Chapter XIX

Trembling like a leaf in the wind, unnerved and weeping, Laline started from her seat, and as the door closed on the servant held out her arms towards her lover.

"You have come at last!" she sobbed out. "Oh, if you had stayed away another moment, I think I should have gone mad!"

He hesitated for a moment and then advanced into the room. As he did so she made a step towards him; but her limbs trembled so much that she faltered and would have fallen had he not drawn her into his arms.

For an instant she clung to him, sobbing hysterically, while he held her close against his breast smoothing her hair with one hand. Then over her from head to foot passed a quiver of the same strong repulsion and dread she had experienced a few seconds earlier. For a few seconds she remained absolutely motionless while her very blood seemed to turn cold drop by drop. Then, disengaging herself suddenly, she fell back from him and stared through the obscurity at his face.

"Wallace," she cried--"it is not Wallace Armstrong!"

"That is my name, at your service, all the same."

She did not faint or scream. She stood perfectly still before him while her heart seemed to turn to stone. She did not attempt to deceive herself. No mistake was possible now. All the old happy delusion was destroyed for ever by this man's touch, by this man's voice.

For, although she could not clearly see his face, although he had only spoken a few words, the voice was the same as that which had uttered the prophecy on Boulogne pier four years ago.

And at the sound of that voice all hope of love, all thought of happiness died out of Laline's heart. Her dream was over. Not the man she loved but this man whom she hated was her husband.

The whole truth poured in upon her brain as a sudden shaft of light in those terrible moments of silence. Five words told the story. There were two Wallace Armstrongs, and she had chosen to persuade herself that the one she loved was her husband. This man who stood before her now, with mocking laughter in his voice, an echo of which had haunted her dreams--this man, whose very clothing exhaled a nauseous perfume of spirits and whose accents were husky with drink, was the husband to whom she had pledged herself until death should part them on that fatal summer morning.

There was much to be explained, much that she could not understand; but of this one awful fact she was convinced and needed no further testimony. He had come into her life again, and already his sinister shadow had darkened all its sunshine.

So she stood before him in the twilit room and lived a lifetime of despairing grief before he spoke again.

"I am really exceedingly sorry to disappoint you," he said. "I suppose you expected my cousin? Your servant made a similar mistake at first. From your greeting I presume that I may congratulate him?"

"Yes, you presume," she said, and, passing him swiftly, she gained the door.

"One moment, please," he interposed, before she had time to leave the room. "I don't think there is any mistake on my part. I have come here on an introduction to Mrs. Sibyl Vandeleur, the celebrated sorceress or thought-reader or pin-finder--I don't quite know how she styles herself. I was not aware, until I arrived at the house, of the--well, the very intimate terms upon which my cousin was received here."

He paused, as though he expected her to speak. At every word he uttered in those leisurely sneering tones which she ought never to have forgotten Laline hated him a little more. She wondered now how she could ever have believed that such a man as this could grow gentle and chivalrous, unselfish and kind. Bitter and contemptuous in manner he had always been, but there was about him now an added recklessness--outcome of a savage scorn against himself and all the world. In manner he was the antithesis of his cousin, and yet every now and then Laline caught in his voice some inflection which reminded her of the man she loved. Even by this light she realised that in figure he was a little taller and of much heavier build than his namesake, and already inclining to the unhealthy stoutness which comes of lazy and dissipated habits.

It was strange that this time she felt but little of the fear of recognition she had before experienced when she believed herself in the presence of her husband. This man and she seemed in spirit so many leagues asunder, and there was so strong a barrier of gross material instincts between his mind and hers, that Laline intuitively knew he would not remember her. One woman would be the same as another to him; he would be incapable of differentiating between them. Moreover, any other thought she might entertain about him was swallowed up in the overpowering sensation of physical dislike with which he inspired her. In this dislike fear had a part, but it was the shrinking horror of a delicate and refined nature when confronted by one essentially coarse and brutal, and not a personal fear lest he should know and claim her as his wife which moved Laline.

