The Temptress

“Why should he marry me?” she asked in surprise. “I’m only an artist’s model, a woman who is looked down upon by fastidious prudes as immodest – yet the same women admire the pictures when in the galleries, and – ”

“But supposing he loved you?”

She shook her head.

“He does not,” she answered. “We are both Bohemians, and have many tastes in common. We found our ideas were similar years ago, when he was struggling for an existence in an attic and I was almost starving. Since that time to the present we have, in a pecuniary sense, shared one another’s lot. If I became his wife it is possible neither of us would be so happy as we are.”

But he only laughed, and said —

“He’ll ask you one day, and then perhaps you won’t refuse.”

“Don’t be absurd,” she protested, with a smile. “I am quite content as I am.”

Nevertheless, she heaved a slight sigh, and it was evident it was scarcely the truth she spoke.

Dolly Vivian had walked with him from the Hall to the outskirts of Bude, and they were now resting beside an old railing which protected the footpath along the edge of the high cliff.

The night was perfect. The light of the April moon flooded the valleys, illuminated the hilltops, and trailed along the plains of Cornish grass land in uninterrupted streams. The pale grey sea and pale grey sky were tinged with a faint blue; a few stars shone dimly here and there; the whole horizon was wrapped in mist, which took a tint of saffron-pink under the moon’s rim, and was slightly darkened where sea and sky converged. There was utter silence, a stillness that was complete and absolute, as if every one in the world had died, and even the waves lapping the beach below scarcely whispered.

They stood together, their faces turned towards the scattered glimmering lights of Bude.

A fortnight ago, Hugh, holding out prospects of good sketching, had prevailed upon Jack to visit him, and at the same time had invited Dolly. They had spent a pleasant couple of weeks together, and this was their last evening; for Egerton had an appointment with a lady, who had commissioned him to paint her portrait, and it was imperative that he should leave for London on the morrow. He had pleaded that his correspondence demanded attention, and thus it was that Dolly and Hugh had gone for a short ramble after dinner, leaving the artist writing in the library.

The pair had been silent for several minutes, entranced by the charm of the moonlit scene. Hugh had grown grave and thoughtful, for his companion’s emphatic protest puzzled him.

“Ah, well,” he exclaimed, at length, “I suppose sooner or later all of us will be married and settled, as the old ladies say.”

“You are speaking of yourself,” she remarked mischievously.

“No – I spoke collectively. Marriage or burial will be the lot of all of us – some sooner, some later.”

“Ah,” she exclaimed, as if suddenly recollecting, “you have not spoken of Mademoiselle Valérie. How is she? Do you often hear from her?”

“I had a letter a month ago. She was still in Brussels, and apparently in good health.”

“She has been absent some time now. When do you intend seeing her?”

“Soon – in a few days perhaps.”

“A few days,” she repeated thoughtfully. “Is she returning to London?”

“No; I have decided to travel back with you to-morrow, and then go on to Belgium.”

“You haven’t forgotten her, then?” she said in a strained, reproachful tone.

“Forgotten her!” he exclaimed. “Why should I?”

“It would be best,” was the brief reply.

The thought occurred to him that she loved him, and that jealousy had prompted her to utter that remark.

“Why?” he inquired, rather sharply.

“Mr Trethowen – Hugh, hear me,” she said imploringly, laying her hand upon his arm. “My friendship is as sincere towards you as towards Mr Egerton, but I cannot help telling you frankly what I think.”

“Well, and what are those fearful apprehensions of yours, Dolly?” he asked, regarding her with an amused expression.

“Forgive me for speaking so plainly, but I somehow feel confident that this foreign woman will bring you only sorrow and misery.”

“That’s cheering,” he remarked in his usual light and airy manner.

“Think seriously, and you will find I have some cause for apprehension,” she continued in earnest tones. “Remember Jack, your friend, has warned you. He has told you that she is not a fitting wife for you. Besides, are you not convinced that there is some strange secret tie between them?”

“You are right, Dolly. It is an enigma I cannot solve. Sometimes I have even thought that he is afraid of her,” Hugh said gravely.

“I feel sure he is. When she visited him on the first occasion they had high words, and though I could not understand, because they spoke in French, yet I’m absolutely certain she was threatening him.”

“It’s very curious,” he remarked, after a pause.

He was a trifle annoyed that she should have approached such a delicate matter so bluntly, although he was convinced more than ever that the woman who was speaking thus loved him.

“Why go to her? Why not remain here amid these lovely surroundings and try to forget her?” the girl suggested.

“Impossible! I love her, and will not hear her disparaged,” he replied, with more impatience than politeness, as he took a cigarette from his case and lit it. “Don’t speak again upon the subject, please; we shall never agree. Come, let’s turn back.”

Murmuring an apology, she drew herself up from her leaning position upon the low rail, and together they pursued their way in silence along the lonely path. As they walked, a cheerful freshness was in the air. The wind was hardly perceptible, because it blew off the shore and was lost in passing through the wood whose solemn shadows crowned the cliffside.

But while this exchange of confidence was in progress, Jack Egerton’s actions, viewed by even a casual observer, would have appeared strange.

As soon as Dolly and his host had departed, he rose from the writing-table, and, flinging himself into a chair before the fire, abandoned himself to reflections that appeared particularly gloomy. He sat almost motionless for fully half an hour, when Jacob entered with a letter.

“Whom is it for?” asked the artist.

“For the master, sir,” replied the old man, placing it upon the table, and retiring.

From where he sat, Egerton noticed a foreign stamp upon the envelope. He rose, and took it in his hand. A glance sufficed to tell it was from Valérie.

He turned it over and over, reading and re-reading the superscription.

“I wonder,” he said aloud, “whether it contains anything of interest?”

Then he turned towards the fire. There was a small copper kettle upon it, which had been ordered by Hugh to be brought up so that they might brew warm whisky. From the spout steam was issuing.

“Am I such a low, mean spy that I should contemplate opening my friend’s letters?” he asked himself at last. “Yet – yet it is not for my own benefit. Would Hugh ever forgive me if he knew all? If he knew my secret – ah! by heaven! it’s too horrible, the very thought of the crime, of its punishment, unnerves me. Coward – yes, coward at heart; afraid of justice, and under the thrall of a daring unscrupulous gang. What can I do, how can I act? Surely there can be no great harm in opening this.”

He stood several moments in silence.

“Yes!” he exclaimed suddenly, “I’ll do it!”