"But it cannot be, Malcolm," she said, in quite a changed tone. "You must have taken some one else for her. She never left the studio all the time I was there."
"It was immediately after her arrival, my lady. She went in about two minutes after your ladyship, and could not have had much more than time to go upstairs when I saw her come to the window. I felt bound to tell your ladyship."
"Thank you, Malcolm," returned Florimel kindly. "You did right to tell me, – but – it's of no consequence. Mr Lenorme's housekeeper and she must have been talking about something."
But her eyebrows were now thoughtfully contracted over her eyes.
"There had been no time for that, I think, my lady," said Malcolm.
Florimel turned again and rode on, saying no more about the handkerchief. Malcolm saw that he had succeeded in warning her, and was glad. But had he foreseen to what it would lead, he would hardly have done it.
Florimel was indeed very uneasy. She could not help strongly suspecting that she had betrayed herself to one who, if not an intentional spy, would yet be ready enough to make a spy's use of anything she might have picked up. What was to be done? It was now too late to think of getting rid of her: that would be but her signal to disclose whatever she had seen, and so not merely enjoy a sweet revenge, but account with clear satisfactoriness for her dismissal. What would not Florimel now have given for some one who could sympathise with her and yet counsel her! She was afraid to venture another meeting with Lenorme, and besides was not a little shy of the advantage the discovery would give him in pressing her to marry him. And now first she began to feel as if her sins were going to find her out.
A day or two passed in alternating psychical flaws and fogs – with poor glints of sunshine between. She watched her maid, but her maid knew it, and discovered no change in her manner or behaviour. Weary of observation she was gradually settling into her former security, when Caley began to drop hints that alarmed her. Might it not be altogether the safest thing to take her into confidence? It would be such a relief, she thought, to have a woman she could talk to! The result was that she began to lift a corner of the veil that hid her trouble; the woman encouraged her, and at length the silly girl threw her arms round the scaly one's neck, much to that person's satisfaction, and told her that she loved Mr Lenorme. She knew of course, she said, that she could not marry him. She was only waiting a fit opportunity to free herself from a connection which, however delightful, she was unable to justify. How the maid interpreted her confession, I do not care to enquire very closely, but anyhow it was in a manner that promised much to her after influence. I hasten over this part of Florimel's history, for that confession to Caley was perhaps the one thing in her life she had most reason to be ashamed of, for she was therein false to the being she thought she loved best in the world. Could Lenorme have known her capable of unbosoming herself to such a woman, it would almost have slain the love he bore her. The notions of that odd and end sort of person, who made his livelihood by spreading paint, would have been too hideously shocked by the shadow of an intimacy between his love and such as she.
Caley first comforted the weeping girl, and then began to insinuate encouragement. She must indeed give him up – there was no help for that; but neither was there any necessity for doing so all at once. Mr Lenorme was a beautiful man, and any woman might be proud to be loved by him. She must take her time to it. She might trust her. And so on and on – for she was as vulgar minded as the worst of those whom ladies endure about their persons, handling their hair, and having access to more of their lock fast places than they would willingly imagine.
The first result was that, on the pretext of bidding him farewell, and convincing him that he and she must meet no more, fate and fortune, society and duty being all alike against their happiness – I mean on that pretext to herself, the only one to be deceived by it – Florimel arranged with her woman one evening to go the next morning to the studio: she knew the painter to be an early riser, and always at his work before eight o'clock. But although she tried to imagine she had persuaded herself to say farewell, certainly she had not yet brought her mind to any ripeness of resolve in the matter.
At seven o'clock in the morning, the marchioness habited like a housemaid, they slipped out by the front door, turned the corners of two streets, found a hackney coach waiting for them, and arrived in due time at the painter's abode.
