Chapter XVI: The Darkness Deepens Around Ninette

The first thing Herbert Karne did, when he had thought over matters calmly, was to go to St. George’s Church, and with the assistance of the verger, look over the marriage register; where, to his satisfaction, he found the names of Percival Arthur Neville Williams, bachelor, and Marie Douste, widow, correctly inscribed. It was not exactly that he doubted Ninette’s word--she would always be “Ninette” to him--but he wished to settle the question of his freedom beyond the shadow of a doubt before informing Lady Marjorie Stonor of what had occurred. He also wrote to Harry Barnard, the friend who had been in his secret from the first, asking him, as he happened to be in Paris, to scour the cemeteries at Montmartre and Père Lachaise for the grave of Armand Douste. The same post also carried a letter to the _curé_ of the church of S. Vincent de Paul, Marseilles, where Herbert was under the impression the marriage of Douste and Ninette had taken place; but not knowing the priest’s name or address, he had not much hope of eliciting a reply to this epistle.

Celia noticed the change in her brother’s manner at once, for it was strikingly evident in the brightness of his eyes, the briskness in his voice, the alertness of his step. He seemed like a man suddenly endowed with a new aim in life; his depression had vanished as at the touch of a magic wand.

She asked him the reason, but he did not see fit to tell her just then, promising she should know within a month. Her curiosity was whetted, however, and although she did not usually endeavour to obtain information that was not spontaneously vouchsafed, she was very anxious to know, in this case, at once. So she set herself the task of cross-questioning him, making fantastic guesses as to the cause of his jubilance.

“Perhaps it has something to do with Lady Marjorie?” she finally suggested.

“Perhaps,” he returned laconically, with a face as inexpressive as a mask.

“I am surprised at your looking so happy about it, then,” the girl continued, “considering that she is so ill.”

“Ill!” exclaimed Herbert blankly. “Who said she was ill?”

“Lord Bexley. He had a letter from her friend yesterday. Lady Marjorie recently took it into her head to go slumming, and on one of her expeditions managed to catch the malarial fever. Fortunately it is only a mild attack; but, according to her friend’s account she is very poorly and depressed. I should love to pay her a surprise visit, just for the sake of cheering her up.”

“Yes, so should I,” rejoined her brother fervently; and then on a sudden impulse he told Celia his story.

It took a long time to tell, but he was glad, after all, that she should know. It was a relief to be able to talk over his secret with a fellow-creature, and Celia was intensely sympathetic. Her astonishment was unbounded when she discovered that it was Mrs. Neville Williams of all persons who had been, at one time, her brother’s pseudo-wife. She felt half inclined to say hard things about her at first, but her resentment was soon abolished when Herbert informed her of Mrs. Williams’ serious condition. It is impossible to cherish harsh thoughts against the sick or dying.

Mrs. Neville Williams, however, looked neither sick nor dying when they happened to meet her at a fashionable restaurant on the following evening. The way she managed to get herself up was nothing less than remarkable. Enveloped in a long and loose theatre-cloak of silk trimmed with ermine, she carried herself more firmly erect than any other woman in the room. Sparkling eyes, crimson lips, and a complexion like a rose; no wonder she was able to vouch for the excellence of her French maid! It was, as it happened, almost her last appearance in society. A week later she was confined to her room; even her indomitable energy being powerless to resist the oncoming of the dark and mighty foe.

Herbert Karne, in fulfilment of his promise, went to see her the day before he returned to Durlston, but she was unable to receive him, and he knew that he would in all probability never meet her again.

When he arrived back at St. John’s Wood, he found a letter awaiting him. It was from Harry Barnard, stating that by consulting the books at the cemetery of Père Lachaise, he had easily found the grave of Armand Douste. There was no doubt, therefore, as to the authenticity of his death, and the date of his decease. Herbert was relieved at the news, although, under the circumstances, it scarcely mattered. Ninette was dying, so that in either case he would soon have been loosed from his bond.

He wrote a long letter to Lady Marjorie, detailing all that had happened, and asking her to come back to England as soon as she was well enough to travel. At the same time, he sought out Lord Bexley, in order to inform him of his matrimonial intentions, for Bexley was shortly going to join his sister in Rome. This accomplished, he went back to Durlston to finish his paintings, and to await the return of his bride.

