CHAPTER III

HELEN DE VALLORBES APPREHENDS VEXATIOUS COMPLICATIONS

Four gowns lay outspread upon the indigo-purple, embroidered coverlet

of the bed. The afterglow of an orange and crimson sunset touched the

folds of them, ranged upward to the vaultings of the frescoed ceiling,

and stained the lofty walls as with the glare of a furnace. Sea-greens,

sea-blues, died in the heat of it, abashed and vanquished. But so did

not Madame de Vallorbes' white lawn and lace _peignoir_, or her

abundant hair, which Zelie Forestier--trim of figure, and sour of

countenance--was in the act of dressing. These caught the fiery light

and held it, so that from head to foot Helen appeared as an image of

living gold. Sitting before the toilet-table, her reflection in the

great, oval mirror pleased her.

"Which shall I wear?"

"That depends upon the length of time madame proposes to stay here. The

black dress might be worn on several occasions with impunity. The

peacock brocade, the _eau de Nil_, the crocus yellow, but once--twice

at the uttermost. They are ravishing costumes, but wanting in repose.

They are unsuited for frequent repetition."

Zelie's lean fingers twisted, puffed, pinned, the shining hair very

skilfully.

"I will put on the black dress."

"Relieved by madame's _parure_ of pink topaz?"

"Yes, I will wear the pink topazes."

"Then it will be necessary to modify the style of madame's _coiffure_."

"There is plenty of time."

Helen took a hand-glass from the table and leaned forward in the low,

round-backed chair--faithful copy of a fine classic model. She wanted

to see the full glory of the afterglow upon her profile, upon her neck,

and bosom. Thus might Cassiopeia, glass in hand, in her golden chair

sit in high heaven!--Helen smiled at the pretty conceit. But the glory

was already departing. Sea-blues, sea-greens, sad by contrast, began to

reassert their presence on walls and carpet and hangings.

"The black dress? madame decides to remain then?"

As she spoke the lady's-maid laid out the jewels,--chains, bracelets,

brooches,--each stone set in a rim of tiny rose-knots of delicate

workmanship. As she fingered them little, yellow-pink flames seemed to

dance in their many facets. Then the afterglow died suddenly. The

flames ceased to dance. Helen's white garments turned livid, her neck

and bosom gray--and that, somehow, was extremely unpleasing to Madame

de Vallorbes.

"Light the candles," she said, almost sharply. "Yes, I remain. Do

hurry, Zelie. It is impossible to see. I detest darkness. Hurry. Do you

suppose I want to stay here all night? And look--you must bring that

chain further forward. It is not graceful. Make it droop. Let it follow

the line of my hair so that the pendant may fall there, in the centre.

You have it too much to the right. The centre--the centre--I tell you.

There, let the drop just clear my forehead."

Thus admonished the French woman wound the jewels in her mistress'

hair. But Madame de Vallorbes remained dissatisfied. The day had been

one of uncertainty, of conflicting emotions, and Helen's love of

unqualified purposes was great. Confusion in others was highly

diverting. But in herself--no thank you! She hated it. It touched her

self-confidence. It endangered the absoluteness of her self-belief and

self-worship. And these once shaken, small superstitions assaulted her.

In trivial happenings she detected indication of ill-luck. Now Zelie's

long, narrow face, divided into two unequal portions by a straight bar

of black eyebrow, and her lean hands, as reflected in the mirror, awoke

unreasoning distrust. They appeared to be detached from the woman's

dark-clothed person, the outlines of which were absorbed in the

increasing dimness of the room. The sallow face moved, peered, the

hands clutched and hovered, independent and unrelated, about Helen's

graceful head.

"For pity's sake, more candles, Zelie!" she repeated. "You look

absolutely diabolic in this uncertain light."

"In an instant, madame. I am compelled first to fix this curl in

place."

She accomplished the operation with most admired deliberation, and

moved away more than once, to observe the effect, before finally

adjusting the hairpin.

"I cannot but regret that madame is unable to wear her hair turned back

from the face. Such an arrangement confers height and an air of

spirituality, which, in madame's case, would be not only becoming but

advantageous."

Helen skidded the hand-glass down upon the dressing-table, causing

confusion amid silver-topped pots and bottles, endangering a jar of

hyacinths, upsetting a tray of hairpins.

