In Friendship's Guise

by William Murray Graydon

  CHAPTER XVI.

  THE LAST CARD.

  It was nine o'clock in the evening, and darkness had fallen ratherearlier than usual, owing to a black, cloudy sky that threatened rain.Jimmie Drexell had gone during the afternoon, and Jack was alone in thebig studio--alone with his misery and his anguish. He had scarcelytasted food since morning, much to the distress of Alphonse. He lookeda mere wreck of his former self--haggard and unshaven, with hard linesaround his weary eyes. He had not changed his clothes, and they werewrinkled and untidy. Across the polished floor was a perceptible track,worn by hours of restless striding to and fro. Now, after waitingimpatiently for Victor Nevill, and wondering why he did not come, Jackhad tried to nerve himself to the task that he dreaded, that preyedincessantly on his mind. He knew that the sooner it was over the better.He must write to Madge and tell her the truth--deal her the terribleblow that might break her innocent, loving heart.

  "It's no use--I can't do it," he said hoarsely, when he had been sittingat his desk for five minutes. "The words won't come. My brain is dry.Would it be better to try to see her, and tell her all face to face?No--anything but that!"

  Thrusting pen and paper from him, he rose and went to the liquor-stand.The cut-glass bottle containing brandy dropped from his shaking hand andwas shattered to fragments. The crash drowned the opening of the studiodoor, and as he surveyed the wreck he heard footsteps, and turnedsharply around, expecting to see Nevill. Diane stood before him, in acostume that would have better suited a court presentation; the shadedgas-lamps softened the rouge and pearl-powder on her cheeks, and lenther a beauty that could never have survived the test of daylight. Herexpression was one of half defiance, half mute entreaty.

  The audacity of the woman staggered Jack, and for an instant he wasspeechless with indignation. His dull, bloodshot eyes woke to a fierywrath.

  "You!" he cried. "How dare you come here? Go at once!"

  "Not until I am ready," she replied, looking at him unflinchingly. "Onewould think that my presence was pollution."

  "It is--you know that. Did Nevill permit you to come? Have you seenhim?"

  "No; I kept out of his way. He is searching for me in town now, Isuppose. It was you I wanted to see."

  "You are dead to all shame, or you would never have come to London. Idon't know what you want, and I don't care. I won't listen to you, andunless you leave, by heavens, I will call the police and have youdragged out!"

  "I hardly think you will do that," said Diane. "I am going presently, ifyou will be a little patient. I am your wife, Jack--"

  He laughed bitterly.

  "You were once--you are not now. If I thought it would be any punishmentto you, that disgrace could soil _you_, I would take advantage of thelaw and procure a divorce."

  "I am your wife," she repeated, "but I do not intend to claim myrights. We were both to blame in the past--"

  "That is false!" he cried. "You only were to blame--I have nothing toreproach myself with, except that I was a mad fool when I married youfor your pretty face. You tried to pull me down to your own level--thelevel of the Parisian kennels. You squandered my money, tempted me toreckless extravagances, and when the shower of gold drew near its end,you ran off with some scoundrel who no doubt proved as simple a victimas myself. I trusted you, and my honor was betrayed. But you did me agreater wrong when you allowed me to believe that you were dead. Byheavens, when I think of it all--"

  "You forget that we drifted apart toward the last," Diane interrupted."Was that entirely my fault? I believed that you no longer cared for me,and it made me reckless." There was a sudden ring of sincerity in hervoice, and the insolent look in her eyes was replaced by a softerexpression. "I did wrong," she added. "I am all that you say I am. Ihave sinned and suffered. But is there no pity or mercy in your heart?Remember the past--that first year when we loved each other and werehappy. Wait; I have nearly finished. I am going out of your lifeforever--it is the only atonement I can make. But will you let me gowithout a sign of forgiveness?--without a soft word?"

  For a moment there was silence. Diane waited with rigid face. She hadforgotten the purpose that brought her to the studio--a womanly impulse,started to life by the memories of the past, had softened her heart. ButJack, blinded by passion and his great wrongs, little dreamed of thechance that he was throwing away.

  "You talk of forgiveness!" he cried. "Why, I only wonder that I cankeep my hands off your throat. I hate the sight of you--I curse the dayI first saw your face! Do you know what you have done, by letting mebelieve that you were dead? You have probably broken the heart of onewho is as good and pure as you are vile and treacherous--the woman whomI love and would have married."