Meanwhile, the “Voice of the Charmer” was playing to crowded houses nightly, and it looked as if the piece would enjoy a long run. Celia secretly hoped that such would not be the case, for the late hours and constant excitement were already beginning to tell on her health. She was all right at night, and braced herself up to do her best; but each morning she experienced a dull feeling of weariness, accompanied by a most distressing headache. The Havilands used all their powers of persuasion to induce her to rest until midday; but she flatly refused to sleep away what she called “the golden hours.” The stage, too, was beginning to lose that glamour with which she had endowed it when her only point of vantage had been from the stalls. She was glad that her brother had made her promise to confine her abilities to the concert platform when her present engagement expired. She felt that she would care very little if she were forbidden to ever enter a theatre again.

One Wednesday morning, she attired herself in her prettiest outdoor costume, and sallied forth to witness the marriage of David Salmon and Dinah Friedberg. Although she ran the risk of being pointed out as the bridegroom’s “cast-off” _fiancée_, Celia made a point of being present at the ceremony, just to show her goodwill towards the happy pair. Her appearance certainly excited considerable attention, almost detracting from that due to the bride.

The synagogue presented a festive appearance, the space before the Ark being adorned with palms and choice white chrysanthemums, which contrasted prettily with the crimson velvet of the wedding-canopy. Dinah, with her curly hair and bright eyes, made a very charming bride. She appeared to be not a whit subdued by the solemnity of the occasion; and when the Chief Rabbi uttered his excellent words of admonition and advice, looked up at him as much as to say that she did not need to be instructed on how best to tread the path of conjugal felicity.

Her lover, in marked contrast, was nervous in the extreme. He trod on her train, almost dropped the ring, and performed the ceremonial breaking of the glass in the clumsiest way possible. Then, to add insult to injury, he had the audacity to declare--whilst the bride was signing the register--that he would be able to manage it better next time!

Celia, leaving her seat after the ceremony was over, mingled with the wedding-party, and joined in the general buzz of congratulation. Mrs. Friedberg, all smiles, with a conspicuous lace handkerchief in readiness to catch the tears of joy, kissed promiscuously all round--Celia receiving this mark of affection in the neighbourhood of the left ear. The Brookes were there, expressing their interest in the quaint Jewish ritual; and so was Mrs. Leopold Cohen--now a widow--who, despite her avowed disappointment at Celia’s secession from Judaism, greeted the girl with unaffected warmth, and invited her home to early dinner. Celia was unable to accept the invitation; but she appreciated it nevertheless, and readily promised to avail herself of it one morning in the following week.

Then, having shaken hands with the Friedberg family and some of their numerous friends, she took her departure, wondering if she would have looked as happy as Dinah, had she--instead of her friend--stood beside Salmon as his bride.

After lunch she went out again, this time to Kensington. She had promised Herbert to go and see Ninette, but for some unaccountable reason had hitherto shrunk from paying the visit. Now, however, her conscience pricked her for having delayed so long; so, taking some music, and a bunch of the brightest flowers obtainable, she went.

Mrs. Neville Williams was feeling a little better that afternoon; and, clad in a loose wrapper, lay on the sofa in her pretty drawing-room. She was not prepared to entertain, and on account of the haggardness of her natural complexion, refused to see any one who called; but Celia Franks was an exception, and she hailed her appearance with delight.

“How good of you to come,” she said effusively, inhaling the fragrant perfume of the flowers. “I thought you had a Wednesday _matinée_. No? Well, take off your things and make yourself cosy; but for heaven’s sake don’t look at me, child. I am as yellow as a guinea to-day.”

Celia loosened her fur, and drew off her gloves. She could not help looking, for the woman before her seemed to her a positive wreck. She made no remark, however; and Mrs. Neville Williams plunged into a conversation, chiefly society gossip, which showed that, however ill she might be, the _joie de vivre_ was not yet extinguished within her breast.

“So your brother is going to marry that little Stonor woman,” she remarked, apropos of the mention of the artist’s name. “Bexley told me the last time I saw him. I should scarcely have thought he would have chosen a milk-and-watery creature like Lady Marjorie.”

“Why do you call her ‘milk-and-watery’?” said Celia reproachfully, “She is quite one of the sweetest women I know.”