"Have I not repeatedly given you orders never to allude to that

subject," she cried.

The maid was on her knees calmly collecting the scattered contents of

the tray.

"A thousand pardons, madame," she said, with a certain sour impudence.

"Still, it must ever be a matter of regret to any one truly

appreciating madame's style of beauty, that she should be always

constrained to wear her hair shading her forehead."

Modern civilisation imposes restrictions even upon the most

high-spirited. At that moment Madame de Vallorbes was ripe for the

commission of atrocities. Had she been--as she coveted to be--a lady of

the Roman decadence it would have gone hard with her waiting-woman, who

might have found herself ordered for instant execution or summarily

deprived of the organs of speech. But, latter-day sentiment happily

forbidding such active expressions of ill-feeling on the part of the

employer towards the employed, Helen was forced to swallow her wrath,

reminding herself, meanwhile, that a confidential servant is either

most invaluable of friends or most dangerous of enemies. There is no

_via media_ in the relation. And Zelie as an enemy was not to be

thought of. She could not--displeasing reflection--afford to quarrel

with Zelie. The woman knew too much. Therefore Madame de Vallorbes took

refuge in lofty abstraction, while the tiresome uncertainties, the

conflicting inclinations of the past day, quick to seize their

opportunity, as is the habit of such discourteous gentry,--returned

upon her with redoubled importunity and force.

She had not seen Richard since parting with him at noon, the enigmatic

suggestions of his conversation still unresolved, the alternate

resentment at his apparent indifference and attraction of his strong

and somewhat mysterious personality still vitally present to her. Later

she had driven out to Pozzuoli. But neither stone-throwing urchins,

foul and disease-stricken beggars, the pale sulphur plains and

subterranean rumblings of the Solfaterra, nor stirring of nether fires

therein resident by a lanky, wild-eyed lad--clothed in leathern jerkin

and hairy, goatskin leggings--with the help of a birch broom and a few

local newspapers, served effectually to rouse her from inward debate

and questioning. The comfortable, cee-spring carriage might swing and

sway over the rough, deep-rutted roads behind the handsome, black,

long-tailed horses, the melodramatic-looking coachman might lash

stone-throwing urchins and anathematise them, their ancestors and

descendants, alike, to the third and fourth generation in the vilest,

Neapolitan argot, Charles might resort to physical force in the removal

of wailing, alms-demanding, vermin-eaten wrecks of humanity, but still

Helen asked herself only--should she go? Should she stay? Was the game

worth the candle? Was the risk, not only of social scandal, but of

possible _ennui_, worth the projected act of revenge? And worth

something more than that. For revenge, it must be owned, already took a

second place in her calculations. Worth, namely, the enjoyment of

possible conquest, the humiliation of possible defeat and rejection, by

that strangely coercive, strangely inscrutable, being, her cousin,

Dickie Calmady?

No man had ever impressed her thus. And she returned on her thought,

when first seeing him upon the terrace that morning, that she might

lose her head. Helen laughed a little bitterly. She, of all women, to

lose her head, to long and languish, to entreat affection, and to be

faithful--heaven help us, faithful!--could it ever come to that?--like

any sentimental schoolgirl, like--and the thought turned her not a

little wicked--like Katherine Calmady herself! And then, that other

woman of whom Richard had told her, with a cynical disregard of her own

claims to admiration, who on earth could she be? She reviewed those

ladies with whom gossip had coupled Richard's name. Morabita, the

famous _prima donna_, for instance. But surely, it was inconceivable

that mountain of fat and good nature, with the voice of a seraph,

granted, but also with the intellect of a frog, could ever inspire so

fantastic and sublimated a passion! And passing from these less

legitimate affairs of the heart--in which rumour accredited Richard

with being very much of a pluralist--her mind traveled back to the

young man's projected marriage with Lady Constance Decies, sometime

Lady Constance Quayle. Remembering the slow, sweet, baby-face and

gentle, heifer's eyes, as she had seen them that day at luncheon at

Brockhurst, nearly five years ago, she again laughed.--No, very

certainly there was no affinity between the glorious and naughty city

of Naples and that mild-natured, well-drilled, little, English girl!

