CHAPTER XXXVIII.
"VENGEANCE IS MINE."
The weeks rolled on, and the wedding morn of Yorke and Eleanor Dallas stood but three days off. It was to be a quiet wedding, in consequence of the death of Lord Eustace and his two sons; but the heir to the great dukedom of Rothbury could not be married without some slight fuss, and the society papers contained interesting little paragraphs concerning the event. The happy young people were to be married at a little church in Newfold, a picturesque village near Lady Eleanor Dallas's seat, White Place. There were to be only two bridesmaids, cousins of the bride, and the great Duke of Rothbury himself was to be the bridegroom's best man, provided that the duke should be well enough, the paragraphist went on to say, adding that, as was well known, the duke had been in bad health of late. After the ceremony the young couple were to start for the South of France, and on their return it had been arranged that they should go to Rothbury Castle, the seat of the duke, who intended handing over the management of the vast estate to his heir.
Lady Eleanor read these and similar paragraphs until she had got them by heart. To her the days seemed to drag along with forty-eight hours to each, and they had appeared all the longer in consequence of Yorke's absence, for on the plea of having to make his preparations, and business for the duke, he had not paid many visits to White Place since his return from Italy. But though Eleanor felt his absence acutely she was too wise to complain.
"I shall have him altogether presently," was the thought that consoled her. "All my own, my own with no fear of anything or anybody coming between us."
But she was terribly restless, and wandered about the grounds, and from room to room, 'where bridal array was littered all around,' as if she were possessed of some uneasy spirit.
"If one could only send you into a mesmeric sleep and wake you just before the ceremony, my dear Nell, it would be a delightful arrangement for all concerned," said Lady Denby. "It is the man who is generally supposed to be the nervous party in the business, but I'll be bound Yorke is as cool as a cucumber."
If not exactly as cool as that much abused vegetable, Yorke certainly showed very little excitement, and as he walked into the duke's study on the evening of the third day before that appointed for the wedding, the duke, glancing at him keenly, remarked on his placidity.
"You take things easily, Yorke," he said.
"As how?" said Yorke, dropping into a chair, and poking the fire.
"Well, you don't look as flurried as a nearly married man is supposed to look."
"I am not flurried," he said. "Why should I be?" and he looked round with the poker in his hand. "Fleming has seen about the clothes, the banns have been put up, and the tickets taken. There is nothing more to be done on my side, I imagine. No, I am not at all flurried."
"But you look tired," said the duke. "Is everything all right at Rothbury?" Yorke had just come from there.
"Yes," he replied listlessly. "I saw Lang about those leases and arranged about the timber, and I told them to have everything ready for you. I am glad you are going to winter there, Dolph. You will be as comfortable, now that the whole place is warmed by that hot water arrangement, as if you were at Nice, and will have the satisfaction, in addition, of knowing that you are benefitting the people around. They complained sadly of the place being shut up so much."
"Well, you can alter that," said the duke. "You like the place and can live there five or six months out of the year. I believe it is supposed to be one of the nicest places in the kingdom."
Yorke nodded and leant back, his eyes fixed on the fire.
"You dine here to-night?" asked the duke after a pause.
Yorke nodded again.
"Thanks, yes. I'll take my dinner in here with you, if you don't mind."
"No, I don't mind," said the duke with a smile of gratitude and affection lighting up his wan face. "I wish you were going to dine in here with me for the rest of my life; but that's rather selfish, isn't it? Don't be longer away than you can help, Yorke. It may happen that Eleanor will get tired of the Continent; if she should, come home at once."
"Very well," said Yorke. "I am in her hands, of course."
"Of course, and you couldn't be in better or sweeter."
"No," assented Yorke absently. "Did you send back that draft of the leases I posted to you?"
"Eh?" The duke thought a moment. "No, I didn't. I forgot all about them."
Yorke smiled.
"You see that it is time I handed in my checks and allowed a better man to take the berth," said the duke cheerfully. "I'm very sorry, especially as you have taken so much trouble about the business. Let me see, where did I put them? I'm ashamed to say I've forgotten. Look in that bureau drawer, will you?"
Yorke got up and sauntered across the room. He looked very tall and thin in his dark mourning suit of black serge, and the duke noticed that he was paler than when he had seen him last, paler and more tired looking.
"Never mind," he said. "Let the lawyers make out fresh ones."
