not the Norine I knew – a Norine ten thousand times more to my taste. But how, in Heaven's name, has she brought this transformation about? Mrs. Jane Liston – old Liston's niece. I have it! I see it all! Liston is at the bottom of this. It is his revenge for Lucy West; and they have worked and plotted together, whilst I, blind fool, thought him my friend, and thought her too feeble, soul and body, to do anything but droop and die when I left her."
Yes, he saw it all. Like inspiration it came upon him. In his own coin he had been paid; the trodden worms had turned, and Lucy West and Norine Bourdon were avenged.
Mr. Thorndyke withdrew from every one and gave himself wholly up to the study of Mrs. Darcy. There was no scene; Mrs. Allison need not have feared it; no gentleman present "behaved himself" more quietly or decorously than Mr. Laurence Thorndyke. How wonderfully she had changed! how handsome she had grown! that was the burden of his musings. And she had loved him once – ah, yes – "not wisely, but too well." They say first love never wholly dies out. He didn't know himself; he had had so many first loves – centuries ago, it seemed to him now – they certainly had died out, wholly and entirely. But with women it was different. Had she quite outgrown the passion of her youth? And if it were not for Helen, who could tell —
He broke off, with a sudden impulse, and joined her. For a moment she was alone, in a curtained recess, wielding her fan with the languid grace of a Castilian, and watching the dancers. He came softly from behind and bent his tall head.
"Norine!"
If she had been stone-deaf she could not have sat more perfectly still and unheeding.
"Norry!"
No motion – no sign that she heard at all.
"Mrs. Darcy!"
She moved slowly now, turning her graceful shoulder and lifting the brown, tranquil eyes full to his face.
"Did you address yourself to me, Mr. Thorndyke?"
"Norine, there is no one to hear; for pity's sake have done with this farce. Norine! Norine! as though I should not know you anywhere, under any name."
"Mr. Thorndyke," Mrs. Darcy answered, her soft, sweet voice singularly calm and clear, "if you persist in this strange delusion of yours I shall be forced to throw myself upon the protection of Mr. Allison. As the disinherited nephew of the late Mr. Darcy, I have no objection to make your acquaintance; in the light of a former friend I utterly refuse to know you. I am Mrs. Darcy. If you insist upon addressing me by any other name I shall refuse to hear or answer."
There was no mistaking the tone in which it was said. His eyes flashed blue fire.
"Take care!" he said; "even you may go too far! What if I tell the world Mrs. Darcy's past?"
The dark, disdainful gaze was upon him still.
"Is that a threat, Mr. Thorndyke? I do not know you, I never have known you. If you say that I have, I am prepared to deny it, at all times, and in all places. My word will carry as much weight as yours, Mr. Thorndyke. I am not afraid of you, and if this is to be the manner of our conversation, I decline henceforth holding another."
She arose to go. He saw he had made a mistake. It was no part of his desire to make an enemy of her.
"Forgive me," he said, humbly – "forgive me, Mrs. Darcy. The resemblance is very striking; but I am mistaken, of course. You remind me of one I loved very dearly once – of one whose loss has darkened my whole life! Forgive me, and let me be your friend."
The scorn in the dark, contemptuous eyes! – it might have blighted him; but of late years Laurence Thorndyke was well used to scorn.
"Friend?" she said. "No! I do not make friends lightly. Acquaintance, if you will, for Mr. Darcy's sake – for the sake of your great disappointment pecuniarily I am willing to be that."
"It was deserved," he faltered, his eyes averted. "I have repented – Heaven knows how bitterly. That I have lost a fortune through my own misdeeds is the least of my punishment."
She turned from him, sick – sick at heart with the utter scorn she felt. As her gaze wandered away, it fell upon another face – the face of Richard Gilbert!
He was watching them. As he met her glance he bowed and walked away. A flush that Laurence Thorndyke had not for a second called there, came vividly into her pale cheeks.
"And for this craven – this hypocrite, I fled from him – spoiling my own life and his forever. Oh, fool! fool! What can he have but scorn and loathing for me now."
