The Temptress

He was about to toss the letter into the fire impatiently without reading further, when a name caught his eye.

The remainder of the letter was as follows: —

I am in sore trouble, and want your advice. Dolly has mysteriously disappeared. One night, three weeks ago, she left the studio and went home. After dressing she again went out, and since then nothing has been seen or heard of her. I have searched everywhere, and made strenuous efforts through the police and by advertisements to find some trace of her, but all seems futile. She has disappeared completely. Yet somehow I cannot think her silence is intentional, or that she has run away with some male companion, for she was not addicted to flirtation. You are one of her admirers, I know, so I want your advice as to the best course to pursue. I’m at my wits’ ends, old fellow. Write and tell me what to do. I must find her; I shall never rest until I ascertain definitely what has become of her.

“Good heavens! What an extraordinary thing,” ejaculated Trethowen, when he had concluded reading.

“Dolly missing! She might be dead for aught we know; yet such a fate cannot have befallen her. She cared for me a little, I know,” he soliloquised. “Perhaps she had hoped that I should ask her to become my wife. Why,” he gasped, as a thought suddenly occurred to him, “suppose she has committed suicide because I did not reciprocate the love she offered. Good God! if such were the case, I should never forgive myself – never.”

Pausing, he gazed blankly at the paper in his hand.

“Yet – yet, after all,” he continued thoughtfully, “I love Valérie, and shall marry no woman but her. There can be no reason why I should be miserable or bother my head over the mystery.”

Chapter Twenty One

Purely Fin de Siècle

“Why are you so glum this morning, Jack? Hang it, you look as if you were going to attend my funeral instead of my wedding.”

“Do I?” asked Egerton, yawning, and stretching himself out lazily in his chair. “I didn’t know my facial expression was not in keeping with the joyousness of the occasion.”

“Look here, old fellow,” continued Hugh, walking over to his companion, and looking him earnestly in the face. “Now, before we start, tell me why you are so strangely indifferent. It seems as if you still entertain some curious antipathy towards Valérie.” Egerton knit his brows, and, rising, assumed an air of utter unconcern.

“It’s a matter I would rather not discuss, old chap,” he said. “At your request I’ve consented to assist at your wedding, otherwise I should not have been here at all.”

“Your very words betray you. Why should you have been absent, pray?”

“For certain reasons,” the other replied briefly. Trethowen regarded his friend with surprise, not unmingled with annoyance.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, after a few moments’ silence, “I see. You have not finished those mysterious warnings of yours. Why the deuce don’t you speak right out and tell me what you mean?”

“I have no intention to malign the woman who is to be your wife, Hugh,” the artist answered quietly. “I’ve given you certain hints already, and – ”

“Enough of that,” cried his companion, with some asperity. “Though you are an old friend, it gives you no right to interfere with my private affairs.”

“That’s true,” Jack admitted hastily. “Don’t for a moment think I desire to intrude unwarrantably. It’s merely friendly advice I’ve given you.”

“Friendly advice – bosh!” Trethowen said in disgust. “Whatever you know detrimental to Valérie, you’ll oblige me by keeping in future to yourself.”

The man addressed muttered something in an undertone, and, turning, gazed abstractedly out of the window.

They were in Hugh’s sitting-room in St. James’s on the morning fixed for the marriage. It was almost a month since Trethowen had left Spa, and the time had been pleasantly spent with Valérie at Brussels and Ostend. Now that they had returned to London, she had again taken up her abode in her little flat in Victoria Street, while the arrangements for the marriage were completed.

Jack Egerton, dressed more sprucely than usual, and wearing the orthodox lavender gloves and a flower in his coat, had called upon his friend half an hour before, and was waiting to accompany him to the church. His task he regarded with abhorrence. He would rather have done anything than assist at the ceremony, and see his friend bind himself to that dark-eyed Circe. Yet he, helpless and under the merciless thrall of the woman, was there by sheer compulsion. A fortnight ago he had received a letter from her. She did not ask or entreat, but commanded him to be present and act as Hugh’s best man.