CHAPTER XXX: A QUARREL
When the door opened and Florimel glided in, the painter sprang to his feet to welcome her, and she flew softly, soundless as a moth, into his arms; for the study being large and full of things, she was not aware of the presence of Malcolm. From behind a picture on an easel, he saw them meet, but shrinking from being an open witness to their secret, and also from being discovered in his father's clothes by the sister who knew him only as a servant, he instantly sought escape. Nor was it hard to find, for near where he stood was a door opening into a small intermediate chamber, communicating with the drawing room, and by it he fled, intending to pass through to Lenorme's bedroom, and change his clothes. With noiseless stride he hurried away, but could not help hearing a few passionate words that escaped his sister's lips before Lenorme could warn her that they were not alone – words which, it seemed to him, could come only from a heart whose very pulse was devotion.
"How can I live without you, Raoul?" said the girl as she clung to him.
Lenorme gave an uneasy glance behind him, saw Malcolm disappear, and answered,
"I hope you will never try, my darling."
"Oh, but you know this can't last," she returned, with playfully affected authority. "It must come to an end. They will interfere."
"Who can? Who will dare?" said the painter with confidence.
"People will. We had better stop it ourselves – before it all comes out, and we are shamed," said Florimel, now with perfect seriousness.
"Shamed!" cried Lenorme. "– Well, if you can't help being ashamed of me – and perhaps, as you have been brought up, you can't – do you not then love me enough to encounter a little shame for my sake? I should welcome worlds of such for yours!"
Florimel was silent. She kept her face hidden on his shoulder, but was already halfway to a quarrel.
"You don't love me, Florimel!" he said, after a pause, little thinking how nearly true were the words.
"Well, suppose I don't!" she cried, half defiantly, half merrily; and drawing herself from him, she stepped back two paces, and looked at him with saucy eyes, in which burned two little flames of displeasure, that seemed to shoot up from the red spots glowing upon her cheeks. Lenorme looked at her. He had often seen her like this before, and knew that the shell was charged and the fuse lighted. But within lay a mixture even more explosive than he suspected; for not merely was there more of shame and fear and perplexity mingled with her love than he understood, but she was conscious of having now been false to him, and that rendered her temper dangerous.
Lenorme had already suffered severely from the fluctuations of her moods. They had been almost too much for him. He could endure them, he thought, to all eternity, if he had her to himself, safe and sure; but the confidence to which he rose every now and then that she would one day be his, just as often failed him, rudely shaken by some new symptom of what almost seemed like cherished inconstancy. If after all she should forsake him! It was impossible, but she might. If even that should come, he was too much of a man to imagine anything but a stern encounter of the inevitable, and he knew he would survive it; but he knew also that life could never be the same again; that for a season work would be impossible – the kind of work he had hitherto believed his own rendered for ever impossible perhaps, and his art degraded to the mere earning of a living. At best he would have to die and be buried and rise again before existence could become endurable under the new squalid condition of life without her. It was no wonder then if her behaviour sometimes angered him; for even against a Will o' the Wisp that has enticed us into a swamp, a glow of foolish indignation will spring up. And now a black fire in his eyes answered the blue flash in hers; and the difference suggests the diversity of their loves: hers might vanish in fierce explosion, his would go on burning like a coal mine. A word of indignant expostulation rose to his lips, but a thought came that repressed it. He took her hand, and led her – the wonder was that she yielded, for she had seen the glow in his eyes, and the fuse of her own anger burned faster; but she did yield, partly from curiosity, and followed where he pleased – her hand lying dead in his. It was but to the other end of the room he led her, to the picture of her father, now all but finished. Why he did so, he would have found it hard to say. Perhaps the Genius that lies under the consciousness forefelt a catastrophe, and urged him to give his gift ere giving should be impossible.
