Essential Science Fiction Novels - Volume 7. Karel Čapek

and out of the pale of decent society.

      She did so dare! For six long years she bore with his brutal excess and depraved passions; for six long years she suffered the torture which only those who have so suffered can understand. Then she succumbed.

      It was a dark November evening when she met her fate. The Altais were in Scotland, entertaining a party of friends for the covert shooting in Lord Westray’s splendid Wigtownshire preserves. The guests had all arrived but one, and he put in an appearance when the remainder of the party had gone upstairs to dress for dinner. Lady Altai had waited for him, as he was momentarily expected, and on his arrival he had been ushered into the drawing-room. His name was Harry Kintore, a captain in a smart marching regiment. As she entered the drawing-room he was standing with his back to the fire, and their eyes met. Right through her ran a thrill, she knew not why or wherefore, while he, transfixed by her beauty, could not remove his eyes. There have been such cases before of love at first sight. This was a case about which there could be no dispute; both felt it was so, both knew it to be beyond recall.

      How she struggled against her fate none can tell. With her husband’s increased brutality the gentleness and devotion of young Kintore was all the more en evidence. And when at length he bade her fly with him beyond the reach of so much misery and cruelty, was it a wonder that she succumbed, and flew in the face of the law that bound her to the contrary?

      She left him, that cruel brute, who had made her life a desert and a hell. She left him for one who to her was chivalrous and tender, loving and sympathetic. The world cried shame upon her, and spoke of Lord Altai as an injured man; the world ostracised her while it courted anew the fiend who had so grievously wronged her. And when, in the hunger of his baffled passion, this pampered roué followed the two who had fled from him, and with cold-blooded cruelty shot dead young Harry Kintore, the world declared it could not blame him, and that it served Lady Altai right.

      II

      GOOD-MORNING, my dear,” exclaims Lady Manderton, as she enters the cosy boudoir of her bosom friend and confidante, Mrs. de Lacy Trevor, as this latter, in a neat peignoir, lies stretched out, novel in hand, on an easy couch overlooking the fast-filling street of Piccadilly about eleven o’clock on the morning of the 5th June, 1890.

      “Ciel! my dear, what brings you here, and dressed, too, at this unearthly hour?”

      “Chute, Vivi, don’t talk so loud. A mere rencontre, that’s all. Arthur and I have arranged a little lark, and I told him to meet me here. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

      “He, he!” giggles Vivi; “but what have you done with Man?”

      “Oh! he’s ‘Safe enough, my dear. Gone off to his club. Thinks I’ve gone to get a gown tried on. He, he! What fools men are!”

      “Think themselves deuced clever, nevertheless, Dodo,” laughs Vivi. “It’s not an hour since Trebby was raving at me, laying down the law at the way I go on with Captain Kilmarnock. Of course I pretended to be awfully cut up, rubbed my eyes, got up a few tears and sniffs, got rid of him with a kiss or two, packed him off to his club, and at twelve o’clock Kil and I are off to Maidenhead together.”

      This announcement creates the greatest amusement between the two ladies, judging by the peals of laughter that follow it.

      “By-the-bye, Dodo, where were you yesterday?” inquires Vivi Trevor, after the laughter has subsided.

      “I, my dear? Why, I was with H.R.H.‘s party for the 4th of June. You can’t think what a jolly day we had, Vivi. Some of the recitations were quite delightful, and there was a boy called Hector D’Estrange, who was simply too lovely for words. We all fell in love with him, I can tell you. I never saw such eyes in my life. Won’t he break some of our hearts some day!”

      “Hector D’Estrange; but who is he?”

      “That’s just what every one was asking, but no one seemed to know. It appears he has taken the school by storm. Does everything tiptop. Splendid batsman, bowler, oarsman, wonderful at racquets, undefeatable at books— in fact, my dear, beautiful as an Adonis, and clever past expression.”

      “Oh, Dodo! I must see this Adonis. I love pretty boys.”

      “And plucky ones, too,” laughs Vivi. “I was speaking to young Estcourt, who is his chum, and he told me that when Hector D’Estrange first came to Eton, a good many attempts were made to bully him, but he soon settled his tormentors, and gave one of them, a big overgrown monster, such a drubbing, that he never molested him more. What fun, Dodo, it would have been to see my Adonis punching the overgrown bully! I did laugh when Estcourt told me. I do so hate overgrown boys. Don’t you, Dodo?”

      “Of course I do, Vivi. Detest them!”

      There is a ring at the door bell. Vivi jumps up and looks out of the window.

      “It’s Arthur!” is all she exclaims.

      “Well, ta ta, Vivi! won’t bother you with him,” laughs Lady Manderton, as she stoops to kiss her friend. “See you to-night, I suppose, at Ferdey’s—eh? Love to Kil. Don’t let Trebby catch you, and a pleasant outing to you both;” saying which she is off out of the room, and running downstairs to meet her friend Sir Arthur Muster–Day, a smart young guardsman, whom it has pleased her for the time being to think that she likes better than any one else in the world.

      They are off together, happy in each other’s company. Sir Arthur is not married, and he thinks it just the thing to be seen about as much as possible in the company of one of London’s newest belles. Lady Manderton doesn’t care a nip for her husband, and is considerably bored that her husband evinces a certain amount of affection for her; she only married him for his money and position, and did not at all bargain for the affection part of the affair.

      As for Vivi, after her friend is gone, she jumps up and rings for her maid. That important individual having made her appearance, she and Vivi are soon engrossed with the all-paramount question of the moment—dress. Half-a-dozen gowns are pulled out, put on, pulled off and discarded, until at length one appears to please more than the others.

      “How do you think I look in this, Marie?” she inquires a little anxiously. “Is it becoming?”

      “Mais, madame, c’est tout-a-fait charmante,” replies the well-drilled maid with an expression of admiration.

      Vivi is satisfied. The gown remains on her person, and in a short time she is dressed and ready for her day’s outing. Twelve o’clock strikes. A neat brougham dashes up to the door. In less time almost than it takes to tell it, Vivi has taken her seat in the carriage, and is being whirled through the busy streets of London, en route to Captain Kilmarnock’s rooms. There she will pick him up, and together they will proceed to Maidenhead, what to do God knows. We had better leave them.

      A few minutes later, and there is another ring at the door, and the footman opens it to Mr. de Lacy Trevor. As he does so, the latter inquires—

      “Is Mrs. Trevor in?”

      “No, sir, just gone out,” answers the servant.

      “Do you know where to, James?” again asks Mr. Trevor.

      “I do not, sir, but perhaps Mademoiselle Marie will know.”

      Marie is called, and arrives all smiles and bows. “Really, she thinks madame has gone out for a drive with her friend Lady Manderton, and to lunch with her afterwards. C’est tout.”

      Mr. Trevor sighs.

      “There will be no lunch wanted, James,” he observes quietly. “I shall lunch at the club,”

      He wanders down the street in the direction of St. James’s. He wonders if Vivi has forgotten the promise she made him that morning to lunch at home, and go for a ride with him afterwards. He so rarely sees her now, and when he does it is seldom alone. She never seems to have any time to give to him, and yet he is not brutal to her, or neglectful, or wrapped