"Oh, I'll find 'em," said Yorke. "You have stuffed them in somewhere," and he opened drawer after drawer, in the free and easy manner in which a favorite son opens the drawers and cupboards of a father. "I'll back you for carefully mislaying things, especially papers, against any man in England – excepting myself."
"Grey always sees to them. He has spoilt me," remarked the duke apologetically.
"That's what I tell my man Fleming," said Yorke. "I should mislay my head if he didn't put it on straight every morning when he brushed my hair."
The duke laughed.
"They are a pattern pair," he said. "Don't trouble. Ring for Grey."
But Yorke in an absent mechanical fashion still sauntered round the room searching for the missing drafts, and presently he opened the drawer of the small cabinet which generally stood beside the duke's couch, but which this evening was immediately behind him.
Yorke opened the drawer and turned over the things, and was closing it again when his eyes caught the glitter of diamonds.
"You keep a choice collection of things in these drawers of yours, Dolph," he said.
"What is it?" asked the duke.
Yorke pulled out the pendant.
"Only diamonds," he said, "and very handsome ones, too. Where on earth did you get them, and who are they for? Perhaps I'd better not go poking about any longer, or I shall come upon some secret – ." He stopped suddenly. He had been speaking in a tone of lazy badinage, scarcely heeding what he was saying, until suddenly he recognized the pendant.
"Oh, I've no secrets," said the duke. "What is it you have found! Ah!" He had swung himself round by the lever and saw Yorke gazing at the pendant lying in his hand.
"Where did you get this?" demanded Yorke. The duke looked at his face as he asked the question. It was grave, with curiosity and surprise; but the duke was glad to see that it showed no keener emotion, and told himself that Yorke was forgetting Leslie.
"Do you recognize it?" he asked.
"Yes," said Yorke slowly. "It is a thing I gave – ." He stopped. "How did it come here? Where did you get it?"
"It was brought to me," said the duke in a low voice.
"Brought to you? Why to you?" Yorke demanded, looking up from the pendant. What memories it awakened!
"I cannot tell you."
"Who brought it?"
"A man by the name of – I forget. His card is in the drawer."
Yorke looked.
"No, it is not here."
"Then it is lost. His name – his name – yes, I remember. It was Duncombe. Ralph Duncombe."
"Ralph Duncombe?" Yorke spoke the name two or three times. He seemed to think that he had heard it before, but he could not recall it. He put the pendant in his pocket, and went and stood before the fire with his back to the duke.
"Did he give no message – no explanation?" he asked.
"No," said the duke. "He acted as if he thought I had sent the thing to her."
Yorke did not look round. Why had Finetta sent back the pendant, and why had she sent it to the duke instead of to him, Yorke?
"You don't want to talk about it?" said the duke after a pause.
"No, I don't," assented Yorke grimly. "There are some things one would prefer to forget."
"Ah, if one could, if one could!" muttered the duke.
The dinner came in soon afterwards; and the two men talked of the approaching marriage, of the plans for the winter, of the game at Rothbury, of everything but the diamond pendant. Then suddenly Yorke, who had been answering in an absent-minded kind of way, uttered an exclamation.
"What is the matter?" demanded the duke.
"Nothing," said Yorke sharply. Then he looked at his watch. "Do you mind my leaving you before the coffee?"
"Not a bit. Where are you going?"
Yorke made no reply, perhaps he did not hear. He got up, and rang for Grey to bring his hat.
"I shall not be back till late, Dolph," he said. "Don't sit up."
He had remembered suddenly where he had seen this Ralph Duncombe's name. It was the man who had hunted him down to the ruin from which Eleanor had saved him; and it was by this man Finetta had sent back the diamond pendant. There was only one conclusion to be drawn from the coincidence; it was Finetta, then, who had sought to revenge herself for his desertion of her, by planning his ruin and disgrace. It was she who had brought about this marriage of his, this marriage which would enslave him for life.
Yorke was not a bad-tempered man, nor a malignant, but at that moment he was possessed of a burning desire to confront Finetta, and charge her with her perfidy.
He went down the Strand and entered the Diadem. The stall-keeper looked at him with lively surprise and interest.
"Glad to see you back, my lord," he said, with profound respect.
Yorke took the programme and glanced at it.
"Miss Finetta appears to-night?" he asked.
"Oh, yes, my lord! She will be on in a few minutes."
Yorke sat bolt upright in his stall, glaring at the stage. There were several persons in the front of the house who knew him, but he looked neither to the left nor the right. His heart was on fire. The false-hearted woman! She had pretended to bid him farewell in peace and friendship, and had betrayed him! Yes, he would wait until the performance was over, and would go round and confront her. There should be no scene, but he would tell her that her baseness was known, and, if possible, shame her.