“Yes, of course; but that is what I complain of--she’s too sweet. She looks as if she couldn’t say ‘bo!’ to a goose. And then her clothes, my dear! Why, she actually wore the same frock two seasons in succession! Did you ever hear of such a monstrous thing?”

“It was a crime, certainly,” the girl admitted with light satire; but the incipient and frivolous vanity of the woman almost shocked her.

“Do you think Herbert would mind deferring his marriage until after I have shuffled off this mortal coil?” went on Ninette complacently. “I don’t like the idea of Lady Marjorie crowing over me on her wedding-day. She never liked me, I know; and she will flatter herself that she has scored a triumph over me. I would much rather be out of the way first, so that she will be denied that satisfaction.”

Celia shivered. “Oh, Mrs. Williams, I don’t like to hear you talk like that,” she said. “I am sure Lady Marjorie is too nice to do anything of the sort. Besides, you may get better: I sincerely hope you will.”

“That is not likely,” rejoined Ninette, with a sigh, “although I am certainly a little more hopeful to-day. My nephew is coming over from Australia to assist at the operation, and I have great confidence in him.”

Celia pricked up her ears. “Dr. Milnes?” she queried, the colour rising to her cheeks.

“Yes. Oh, you know him, of course: I had forgotten. I received a letter from him this morning, in which he says he will arrive in England a week after I receive it. You can read it, if you like.”

She stretched out her hand for the missive, and passed it over to the girl, who devoured the contents with avidity.

“DEAR AUNT” (it ran)--

“Sir Dighton Forbes has cabled me concerning your illness, the news
of which I was very sorry to receive. I hope to leave here next
week if Miss Thornton is able to travel at that time, and should
arrive at Tilbury about a week or ten days after this letter
reaches you. My specialty is consumption, not cancer, but of course
I shall do my utmost for you. Hoping to find you no worse than you
are at present--

Sincerely yours,
G. H. MILNES.”

Miss Thornton again! Celia’s heart sank. She would not have confessed it, but she had taken a positive dislike to the name. She handed the letter back in silence, her face becoming thoughtful as she tried to imagine what Miss Thornton would be like.

Mrs. Williams continued to gossip, scarcely waiting for the girl to reply; but suddenly her mood changed as she received the well-known signal of coming pain. She glanced at Celia, drinking in the freshness of the girl’s striking beauty, and inwardly she raged. What would she not give to be young again? To feel the warm blood coursing through her veins; to experience that exuberance which is the natural attribute of youth; to be fresh and healthy and strong; able to expend all the forces of activity without fearing the dearth of a fresh supply! At that moment she could almost have written an elegy on her dead-and-gone youth.

“Celia!” she burst out suddenly, “I envy you; I’m jealous of you, child. You have all your life before you; you are only on the threshold as yet. Oh, the joy, the power that is yours! For years to come you--in all probability--will be living, and moving and speaking; eating, and drinking, and enjoying yourself; playing your part in the comedy of life; bringing men to your feet by the charm of your face and voice: whilst all the time I--who possess such zest for life--shall lay cold and silent, crumbling away into dust. Oh, what a horrible, _hateful_ thing is death!”

Celia scarcely knew how to reply. With the tears springing to her eyes, she knelt by the side of the couch, and gazed earnestly into Ninette’s drawn and weary face.

“Why do you envy me my youth?” she said at length, in a suppressed voice. “Have not you, too, been young? Oh, I know how hard it must be to feel that before very long you must leave this bright world, and the sunshine and the flowers; but, if only you had faith in the future life, you would give no thought to your poor body crumbling in the dust: you would think only of the deathless soul-world, so much fairer than this earth. Surely you cannot have been so enamoured of the joys of what you call the comedy of life as to wish to cling to them for ever? I enjoy life, too, and I am young; but I already know that those joys are not to be depended upon; they are apt to disclose their hollowness, and to cloy. Everything changes so. People change, circumstances change, even we ourselves change; only God and Nature and Love are immutable. It seems to me that we can only be truly happy by allotting to our present, material joys, their due proportion--so infinitesimally small--in the great scheme of the whole life eternal. Then we shall no longer regret our past delights, and death will only be to us the mere shedding of our mortal chrysalis. Oh, I wish I could explain more clearly what I mean! I wish, with all my heart, that _I_ could make you feel as I do about these things!”

