“Will you tell me all about it?” she said presently, in a voice quite unlike her own. “I am sorry to have to rake up what I presume is a—a painful subject, but I think I—ought to know.”
“Yes; you have a right to know,” he rejoined dully. “Twelve years ago I studied art in Paris. There I met a girl, who, from the first day I knew her, exercised a peculiar fascination over me. Her name was Ninette Douste, her father being Scotch, her mother French, and although so young she was already a widow, her husband having been lost at sea. Ninette was an artist’s model in the daytime, and a dancer in the evening; and although of doubtful reputation, was always anxious to impress upon me the fact that her father was a gentleman. She was fairly well-educated herself, but erratic and unprincipled in the extreme. All the money she earned went to back horses; it seemed quite unnatural for such a young girl to be so infatuated with racing. She laughed at me when I remonstrated with her about it, and called me a prude. Well, Ninette and I eventually got engaged, although, being as variable and capricious as the wind, she broke off the engagement about two or three times a week. I don’t think she ever loved me—she always treated me with good-humoured contempt; but I was a young fool, and she had me completely under her spell. We were married, without the knowledge of my parents, at the English Consulate in Paris, and intended going to Montmorency for our honeymoon. On the afternoon of the wedding, however, I received a telegram announcing the death of my mother, which necessitated my going home immediately; for my step-father, Bernie Franks, was away in South Africa. I left Ninette in Paris until—after the funeral—I could settle our future plans. When I returned, she had vanished, and I have never seen her from that day to this.”
Lady Marjorie uttered an exclamation of surprise. “Did you not make inquiries?” she asked eagerly.
“Yes, I made full inquiries, but in vain, and to be candid, I was not dissatisfied with the result. When I returned to England, and mixed among my friends again, I saw how foolish I had been to imagine I could be happy with a woman of Ninette’s calibre: the scales seemed to suddenly fall from my eyes. Then the responsibility of Celia’s up-bringing devolved upon my shoulders; and I was secretly glad to think that she would be spared the undesirable companionship of my wife. Celia is still unaware of my marriage.”
“And did you never hear anything of your—your wife?”
“Yes. I received a letter from her a few months after the wedding asking for money, but vouchsafing no explanation of her strange conduct. I went to the address—it was in London—and found it to be a small stationer’s shop. The woman in charge said a foreign man always came for the letters, but he spoke little English, and she knew nothing about him. Without pursuing my quest further I sent the money, and asked Ninette to come back to me, or at least to grant an interview. She refused to do either, and wrote that she considered our marriage a mistake, adding that as long as I sent her a little money occasionally, for her favourite pastime, she would trouble me no further. I was not sorry to get out of the wood that way, and complied with her request, generally sending the money to the Poste Restante, Paris. After a while, however, I grew tired of despatching large sums to be squandered on betting, and told her so, whereupon she threatened to come to Durlston and assume her rightful place as mistress of the Towers. She evidently knew that I had some sort of a position there; and that for a wife—and such a wife—to suddenly appear on the scene would reflect discredit upon myself. That was about three or four years ago; and curiously enough, I have had no word from her since. I began to believe that she must be dead; but a friend of mine—the only one who knows my secret—has seen her twice during the last six months, once at Monte Carlo, and the second time alighting from a Channel boat at Dover. On both occasions he tried to get an opportunity of speaking to her, but she evaded him, and he lost her in the crowd. So that is how the matter stands, Marjorie. I have not a wife in the true sense of the word, yet I am fettered by the marriage laws. It is a cruel predicament for a man to be placed in.”
“Why did you not tell me all this before?” she said, with the first touch of reproach. “Oh, it was cruel of you to pose as a bachelor all this time—especially cruel towards me. I would have died rather than have confessed my love, had I known the truth.”
She spoke quite calmly, but she could not repress the tear which trembled on her lash. It wended its way down her cheek when Karne admitted that he had been cruel, foolish, and weak; woman-like she could not bear to hear him blame himself.
And then she began to think of the future—her lonely, empty future. All the castles she had built in the air—the happy day-dreams of a life blessed with love—struck down at one blow. She had been living in a fool’s paradise; now she would reap the consequences of her folly.
Suddenly a new thought seemed to strike her; and an eager yet half-frightened expression came into her eyes.