It was a foolish resolve, but, alas! Yorke was never celebrated for wisdom.
The orchestra played the opening to the second act, the usual chorus sang, and the usual comic man cracked the time-honored wheezes, and then the band played a few bars of an evidently well known melody, for the gallery greeted the music with an anticipatory cheer, and a moment afterwards Finetta bounded on the stage. There was a roar of delighted welcome, and amidst it she came sailing and smiling gracefully down to the footlights, her dark eyes flashing round with a half-languorous, half-defiant gleam in them of which the public was so fond.
Then suddenly she saw the well known face there in the stalls. For a second she paused in her slow, waltzing step, and looked at him with a look that he might well take for fear. The conductor of the band glanced up, surprised; it was the first time Finetta had ever missed a step. But before he could pull the band together and catch up the lost bar she had gone on dancing, and danced with her accustomed grace and precision.
Yorke watched her with a grim fury. This smiling, dancing jade had plotted to ruin him, had tried to drive him into a debtors' court – worse, had forced him to marry Eleanor Dallas! He could have sprung up there and then and accused her of her vileness; and the desire to do so was so great that he was on the point of rising to leave the theater and await her at the stage door, when suddenly he saw her falter and stumble, and the next instant – the same instant – she had disappeared, and in the spot where she had just stood was a gaping hole.
The house rose with a gasp, a sigh of horror that rose to a yell of indignation and accusation.
It was the old story: 'Someone had blundered' and left the trap door unbolted, and London's favorite dancer had danced upon it and gone down to the depths beneath.
The audience rose, yelling, shouting, pushing this way and that; the curtain was lowered, the lights turned up, and the manager, in the inevitable evening dress, appeared, with his hand upon his heart. He assured the audience that Miss Finetta was not hurt – not seriously hurt – and that though it would not be wise for her to dance again that evening, he trusted that she would appear again to-morrow night, etc., etc.
Yorke waited till the plausible excuse was concluded, then he quietly – in a dream, as it were – went out and round to the stage door.
And one line of the Book he had, alas! read too seldom, rang in his ears as he went: "Vengeance is Mine!"
The stage door keeper knew him in a moment, but in answer to Yorke's inquiry if he could see Miss Finetta, shook his head.
"I don't know, sir! There's a rumor that she's kil – ."
Yorke pushed by him and made his way to the dressing rooms. There was a crowd of chorus girls and supers surging to and fro in the corridor and clustered together in little knots; all talking in hurried whispers.
They made way for Yorke and he knocked at the door of Finetta's dressing room. The manager opened it.
"Is it the doctor – oh, it's you, my lord!" he said in a whisper. "It's an awful thing! In the middle of the season, too!"
"Is she – ," began Yorke in a low voice, hoarse with agitation. But low as it was it was heard by someone within the room, for Finetta's voice, weak and hollow with pain, said:
"Is that you, Yorke? Let him come in!"
CHAPTER XXXIX.
FINETTA'S CONFESSION
Yorke went in. Finetta was lying on the sofa, lying with that awful inert look which tells its own story. Her shapely arm hung down limply, helplessly; across her face, white as death, a thin line of blood trickled, coming again as fast as the trembling dresser wiped it away. One or two women stood near her, silent and apprehensive.
She lifted her eyes heavily and tried to smile.
"I – I thought you would come," she said painfully. "I saw you in the stalls."
Yorke bent over her, all the anger sped from his heart.
"Are you hurt, Fin?" he said in a low voice.
"Yes," she said. "Badly, I think. Some – some fool left the trap unbolted; or – " a gleam of fire shot into her eyes for a moment – "or was it done on purpose, eh? There's one or two here who wouldn't be sorry to have me out of the bills. Well, they'll have their wish for a short time."
"Have you sent for a doctor?" Yorke asked the manager.
He nodded.
"Doctor! I don't want any doctor here," said Finetta sharply. "I want to go home. Take me home, Yorke. Never mind what they say. Take me home, if you have to do it on a stretcher."
"Very well," he said.
The manager drew him outside.
"You can't do it, I'm afraid, my lord. She's too hurt to be moved."
"Don't listen to him, Yorke!" Finetta's voice came to them. "Take me home."
A long slight table stood in the passage. Yorke wrenched the legs off and called to a couple of carpenters. Then, with the help of the manager and dresser, he laid Finetta on this impromptu stretcher and carried her to the brougham which was waiting outside.
