Phyllis of Philistia Part 24

But before she had come down to the breakfast room where her husband was reading a newspaper in the morning, she had thought a good deal upon another matter that disquieted her in some degree. She had been exuberant (she thought) at having had sufficient strength given to her to run away from her lover; but then she had not dwelt upon the rather important circ.u.mstance that all the running away had not been on her side. What were the facts as revealed by the narrative of Mr. Ayrton?

Why, simply, that while she was putting on that supreme toilet which she had prepared for the delight of the eyes of her lover (feeling herself to be a modern Cleopatra), that lover of hers was sitting on the cushions of a first-cla.s.s carriage, flying along to Southampton; and while she had been lying among the cushions of her drawing room, waiting tremulously, nervously, ecstatically, for the dreary minutes to crawl on until the clock should chime the hour of nine, he was probably lighting his first pipe aboard the yacht _Water Nymph_. What did it matter that she had lifted her hot face from her cushions and had fled in wild haste to the arms of Phyllis Ayrton? The fact remained the same; it was he who had run away from her.

That was a terrible reflection. Hitherto she had never felt humiliated.

She had not felt that he had insulted her by his kisses; she had given him kiss for kiss. She had but to hold up her finger and he was ready to obey her. But now--what was she to think of him? Had ever man so humiliated woman? She had offered him, not her heart but her soul--had he not told her a few days before that he meant her to give him her soul? and when she had laid heart and soul at his feet--that was how she put it to herself--he had not considered it worth his while to take the priceless gift that she offered to him.

"He will answer to me for that," she said, as she thought over her humiliation, in front of her dressing-gla.s.s that morning, while her maid was absent from the room.

Her wish was now not that her prayer had been less earnest, but that it had not been uttered at all. It was necessary for her to meet him again in order that he might explain to her how it came that he had preferred the attractions incidental to a cruise with Lord Earlscourt and his friends to all that she had written to offer him.

And yet when her husband, after having quite finished with his paper, said:

"It's very awkward that Herbert Courtland is not in town."

She merely raised her shoulders an inch, saying:

"I suppose that he has a right to take a holiday now and then. If you didn't telegraph to him from Paris, you cannot complain."

"I felt certain that I should find him here," said the husband.

"Here?" said the wife, raising her eyebrows and casting an offended glance at her husband. "Here?"

He smiled in the face of her offended glance.

"Here--in London, I mean, of course. Heavens, Ella! did you fancy for a moment that I meant----Ah, by the way, you have seen him recently?"

"Oh, yes; quite recently--on Tuesday, I think it was, we met at the Ayrton's dinner party--yes, it was Tuesday. There was some fuss, or attempted fuss, about his adventures in New Guinea, and a question was being asked about the matter in the House of Commons. Mr. Ayrton got rid of some of his superfluous cleverness in putting a counter question--you know the way."

"Oh, perfectly well! And that is how you met on Tuesday--if it was Tuesday?"

"Yes; he went to thank Mr. Ayrton, and Mr. Ayrton asked him to dinner.

It was a small party, and not very brilliant. Herbert came here with me afterward--for five minutes."

"Ah! To get the taste of the party off his mouth, I suppose? He didn't say anything to you then about being tired of his London season?"

"Not a word. He seemed tired of the dinner party. He yawned."

"And I'm sure that you yawned in sympathy. When a man so far forgets himself as to yawn in the presence of a woman, she never fails to respond with one of more ample circ.u.mference. When a woman so far remembers herself as to yawn in the presence of a man, he tries to say something witty."

"Yes, when the woman is not his wife. If she is his wife, he asks her if she doesn't think it's about time she was in bed."

"I dare say you're right; you have observed men--and women, for that matter--much more closely than I have had time to do. It's very awkward that he isn't here. I must bring him back at once."

She felt a little movement at her heart; but she only said:

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you. Why shouldn't he be allowed to enjoy his holiday in peace?"

"It's a matter of business; the mine, I told you."

"What's wrong with the mine that could be set right by his coming back at once? Are you not making enough out of it?"

"We're making quite as much as is good for us out of it. But if we can get a hundred and fifty thousand pounds for a few yards of our claim further east, without damaging the prospects of the mine itself, I don't think we should refuse it--at any rate, I don't think that we should refuse to consider the offer."

"What is a hundred and fifty thousand pounds?" said she.

"I wonder why you dressed yourself as you did last night?" said he.

The suddenness of the words did not cause her to quail as the guilty wife quails--yes, under a properly managed lime-light. She did not even color. But then, of course, she was not a guilty wife.

She lay back on her chair and laughed.

He watched her--not eagerly, but pleasantly, admiringly.

"My dear Stephen, if you could understand why I dressed myself that way you would be able to give me a valuable hint as to where the connection lies between your mine and my toilet--I need such a hint, now, I can a.s.sure you."

She was sitting up now looking at him with lovely laughing eyes. (After all, she was no guilty wife.)

"What, you can't see the connection?" he said slowly. "You can sew over your dress about fifty thousand pounds' worth of diamonds, and yet you don't see the connection between the wearing of that dress and the development of a gold mine by your husband?"

"I think I see it now--something of a connection. But I don't want any more diamonds; I don't care if you take all that are sewed about the dress and throw them into the river. That's how I feel this morning."

"I heard some time ago of a woman who had something of your mood upon her one day. She had some excellent diamonds, and in one of her moods, she flung them into the river. She was a wife and she had a lover who disappointed her. The story reads very smoothly in verse."

She laughed.

"I have no lover," she said--was it mournfully? "I have a husband, it is true; but he is not exactly of the type of King Arthur--nor Sir Galahad, for that matter. I hope you found Paris as enjoyable as ever?"

"Quite. I never saw at Paris a more enrapturing toilet than yours of last night. You are, I know, the handsomest woman of my acquaintance, and you looked handsomer than I had ever before seen you in that costume. I wonder why you put it on."

"Didn't someone--was it Phyllis?--suggest that it was an act of inspiration; that I had a secret, mysterious prompting to put it on to achieve the object which--well, which I did achieve."

"Object? What object?"

"To make my husband fall in love with me again."

"Ah! In love there is no again. I wonder where a telegram would find Herbert."

"Don't worry yourself about him. Let him enjoy his holiday."

"Do you fancy he is enjoying himself with Earlscourt and his boon companions? They'll be playing poker from morning till night--certainly from night till morning."

"Why should he go on the cruise if he was not certain to enjoy himself?"

"Ah, that question is too much for me. Think over it yourself and let me know if you come to a solution, my dear."

He rose and left the room before she could make any answer--before she could make an attempt to find out in what direction his thoughts regarding the departure of Herbert Courtland were moving.

She wondered if he had any suspicion in regard to Herbert and herself.

He was not a man given to suspicion, or at any rate, given to allowing whatever suspicion he may have felt, to be apparent. He had allowed her to drive and to ride with Herbert Courtland during the four months they had been together, first at Egypt, then at Florence, Vienna, Munich, and Paris, and he could not have but seen that Herbert and she had a good many sympathies in common. Not a word had been breathed, however, of a suspicion that they were more than good friends to each other.