Chapter XVIII: The Beginning of the End

“What is this? His eyes are heavy; think not they are glazed
with wine--
Go to him; it is thy duty; kiss him, take his hand in thine.
It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought;
Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter
thought.” --TENNYSON.

“Mrs. Essex, Miss Kingsley, let me present to you my friend, Monsieur Orne.”

Viva gives her guest the tips of her fingers and a graceful greeting, but Evelyn Kingsley starts at the name and glances keenly at the dark, bearded face of her host’s friend. She had seen his name on the back of a letter once, and never forgotten it. She remembers, too, that the letter was addressed in Earle Essex’s hand, although he had told her that Madame Orne had given it to him to mail. She is immediately on the _qui vive_, and says to him, at the earliest opportunity:

“Your name sounds very familiar to me. My cousin Vivian had for three years a beautiful young governess called Madame Orne. Is it possible, monsieur, that this lady is a relative of yours?”

“Scarcely possible,” monsieur replies indifferently, “I have no relatives in this country.”

“Then it seems that she really had no relatives to mourn over her strange fate, for her life closed with a tragedy,” Eve observes, but the polite Frenchman only bows. He does not show any interest in the tragedy that ended the life of the poor young governess. He tacitly dismisses the subject by asking his hostess to sing.

She pleads hoarseness, and installs Eve at the piano. The young lady executes a difficult march in brilliant style, and Monsieur Orne pays her profuse compliments.

Dinner makes a pleasant break in the evening. At the elegant table, sparkling with silver and crystal and adorned with rare hot-house flowers, loaded with delicate viands and costly wines, Eve forgets her curiosity, Essex grows social and witty, the guest brilliant and fascinating, with all the _aplomb_ of a middle-aged man of the world. Vivian is the most quiet of the quartet, but she listens to the quick repartee, the versatile converse of Monsieur Orne with languid pleasure. It takes her out of her own dull thoughts as she follows the gay thread of talk and laughter. But yet she is not really prepossessed in favor of the stranger. She was conscious of a distinct sensation of repulsion when his hand had touched hers at greeting, and she shrinks unaccountably at the glance of his handsome yellow, brown eyes.

It was with a sensation of relief, after all, that she rises with Eve to quit the table, and leaves the gentlemen still lingering over their wine, in foreign fashion, to do honor to the Frenchman.

“Where was Di’s engagement this evening, Eve?”

“Oh, only with her dressmaker. The wedding is next month, you know, and Di is hurried to death with the preparations. My dear, does your head ache? You are so pale, and your eyes are heavy.”

“No, my head is all right, but I feel tired and dull. Perhaps your city air does not suit me. I am country-bred, you see.”

“It is the dreary weather, perhaps, or may be you are homesick. Has Charlton been to see you yet?”

“No, nor papa, either; but to change the conversation, Eve, how do you like our guest?”

“He is good-looking and witty. Do you know, I asked him if he was any relation to Madame Orne, but he declared he was not.”

They chat languidly until tired, but it is a long, long while before the gentlemen come in. Then both are very much under the influence of the wine they have been imbibing. The Frenchman has just sense enough left to be conscious of his condition, and very soon makes his courteous adieus and goes. The host throws himself on a luxurious sofa, and falls asleep almost immediately, quite forgetful of the presence of ladies. His heavy breathing and the strong fumes of liquor pervading the apartment announce his condition very plainly to Eve Kingsley’s quick eyes. She looks at Vivian’s face, and sees it flushed with shame and pain.

“Earle has taken too much wine, don’t you think so, Eve?” she asks anxiously.

“I’m afraid so, dear. You must scold him a little for this, and not permit him to fall into a habit of taking so many extra glasses, with friends at dinner. And now, Viva, I must go, for there is the carriage, and I have an engagement for the opera to-night.”

She says good-by with effusive tenderness, and is driven away, leaving Vivian alone with her intoxicated husband.

He is awake now--the bustle of Eve’s departure has aroused him--and he turns at the soft rustle of a silken gown.

“Come here, my love,” he exclaims, in a maudlin voice.

She looks at him with angry eyes and scornful red lips, and answers bitterly:

“So this is the way you keep your promise to me to give up drinking.”

“My darling wife, you are--are--entirely mistaken--and--do me injustice in talking so! I--am--perfectly sober, m-my dear, but I--really--feel quite ill--was taken sick at dinner--head aches! Put your cool little hand on my head, Viva, and--and--chase away the pain!”

She pulls her little hand out of his clasp scornfully as he mutters the words, half-asleep. Then he falls back on the pillow, his eyes closed, breathing heavily, entirely oblivious in another moment of her presence. She stands a moment watching his flushed and stupid features, then bursts into swift tears--tears of shame, of anger, of deep humiliation, and futile despair.