"Why, you knew!" exclaims Mrs. Bradshaw Woollffe, disappointed.
"I didn't; I only guessed. I always thought it would come to that. Poor Keith!"
She sighs, and the radiant eyes grow a little dim. A vision of the handsome face and figure of the man who had been her girlish hero rises suddenly before her; in contrast to them she sees the red hair and burly frame of her own lord and master. "Well, fretting's no good," she says, with a little laugh at the contrast. "I was awfully fond of Keith, and I do hope he'll be happy at last. He's had a long spell of—the other thing."
And meanwhile where is the prime mover in the plot that was to ruin Lauraine's happiness—that was to have been a scheme of vengeance perfect as woman's malice and skill could make it? The world of society, of fashion—the world which she delights in, and has delighted—knows Lady Jean no more.
If she had never met her master in all her life before, she met him in the person of Count Karolyski. He was a stern tyrant and a jealous ruler. Once his wife, and once safe among the gloomy solitudes of his own possessions in the Carpathian range, there was neither peace nor liberty for the Lady Jean.
Passionate, exacting, cruel, domineering, this man, who had for her an absorbing passion, but neither trust nor belief, resolved that she should never escape his keeping, let her chafe and fret as she would.
When she heard of Sir Francis Vavasour's death she had congratulated herself on her prudent acceptance of this other man, more especially as she knew that his action had rid Lauraine of her lover, and poisoned all the freedom of her sudden release.
But when in course of time she learnt of Keith's recovery, her rage and fury knew no bounds. Then, for the first time as yet in their married life, she gave her husband a specimen of her tigress temper; but then also for the first, though not the last time, did she learn that she had sold herself into a bondage from which there was no escape, and, galled, fretted, half broken-hearted, she found herself compelled to do his bidding, and accept her present fate.
If Lauraine had been unhappy too, it would have sweetened the gall and wormwood of her own lot; but that her rival should now have peace and happiness, and she herself sink to a life that was as dreary as a captive's, was the crowning stab to her many wounds.
And yet, burn in anger, chafe in humiliation as she might, there was no help for her and no possibility of escape. The violence of her tempestuous passions only seemed to amuse him. Tears and reproaches alike beat against the stony calm and immovability of his nature, as futile waves may lash a rock that has borne their fury for centuries.