II
The Husband
Lady Crewe was disconsolate. Out of the corner of her eye she watched my Lord Roxhythe paying his respects to Mlle. Charlotte d’Almond. Charlotte was of the Duchess of Portsmouth’s household, something of a virago, but undoubtedly fascinating. Lady Crewe hated her cordially. Lady Crewe sat alone, playing with her fan. Presently Mr. Dart appeared. His hostess, Fanny Montgomery, greeted him with affection. She told him to make himself useful. So he went across the room to Millicent’s side and swept her a bow.
“All alone, Lady Crewe?”
She forced a smile.
“No, Mr. Dart; you are here.”
Christopher was fond of Millicent. He sat down beside her.
“Shall we stay on this very pleasing couch, or shall we dance?” he asked.
“I—I don’t think I will dance, thank you,” she answered. She was young, and she did not conceal her emotions well.
Christopher glanced round the room.
“All the world is here tonight,” he remarked. “What a gathering! I don’t see Sir Henry?”
“He is here,” she said listlessly. “Gaming belike.”
A year ago Sir Henry Crewe was never from his wife’s side. Christopher regarded Roxhythe across the room with tightened lips. He attempted another remark.
“It is quite an age since we last saw each other, Lady Crewe. I looked for you at the Coventry rout last week but someone said you were in the country. Was that so?”
“No,” she answered. “I was not well. I do not think town air agrees with me. I tire so easily.”
Time was, reflected Christopher, when this had not been so. Her ladyship’s cheeks had been rosy then, and less thin.
“Why, I am sorry!” he said. “You must make your husband take you to the country for a while, though I vow we should miss you sadly.”
Lady Crewe was not attending. A lazy, cynical voice reached Christopher’s ears. He turned sharply. Lord Roxhythe stood beside them.
“My very dear Millicent! I had not seen you till this moment. Pray where have you been?” He kissed her hand. Christopher observed how the colour flooded her face.
“You have been otherwise engaged, my lord,” she replied. “I have been here some while.”
Christopher saw that he was not wanted. He faded away. Roxhythe took his seat.
“Child,” he said, “where are all your roses?”
“Am I so pale?” she smiled. “Perhaps I have lost my rouge.”
“Evidently,” he said. “And what ails you?”
Her eyes were troubled.
“My lord … my lord. …”
“But why so aloof?”
The coaxing tone brought the tears to her lashes.
“David—I am very unhappy.”
He rose.
“My dear, we must examine this more closely. I know a room where we shall not be disturbed.”
“Oh, no!” she cried. “Indeed, I must not!”
“Must not?”
“You—you know it is not seemly for me to be seen so much—with you. My—my husband—”
“Fiend seize your husband. Come!”
“I ought not—I ought not—” Even as she said it she rose and laid her hand on his arm. Together they went out.
Roxhythe led her into a small, dimly lighted parlour. He shut the door, and took her in his arms.
“What is it, sweetheart?”
For a moment she tried to free herself; then her hands clung to his broad shoulders.
“David, it is wrong! I—I am not this kind of woman! God help me, I wish I had never met you!” The cry was broken.
Roxhythe bent his head till his lips met hers. It was Mrs. Diana Shelton who had called Roxhythe’s kiss “divine intoxication.”
“Confess! ’Tis a lie?”
“No, no! Indeed, I wish it!”
He kissed her again.
“You do not love me?”
“Oh, yes!—No! oh, what am I saying?” She broke away from him to a chair. “Before I—met you—before you—made love to me—I thought I cared so much for Henry. Now—now we hardly speak. You fill all my thoughts, and he looks at me—as though he hated me. I’m no court beauty. I cannot—play at love as they do. ’Tis—not in my nature.”
My lord knelt at her side, holding both her hands.
“Do you then care so much for Henry? Am I nothing?”
“Have I not told you? Oh, my heart is nigh breaking! You do not really love me; you only—pretend—and it means so much to me. I’m a fool; a silly, hysterical miss! I—” She tried to laugh, but her voice broke, and she buried her face on his shoulder, sobbing.
Roxhythe stared over her head at the wall. His expression was rather curious. Suddenly he bent over the bowed figure, clinging so desperately to his hands.
“My child, you distress yourself unduly. How old are you?”
“T-twenty-one. Why—why do you ask?”
My lord smiled whimsically.
“Twenty-one. And I am—forty-two.”
She lifted her head.
“What of it?”
“I seem to be rather too old for you, dear.”
“David—my lord—I do not—understand.”
“No? I think our little comedy has played itself out.”
Slowly she drew herself away from him.
“You—call it comedy. I—have another name for it. Mayhap ’twas indeed a—comedy to you. To me—to me—” she stopped, twisting her fingers.
“Oh, no!” said my lord, calmly. “You delude yourself, my dear. It was a pretty farce, and perhaps you were a little dazzled. But that is all.”
“You—make me—hate you.”
“Why, that is as it should be.”
“You—you made love to me; you—dazzled—me, and now you are tired of the—farce—you cast me off.”