She arose impatiently. All at once the presence of Laurence Thorndyke had grown intolerable to her. Without a word of excuse she bent her head to him slightly and frigidly and moved away.
Mr. Thorndyke was not offended. The course he meant to pursue in regard to Mrs. Darcy was not yet quite clear. This, however, was – he would not let her easily offend him. His friend she should be. Who could tell what the future might bring forth? With all her girl's heart and strength she had loved him once. A fatuous smile came over his face as he glanced at himself in the mirror. Not so good-looking as of yore, certainly, but late hours, hard drinking, and the fierce excitement of the gaming-table had wrought the evil. He would change all that – go in for reform – total amendment of life – try sculpture and become a respectable member of society. Meantime he would see all he could of Mrs. Darcy.
By Jove! how handsome she had looked – what thoroughbred good style she was! And if – hidden under all this outward coldness – the old love still lay, how easy for him to fan the smoldering embers into bright flames. And then – ?
A vision rose before him – Helen, in the shabby rooms at home, writing far into the night, to earn the bread his children ate. Whilst Helen lived, let his uncle's heiress love him never so well, what could it avail him? "There is the law of divorce," whispered the small voice of the tempter. "To the man who wills, all things are possible. Mr. Darcy's fortune, and Mr. Darcy's heiress may be yours yet. You have played for high stakes before to-night, Laurence, my boy. Play your cards with care now, and you hold the winning hand?"
From that night a change began in Laurence Thorndyke – began on the spot. Once more, that night, he had spoken to Mrs. Darcy – then it was to say farewell.
"You have told me you will accept me as an acquaintance," he said very quietly. "Life has gone hardly with me of late, and I have learned to be thankful even for small mercies. For what you have promised I thank you, and – will not easily forget it."
She bowed – gleams of scorn in her dark, brilliant eyes. So they had parted, and very grave and thoughtful Mr. Thorndyke went home.
The change began. Less drinking, less gambling, better hours. His wife looked on with suspicious eyes. She had reason to suspect. When Satan turns saint, Satan's relatives have cause to be on the alert.
"Given up gambling and going to try sculpture! Leon Saroni has given you the run of his studies, has he? I don't understand all this, Mr. Thorndyke. What new project have you in your head now?"
"Going to turn over a new leaf, Nellie. Give you my word I am," replies Mr. Thorndyke, keeping his temper with admirable patience. "Going in for legitimate industry and fame. I always felt I had a genius for sculpture. I feel it now more than ever. Soon, very soon, you may throw this beastly copying to the dogs, and we will live in comfort once more."
The wonder and incredulity of his wife's face, as she turned back to her writing, infuriated him. But he had his own reasons for standing well, even with her, just at present.
"Nellie," he said, and he stooped to kiss her, "I've been a brute to you, I know, but – you care a little for me still!"
Her face flushed, as a girl's might under her lover's first caress. Then she covered it with her hands and broke into a passion of tears.
He soothed her with caresses.
"It will be different now," he said. "Forgive the past, Nellie, if you can. I swear to do better in the future."
Forgive! What is there that a wife who loves will not forgive? On her wedding-day Helen Thorndyke had hardly been more blessed. With a glow on her cheeks and a light in her eyes, strangers there for many a day, she went back to her drudgery. And smiling a little to himself, as he lit his cigar and sauntered to his friend Saroni's studio, Mr. Thorndyke mused:
"They're all alike – all! Ready to forgive a man seventy times seven, let him do as he may. Ready to sell themselves body and soul for a kiss! And what is true of Helen shall be true of Norine."
So Mr. Thorndyke set to work, and with untiring energy, be it said. "Deserted," he meant to call this production of genius. It should tell its own story to all. The white, marble face would look up, all wrought and strained in its mortal anguish. The locked hands, the writhing figure, all should tell of woman's woe. The face he had in his brain – as he had seen it last down there in the light of the summer noon. All was at stake here – he must not – he would not fail.
And while Mr. Thorndyke chiselled marble, Mrs. Thorndyke copied her law papers. She had met Mrs. Darcy more than once in Mr. Gilbert's office, and Mr. Darcy's proposal had been laid before her. Her eyes had kindled, her face flushed as she refused.