  Diane's features hardened, and a sudden rage flashed in her half-veiledeyes; her repentant impulse died as quickly.

  "So that is your answer!" she exclaimed, harshly. "And there is anotherwoman! You shall never marry her--never!"

  "You fiend!"

  The threat goaded Jack to fury, and he might have lost his self-control.But just then quick footsteps fell timely on his ear.

  "Get behind that screen, or go into the next room," he muttered. "No; itwon't matter--it must be Nevill."

  Diane held her ground.

  "I don't care who it is," she said, shrilly. "I will tell the world thatI am your wife."

  The next instant the door was thrown open, and a woman entered thestudio and came hesitatingly forward under the glare of the gas-jets.With a rapid movement she partly tore off her long, hooded cloak, whichwas dripping with rain. Jack quivered as though he had been struck ablow.

  "Madge!" he gasped, recognizing the lovely, agitated face.

  The girl caught her breath, and looked from one to the other--from thepainted and powdered woman to the man who had won her love. Her bosomheaved, and her flushed cheeks turned to the whiteness of marble.

  "Jack, tell me--is it true?" she pleaded, struggling with each word. "Ishould not have come, but--but I received this an hour ago." She flung acrumpled letter at his feet, and he picked it up mechanically. "It saidthat I would find you here with your--your--" She could not utter theword. "I had to come," she added. "I could not rest. And now--who isthat woman? Speak!"

  No answer. Jack's lips and throat were dry, and a red mist was beforehis eyes.

  "Is she your wife?"

  "God help me, yes!" Jack cried, hoarsely. "I can explain. Believe me,Madge, I was not false--I told you only the truth. If you will listento me for a moment--"

  She shrank from him with horror, and the color surged back to her cheeks.

  "Don't touch me!" she cried. "Let me go--this is no place for me! I prayheaven to forgive you, Jack!"

  The look that she gave him, so full of unspeakable agony and reproach,cut him like a knife. She pressed one hand to her heart, and with theother tried to draw her cloak around her. She swayed weakly, butrecovered herself in time. Jack, watching her as a man might watch thegates of paradise close upon him, had failed to hear a cab stop in thestreet. He suddenly saw Stephen Foster in the room.

  "Is my daughter here?" he excitedly demanded.

  Madge turned at the sound of her father's voice, and sank, half-fainting,into his arms. Tears came to her relief, and she shook with the violenceof her sobs.

  Stephen Foster looked from Diane to Jack. Madge had shown him theanonymous letter, and he needed not to ask if the charge was true.

  "You blackguard!" he cried, furiously. "You dastardly scoundrel!"

  "I do not deserve those words!" Jack said, hoarsely, "but I cannotresent them. From any other man, under other circumstances--"

  "Coward and liar!"

  With that Stephen Foster turned to the door, with Madge leaning heavilyon him. They passed down the stairs, and the rattle of wheels told thatthey had gone. Jack was left alone with Diane.

  "Are you satisfied with your devil's work?" he demanded, glaring at herwith burning, bloodshot eyes.

  "It was not my fault."

  "Not your fault? By heavens--"r />
  He looked at the crumpled letter he held, and saw that it was apparentlywritten by a woman. A suspicion that as quickly became a certaintyflashed into his mind.

  "_You_ sent this, and the other one as well," he exclaimed. "Don't denyit! You planned the meeting here--"

  "It is false, Jack! I swear to you that I know nothing of it--"

  "Perjurer!" he snarled.

  His face was like a madman's as he caught her arm in a cruel grip. Shecowered before him, dropping to her knees. She was pale with fear.

  "Go, or I will kill you!" he cried, disregarding her protestations ofinnocence. "I can't trust myself! Out of my sight--let me never see youor hear of you again. I will give you money to leave London--to returnto Paris. Nevill will arrange it. Do you understand?"

  He lifted her to her feet and pushed her from him. She staggered againstan easel on which was a completed picture in oils, and it fell with acrash. Jack trampled over it ruthlessly, driving his feet through thecanvas.

  "Go!" he cried.

  And Diane, trembling with terror, went swiftly out into the black andrainy night.

  An hour later, when Victor Nevill came to say that his search had beenfruitless, he found Jack stretched full length on the couch, with hisface buried in a soft cushion.