Only One Love, or Who Was the Heir Part 32

His thoughts flew backward to the shady grove of Warden Forest, to the girl who, like a vision of purity and innocence and loveliness, had floated like a dream across his life.

He gave one pa.s.sing thought to Len, too, and his story.

It was a strange coincidence that they should both have met their fates at one and the same time, or nearly so.

He would have thought it stranger still if he could have lifted the veil of the future and seen how closely the web of his life was woven with the woof, not only of Una's, but of Laura Treherne, and also of Lady Bell Earlsley.

All unconscious he had turned a leaf of his life's book, and had begun a new chapter in which these three women were to take a part.

But he sat and drank the champagne, knowing nothing of this, and--I am sorry to have to say it--he was rapidly arriving at that condition in which it is dangerous to be within a mile of that fascinating fluid.

When a man pa.s.ses from a state of half-feverish restlessness and dissatisfaction to one of comparative comfort, and that by the aid of the cheering gla.s.s, it is time to put the cheering gla.s.s aside and go home.

Jack did not go home; on the contrary, he went into the billiard-room, and Cliquot followed, as a matter of course.

For a time Jack had managed to forget everything excepting his promise to Len; he would not enter the card-room, but he stuck to pool and champagne.

CHAPTER XVII.

I am not going to apologize for our hero, nor am I going to gloss over his faults with any specious special pleading. No man is either wholly good or wholly bad; certainly Jack was not wholly good; he was human, very human, and blessed, or cursed, with a hot, pa.s.sionate blood, which made him more liable to trip than most men. But, at the same time, this in justice must be said of him, that he very rarely sinned in this way.

Tonight his blood was at full heat; the love which had sprung up like a tongue of flame in his heart burned and maddened him, and to this newly-born love was added the disappointment and bewilderment of Una's sudden disappearance. Add, too, that he had been overstrained and upset, and--well, there are the excuses and apologies, after all.

Somewhere about two o'clock, when the club was full with men who had dropped in from theater and ball-room, and amidst the popping of corks and click of pool b.a.l.l.s, a certain feeling came over poor Jack that he had taken quite as much, and more, of the sparkling juice than was good for him; and with that consciousness came the resolution to go home.

The game was just over, and without a word he put up his cue, motioned to a footman to bring him his hat, and, scarcely noticed in the crowd and bustle, slowly descended the broad and indeed magnificent staircase for which and its palatial hall the club was famous.

He descended very slowly, with his hand on the bal.u.s.trade, and having reached the bottom, he filled a gla.s.s with water from the crystal filter that stood on a side table in the porter's box, and sallied out.

The night air struck upon his hot brow in a cool and welcome fashion, and Jack stood for a moment or two, fighting with the hazy and stupefying effects of the night's work.

"I won't go home yet," he muttered. "Len will be cut up; he always is.

He's as bad as a father--almost as bad as a mother-in-law. Well, I didn't touch the cards, anyhow. And if it had not been for those two idiots, Ark and Dally, I shouldn't have got so far into the champagne.

How bright the stars shine--an unaccountable number of them tonight."

Poor Jack! "Never saw such a quant.i.ty! No, I won't go home yet. I'll walk it off if I have to walk till tomorrow morning. Where am I? Ah!

where is _she_? Thank Heaven, she isn't near me now! I'm glad she's gone; I'm glad I shall never see her any more. I'm not fit to see her; not worthy to touch her hand. But I did touch it," and, with a kind of wonder at his audacity, he stretched out his hand and stared at it under the gas-lamp.

Then he walked on perfectly indifferent to the direction, perfectly indifferent to the weariness which was gradually--no, rapidly--coming on him.

Just at this time, while he was walking off the drowsy dream that had got possession of him, a stream of carriages was slowly moving down Park Lane, taking up from one of the best known houses in town--Lady Merivale's.

Lady Merivale was one of the leaders of _ton_ and had been one as long as most middle-aged people could remember. To be seen at Lady Merivale's was to be acknowledged as one of that small but powerful portion of humanity known as "the upper ten."

It was one of her ladyship's grand b.a.l.l.s, and not only were the ball and drawing-rooms full, but the staircase also, and any one wishing to enter or exit had to make his way down a narrow line flanked on either side by the youth and n.o.bility of the best kind of society.