The man was sunk enough, but not so sunk that he failed to recognise, even in the twilight of Mrs. Vandeleur's room, how this slenderly-made, sweet-voiced girl, who had clung so tenderly to him when she mistook him for his cousin, shrank from him, once her error was made known to her, in aversion none the less plain that it was not expressed in words. Wallace Armstrong the elder was a very handsome man, and had won some cheap reputation as a "lady-killer;" consequently this girl's antagonistic attitude piqued and angered him.

"Can I wait here for Mrs. Vandeleur?" he inquired, with mock politeness. "Or can I wait somewhere else--because, if you expect my cousin, I fear I shall be rather in the way?"

"Mrs. Vandeleur is out. She expects no visitors to-day, and I do not know when she will return."

"But you expect my cousin? I am sure he will be delighted to see me if you will allow me to wait until he arrives."

"If Mr. Wallace Armstrong is your cousin," Laline said, frigidly, with her hand on the door, "he has certainly never mentioned you. Under the circumstances, perhaps it would be better if you communicated your business to Mrs. Vandeleur by letter. She only receives strangers by appointment."

She was desperately anxious to get rid of this man, to stir his pride so that he should leave at once and never gain a footing within the house. His presence tortured her, and she longed to escape to her room that she might consider the new and horrible situation in which she found herself. But before the unwelcome visitor could do more than make one step towards the door, it was suddenly flying open, and Clare Cavan, in walking-dress, hurried in, and held out her hand cordially towards him.

"Good-afternoon, Mr. Armstrong! So good of you to come on such a horrid foggy day! Why--have I made a mistake? Susan said it was Mr. Armstrong----"

"And it is Mr. Armstrong. Unfortunately my cousin and I were given precisely the same name by our respective mothers, both of whom were sisters to Alexander Wallace the banker, and anxious to propitiate him by making us his godsons. Two sisters married two brothers, you see. I was the unlucky result in the one case, and my Admirable Crichton of a cousin was the satisfactory result in the other. I come with an introduction to Mrs. Vandeleur; but it seems I am rather _de trop_----"

"Pray don't say so. I am sure we are delighted to see you!" exclaimed Clare, effusively. "I am Mrs. Vandeleur's niece, and my name is Cavan. Any friend or relation of Mr. Armstrong's is extremely welcome here. Isn't that so, Lina dear?"

Laline did not respond. A combination between Clare and this man suggested all manner of vague dangers. She longed to quit the room, and yet feared to leave them alone together lest they should discuss her and make she knew not what discovery thereby. Meanwhile Clare was flitting about, ringing the bell for the lamp and chattering gaily to her aunt's visitor, apparently bent upon putting him at his ease.

"Detestable weather to-day, isn't it, Mr. Armstrong? This fog is so fearfully depressing! And I have been calling on a family, half of whom were down with the influenza and the other half deadly afraid of catching it. London on a foggy Sunday afternoon is a most ghastly place, isn't it? I like church, but I do hate church bells! In the country--across meadows and all that sort of thing--they sound musical and soothing; but in town they are most funereal and out of tune with other sounds, and always suggest that one will be late, and that one's glove-buttons will come off at the last minute, and one will walk into church after the service has begun all red and perspiring and plain! And that's an awful ordeal!"

The lamp was brought in during the foregoing speech, and by its light, toned down by the amber silk-shade which veiled it, Wallace Armstrong the elder gazed curiously at the two other occupants of the room. Laline had resumed her usual low seat by the fire, but it was not to her that his glance was at first directed. Clare Cavan stood immediately before him, and his bold eyes ran approvingly over the voluptuous curves of her figure, the dead whiteness of her skin, and the red and yellow lights in her untidy coil of hair. Her white eyelids and pale lashes were lowered to all appearance modestly under his scrutiny, but out of the corners of her eyes she too was taking stock of him.

What she saw was by no means wholly pleasing. Even by the subdued light of the lamp and fire it was easy to read in this man's appearance the deterioration of his moral and physical nature. Originally handsomer than his cousin, he had at thirty years of age acquired the look of a man ten years older. His plentiful curly hair, which fell heavily over his forehead, was already streaked with gray. His cheeks were haggard and pale, contrasting with the puffiness of the skin under his eyes and about his chin and jaw, and his eyes, beautiful in shape and colour, were bloodshot and red in the lids. There was undoubtedly a strong family likeness between himself and his cousin; both men were tall, broad-shouldered, and well made, black-haired, blue-eyed, and of regular features, but there all resemblance ceased. Wallace Armstrong the elder was clearly on the downward road. His voice and manner had become coarse and rough, and the bitterness of his nature showed itself in almost every word he uttered. Especially in his allusions to his cousin did this sneering tone assert itself; and as if she perceived this and wished to ascertain the reason for it Clare led the conversation at once to the topic of the younger Wallace Armstrong.