"Drive slowly," he said to the man.
"No, let him go fast," panted Finetta. "I can bear it," and she clenched her teeth. Yorke sat beside her and supported her, and she lay with her head on his shoulder, her teeth set hard, her hands grasping each other, and no cry or groan passed her lips.
At the sound of the brougham wheels Polly came to the door, and uttered a cry of alarm at the sight of her sister lying limp and helpless in Yorke's arms.
"Oh, Lord Yorke!" she gasped.
"Don't be frightened, Polly," he said. "Finetta has met with an accident."
They carried her upstairs.
"Get her undressed and into bed," he said. "I'm going for a doctor."
"You – you will come back, Yorke?" Finetta managed to say.
"Of course," he said. "Keep up your heart, Fin. You'll be all right."
He got the doctor, and while he was upstairs making his examination Yorke paced up and down the sumptuous dining-room in which he had spent so many pleasant, merry hours.
It seemed an age before the doctor came down.
"Well?" asked Yorke anxiously.
The doctor looked down with the professional gravity.
"She is very badly hurt," he said. "Oh, no," he added, seeing Yorke start and wince. "I don't say that it will kill her, but – you see she struck the edge of the trap with her back. I think I should like to have Sir Andrew."
"Yes, yes!" said Yorke. "I will send for him at once – ."
"Oh, to-morrow will do, my lord," said the doctor. "He could do no more for her than I can accomplish, and she is – unfortunately – in very little pain. But there seems to be something on her mind, something in which your lordship is concerned, and she is very anxious to see you."
"I will go to her," said Yorke at once.
They went upstairs, and Finetta turned her great eyes upon them.
"What has he been telling you, Yorke?" she asked feebly. "Am I going to die? Don't be afraid, I'm not a milksop, and I shan't go into hysterics and make a scene. I suppose I've got to die, as well as other people."
"No, no, there is no talk of dying, Fin," he said.
"Then what is it? Why do you both look so glum?" she said, impatiently. "There's nothing much in falling down a trap: I've seen heaps of people do it. What is it? Am I going to be laid up long? Ask him how soon I shall be able to dance again?"
"Better be quiet," said the doctor, with his hand on her pulse.
"You answer my question," she retorted as furiously as her weakness would allow.
"I'll answer any questions you like to-morrow," he said soothingly. "I want you to rest now."
"They're all like that – a pack of old women," she said, "and they think we're all old women too! Rest! ah, if he could give me something that would make me rest – . Don't go, Yorke; not yet. I – I want to say something to you. It's a long time since you were here, Yorke," and she sighed.
He sat down beside the bed and held her hand, and she turned her eyes upon him gratefully, then averted them and groaned faintly.
"Did I hurt you, Fin?" he asked.
"No, no!" she replied. "It wasn't that. It – it was something I was thinking of."
"You mustn't talk," said the doctor.
She opened her lips and grinned at him contemptuously.
"Why mustn't I? Do you think I am going off my head? Well, there – but don't leave me, or if you do, come again to-morrow, Yorke," and she turned her head away and closed her eyes.
Yorke sat beside her through the night, holding her hand. At times she seemed to fall into an uneasy slumber, from which she would wake and look from him to Polly with a vacant gaze which grew troubled when it rested on his face, and then she would sigh and close her eyes again. Toward morning she fell into a deep sleep, and Yorke went home, but only remained long enough to change his clothes, and returned to St. John's Wood. He found Sir Andrew there, and the great man greeted him with a significant gravity; but before he could speak Finetta turned her eyes to Yorke.
"Ask him to tell me the truth of the case, Yorke!" she said, in a voice much weaker than that of last night. "I'm not afraid. He says I'm not going to die; but ask him how soon I shall get back to the Diadem!"
Sir Andrew smiled, but it was the smile which masks the face of the physician while he pronounces sentence.
"Not yet awhile, my dear young lady," he said.
"Not yet – ah!" She tried to sit up, but sank back and fixed her dark bold eyes on him. "You mean! What is it you mean? Not – not – ," her voice quivered and broke. "Oh, God, you mean that I shall never dance again!"
The doctor looked down. She read his answer in his face, and silenced Sir Andrew's conventional protest.
