The Temptress

“No affection exists between us, I assure you,” she declared boldly. “If you doubt me, ask Mr Egerton. He and I are merely friends.”

Turning to the artist, Hugh asked —

“What have you to say, Jack?”

“I decline to be cross-examined,” was the abrupt reply.

“Speak, and satisfy him!” urged Valérie imploringly. “Tell him if there is any love between us.” She frowned, and, unseen by Trethowen, darted a sharp, imperative glance at him.

He fully comprehended her meaning. Raising his head, he confronted his friend, saying —

“You need have no fear. Valérie and I have known one another for years, but only as acquaintances.”

He uttered the words mechanically, in strained, harsh tones.

“I don’t believe it,” cried the other, his face crimson with anger. “You are both playing me false, and I have detected you.”

“You are mistaken,” Valérie said defiantly.

“No; I assert it as the truth. The whole affair is so unsatisfactory that I will not believe it. Friends do not meet clandestinely in this manner. You are lovers!”

“It’s a lie,” cried Valérie emphatically.

“I repeat what I’ve said.”

“Then, if you accuse me of duplicity, Mr Trethowen, I will bid you adieu,” she exclaimed severely, at the same time offering her hand.

He took it, and was mollified instantly.

Bending over it, he murmured —

“Farewell, mademoiselle, until – until you can prove that I was mistaken. We shall not meet till then.” For a moment she gazed steadily at the artist, but he did not stir. He stood with his arms folded, his face impassive.

Slowly she turned, and with a stiff bow swept haughtily out of the studio.

“Now,” commenced Hugh, when the door had closed, “what explanation have you to give of this strange conduct, pray?”

“None.”

“That does not satisfy me.”

“My dear old fellow,” exclaimed Jack, stretching out his hand, “you – you understand; I cannot – I’m unable to give any.”

“Why?”

“Because it is impossible.”

“Do you love her?” asked Hugh fiercely.

“Love her!” the other echoed, with a short laugh. “I swear to you, upon my oath, I hate her! Have I not already long ago expressed my opinion?”

“Is that still unchanged?”

“Quite – intensified rather than moderated.”

“Well, perhaps I have been a trifle too hasty, Jack. It seems that you know much of her past. Tell me, what was the object of your interview?”

He was silent. Presently he said —

“Hugh, you are an old friend, and I wish I were at liberty to tell you, but I regret I am not. Request no explanation, and rest assured that Valérie and myself are not lovers, and, further, that we never were.”

“Are you aware that Valérie and my late brother were acquainted?” Trethowen asked suddenly.

“How did you discover that?” exclaimed the artist in astonishment.

“Then you appear to know that she was a friend of his,” remarked Hugh dryly.

“No; I – it’s the first I’ve heard of it. Who told you?”

“I want to know whether it’s a fact or not,” persisted his friend.

“I don’t know,” he replied sullenly.

“You mean, you positively refuse to tell me?”

“No; it is inability.”

The two men continued their conversation for a short time longer, then Hugh left and returned to his chambers, not, however, before the warm friendship which had previously existed between them had been resumed.

That evening Jacob handed his master a telegram from Valérie. She had evidently made a sudden resolve, and had lost no time in carrying it into effect, for the message read —

“As you appear to doubt my explanation I have decided to leave England for the present. If you desire to write, a letter to 46, Avenue de la Toison d’Or, Brussels, will always find me.”

With a prolonged whistle he sank into his chair, staring aimlessly at the indistinct words on the pink paper which he held between his fingers.

He was half inclined to believe he had misjudged her.

Chapter Fourteen

On Cornish Cliffs

“Let us return now, Mr Trethowen. The night is chilly, and, besides, if we are too long, Jack – I mean Mr Egerton – will suspect us of whispering sweet nothings.”

“And if he does, surely there’s no harm, Dolly? He’s not jealous of you, he – I mean, it isn’t as if you were engaged to him.”

“No, that is so,” she replied; “he is such a prosaic old bachelor. Why, I assure you that ever since I have known him he’s never hinted at love. I am his model, his friend – that is all.”

“Do you know,” Trethowen said, after a few moments’ reflection, “I’ve often wondered, Dolly, how it is you have not married him.”