letterhurriedly into his pocket. Valerie had opened the door noiselessly andcrept up behind him mischievously, intending to startle him. She hadbeen looking over his shoulder for several moments, vainly endeavouringto read the communication.
"You made me jump, darling," he said, laughing confusedly. "I've beenwaiting for you an hour."
"And been amusing yourself, it seems, by receiving a letter during myabsence," she added cynically.
"I admit the letter came half an hour ago, but it contains nothing ofwhich I am ashamed."
"Then I presume I may read it?" she suggested.
"Unfortunately, no," he replied, remembering Dolly's injunctions as tosecrecy. "Its contents are of a strictly private nature."
"Unless it be compromising, I should scarcely have thought that anyletter received by a husband who wishes to preserve a wife's confidencecould contain secrets that she should not learn," Valerie remarked in atone of annoyance.
"That is true, dearest," he said earnestly, taking her hand. "It isthrough no fault of my own that I am unable to show it to you."
"May I not know who the writer is?" she asked, standing erect, andlooking handsome in the dinner-gown which she had assumed before comingin search of him.
Her husband shook his head gravely.
It was the first difference of opinion they had had since theirmarriage, and he could not view it but with regret. He hastened toassure her that she need have no fear that he was practising duplicity,that he loved her too well. For her part, she had long ago gauged theextent of his affection, and, truth to tell, had but little misgivingwhen she discovered the open letter in his hand. Nevertheless, she wascurious to learn the identity of his lady correspondent, and, inconsequence of being met with a decisive refusal, was somewhat piqued.
This, however, passed quickly. The unbecoming frown which clouded herbrow soon gave way to an affectionate smile as she yielded herself tohis embrace and returned his kiss.
A moment later a servant entered and announced that dinner was served.Then she linked her arm in his, and they strolled along to thedining-room, laughing lightly, and discussing the merits of the obeseand highly respectable lady she had been visiting.
Valerie's nature was fantastic to a degree. She invariably sacrificedher interests to her caprices.
Thus the unpleasant episode passed, and in half an hour was entirelyforgotten. Trethowen was as madly in love with his wife as on the firstday his eyes fell upon her, and, surrounded by comfort and luxury, led ablissful, contented existence. Heedless of the future, and living onlyfor the present, he adored her passionately, believing that the perfectfelicity they now enjoyed would go on uninterruptedly and be ofpermanent duration.
How strange it is that all of us, however philosophic, at one period orother in our lives entertain a foolish conviction that we have foundperfect and lasting contentment! We never reflect. If we did, weshould recognise that there is no such thing as perpetual happiness,that joy is at best but temporary pleasure, productive of bitterreaction, and that so-called domestic bliss is a fallacy, alwaysanticipated, often feigned, yet, waning and fading with the honeymoon.
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On that day Dolly Vivian returned to Jack Egerton.
In the morning she had walked unexpectedly into his studio where he wasbusy at work, and, laughing at his surprise and consternation, proceededto divest herself of her hat and jacket in apparently an unconcernedmanner, as though she had never been absent. To his questions as to thecause of her disappearance and long silence she was perfectlyindifferent, merely remarking in a severe tone that she was mistress ofher own actions, and that she did not require intrusion upon affairswhich were of a purely private nature. A suggestion of his that she hadbeen on an escapade with a male escort she strongly resented; indeed,she became so angry at the insinuation that, fearing lest she shouldagain absent herself, the artist was compelled to abandon hiscross-examination and welcome her return with all the sincerity of anold friend.
"Then you won't tell me why you went away so suddenly and left noaddress?" he asked again, when they had been in conversation some time,and he had told her of his doings in her absence.
"No, Jack. Once for all, I refuse. My movements concern no one exceptmyself."
"I, too, am an interested party," he argued, smiling gallantly.
"Well, yes. I suppose you haven't yet finished `The Sultan'sFavourite'?"
"No; there it is," he replied, pointing to a canvas placed with its facetowards the wall. "I have not touched it since you left. It has beenawaiting your return before I could finish it."
"Am I to continue my sittings, then?" she asked coquettishly.
"Why, of course," he replied, lolling against his easel and regardingher amusedly. "You know well enough what crude daubs my figures wouldbe if I did not have your model. I owe the greater part of my successto you, and since your absence I've done absolutely nothing that hassatisfied me."
She was well aware that the words he spoke were the truth. Throughseveral years of desperate struggle against adversity she had been hisadviser and assistant, watching with gratification his steady progress.Each picture he completed was more natural and more perfect. He couldwork from no other model, she knew, therefore it did not surprise herwhen he announced his intention to resume without further delay whatpromised to be his masterpiece, "The Sultan's Favourite."
In half an hour she had exchanged her dress for the filmy garments andvelvet zouave of an Oriental beauty, and was lying half recumbent uponthe silken divan in a careless, graceful attitude. When she had assumedexactly the same pose as before, with one naked foot dangling near theground and the stray embroidered slipper beside her, she told him tocommence.
During the morning the artist worked on in the best of spirits.Delighted at the return of his companion and _confidante_, whom he haddespaired of seeing again, he chatted and laughed in a manner quiteunusual to him, for he always preserved a rather morose silence when hehad any difficult work in hand. One thing, however, was unaccountable,and caused him considerable surprise. When he had been painting aboutan hour he made a discovery. He was engaged in heightening the tone ofthe neck, and, finding her head cast rather too much shadow, asked herto turn a little more upon her side. She did so rather reluctantly, hethought--and then he noticed upon her neck, half-hidden by the heavynecklace of Turkish coins she wore, a long ugly scar.
"Why, Dolly!" he exclaimed in consternation, leaving his easel andwalking up to examine her more closely, "what's the matter with yourneck?"
"Nothing," she replied, somewhat embarrassed.
"But you've had a fearful wound. How did it occur?"
"It was a mere trifle. I--I fell down."
"Where?"
"In the street. I slipped and fell upon the kerb."
"A fall couldn't cause a cut like that," he exclaimed incredulously.
"It did. But don't bother about it," she replied, a trifle petulantly."It has healed now, and I have no pain."
He looked at her steadily, and felt convinced that she was concealingthe truth. Reassuming his former lightheartedness, however, he observedthat the accident was most unfortunate, and, expressing a hope that shefelt no evil effects from it, returned to his picture and continued toput in the lighter flesh tints.
About two o'clock he suddenly remembered that he had made an appointmentto call upon a man at Holland Park with regard to a commission, and thatit would be imperative for him to leave her for at least an hour. Sheraised no objection, therefore he changed his coat and took hisdeparture, promising to return with all possible haste, as he wanted tofinish the portion of the picture upon which he was engaged before thelight failed.
When he had gone she rose languidly from her couch, and, shiveringslightly, threw a wrap around her bare white shoulders, and seatedherself by the fire. Soon Mrs. O'Shea brought in her luncheon on atray, and she ate with relish, chatting to the housekeeper meanwhil
e.After she had finished, and the old woman had retired, she rose andwandered round the studio in search of any fresh studies the artistmight have made during her absence. She turned one which was hangingwith its face to the wall, and discovered it was a likeness of the womanshe hated--her rival, Valerie Dedieu. It was only a crayon drawing, butthe features were lifelike, and the cruel, cold smile played upon thefull red lips.
"I wonder," she said, aloud--"I wonder what secret tie there is betweenJack and that woman? There is something, I feel certain, and I'll notrest until I solve the mystery. Yet--yet she is Hugh's wife--Hugh lovesher!" she added bitterly.
With a sigh she replaced the sketch in the position she had found it.
"Yes, my precious
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