That it had been a great success no one who knows the world--and Lady Merivale--needs to be told. It had, perhaps, been one of her greatest, for in addition to two princes of the blood royal, she had secured the great sensation of the day, the young millionairess, Lady Isabel Earlsley.

And this was no slight achievement, for Lady Bell, as she was generally called, was a wilful, uncertain young personage, from whom it was very hard to procure a promise, and who, not seldom, was given to breaking it when made, at least, so far as acceptation of invitations went.

But she was there tonight; as the next issue of the _Morning Post_ would testify.

Jack had been really too careless and scornful in his indifference. Lady Bell was not only beautiful, she was--what was more rare than beauty--charming. She was rather short than tall; but not too short. She had a beautiful figure; not a wasp waist by any means, but a natural figure, full of power and grace. Her skin was, well, colonial; delicately tinted and creamy; and her eyes--it is difficult to catalogue her eyes, because their lights were always changing--but the expression which generally predominated was one of half-amused, half-mocking light.

With both expressions she met the open admiration of the gilded youths who thronged round her, amused at their foppery, mocking at their protestations of devotion.

Tonight she was dressed neither magnificently nor superbly, but with, what seemed to the women who gazed at her with barely concealed envy, artful simplicity.

Her dress was of Indian muslin, priceless for all its simplicity; and she wore glittering in her hair, on her arms, and on her cream-white bosom, pearls, that, in quant.i.ty and quality would have made the fortune of any enterprising burglar.

By her side stood--for they were moving toward the door, on their way to an exit--an elderly woman, with an expressionless face, simply and plainly dressed. She was generally spoken of as the watch dog; but she scarcely deserved that name, for Lady Bell was quite capable of watching over herself; and Mrs. Fellowes, the widow of the Indian colonel, was too mild to represent any sort of dog whatever.

Surrounded by a crowd of devoted courtiers, the great heiress and her companion moved toward the door where the hostess stood receiving the farewells and thanks of her guests; and when one thinks of the many hundred times Lady Merivale had stood by that door, and undergone that terrible ordeal, one is filled with amazement and awe at her courage and physical strength.

For forty years she had been standing at doors, receiving and meeting guests; yet she stood tonight as smiling and courageous as ever.

At last Lady Bell reached her hostess, and Lady Merivale, tired and done up as she was, gave her special recognition.

"Must you go, Lady Bell? Well, good-night. And thank you for making my poor little dance a success. Thank you very much."

Lady Bell said nothing, but she smiled "in her old colonial way," as they called it, and threaded through the lane of human beings on the stairs.

"Lady Earlsley's carriage!" shouted the footman in the gorgeous Merivale livery, and a little brougham drove up.

Lady Bell hated show and magnificence.

Her stables and coach-houses were crowded with horses and carriages, her wardrobes filled to repletion with Worth's costumes and Elise's "confections," as bonnets are called now-a-days, but a plain little brougham was her favorite vehicle, and the simplest of costumes pleased her best.

All the way down the stairs she had to nod and smile and exchange farewells, and at the bottom, in the hall, on the stone steps themselves, she was surrounded by men eager to secure the privilege of putting her into her little brougham.

But she avoided them all, and sprang in as if she had not been dancing for four hours, and throwing herself back into the corner, exclaimed:

"Thank goodness, that is over. Poor old Fellowes! you are worn out.

Confess it."

"I am rather tired, my dear," said Mrs. Fellowes, who had been sitting against a wall all the evening.

"Tired! of course you are; it's ever so much more tiring looking on than dancing, and joining in the giddy round. I don't feel a bit tired; I'm a little bored."

"Bored! what a word, my dear Bell," murmured Mrs. Fellowes, sleepily.

"It's a good word--it's an expressive word--and it just means really what I feel."

"And yet you received more attention than any woman--any girl--in the room, my dear," murmured Mrs. Fellowes.

"My money-bags may have done so," said Lady Bell, scornfully; "not I. Do you think that if I were as penniless as one of Lady Southerly's daughters, I should receive as much attention? Fellowes, don't you take to flattering me. I couldn't stand that."