Malcolm stepped into the drawing room, where the table was laid as usual for breakfast: there stood Caley, helping herself to a spoonful of honey from Hymettus. At his entrance she started violently, and her sallow face grew earthy. For some seconds she stood motionless, unable to take her eyes off the apparition, as it seemed to her, of the late marquis, in wrath at her encouragement of his daughter in disgraceful courses. Malcolm, supposing only she was ashamed of herself, took no farther notice of her, and walked deliberately towards the other door. Ere he reached it she knew him. Burning with the combined ires of fright and shame, conscious also that, by the one little contemptible act of greed in which he had surprised her, she had justified the aversion which her woman instinct had from the first recognized in him, she darted to the door, stood with her back against it, and faced him flaming.
"So!" she cried, "this is how my lady's kindness is abused! The insolence! Her groom goes and sits for his portrait in her father's court dress!"
As she ceased, all the latent vulgarity of her nature broke loose, and with a contracted pff she seized her thin nose between her thumb and forefinger, to the indication that an evil odour of fish interpenetrated her atmosphere, and must at the moment be defiling the garments of the dead marquis.
"My lady shall know of this," she concluded, with a vicious clenching of her teeth, and two or three nods of her neat head.
Malcolm stood regarding her with a coolness that yet inflamed her wrath. He could not help smiling at the reaction of shame in indignation. Had her anger been but a passing flame, that smile would have turned it into enduring hate. She hissed in his face.
"Go and have the first word," he said; "only leave the door and let me pass."
"Let you pass indeed! What would you pass for? – The bastard of old Lord James and a married woman! – I don't care that for you." And she snapped her fingers in his face.
Malcolm turned from her and went to the window, taking a newspaper from the breakfast table as he passed, and there sat down to read until the way should be clear. Carried beyond herself by his utter indifference, Caley darted from the room and went straight into the study.
Lenorme led Florimel in front of the picture. She gave a great start, and turned and stared pallid at the painter. The effect upon her was such as he had not foreseen, and the words she uttered were not such as he could have hoped to hear.
"What would he think of me if he knew?" she cried, clasping her hands in agony.
That moment Caley burst into the room, her eyes lamping like a cat's.
"My lady!" she shrieked, "there's MacPhail, the groom, my lady, dressed up in your honoured father's bee-utiful clo'es as he always wore when he went to dine with the Prince! And, please, my lady, he's that rude I could 'ardly keep my 'ands off him."
Florimel flashed a dagger of question in Lenorme's eyes. The painter drew himself up.
"It was at my request, Lady Lossie," he said.
"Indeed!" returned Florimel, in high scorn, and glanced again at the picture.
"I see!" she went on. "How could I be such an idiot! It was my groom's, not my father's likeness you meant to surprise me with!"
Her eyes flashed as if she would annihilate him.
"I have worked hard in the hope of giving you pleasure, Lady Lossie," said the painter, with wounded dignity.
"And you have failed," she adjoined cruelly.
The painter took the miniature after which he had been working, from a table near, handed it to her with a proud obeisance, and the same moment dashed a brushful of dark paint across the face of the picture.
"Thank you, sir," said Florimel, and for a moment felt as if she hated him.
She turned away and walked from the study. The door of the drawing room was open, and Caley stood by the side of it. Florimel, too angry to consider what she was about, walked in: there sat Malcolm in the window, in her father's clothes, and his very attitude, reading the newspaper. He did not hear her enter. He had been waiting till he could reach the bedroom unseen by her, for he knew from the sound of the voices that the study door was open. Her anger rose yet higher at the sight.
"Leave the room," she said.
He started to his feet, and now perceived that his sister was in the dress of a servant. He took one step forward and stood – a little mazed – gorgeous in dress and arms of price, before his mistress in the cotton gown of a housemaid.
"Take those clothes off instantly," said Florimel slowly, replacing wrath with haughtiness as well as she might. Malcolm turned to the door without a word. He saw that things had gone wrong where most he would have wished them go right.
"I'll see to them being well aired, my lady," said Caley, with sibilant indignation.
Malcolm went to the study. The painter sat before the picture of the marquis, with his elbows on his knees, and his head between his hands.
"Mr Lenorme," said Malcolm, approaching him gently.