Who was it then--who? But, whoever the fair unknown rival might be,

Helen hated her increasingly as the hours passed, regarding her as an

enemy, a creature to be exterminated, and swept off the board. Jealousy

pricked her desire of conquest. An intrigue with Richard Calmady

offered singular, unique attractions. But the force of such attractions

was immensely enhanced by the excitement of wresting his affections

away from another woman.

Suddenly, in the full swing of these meditations, as she reviewed them

for the hundredth time, Zelie's voice claimed her attention.

"I made the inquiries madame commanded."

"Well?" Helen said. She was standing fastening clusters of topaz in the

bosom of her dress.

"The servants in this house are very reserved. They are unwilling to

give information regarding their master's habits. I could only learn

that Sir Richard occupies the entresol. Communicating as it does with

the garden, no doubt it is convenient to a gentleman so afflicted as

himself."

Helen bowed herself together, while the black lace and China-crape

skirt slipped over her head. Emerging from which temporary eclipse, she

said:--

"But do people stay here much? Does my cousin entertain? That is what I

told you to find out."

"As I tell madame, the servants are difficult of approach. They are

very correct. They fear their master, but they also adore him. Charles

can obtain little more information than myself. But he infers that Sir

Richard, when at the villa, lives in retirement--that he is subject to

fits of melancholy. There will be little diversion for madame it is to

be feared! But what would you have? Even though one should be young and

rich _ce ne serait que peu amusant d'etre estropie, d'etre monstre

enfin_."

Helen drew in her breath with a little sigh of content, while taking a

final look at herself in the oval glass. The soft, floating draperies,

the many jewels, each with its heart of quick, yellow-pink light,

produced a combination at once sombre and vivid. It satisfied her sense

of artistic fitness. Decidedly she did well to begin with the black

dress, since it had in it a quality rather of romance than of

worldliness! Meanwhile Zelie, kneeling, straightened out the folds of

the long train.

"Ah!" she exclaimed. "I had forgotten also to inform madame that M.

Destournelle has arrived in Naples. Charles, thinking of nothing less

than such an encounter, met him this morning on the quay of the Santa

Lucia."

Helen wheeled round violently, much to the discomfiture of those

carefully adjusted folds.

"Intolerable man!" she cried. "What on earth is he doing here?"

"That, Charles naturally could not inquire.--Will madame kindly remain

tranquil for a moment? She has torn a small piece of lace which must be

controlled by a pin. Probably _monsieur_ is still _en voyage_, is

visiting friends as is madame herself."

A sudden distrust that the black dress was too mature, that it

constituted an admission of departing youth, invaded Helen. The

reflection in the oval mirror once more caused her discomfort.

"Tell Charles that I am no longer acquainted with M. Destournelle. If

he presumes to call he is to be refused."

Helen set her teeth. But whether in anger towards her discarded lover,

or the black dress, she would have found it difficult to declare. Again

uncertainty held her, suspicion of circumstance, and, in a degree, of

herself. The lady's-maid, imperturbable, just conceivably impertinent,

in manner, had risen to her feet.

"There," she said, "it will be secure for to-night, if madame will

exercise a moderate degree of caution and avoid abrupt movements.

Charles says that _monsieur_ inquired very urgently after madame. He

appeared dejected and in weak health. He was agitated on meeting

Charles. He trembled. A little more and he would have wept. It would be

well, perhaps, that madame should give Charles her orders regarding

_monsieur_ herself."

"You should not have made me wear this gown," Helen broke out

inconsequently. "It is depressing, it is hideous. I want to change it."

"Impossible. Madame is already a little late, and there is nothing

wrong with the costume. Madame looks magnificent. Also her wardrobe is,

at present, limited. The evening dresses will barely suffice for a stay

of a week, and it is not possible for me to construct a new one under

ten days."

Thereupon an opening of doors and voice from the anteroom announcing:--

"Dinner is served, my lady. Sir Richard is in the dining-room."

And Helen swept forward, somewhat stormy and Cassandra-like in her

dusky garments. Passing out through the high, narrow doorway, she

turned her head.

"Charles, under no circumstance--none, understand--am I at home to

Monsieur Destournelle."

"Very good, my lady," and, as he closed the double-doors, the

man-servant looked at the lady's-maid his tongue in his cheek.

