The Marquis of Lossie eBook

ashamed of, for she was therein false to the being she thought she loved best in the world.  Could Lenorme have known her capable of unbosoming herself to such a woman, it would almost have slain the love he bore her.  The notions of that odd and end sort of person, who made his livelihood by spreading paint, would have been too hideously shocked by the shadow of an intimacy between his love and such as she.

Caley first comforted the weeping girl, and then began to insinuate encouragement.  She must indeed give him up—­there was no help for that; but neither was there any necessity for doing so all at once.  Mr Lenorme was a beautiful man, and any woman might be proud to be loved by him.  She must take her time to it.  She might trust her.  And so on and on—­for she was as vulgar minded as the worst of those whom ladies endure about their persons, handling their hair, and having access to more of their lock fast places than they would willingly imagine.

The first result was that, on the pretext of bidding him farewell, and convincing him that he and she must meet no more, fate and fortune, society and duty being all alike against their happiness —­I mean on that pretext to herself, the only one to be deceived by it—­Florimel arranged with her woman one evening to go the next morning to the studio:  she knew the painter to be an early riser, and always at his work before eight o’clock.  But although she tried to imagine she had persuaded herself to say farewell, certainly she had not yet brought her mind to any ripeness of resolve in the matter.

At seven o’clock in the morning, the marchioness habited like a housemaid, they slipped out by the front door, turned the corners of two streets, found a hackney coach waiting for them, and arrived in due time at the painter’s abode.

CHAPTER XXX:  A QUARREL

When the door opened and Florimel glided in, the painter sprang to his feet to welcome her, and she flew softly, soundless as a moth, into his arms; for the study being large and full of things, she was not aware of the presence of Malcolm.  From behind a picture on an easel, he saw them meet, but shrinking from being an open witness to their secret, and also from being discovered in his father’s clothes by the sister who knew him only as a servant, he instantly sought escape.  Nor was it hard to find, for near where he stood was a door opening into a small intermediate chamber, communicating with the drawing room, and by it he fled, intending to pass through to Lenorme’s bedroom, and change his clothes.  With noiseless stride he hurried away, but could not help hearing a few passionate words that escaped his sister’s lips before Lenorme could warn her that they were not alone—­words which, it seemed to him, could come only from a heart whose very pulse was devotion.

“How can I live without you, Raoul?” said the girl as she clung to him.