"Oh, go away," said Lenorme, without raising his head. "I can't bear the sight of you yet."
Malcolm obeyed, a little smile playing about the corners of his mouth. Caley saw it as he passed, and hated him yet worse. He was in his own clothes, booted and belted, in two minutes. Three sufficed to replace his father's garments in the portmanteau, and in three more he and Kelpie went plunging past his mistress and her maid as they drove home in their lumbering vehicle.
"The insolence of the fellow!" said Caley, loud enough for her mistress to hear notwithstanding the noise of the rattling windows. "A pretty pass we are come to!"
But already Florimel's mood had begun to change. She felt that she had done her best to alienate men on whom she could depend, and that she had chosen for a confidante one whom she had no ground for trusting.
She got safe and unseen to her room; and Caley believed she had only to improve the advantage she had now gained.
CHAPTER XXXI: THE TWO DAIMONS
Things had taken a turn that was not to Malcolm's satisfaction, and his thoughts were as busy all the way home as Kelpie would allow. He had ardently desired that his sister should be thoroughly in love with Lenorme, for that seemed to open a clear path out of his worst difficulties; now they had quarrelled; and besides were both angry with him. The main fear was that Liftore would now make some progress with her. Things looked dangerous. Even his warning against Caley had led to a result the very opposite of his intent and desire. And now it recurred to him that he had once come upon Liftore talking to Caley, and giving her something that shone like a sovereign.
Earlier on the same morning of her visit to the studio, Florimel had awaked and found herself in the presence of the spiritual Vehmgericht. Every member of the tribunal seemed against her. All her thoughts were busy accusing, none of them excusing one another. So hard were they upon her that she fancied she had nearly come to the conclusion that, if only she could do it pleasantly, without pain or fear, the best thing would be to swallow something and fall asleep; for like most people she was practically an atheist, and therefore always thought of death as the refuge from the ills of life. But although she was often very uncomfortable, Florimel knew nothing of such genuine downright misery as drives some people to what can be no more to their purpose than if a man should strip himself naked because he is cold. When she returned from her unhappy visit, and had sent her attendant to get her some tea, she threw herself upon her bed, and found herself yet again in the dark chambers of the spiritual police. But already even their company was preferable to that of Caley, whose officiousness began to enrage her. She was yet tossing in the Nessus tunic of her own disharmony, when Malcolm came for orders. To get rid of herself and Caley both, she desired him to bring the horses round at once.
It was more than Malcolm had expected. He ran: he might yet have a chance of trying to turn her in the right direction. He knew that Liftore was neither in the house nor at the stable. With the help of the earl's groom, he was round in ten minutes. Florimel was all but ready: like some other ladies she could dress quickly when she had good reason. She sprang from Malcolm's hand to the saddle, and led as straight northward as she could go, never looking behind her till she drew rein on the top of Hampstead Heath. When he rode up to her "Malcolm," she said, looking at him half ashamed, "I don't think my father would have minded you wearing his clothes."
"Thank you, my lady," said Malcolm. "At least he would have forgiven anything meant for your pleasure."
"I was too hasty," she said. "But the fact was, Mr Lenorme had irritated me, and I foolishly mixed you up with him."
"When I went into the studio, after you left it, this morning, my lady," Malcolm ventured, "he had his head between his hands and would not even look at me."
Florimel turned her face aside, and Malcolm thought she was sorry; but she was only hiding a smile: she had not yet got beyond the kitten stage of love, and was pleased to find she gave pain.
"If your ladyship never had another true friend, Mr Lenorme is one," added Malcolm.
"What opportunity can you have had for knowing?" said Florimel.
"I have been sitting to him every morning for a good many days," answered Malcolm. "he is something like a man!"
Florimel's face flushed with pleasure. She liked to hear him praised, for he loved her.
