"WHOM THE GODS WISH TO DESTROY THEY FIRST MAKE MAD."
orine! 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.
