"Certainly, madam!" said the man, as he retired with the card, wondering how a young lady of such distinguished appearance happened to call upon his mistress, whose feminine visitors were usually of a more marked type.
"I dare say she's collectin' funds for one of their everlastin' churches," thought the butler, "'igh, low, or Jack, as I call 'em—'igh church, low church, or John Wesley—ever so many predominations, and all of 'em equally keen after money. But why did she almost s'riek when she clapt her eyes on Mr. 'Amleigh's portrait, I wonder, just as if she had seen a scorpiont."
Christabel stood motionless where the man left her, looking at a photograph on a brass easel upon an old ebony table in the middle of the room. A cluster of stephanotis in a low Venetian vase stood in front of that portrait, like flowers before a shrine. It was an exquisitely painted photograph of Angus Hamleigh—Angus at his best and brightest, before the flush and glory of youth had faded from eyes and brow—Angus with a vivacity of expression which she had never seen in his face—she who had known him only since the fatal hereditary disease had set its mark upon him.
"Ah!" she sighed, "he was happier when he loved her than he ever was with me."
She stood gazing at that pictured face, her hands clasped, her heart beating heavily. Everything confirmed her in her despair—in her iron resolve. At last, with a long-drawn sigh, she withdrew her eyes from the picture, and began to explore the room. No, there was no trace of vulgarity—no ugly indication of a vicious mind. Christabel glanced at the open book on the ottoman, half expecting to find the trail of the serpent there—in some shameful French novel, the very name of which she had not been allowed to hear. But the book was only the last Contemporary Review, open at an article of Gladstone's. Then, with faintly tremulous hand, she took one of the vellum-bound duodecimos from a shelf of the revolving book-table—"Selections from Shelley"—and on the title-page, "Angus to Stella, Rome," and a date, just three years old, in the hand she knew so well. She looked in other books—all choicest flowers of literature—and in each there was the same familiar penmanship, sometimes with a brief sentence that made the book a souvenir—sometimes with a passionate line from Shakespeare or Dante, Heine or De Musset. Christabel remembered, with a sharp pang of jealousy, that her lover had never so written in any book he had given her. She ignored the change which a year or two may make in a man's character, when he has reached one of the turning points of life; and how a graver deeper phase of feeling, less eager to express itself in other people's flowery language, succeeds youth's fervid sentiment. Had Werther lived and loved a second Charlotte, assuredly he would have loved her after a wiser and graver fashion. But Christabel had believed herself her lover's first and only love, and finding that she was but the second volume in his life, abandoned herself at once to despair.
She sank into one of the low luxurious chairs, just as the door opened, and Miss Mayne came into the room.
If she had looked lovely as Psyche, in her classic drapery, with the emerald butterfly on her shoulder, she looked no less beautiful in the costly-simplicity of her home toilet. She wore a sacque-shaped tea-gown of soft French-grey silk, lined with palest pink satin, over a petticoat that seemed a mass of cream-coloured lace. Her only ornaments were three half-hoop rings—rubies, diamonds, and sapphires—too large for the slender third finger of her left hand, and half concealing a thin wedding-ring—and a star-shaped brooch—one large cat's-eye with diamond rays, which fastened the lace handkerchief at her throat.
Christabel, quick to observe the woman whose existence had ruined her life, noted everything, from the small perfectly-shaped head—shaped for beauty rather than mental power—to the little arched foot in its pearl-coloured silk stocking, and grey satin slipper. For the first time in her life she beheld a woman whose chief business in this world was to look her loveliest, at all times and seasons, for friend or foe—for whom the perfection of costume was the study and delight of life—who lived and reigned by the divine right of beauty.
"Pray sit down!" said Miss Mayne, with a careless wave of her hand—so small—so delicate and fragile-looking under the lace ruffle; "I am quite at a loss to guess to what I am indebted for the honour of this visit."
She looked at her visitor scrutinizingly with those dark, too lustrous eyes. A hectic flush burned in her hollow cheeks. She had heard a good deal about this Miss Courtenay, of Mount Royal and Mayfair, and she came prepared to do battle.