"You – you needn't lie. I – I can see it in your faces. Oh!" and a low but heart-breaking cry rose from her white lips. "Oh, never, never again! Never to dance again! Oh, Yorke, Yorke, tell them to kill me! I'd rather die – rather, ten thousand times rather! Never to dance again. It isn't true," she burst out, her tone changed to weak fury and resentment. "You don't know. You can't tell. Doctors are fools, all of 'em. Send them away, Yorke. I hate the sight of them standing there like a couple of undertakers. What, not to dance again! It's a lie! It's a – ." Then she covered her face with her hands, and her whole body shook and trembled.
The paroxysms passed, and she drew a long breath and put out her hand to Yorke.
"It's true," she said, in a faint voice, "I feel it. Don't – don't mind what I said, gentlemen. It – it's knocked me rather hard. You see, I've got nothing to – to live for but my dancing. I'm – I'm nothing without that. Oh, God, what an end! To lie here – ," she turned her head away and groaned.
Yorke held her hand in silence.
What could he say? The doctors went; the morning passed; he sat and held Finetta's hand as she dozed heavily.
Every now and then she stirred and opened her eyes, saw and recognized him, and with a sigh closed them again, as if his presence soothed and comforted her.
He left her in the middle of the day, promising to return in a few hours. He was to be married in two days time, and there were things to be done and settled. He found a letter from Lady Eleanor awaiting him – a loving, passionate letter, reminding him of some trifle in connection with their wedding trip. He put it in his pocket, scarcely read, and in the afternoon returned to Finetta. Her eyes turned to the door with painful, feverish eagerness as he entered, and she smiled gratefully and yet, as it seemed to him, with a curious mixture of fear and sadness.
"You – you are very good to me, Yorke," she said. "Better – better than I deserve."
"All right, Fin," he said, pressing her hand. "You'd do the same for me; old friends, you know."
"Yes," she said, "old friends." She was silent a moment or two, then with an effort she said, "Yorke, I've got something to tell you. And – and I think I'd rather die than say it."
"Don't say it then," he said promptly. "What's it matter? You've got to keep quiet, the doctor said – ."
"But I've got to say it," she broke in with a moan. "I can't sleep or rest while it's on my mind. You can't guess what it is, Yorke?"
"No. Never mind. Let it slide till you get better, Fin."
She shook her head as well as she could.
"That would be a long time to keep it," she said. "Yorke, what brought you to the theater last night?"
He started slightly. It might almost be said that he had forgotten the diamond pendant, which was still in his waistcoat pocket.
"Why, I came to see you, of course," he replied.
"Yes," she said, her large eyes fixed on his. "Yes, but why? I saw your face, Yorke, and there was mischief in it. I saw that you had found out something, if not all."
"Found out what?" he asked carelessly. "Oh, you mean about the pendant? What made you send it back, Fin?"
She looked at him with a puzzled frown.
"What pendant? What are you talking about?"
"The diamond ornament you sent back," he said. "But there, don't worry – ."
"Diamonds I sent back? Is that likely? But what diamonds? You never gave me any."
He tried to smile banteringly; he thought her mind was wandering.
"Never mind. There!" He took the pendant from his pocket and laid it in her hand. "Take it back again, and keep it this time."
She looked at it, and from it to him.
"I never sent this to you – I never saw it before," she said.
"All right, it doesn't matter – ."
"Never! You say you gave it to me. When? When?"
"I sent it to you the night – the day after we parted," he said.
Her eyes dilated, and she put her hand to her head.
"You – sent this – this to me? You must be out of your mind, or I am. And you say I sent it back!"
"Look here, Fin," he said soothingly, "I know what it is you want to say to me, and I want to save you the trouble and worry of saying it, so I will tell you that I know all, and that I forgive you, if that's what you want."
Her face twitched, and her eyes fell from his.
"You know all!" she faltered.
He nodded gravely.
"Yes. And I'll own up that I was mad. I came to the theater last night to have a row with you. But that's all past, clean past. And after all you didn't do me any damage, Fin – not the damage you meant to," he corrected himself as the thought of his coming marriage flashed across him. "It would have been all up a tree with me if a – a friend hadn't found the money at the last moment; but as it turned out we got the best of you and your friend, Mr. Ralph Duncombe."
She gazed at him with knitted brows.
"Mr. Ralph who? I never heard the name before. What are you talking about?" she demanded.
"Never mind."
"Answer! Tell me!" she broke out. "Explain what you are driving at, or I shall go clean mad."
He bit his lip.