"Now that I see you by the light," she said, "you are really very much alike. But I think your eyes have more gray about them; your cousin's are wholly blue."

"My hair has more gray about it too," he remarked, sardonically.

"Has it? I hadn't noticed that. But do you know I so much admire gray hair on young men? It is so piquant, I think! Then you are taller and bigger than the Wallace Armstrong we know; and you wear a moustache, while he is clean-shaved."

"Yes--a moustache is the one thing Lorin can't cultivate successfully," he sneered. "But he is so eminently lucky in every other respect that he ought not to mind that one deficiency."

"Then your voices are different, very different," Clare continued, standing before him with her head on one side reflectively, and speaking with the air of ingenuous innocence she knew so well how to assume. "There are just tones now and then which resemble your cousin's, but not many."

"My voice is not adapted to cooing and flattering, as his is!" he retorted, with sudden savagery. "It has had no practice in such arts."

"It is odd," Clare said, affecting not to notice his growing anger, "that we did not see you when we visited your uncle's house last Wednesday afternoon!"

"Oh, I am kept in the background!" he returned, with a short laugh. "I am not pretty or nice-mannered enough to be shown to visitors; and they have never thought of a cage for me, with 'Keep away--he bites!' as a warning inscription. My cousin is the show animal, with nice, tea-drinking, tennis-playing manners. My roughness frightens people. Why, I have already frightened your friend here, as you see."

Clare glanced at Laline. The latter was sitting with her eyes fixed, in fascinated dislike, upon the third occupant of the room. Perhaps she hardly realised how clearly her features expressed the disgust with which he inspired her. But Wallace saw it and winced under it. No woman in his sober moments had contemplated him like that yet, and he felt he hated both her and himself for that look.

"I ought to have introduced you!" cried Clare. "How stupid of me! Lina, this is our Mr. Armstrong's cousin, and he thinks he frightened you. Isn't that absurd?"

"Very. I am not at all afraid of Mr. Armstrong."

"By----But you shall be!" was the thought that sprang into life in Wallace's mind as he noted the quiet scorn of her tones. He turned to look at her as she sat by the fire in her soft white draperies, with slender hands clasped loosely round her knee, one foot on a stool before her, and her head a little thrown back. She looked very beautiful at that moment and her beauty struck into his heart like a dull pain. There was something proud and aloof in her appearance of icy purity and reserve; and when he contrasted her present haughtiness of bearing with the passionate demonstrativeness with which she had, as she thought, flung herself into the arms of his cousin a few moments before, a bitter anger was stirred within him.

Why should she lavish caresses upon Lorin and treat him--Wallace--like a dog?

He would make her pay for it, for certain, and he was not a man to register a vow of vengeance against any one and fail to make it good.

He could not guess that Laline's appearance of scornful quiet was to a great extent the result of the tumult of emotions which agitated her. A fierce despair held possession of her heart. She seemed to see, lying in ruins about her feet, the beautiful castle in the air that love had built; and the dirge of a love that must die was ringing in her ears as an accompaniment to every word he uttered. This extreme tension of feeling kept her rigid as a statue, outwardly cold, but with heart and brain on fire. Her every nerve was in quivering rebellion against Fate, which had linked her to this man she hated, while with all her soul she longed to be the wife of another. And so she sat, within a few feet of her husband, preternaturally pale and still, her heart throbbing with a woman's passionate love and as passionate grief under her white conventual gown; and Wallace looked and hated her for her scornful pride, and hated his cousin for having won her love, and told himself that he would punish the pair of them if the chance should come in his way.

But to Clare his visit was a disappointment.

"He is rough and rather dreadful," she said to herself, "but comparatively sober. I hoped he would be mad with drink, as he was last Wednesday, and as he often is, or I would never have asked him to come."