"Leave my husband? Never! Whatever his errors, he loves me at least – has always been true to me. All other things I can forgive. Mr. Darcy meant kindly, no doubt – so do you, madame, but I refuse your offer, now and forever. I will not leave my husband."
The gravely beautiful eyes of Mrs. Darcy had looked at her compassionately.
"Loves you!" she thought – "always been true to you. Poor little fool!"
For she knew better. She and Mr. Thorndyke met often. Now that he had "gone in for" respectability and hard work, old friends came back, old doors flew open, society accepted him again. He was ever an acquisition, brilliant handsome, gay. Married, it is true, but his wife never appeared. Truth to tell, Mrs. Thorndyke had nothing to wear. Mr. Thorndyke in some way rejuvenated his wardrobe, and rose, glorious as the Phœnix, from the ashes of the shabby past. They met often, and if passionate admiration – passionate love, ever looked out of man's eyes, it looked out of his now, when they rested on Norine.
It was part of his punishment, perhaps, that the woman he had betrayed and cast off should inspire him with the one supreme passion of his life.
She saw it all, and smiled, well content. She was not perfect, by any means. Revenge she had bound herself to have. If revenge came in this shape – so let it come. Every pang he had made her suffer he should feel – as she had been scorned, so she would scorn him. For Mrs. Thorndyke – well, was it not for Mrs. Thorndyke she had been forsaken. She was his wife, at least – let his wife look to herself.
They met constantly. As yet he had never offended in words. They were friends. She was interested in his "Deserted" – she visited it in company with some acquaintances at the studio. She had praised it highly. If she recalled the resemblance to herself, in that day past and gone, no word nor look betrayed it.
"It will be a success, I am sure," she had said; "it is so true to life, that it is almost painful to look at it."
Then he had spoken – in one quick, passionate whisper.
"Norine – forgive me!"
The dark eyes looked at him, not proudly, nor coldly, nor angrily now – then fell.
His whole face flushed with rapture.
"I have something to say to you. You are never at home when I call. Norine, I implore you! let me see you alone – once."
Over her face there came a sudden change – her lips set, her eyes gleamed. What it meant he could not tell. He interpreted it to suit his hopes.
"I will see you," she said, slowly. "When will you come?"
"A thousand thanks. This evening if I may."
She bent her head and turned from him.
"Whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad," she thought. "I know as well as you do, Mr. Thorndyke, what you are coming to say to-night, and – I shall not be the only listener."
He leaned in a sort of ecstasy against his own work. At last! she would see him – she would hear how he had repented, how he worshipped her, how the only hope that life held for him, was the one hope of winning back her love. Of Helen he never thought – never once. It seemed so easy a thing to put her away. Incompatibility of temper – anything would do. And she had the pride of Lucifer. She would never lift a finger to retard the divorce.
CHAPTER XX.
NORINE'S REVENGE
My dear Mrs. Thorndyke; – Will you come and spend the evening with me? Fetch the little people. I shall be quite alone.
"Jane Liston-Darcy."
It was not the first time such notes had come to the tenement house – not the first time they had been accepted. Laurence was always away. The late hours had begun again. The evenings at home were so dreary. It was a glimpse of the old glad life, before poverty and hard work had ground her down. Yes, she would go.
Mrs. Darcy, very simply, but very prettily dressed, welcomed her. Baby Nellie she took in her arms and kissed fondly, but little Laurie, with his father's bold, blue eyes and trick of face, she shrank from. The father she could face unmoved; the old pain actually came back when she looked at the child.
As they sat, a pretty group in the gas-light, a card was brought in. Mrs. Darcy put the baby off her lap and passed the card to Helen.
"Your husband," she said. "He begged for this interview, and – I have granted it. But I wished you to be present. Whether I do right or wrong, you shall hear what he has to say to me. You love and trust him still. You shall hear how worthy he is of it. But first – have you ever heard the name of Norine Bourdon?"
"Norine Bourdon! the girl whom Laurence – "
"Betrayed by a false marriage – for whom he was disinherited. I am she."