“I know,” she wrote in French, “the task will be scarcely congenial, but your presence will inspire him with confidence. He has promised me he will ask you, and if you refuse, he will suspect that it is repugnant to you. Understand, he must know nothing of my affairs. When we last met at Laroche you threatened me, but I need hardly impress the necessity of silence upon you, having regard to the fact that the reward of your zealousness on your friend’s behalf would be a life sentence. Accept his offer and attend the wedding, otherwise I shall know you are playing against me. If you do, beware! for I shall win. I have all the honours in my hand.”

He was reflecting upon this last sentence as he stood staring aimlessly down into the street. She possessed the dark secret of his life, and held him in her power, so that he was compelled to do her bidding, to dance attendance upon her, and to witness her triumph at the expense of his dearest friend.

Grinding his teeth, he uttered an imprecation, as he realised how complete was her mastery, and perceived that his own ruin would be the only reward for saving Hugh.

The latter, who was watching him, misconstrued this outburst of impatience and went over and grasped his hand, saying:

“Forgive me, old fellow, for what I’ve just said. We ought not to quarrel, more especially to-day. I was rather hasty, but I love Valérie, and anything hinted against her excites my anger. Come, let’s forget it.” His companion succumbed to fate, having done all he could in the way of resistance. Laughing a trifle sadly, he replied —

“There’s nothing whatever to forgive. I shall go with you to the church, and I hope – well, I hope your marriage will bring you nothing but happiness. Nevertheless, whatever is the result, remember I am still your friend.”

Trethowen thanked him, although astonished at his friend’s tone, and inwardly tried to account for his apparent sadness.

Could it be, that he entertained affection for Valérie himself? Or was it that their conversation that morning had brought back to his memory thoughts of the lost woman who, although his friend, assistant, and critic, was not his mistress? He had spoken very little of her, with the exception of describing the strange circumstances in which she disappeared. Still, any mention of her seemed to cause him sorrowful reflections.

Walking to a side-table whereon stood a bottle of champagne and some glasses, Hugh uncorked the wine, at the same time touching the gong.

In answer to the summons old Jacob appeared. He wore a large wedding-favour, and his scanty hair was parted and brushed with unusual care.

Having filled three glasses, his master turned to him, saying —

“Take a glass with us, Jacob, to celebrate the event. Come, Jack, here you are. It’s no innovation to drink with a servant like my trusty old fossil here!”

The artist took the glass, and, as he did so, Hugh, holding up his own, gave the toast.

“Here’s to the last hour of bachelorhood.”

“Long life and prosperity to Hugh Trethowen!” Egerton exclaimed.

“And may they always lead happy lives!” added the old servant, in a weak broken voice.

“Hurrah! Let’s hope so,” remarked the bridegroom, and the trio tossed off their wine.

“And now we must be going,” he added, a few minutes later. “You know my instructions, Jacob. You’ll follow to Coombe at the end of the week. If any one calls, tell them – tell them I shan’t be back in town for six months at least.”

“Very well, Master Hugh,” the feeble old man replied, smiling at his master’s humour. “May God bless you both, sir!”

“Thank you, Jacob, thank you,” Hugh replied heartily, as his man withdrew. “He can’t make it out, I think,” he remarked to Jack, with a laugh. “It’ll be a fresh experience for him to have a mistress. But I feel sure she’ll be kind to him.”

Then they both finally examined themselves in a long mirror in the corner of the room, and, putting on their gloves, left the house.

An hour later the bell of the outer door of the chambers rang, and Jacob, still wearing his white satin rosette, answered.

On throwing open the door he was confronted by an unkempt wretchedly clad young woman, with tousled hair poking from under a battered crape bonnet, and a ragged shawl about her shoulders.

“Is Mr Trethowen in?” she inquired, in a voice that was refined, and certainly not in keeping with her habiliments.

“No, he’s not,” the old man replied sharply, for a woman of that class was not a desirable visitor.

“Where can I find him?” she asked anxiously. “I must see him, and at once.”

“I tell you he’s not here.”