"You should have seen, my lady, the pains he took with that portrait! He would stare at the little picture you lent him of my lord for minutes, as if he were looking through it at something behind it; then he would get up and go and gaze at your ladyship on the pedestal, as if you were the goddess herself able to tell him everything about your father; and then he would hurry back to his easel, and give a touch or two to the face, looking at it all the time as if he loved it. It must have been a cruel pain that drove him to smear it as he did!"
Florimel began to feel a little motion of shame somewhere in the mystery of her being. But to show that to her servant, would be to betray herself – the more that he seemed the painter's friend.
"I will ask Lord Liftore to go and see the portrait, and if he thinks it like, I will buy it," she said. "Mr Lenorme is certainly very clever with his brush."
Malcolm saw that she said this not to insult Lenorme, but to blind her groom, and made no answer.
"I will ride there with you tomorrow morning," she added in conclusion, and moved on.
Malcolm touched his hat, and dropped behind. But the next moment he was by her side again.
"I beg your pardon, my lady, but would you allow me to say one word more?"
She bowed her head.
"That woman Caley, I am certain, is not to be trusted. She does not love you, my lady."
"How do you know that?" asked Florimel, speaking steadily, but writhing inwardly with the knowledge that the warning was too late.
"I have tried her spirit," answered Malcolm, "and know that it is of the devil. She loves herself too much to be true."
After a little pause Florimel said,
"I know you mean well, Malcolm; but it is nothing to me whether she loves me or not. We don't look for that nowadays from servants."
"It is because I love you, my lady," said Malcolm, "that I know Caley does not. If she should get hold of anything your ladyship would not wish talked about, –"
"That she cannot," said Florimel, but with an inward shudder. "She may tell the whole world all she can discover."
She would have cantered on as the words left her lips, but something in Malcolm's looks held her. She turned pale; she trembled: her father was looking at her as only once had she seen him – in doubt whether his child lied. The illusion was terrible. She shook in her saddle. The next moment she was galloping along the grassy border of the heath in wild flight from her worst enemy, whom yet she could never by the wildest of flights escape; for when, coming a little to herself as she approached a sand pit, she pulled up, there was her enemy – neither before nor behind, neither above nor beneath nor within her: it was the self which had just told a lie to the servant of whom she had so lately boasted that he never told one in his life. Then she grew angry. What had she done to be thus tormented? She a marchioness, thus pestered by her own menials – pulled in opposing directions by a groom and a maid. She would turn them both away, and have nobody about her, either to trust or suspect.
She might have called them her good and her evil demon; for she knew, that is, she had it somewhere about her, but did not look it out, that it was her own cowardice and concealment, her own falseness to the traditional, never failing courage of her house, her ignobility, and unfitness to represent the Colonsays – her double dealing in short, that had made the marchioness in her own right the slave of her woman, the rebuked of her groom!
She turned and rode back, looking the other way as she passed Malcolm.
When they reached the top of the heath, riding along to meet them came Liftore – this time to Florimel's consolation and comfort: she did not like riding unprotected with a good angel at her heels. So glad was she that she did not even take the trouble to wonder how he had discovered the road she went. She never suspected that Caley had sent his lordship's groom to follow her until the direction of her ride should be evident, but took his appearance without question, as a loverlike attention, and rode home with him, talking the whole way, and cherishing a feeling of triumph over both Malcolm and Lenorme. Had she not a protector of her own kind? Could she not, when they troubled her, pass from their sphere into one beyond their ken? For the poor moment, the weak lord who rode beside her seemed to her foolish heart a tower of refuge. She was particularly gracious to her lover as they rode, and fancied again and again that perhaps the best way out of her troubles would be to encourage and at last accept him, so getting rid of honeyed delights and rankling stings together, of good and evil angels and low bred lover at one sweep. Quiet would console for dulness, innocence for weariness. She would fain have a good conscience toward Society – that image whose feet are of gold and its head a bag of chaff and sawdust.
Malcolm followed sick at heart that she should prove herself so shallow. Riding Honour, he had plenty of leisure to brood.