“Not a whit. I am not tired of it. I think you are.”
She shook her head. Slow tears were creeping down her cheeks.
“I love you. I cannot let you go.”
“Well, my dear, I do not see how you are to keep the both of us on a tether if you take the matter so seriously.”
“I do not want both.”
“Then choose your husband, my child.”
“I can’t, I can’t! I want you!” It was the cry of a child. Roxhythe bit his lip.
“It will pass.”
She raised her head.
“Are you saying—these things—for my sake, or is it—because of—Charlotte d’Almond?”
“Oh lud!” said my lord. He rose to his feet. “Preserve me!”
She also rose.
“It is not? You love me, as you’ve so often vowed?”
Roxhythe looked at her serenely.
“My dear, I do not think I love anyone.”
Tragedy was in her blue eyes, and uncomprehending hurt.
“You thought me—just a—cheap woman!”
“No.”
“Then—then—Oh heavens, how dare you humiliate me so? And I—and I—please take me back to the ballroom!”
She stepped forward into the full light of the candles, erect, outraged. Roxhythe eyed her critically.
“Child, you must dry the tears.”
In spite of her forced calm something sparkled on the end of her long lashes.
“Oh, tut, tut, Millicent! You will forget all this madness. Come, let me wipe away the tears.”
Millicent pushed him from her with hands that trembled.
“No! Please—don’t try to—be kind to me! I cannot bear it. I have been in heaven and hell this past year, and now—and now—” She choked back a sob. “You were—very cruel, my lord. You made me play at love with you, and then—when I am no longer playing—you turn away, and—call it—a pretty comedy. And you talk to me—as if you were—my father!”
“Which I almost might be,” remarked his lordship. “My dear, you are too young for the game. I ought to have known it. I am sorry. Now won’t you let me dry your tears?”
His voice was very gentle; all his fascination was to the fore. It swept over Millicent and would not be gainsaid. Pride was as nothing before it; at that moment she felt that only one thing mattered, and that was that he should not leave her. She allowed him to draw her closer, and to wipe her eyes with his scented handkerchief. A small pulse in her throat was throbbing madly; he was so inexpressibly dear, so strong, so wonderful. The tears welled up afresh; she heard him speak through a haze of misery.
“Dear child, I am not worth it. I am only an interlude.”
“That is all—to you. Oh, you are utterly, utterly ruthless! I amused you for the time, so—you have—broken my heart—for your pleasure, and brought me—as low as this! I was so happy before you came! So happy.”
“You will be happy again,” said Roxhythe philosophically. “Hearts are easily mended. Tell that husband of yours to take you away for a time.”
“My husband! We scarcely speak! He despises me! He thinks me—what I am—a cheap, faithless woman!”
“It seems your husband is a fool. There! The tears are gone?”
“Take me back to the ballroom, please. I—I have been mad. What will—Henry think—if he finds me gone? Oh, please take me back.”
Roxhythe smiled faintly.
“Yes. I did not think the passion was real. Console yourself, my dear. ’Tis Henry you love.” He held out his arm.
The door opened.
“Just as I thought!” The words came furiously, hissed across the room. With his back to the door, hands clenched at his sides, stood Sir Henry Crewe.
Millicent sprang away from Roxhythe’s side, her cheeks flaming. Roxhythe himself regarded the intruder pensively.
“Blue and rose-pink. …” he murmured. “Marvellous!”
Crewe walked forward, his dark velvet cloak hushing against the table as he brushed past.
“I have not sought you out to talk of my clothes, Lord Roxhythe!” he said. He did not glance in his wife’s direction.
“No?” answered Roxhythe. He met the angry young eyes amusedly. “What then?”
Crewe controlled his voice with difficulty. He was very pale, but his eyes burnt.
“I have come to tell you that my friends will wait on yours, Lord Roxhythe!”
“Thank you very much,” said Roxhythe. “But may I point out to you that this is a somewhat inopportune moment?”
“I think not! I could scarce have chosen a more fitting time!” He laughed bitterly. “I trust I make myself clear?”
“Not at all,” said Roxhythe. “I am at a loss.”
“You are singularly dense if you do not understand me! Things have come to a pretty pass that you so brazenly take my wife apart! Is that explanation enough?”
Roxhythe stared at him in great hauteur. Then he turned to Millicent and bowed.
“Permit me to conduct you back to the ballroom, my dear.”
Crewe flung himself between them.
“Lady Crewe can stay to hear what I have to say! She will not again require your escort!”
My lord’s voice became a shade more languid.
“My good youth, you rave. You have my permission to stand back.”
Few had ever dared to withstand that note. Sir Henry stood firm.
“ ’Tis you who shall stand back, sir! You shall not touch my wife!”
Millicent clasped and unclasped her hands. She was very near to breaking point.
“You make a very fine melodramatic hero,” said Roxhythe. “But you forget with whom you have to deal.”
“You might be the devil himself and I’d not let you pass!”