Mrs. Neville Williams patted the girl’s cheek almost tenderly, although she could not quite make out what she meant.

“I am too prosaic and matter-of-fact,” she replied, with a sigh. “I am not _spirituelle_, like you. You have your brother’s dreamy and philosophical temperament, child. I wonder if you will hold the same opinions when you arrive at my age. It is so easy to breathe defiance at death when one is young and strong. But enough of this. I see you have brought some music. Sing to me, Celia: something sweet and soothing to frighten the bogey away.”

With ready obedience the girl rose, and, taking up her music-case, unfastened it. She had brought three songs with her: the “Snake-song,” from the “Voice of the Charmer,” a light French chanson of Massenet’s; and Stephen Liddle’s beautiful setting of Lyte’s “Abide with me.” After a moment’s thought she unfolded the latter; and opening the top of the piano, placed it on the music-stand.

“This is really a contralto song,” she explained, settling herself on the music-stool. “I have only heard one woman sing it to perfection, and that is Madame Clara Butt. However, I’ll do my best.” And then, striking the preliminary chords, so melodious and deep, she began.

With half-closed eyes Mrs. Neville Williams listened. The plaintive sweetness of the melody pleased her, as did the particularly rich _timbre_ of Celia’s voice. What a splendid thing it was to be able to sing so perfectly, she thought! Then, when the second verse was reached, she found herself realizing the tenor of the words--

“Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day,
Earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see--
Thou who changest not, abide with me.”

Here was more philosophy--or what she chose to term philosophy. She tried to listen to the melody only, ignoring the words; but presently the music increased its _tempo_, gaining in intensity; and Celia’s enunciation was so clear that even against her will the words impressed themselves upon her consciousness--

“I fear no foe with Thee at hand to bless,
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.
Where is death’s sting, where, Grave, thy victory?
I triumph still if Thou abide with me.”

Then, so softly that she almost held her breath to listen, came the last verse--

“Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes,
Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies.
Heaven’s morning breaks, and earth’s vain shadows flee--
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me!”

There was silence while Celia put the music away; and then Mrs. Neville Williams spoke.

“That is a fine song, and you sing it well,” she remarked, feeling that she was expected to say something. “But it seemed, somehow, to mock me. I am out of sympathy with the words. Won’t you sing something catchy and bright? I want cheering up, for I feel almost as heavy as lead.”

Celia glanced at her in pity; but without a word, sat down at the piano again, and playing a short prelude, dashed off into a gay little drinking song she had learnt in Paris. This was more to Ninette’s taste, and her eyes brightened visibly as she rapped a tattoo on the chair in time to the vigorous refrain. She had been of a frivolous disposition all her life; she considered serious people and serious things a “bore;” her motto had ever been “_vive la bagatelle_:” it was surely too late to change now.

“Come and see me again,” she said, when Celia prepared to take her leave. “I know you don’t mind my looking like a scare-crow. You won’t tell any of my friends of my wretched appearance, though, will you?”

Celia promised faithfully not to divulge, and then, as she fastened the last button of her glove, she said wistfully--

“Wouldn’t you like to see a clergyman, Mrs. Williams?”

“No thank you, child, I would rather not. He could do me no good, and would probably make me feel uncomfortable: say that my illness was a judgment for my sins, or something equally horrid.”

“Oh, I don’t think he would,” the girl rejoined diffidently. “Besides, even if he did make you feel uncomfortable at first, he would not leave you without telling you the ‘comfortable words,’ and making you happy in the knowledge of them, you know.”

But Mrs. Neville Williams would not be persuaded, and with a look of seriousness on her expressive face, Celia left.

“Mrs. Williams seems better to-day, does she not?” she said to the maid who was in attendance at the halldoor. “What did Sir Dighton Forbes say when he called this morning?”

“He didn’t say nothing, miss, except that he is sending an ’orspital nurse to-morrow, and she is to stay over the operation. But we haven’t much hope, miss. The picture of the mistress that hangs in her bedroom tumbled down and smashed last night; and that’s a bad sign as I know for a fact; for when my young man’s mother took ill and died of the influenza--which will be two years come Christmas--her photograph, as was a hornament to the parlour, fell off the mantelshelf and----”

But the remaining words of the sentence were lost; for the elevator arrived; and with a hurried apology, Celia descended.