Chapter X: Declaration of War

Mrs. Meredith Vyner had not long been in the room before she had spoken to Marmaduke, who, perfectly on his guard, replied with respectful politeness to the observations she from time to time addressed to him. It was impossible for the acutest observer to have suspected there was any _arrière pensée_ in her slightly flurried manner (she was always restless), or in his dignified ease. Two gladiators in the arena never faced each other with greater watchfulness, than this tiny, lively woman--confident in her skill--and this self-possessed magnificent Brazilian.

Pellegrini placed himself with his back to the fire and coughed as he thrust one hand into his breast, previously to beginning his recitations. The guests crowded from the other rooms, and disposed themselves to listen, as if they were to understand and greatly relish Alfieri. Mrs. Vyner, taking advantage of this movement, beckoned Marmaduke to follow her, and seating herself at a small table in the inner room, began turning over the leaves of the Keepsake, and then addressing him in an under tone, said:--

"So you wanted to cut me the other night?"

"I did. Surely it was the best thing I could do." As he said this, he sat down on an ottoman opposite her.

"What! before any explanation?" she inquired, endeavouring to throw a tenderness into her tone, which she could not throw into her eyes.

"All explanation is useless when the facts are so eloquent. I neither ask for explanation, nor would I accept one."

"And you think me----" She could not proceed.

"A woman," he said, gravely.

"And what motives do you attribute?"

"Very natural and powerful motives, or they would not have influenced you. I know not what they were. I do not desire to know. Either you love me----"

"Mr. Ashley, remember I am a married woman, and this language----"

"I was only putting an hypothetical case: your conduct and the present interruption convince me it was unnecessary to put such a case."

He rose, but she motioned to him to be reseated. She sighed, and continued hurriedly turning over the leaves of the book she held. Expecting every moment that she was going to speak, he watched her in silence. This was exactly what she wished; confident in the influence of her beauty over him, she thought it more effective than any argument; besides, it did not inculpate her in any way.

She miscalculated. The contemplation only served to irritate him the more. If his temples throbbed at the mere recollection of her having jilted him, the sight of her called up bygone scenes of tenderness, which made her inconstancy the more odious.

"Do you not hate me?" she said at last, keeping her eyes fixed on the book, not daring to look at him.

"I do," he replied, in a whisper, like the hiss of a serpent.

She started at the sound, and raised her terrified head to see if his face contradicted or confirmed the words. But she could read nothing there. The light which for a moment had flashed from his dark eyes had passed away, like the flush which had burnt his cheek. He had been unable to repress that movement of anger; but no sooner were the words escaped than he repented them, and endeavoured to do away with their effect, by adding,--

"That is, I _did_; now hate has given place to contempt. When I hated you, it was because I still felt a lingering of that love which you had outraged; but I soon overcame that weakness, and now I think only of you as one who _sold herself for money_."

At this very bitter speech, made the more galling from the tone of superb contempt in which it was uttered, she shook back her golden ringlets, and bent on him her tiger eyes with an expression which would have made most men tremble, but which to Marmaduke had a savage fascination, stirring strange feelings within him, and making him almost clutch her in a fierce embrace. She looked perfectly lovely in his eyes at that moment; and it is impossible to say what might have been the result of this scene, had not her husband appeared. He had just missed her, and astonished at not finding her listening to Pellegrini's recitations, for which alone he supposed her to have come there, he began fidgeting about, till he espied her in earnest conversation with the handsome Marmaduke.

"My dear," said he, preparing a pinch with slow dignity, "won't you come into the next room, to hear Alfieri?"

"No; I came away, unable to listen to Pellegrini's affected declamation."

Meredith Vyner stood there somewhat puzzled what to say. He flattered his nose with a series of gentle taps, and in his abstraction, let fall more of the snuff than usual. Not even his pinch, however, could clear his ideas. He felt something like jealousy, though the handsome young man was a perfect stranger to him; and wished to get his wife away, without exactly knowing how it was to be done.

He was relieved from his perplexity by an influx of the company from the other room at the conclusion of the recitation. The tête-à-tête was broken up. Mrs. Vyner took her husband's arm, and moved away, not without a parting smile at Marmaduke, who received it with supreme indifference.