"You!" Helen Thorndyke recoiled.
"It was Norine Bourdon, not Jane Liston, Mr. Darcy adopted. Have you not then the right to hear what your husband has to say to me? But it shall be as you wish."
"I wish to hear," Helen answered, almost fiercely. "I will hear."
Norine threw open a door.
"Wait in this room. I will leave the door ajar. My maid shall take the children. And be sure of this – neither by word nor look shall I tempt your husband to say one word more than he has come to say to-night."
Helen Thorndyke passed into the inner room. Norine Darcy rang for the servant waiting without.
"Show Mr. Thorndyke up."
He came, bounding lightly and eagerly up the stairs, and entered. She arose from her seat to meet him. In full evening dress, his face slightly flushed, his blue eyes all alight with eagerness, he had never perhaps, in the days when she had adored him, looked so handsome as now.
She smiled a little to herself as she recalled that infatuation; how long ago it seemed. And for this good-looking, well-dressed, heartless libertine, she had gone near to the gates of death.
"Norine!"
He clasped the small hand, shining with diamonds, that she extended, in both his, his tone, his eyes speaking volumes.
"Good-evening, Mr. Thorndyke. Will you be seated? Quite chilly for September, is it not, to-night?"
She sank gracefully back into her easy-chair, the gas-light streaming over her dusk, Canadian loveliness. She made an effort to disengage her hand, which he still held fast, but he refused to let it go.
"No, Norine! let me keep it. Oh, love, remember it was once all mine. Norine! Norine! on my knees I implore your forgiveness for the past!"
He actually sank on one knee before her, covering the hand he held with passionate kisses. No acting here; that was plain, at least. The infatuated man meant every word he said.
"Forgive me, Norine! I know that I have sinned to you beyond all pardon, but if you knew how I have suffered, how the memory of my crime has made my whole life miserable, how, to drown the torture of memory, I fled to the wine-cup and the gambling-table, and to – "
"Marriage with Miss Helen Holmes, heiress and belle. Oh, I know it all, Mr. Thorndyke. Pray get up. Gentlemen never go on their knees nowadays except in melodrama. Get up Mr. Thorndyke; let go my hand and sit down like a rational being. I insist upon it."
"A rational being!" he repeated. "I have ceased to be that since your return. It is my madness, Norine, to love you as I never loved any women before in my life."
She laughed, toying with the fan she held.
"My dear Mr. Thorndyke, I remember perfectly well what an absolute fool I was in the days of our acquaintanceship four years ago. Even such a statement as that might have been swallowed whole. But it is four years ago, and – you will pardon me – I know what brilliant talent Laurence Thorndyke has for graceful fiction. To how many ladies in the course of his thirty years of life has he made that ardent declaration, I wonder?"
"You do not believe me?"
"I do not."
"Norine, I swear – "
"Hush-h-h! pray don't perjure yourself. Was it to tell me this you came here this evening, Mr. Thorndyke?"
"To tell you, Norine, what I am sure you do not know. What I never knew myself until of late, that you and you alone have ever been my wife; that our marriage was a marriage, legal and true – that you, not Helen, are my lawful wife. To tell you this and much more, if you will listen. From my soul I have repented of the past; how bitterly, none may know. I left you – great Heaven! I sit and wonder at my own madness now; and all the time I loved you as I never loved any one else. I married Helen Holmes – yes, I cannot deny it, but what was I to do? I was bound to her, she loved me, 'my honor rooted in dishonor stood,' and I married her. There is horrible fatality in these things. While I knelt before the altar pledging myself to her, my whole heart was back with you. I will own it – despise me more than you do already, if that be possible – I married her for her wedding dower, and because I dared not offend Mr. Darcy. Wealth so won could bring little happiness. I fled from home and her presence to drown remorse and the memory of my lost love in drink. So poverty came. I was reckless. Whether you lived or died I did not know, I dared not ask – in abandoning you I had spoiled my whole life. Then suddenly you reappeared, beautiful as a dream, so far off, so cold, so unapproachable – you my love! my love! once my very own. You held me at arm's-length – you refused to listen to a word, and all the time my heart was on fire within me. To-night I have come to speak at last. Norine, I have sinned, I have suffered, I have repented. What more can I say? I love you madly, I always loved you. Say you forgive me, or I will never rise from your feet!"
