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Page 49
THE LAST CARD.
It was nine o'clock in the evening, and darkness had fallen rather
earlier than usual, owing to a black, cloudy sky that threatened rain.
Jimmie Drexell had gone during the afternoon, and Jack was alone in the
big studio--alone with his misery and his anguish. He had scarcely
tasted food since morning, much to the distress of Alphonse. He looked
a mere wreck of his former self--haggard and unshaven, with hard lines
around his weary eyes. He had not changed his clothes, and they were
wrinkled and untidy. Across the polished floor was a perceptible track,
worn by hours of restless striding to and fro. Now, after waiting
impatiently for Victor Nevill, and wondering why he did not come, Jack
had tried to nerve himself to the task that he dreaded, that preyed
incessantly on his mind. He knew that the sooner it was over the better.
He must write to Madge and tell her the truth--deal her the terrible
blow that might break her innocent, loving heart.
"It's no use--I can't do it," he said hoarsely, when he had been sitting
at his desk for five minutes. "The words won't come. My brain is dry.
Would it be better to try to see her, and tell her all face to face?
No--anything but that!"
Thrusting pen and paper from him, he rose and went to the liquor-stand.
The cut-glass bottle containing brandy dropped from his shaking hand and
was shattered to fragments. The crash drowned the opening of the studio
door, and as he surveyed the wreck he heard footsteps, and turned
sharply around, expecting to see Nevill. Diane stood before him, in a
costume that would have better suited a court presentation; the shaded
gas-lamps softened the rouge and pearl-powder on her cheeks, and lent
her a beauty that could never have survived the test of daylight. Her
expression was one of half defiance, half mute entreaty.
The audacity of the woman staggered Jack, and for an instant he was
speechless with indignation. His dull, bloodshot eyes woke to a fiery
wrath.
"You!" he cried. "How dare you come here? Go at once!"
"Not until I am ready," she replied, looking at him unflinchingly. "One
would think that my presence was pollution."
"It is--you know that. Did Nevill permit you to come? Have you seen
him?"
"No; I kept out of his way. He is searching for me in town now, I
suppose. It was you I wanted to see."
"You are dead to all shame, or you would never have come to London. I
don't know what you want, and I don't care. I won't listen to you, and
unless you leave, by heavens, I will call the police and have you
dragged out!"
"I hardly think you will do that," said Diane. "I am going presently, if
you will be a little patient. I am your wife, Jack--"
He laughed bitterly.
"You were once--you are not now. If I thought it would be any punishment
to you, that disgrace could soil _you_, I would take advantage of the
law and procure a divorce."
"I am your wife," she repeated, "but I do not intend to claim my
rights. We were both to blame in the past--"
"That is false!" he cried. "You only were to blame--I have nothing to
reproach myself with, except that I was a mad fool when I married you
for your pretty face. You tried to pull me down to your own level--the
level of the Parisian kennels. You squandered my money, tempted me to
reckless extravagances, and when the shower of gold drew near its end,
you ran off with some scoundrel who no doubt proved as simple a victim
as myself. I trusted you, and my honor was betrayed. But you did me a
greater wrong when you allowed me to believe that you were dead. By
heavens, when I think of it all--"
"You forget that we drifted apart toward the last," Diane interrupted.
"Was that entirely my fault? I believed that you no longer cared for me,
and it made me reckless." There was a sudden ring of sincerity in her
voice, and the insolent look in her eyes was replaced by a softer
expression. "I did wrong," she added. "I am all that you say I am. I
have sinned and suffered. But is there no pity or mercy in your heart?
Remember the past--that first year when we loved each other and were
happy. Wait; I have nearly finished. I am going out of your life
forever--it is the only atonement I can make. But will you let me go
without a sign of forgiveness?--without a soft word?"
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