“Child’s talk,” said my lord. His hand descended on Crewe’s shoulder and gripped hard. He gave a sudden twist, and Crewe fell back with a smothered exclamation. Roxhythe took Millicent’s cold hand in his.
“I’ll return to you,” he informed the furious young man. “Open the door.”
“Perhaps it is as well that Lady Crewe should withdraw,” sneered Sir Henry. He flung the door wide.
Roxhythe did not answer him. He led Millicent, tearless now, a creature of ice, to the deserted hall.
“Will you wait here, child? I’ll send my cousin to you.”
Her lips moved.
“Oh—no! I cannot! I—”
“My dear, you are in no fit state to go back to the ballroom. Sit down.”
She sank down, unresisting. Roxhythe kissed her hand. “Let me reassure you, sweetheart; there will be no scandal. You can trust my cousin.” He strolled into the ballroom.
Lady Frances was not dancing. When she saw Roxhythe she came quickly towards him.
“Where is Lady Crewe?”
“I want to take you to her. That young fool of a husband came plunging in upon us, and she is nigh fainting with fright.”
“Good God, Roxhythe! In my house! Could you not be decent for one evening? Where is the child?”
“In the hall. May I solicit your kindness for her? She should go home.”
Lady Fanny swept out. Roxhythe, following more leisurely, saw her bend over the drooping figure in the chair. He half smiled, and went back to the little parlour.
Frances took the girl’s hands.
“My dear! Will you come upstairs with me?”
The great shamed eyes looked up.
“I—think—I had best—go home,” whispered Millicent.
Frances drew her to her feet.
“Presently, dear. Come with me now and tell me all about it.”
“Lady Frances—I am indeed sorry—to be the cause of a—disturbance in your house. I—”
“Nonsense! Come, we shall be private in my room.”
She bore the girl off to her boudoir, and put her into a chair.
“There! Poor little thing! Tell me what has happened.”
Millicent bowed her head.
“I’ve been so wicked—I suppose you know. And today—I let—Lord Roxhythe—take me to another room—and—and—my husband found us—and—oh, heavens, what must you think of me?”
“Why, that you are a silly child! No, no, don’t cry! There’s no harm done. My cousin will see to it that there is no scandal. But mercy on us, what induced you to play with Roxhythe, of all men?”
“I love him,” answered Millicent dully.
Lady Frances opened her eyes to their widest.
“Love—my dear, foolish girl, you cannot.”
“I love him. And it’s all over—all over.”
“And a good thing too!” thought my lady. But she did not say that. She put her arms round Millicent.
“Won’t you tell me everything, dear?”
The girl flushed.
“You are very, very kind, Lady Frances, but—oh, I expect you know all there is to know about me!”
“My child, I have seen Roxhythe often at your side, and I confess I have wondered what you were at—playing with fire.”
“I was not playing! Oh, at first, three years ago, yes. No one minded; my husband thought nothing of it. But lately—I have been so—unhappy, and when he was with me—so very happy! And he meant nothing; he did not love me. It was a—game. I suppose any other woman would have known, but I—I—oh, I think my heart will break!”
“I am quite sure it will not,” replied Lady Frances. “ ’Tis all midsummer madness. How could you think Roxhythe was in earnest? Was there no one to warn you?”
“No. There is only Henry—and now he—hates me. What shall I do?”
“Start afresh,” said Fanny briskly. “Roxhythe is not worth one teardrop. You must forget him, and play no more with fire.”
“Forget! Ah, my lady, it is easy to speak so. I love him! I love him so much that were he to lift one finger I would go with him—anywhere!”
Lady Frances nodded over the bowed head.
“Well, my dear, he’ll lift no finger. He lives for himself alone. This is not his first affaire.”
Millicent shuddered.
“I thought he really cared for me. I knew there were—other women—but—”
Lady Frances proceeded to be cruel for kindness’ sake.
“I have known Roxhythe for—I won’t say how many years—and I know how much heart he hath. That is none. He has fascinated you until you think that you love him. But you do not. Ah, no, my dear, you do not!”
Millicent was silent. After a moment Fanny patted her shoulder.
“Come! Cheer up! Oh, I know ’tis hard, but you must bear a brave front. Never let him see that he has hurt you.”
“You do not know, Lady Frances.”
Fanny laughed irrepressibly.
“Why, do you think I have not been in love scores of times with those whom I should not have loved? Child, I have experienced all your feelings, and I assure you that you will recover.”
“I wish that I were dead!”
“Nonsense! You are overwrought tonight; tomorrow you will think differently. I am going to send you home now, and—if I may—I will come and see you in a few days’ time.”
“You—you will not care to. There will be some dreadful scandal—oh, I wish that I had never come to town!”
“There’ll be no vestige of scandal, my dear. Trust Roxhythe to see to that.”
“Oh, yes, yes! They are going to fight, and one of them will be killed—all for me who am—worthless!”
“I’ll wager my best necklet no one is killed,” said Lady Frances.
“Henry is so angry! I have never seen him look so terrible! He—he will do my lord some injury.”
“Alas! There’s no likelihood of such a thing happening!” said Fanny, tartly.