"Why don't you let it rest?" he said wearily. "I tell you I'm ready to forget it, that I've forgiven you. After all it was tit for tat, and only natural. And it was clever, too, in a way. Did you think of it yourself, Fin, or did this strange gentleman, this new friend of yours, hit upon the idea of buying up my debts and hunting me into a corner – ."
He stopped, for with a tremendous effort she had raised herself.
"Stop!" she panted. "This – this is all new to me. I know nothing of it. It's not that I wanted to tell you about. Not that. I never bought your debts. I never heard this man's name before in my life. Ah" – for his face had gone white – "you believe me! It wasn't me who planned that."
"Not you? Then who?"
She fell back.
"Ah," she breathed, "I – I can guess. Oh, Yorke, this you have told me makes it all the harder for me. But I must tell you. It weighs on my heart like – like lead. Ever since I fell, all the while I've been lying here her face has haunted me. I see it waking and sleeping, all white and drawn, with the tears running down it as it was when I told her."
"Whose – whose face? Whose?" he said, a vague presentiment mingling with his amazement and confusion.
"The young lady's – Leslie Lisle's," she gasped.
He sprang to his feet, then sank into the chair again, and sat breathing hard for a moment.
She waited till she had regained strength, then hurried on.
"It was me who – who separated you. Yorke, wait, don't – don't speak. It – it was a chance that helped me. I'd followed you to that place, Portmaris, and I was caught by the tide, and she tried to save me, and we climbed the cliff, and when I fainted she found the locket with your portrait in my bosom. See," and she drew the locket out and held it to him.
He took it mechanically and uttered a cry – a terrible cry.
"I gave you this! It's false! You stole it! Oh, Fin, forgive me – forgive me, but I feel as if I were going mad!" and he covered his face with his hands.
She let her hand rest on his arm timidly.
"Hold on!" she panted. "Let me tell you all as it happened. The tangle's coming straight. There's – there's been some devil's work besides mine! She saw the portrait and – and recognized it. I told her that you'd given it to me – as you had – ."
"No, no! I sent it to her the same day as I sent this thing to you."
She gazed at him perplexedly for a moment; then she laughed a mirthless laugh.
"My God!" she said, "I see! You put them in the wrong papers! and I thought you – you cared for me still; and – and I told her so. And she believed it!"
"You told her – she believed it!"
"Yes," she panted hoarsely. "She believed it, and gave you up! She couldn't do otherwise after finding that locket and – and the lies I told her. I said you were going to marry me – ."
She stopped and looked at his face, white and set.
"You – you could kill me even as I lie here, Yorke," she said, in a dull, despairing voice. "I can see it in your eyes."
He turned his eyes away.
"Go – go on!" he said, almost inarticulately.
She put her hand to her brow.
"I left her there, looking more dead than alive, and came back to town, and I thought you'd come back to me. I – I waited, and one day I saw you in Hancock's buying the – the ring; and I knew she'd taken you back, and all in the moment I – I told her, and then I got frightened at what I'd done. And when I saw that she had managed to do what I had failed over, and had separated you from Leslie Lisle and got you for herself – ."
He rose and stretched out his hands to her as if he would stop her.
"Her? Who?"
"Who?" she opened her eyes upon him. "Why, Lady Eleanor Dallas! It's she you are going to marry, isn't it?"
He went to the mantel shelf and dropped his head upon his arms; then he came back and sank into the chair again with his hands thrust into his pockets, his head upon his breast.
"It's – it's a bad business, Yorke," she panted wearily. "But – but don't be too hard on me, or on her. For she loves you, Yorke! Ah! that's been the trouble all round; we've all loved you too well!" and she turned her face away and closed her eyes.
He sat and stared before him like a man dazed. For one moment he had felt convinced that Finetta's disclosure was the outcome of delirium; but as she had gone on with her confession, he knew that she was speaking of realities.
They had misjudged Leslie after all; she had not left him because she had discovered that he was not a duke! The reflection was the only one relieving streak of light in the gloom. What should he do? What could he do? Where was Leslie? And even if he found her, how could he desert Lady Eleanor? How could he throw her over on the very eve of their wedding day? She had not sinned against him, as Finetta had done; her only sin, as Finetta had so truly said, consisted in loving him too well. No, even if he knew where Leslie Lisle was, he could not desert Eleanor. He must marry her and try – as he had been trying all this time – to tear Leslie's image from his heart. But, ah, how much harder this feat had become since Finetta's disclosure.
She looked round at last.
"You are still here, Yorke," she said. "You haven't gone? I thought – I thought you'd have left me directly, and that I shouldn't have seen you again."