Once more he cast himself before her, real passion, its utmost abandonment, in every tone. She had let him rave on, never moving, her cold eyes fixed upon him, full of hard, contemptuous fire.
"You mean all this, Mr. Thorndyke? Yes, I see you do. And you love me – you always loved me, even when you cast me off and married Miss Holmes, really and truly?"
"Really and truly! I swear it, Norine?"
"No – don't swear, please – it's against my principles to encourage profanity. But isn't it rather late in the day to tell me all this? There is your wife – you don't care for her, of course, but still you see she is your wife, in the eye of the world at least. And a gentleman's wife is rather an obstacle when that gentleman makes love to another lady."
The fine irony of her tone he did not hear – the scorn of her eyes he did not see. The "madness of the gods" was upon him – blind and deaf he was going to his doom.
"An obstacle, but an obstacle easily set aside. In any case I mean to have a divorce. I never cared for her – there are times when I loathe her now. A divorce, with permission to marry again I shall obtain, and then, Norine – "
He moved as though to clasp her. With a shudder of horror and repulsion she waved him back. And still he was blind.
"And your children, Mr. Thorndyke?"
"That shall be as Helen wishes. I don't care for them – never cared for children. She may keep them if she wishes. If I had loved her it would be easy to love her children. You consent then, Norine? It is as I hoped. You forgive the past. You will again be my wife. Oh, darling! my whole life shall be spent in the effort to blot out the past and make you entirely happy. You love me still – say it, Norine!"
He clasped both her hands vehemently. She arose to answer. Before the words of passionate scorn on her lips could be spoken the inner door opened and Helen Thorndyke stood on the threshold.
"Great Heaven! Helen!"
He dropped Norine's hands and staggered back. For a moment he almost thought it her ghost, so white, so ghastly with concentrated passion was she. She advanced, – she tried to speak – at first the words died huskily away upon her dry lips.
"I have heard every word," she panted. "You coward! You basest of all base cowards. Though I live for a hundred years, these are the last words I shall ever speak to you. Living or dying I will never forgive you – living or dying I will never look upon your face again! Norine!"
She turned to her suddenly:
"You offered me a home and a competence once, apart from him. For his sake I refused it then – for my children's sake I ask it now. I have no hope left but in you and – Heaven."
Her head fell on Norine's shoulder with one dry, hard sob, and there lay. Norine Darcy drew her to her side, her arm clasping her closely, and so – faced Laurence Thorndyke.
"'Every dog has his day'. It is not a very elegant adage, but it is a true one. Your day has been, Mr. Thorndyke – mine has come. For it I have hoped, and worked, for it I have let you go on – for it I have listened to the words you have spoken to-night – for it I concealed your wife yonder, that she might hear too. You love me, you say – I am glad to believe it – since a little of the torture you once made me feel you shall feel in return. For myself all memory of the past is gone. You are so utterly indifferent to me, so utterly contemptible in my sight, that I have not even hatred to give you. To me you are simply nothing. After this hour I will never see you, never speak to you. For your wife and children I will provide. You did your best to ruin me, soul and body, because you hated Richard Gilbert. I take from you wife and children, and what you value far more – fortune. I think we are quits, and as there is no more to be said, I will bid you good-night. Liston! show this gentleman to the door, and admit him here no more."
Then Mr. Liston, pale of face, soft of step, furtive of glance, appeared on the scene. Still clasping the drooping form of the outraged wife, Norine moved towards the inner room.
Thorndyke had stood quite still, his arms folded, listening to all. The game was up! A devil of fury, of disappointment, would possess him by-and-by – just now he only felt half-stunned. He turned to the door, with a harsh laugh.
"I have heard of men who murdered the women they loved, and wondered at them. I wonder no longer. By Heaven, if I had a pistol to-night you would never leave this room alive, Norine Bourdon!"