But, on the journey through the noble suite of rooms, Helen's spirits

revived somewhat. Her fair head, her warm glancing jewels, her graceful

and measured movements, as given back by many tall mirrors, renewed her

self-confidence. She too must be fond of her own image, by the way,

that unknown rival to the dream of whose approval Richard Calmady had

consecrated these splendid furnishings--witness the multiplicity of

looking-glasses!--And then the prospect of this _tete-a-tete_ dinner,

the interest of her host's powerful and enigmatic personality, provoked

her interest to the point not only of obliterating remembrance of the

ill-timed advent of her ex-lover, but of inducing something as closely

akin to self-forgetfulness as was possible to her self-centred nature.

She grew hotly anxious to obtain, to charm--if it might be, to usurp

the whole field of Richard's attention and imagination.

A small round table showed as an island of tender light in the dimness

of the vast room. And Richard, sitting at it awaiting her coming,

appeared more nearly related to the Richard of Brockhurst and of five

years ago than he had done during the interview of the morning. In any

case, she took him more for granted. While he, if still inscrutable and

unsmiling, proved an eminently agreeable companion, ready of

conversation, very much at his ease, very much a cultivated man of the

world, studious--a little excessively so, she thought--in his avoidance

of the personal note. And this at once piqued Helen, and incited her to

intellectual effort. If this was what he wanted, well, he should have

it! If he elected to talk of travel, of ancient and alien religions, of

modern literature and art, she could meet him more than half-way. Her

intelligence ran nimbly from subject to subject, point to point. She

struck out daring hypotheses, indulged in ingenious paradox, her mind

charmed by her own eloquence, her body comforted by costly wines and

delicate meats. Nor did she fail to listen also, knowing how very dear

to every man is the sound of his own voice, or omit to offer refined

flattery of quick agreement and seasonable laughter. It was late when

she rose from the table at last.

"I have had a delightful dinner," she said. "Absolutely delightful. And

now I will encroach no longer on your time or good nature, Richard. You

have your own occupations, no doubt. So, with thanks for shelter and

generous entertainment, we part for to-night."

She held out her hand smiling, but with an admirable effect of

discretion, all ardour, all intimacy, kept in check by self-respect and

well-bred dignity. Madame de Vallorbes was enchanted with the reserve

of her own demeanour. Let it be well understood that she was the least

importunate, the least exacting, the most adaptable, of guests!

Richard took her outstretched hand for the briefest period compatible

with courtesy. And a momentary spasm--so she fancied--contracted his

face.

"You are very welcome, Helen," he said. "If it is warm let us breakfast

in the pavilion to-morrow. Twelve--does that suit you? Good-night."

Upon the inlaid writing-table in the anteroom, Helen found a long and

impassioned epistle from Paul Destournelle. Perusal of it did not

minister to peaceful sleep. In the small hours she left her bed, threw

a silk dressing-gown about her, drew aside the heavy, blue-purple,

window curtain and looked out. The sky was clear and starlit. Naples,

with its curving lines of innumerable lights, lay outstretched below.

In the southeast, midway between the two, a blood-red fire marked the

summit of Vesuvius. While in the dimly seen garden immediately

beneath--the paved alleys of which showed curiously pale, asserting

themselves against the darkness of the flower borders, and otherwise

impenetrable shadows of the ilex and cypress grove--a living creature

moved, black, slow of pace, strange of shape. At first Helen took it

for some strayed animal. It alarmed her, exciting her to wildest

conjectures as to its nature and purpose, wandering in the grounds of

the villa thus. Then, as it passed beyond the dusky shade of the trees,

she recognised it. Richard Calmady shuffled forward haltingly, to the

terminal wall of the garden, leaned his arms on it, looking down at the

beautiful and vicious city and out into the night.

Helen de Vallorbes shivered--the marble floor striking up chill, for

all the thickness of the carpet, to her bare feet. Her eyes were hard

with excitement and her breath came very quick. Suddenly, yielding to

an impulse of superstitious terror, she dragged the curtains together,

shutting out that very pitiful sight, and, turning, fled across the

room and buried herself, breathless and trembling, between the sheets

of the soft, warm, faintly fragrant bed.

"He is horrible," she said aloud, "horrible! And it has come to me at

last. It has come--I love--I love!"