DESPAIR had driven Lady Holme to Casa Felice. When she had found that the accident had disfigured her frightfully, and that the disfigurement would be permanent, she had at first thought of killing herself. But then she had been afraid. Life had abruptly become a horror to her. She felt that it must be a horror to her always. Yet she dared not leave it then, in her home in London, in the midst of the sights and sounds connected with her former happiness. After the operation, and the verdict of the doctors, that no more could be done than had been done, she had had an access of almost crazy misery, in which all the secret violence of her nature had rushed to the surface from the depths. Shut up alone in her room, she had passed a day and a night without food. She had lain upon the floor. She had torn her clothes into fragments. The animal that surely dwells at the door of the soul of each human being had had its way in her, had ravaged her, humiliated her, turned her to savagery. Then at last she had slept, still lying upon the floor. And she had waked feeling worn out but calm, desperately calm. She defied the doctors. What did they know of women, of what women can do to regain a vanished beauty? She would call in specialists, beauty doctors, quacks, the people who fill the papers with their advertisements.
Then began a strange defile of rag-tag humanity to the Cadogan Square door—women, men, of all nationalities and pretensions. But the evil was beyond their power. At last an American specialist, who had won renown by turning a famous woman of sixty into the semblance of a woman of six-and-thirty—for a short time—was called in. Lady Holme knew that his verdict must be final. If he could do nothing to restore her vanished loveliness nothing could be done. After being closeted with her for a long time he came out of her room. There were tears in his eyes. To the footman who opened the hall door, and who stared in surprise, he explained his emotion thus.
“Poor lady,” he said. “It’s a hopeless case.”
“Ah!” said the man, who was the pale footman Lady Holme had sent with the latch-key to Leo Ulford.
“Hopeless. It’s a hard thing to have to tell a lady she’ll always be—be—”
“What, sir?” said the footman.
“Well—what people won’t enjoy looking at.”
He winked his eyes. He was a little bald man, with a hatchet face that did not suggest emotion.
“And judging by part of the left side of the face, I guess she must have been almost a beauty once,” he added, stepping into the square.
That was Lady Holme now. She had to realise herself as a woman whom people would rather not look at.
All this time she had not seen Fritz. He had asked to see her. He had even tried to insist on seeing her, but so long as there was any hope in her of recovering her lost beauty she had refused to let him come near her. The thought of his eyes staring upon the tragic change in her face sent cold creeping through her veins. But when the American had gone she realised that there was nothing to wait for, that if she were ever to let Fritz see her again it had better be now. The bandages in which her face had been swathed had been removed. She went to a mirror and, setting her teeth and clenching her hands, looked into it steadily.
She did not recognise herself. As she stood there she felt as if a dreadful stranger had come into the room and was confronting her.
The accident, and the surgical treatment that had followed upon it, had greatly altered the face. The nose, once fine and delicate, was now coarse and misshapen. A wound had permanently distorted the mouth, producing a strange, sneering expression. The whole of the right side of the face was puffy and heavy-looking, and drawn down towards the chin. It was also at present discoloured. For as Lady Holme lay under the car she had been badly burnt. The raw, red tinge would no doubt fade away with time, but the face must always remain unsightly, even a little grotesque, must always show to the casual passer-by a woman who had been the victim of a dreadful accident.
Lady Holme stared at this woman for a long time. There were no tears in her eyes. Then she went to the dressing-table and began to make up her face. Slowly, deliberately, with a despairing carefulness, she covered it with pigments till she looked like a woman in Regent Street. Her face became a frightful mask, and even then the fact that she was disfigured was not concealed. The application of the pigments began to cause her pain. The right side of her face throbbed. She looked dreadfully old, too, with this mass of paint and powder upon her—like a hag, she thought. And it was obvious that she was trying to hide something. Anyone, man or woman, looking upon her, would divine that so much art could only be used for the concealment of a dreadful disability. People, seeing this mask, would suppose—what might they not suppose? The pain in her face became horrible. Suddenly, with a cry, she began to undo what she had done. When she had finished she rang the bell. Her maid knocked at the door. Without opening it she called out:
“Is his lordship in the house?”
“Yes, my lady. His lordship has just come in.”
“Go and ask him to come up and see me.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Lady Holme sat down on the sofa at the foot of the bed. She was trembling violently. She sat looking on the ground and trying to control her limbs. A sort of dreadful humbleness surged through her, as if she were a guilty creature about to cringe before a judge. She trembled till the sofa on which she was sitting shook. She caught hold of the cushions and made a strong effort to sit still. The handle of the door turned.
“Don’t come in!” she cried out sharply.
But the door opened and her husband appeared on the threshold. As he did so she turned swiftly so that only part of the left side of her face was towards him.
“Vi!” he said. “Poor old girl, I—”
He was coming forward when she called out again “Stay there, Fritz!”
He stopped.
“Why?” he asked.
“I—I—wait a minute. Shut the door.”
He shut the door. She was still looking away from him.
“Do you understand?” she said, still in a sharp voice.
“Understand what?”
“That I’m altered, that the accident’s altered me—very much?”
“I know. The doctor said something. But you look all right.”
“From there.”
The trembling seized her again.
“Well, but—it can’t be so bad—”
“It is. Don’t move! Fritz—”
“Well?”
“You—do you care for me?”
“Of course I do, old girl. Why, you know—”
Suddenly she turned round, stood up and faced him desperately.
“Do you care for me, Fritz?” she said.
There was a dead silence. It seemed to last for a long while. At length it was broken by a woman’s voice crying:
“Fritz,—Fritz—it isn’t my fault! It isn’t my fault!”
“Good God!” Lord Holme said slowly.
“It isn’t my fault, Fritz! It isn’t my fault!”
“Good God! but—the doctor didn’t—Oh—wait a minute—”
A door opened and shut. He was gone. Lady Holme fell down on the sofa. She was alone, but she kept on sobbing:
“It isn’t my fault, Fritz! It isn’t my fault, Fritz!”
And while she sobbed the words she knew that her life with Fritz Holme had come to an end. The chapter was closed.
From that day she had only one desire—to hide herself. The season was over. London was empty. She could travel. She resolved to disappear. Fritz had stayed on in the house, but she would not see him again, and he did not press her to. She knew why. He dreaded to look at her. She would see no one. At first there had been streams of callers, but now almost everybody had left town. Only Sir Donald came to the door each day and inquired after her health. One afternoon a note was brought to her. It was from Fritz, saying that he had been “feeling a bit chippy,” and the doctor advised him to run over to Homburg. But he wished to know what she meant to do. Would she go down to her father?—her mother, Lady St. Loo, was dead, and her father was an old man—or what? Would she come to Homburg too?
When she read those words she laughed out loud. Then she sent for the New York Herald and looked for the Homburg notes. She found Miss Pimpernel Schley’s name among the list of the newest arrivals. That evening she wrote to her husband:
“Do not bother about me. Go to Homburg. I need rest and I want to
be alone. Perhaps I may go to some quiet place in Switzerland with
my maid. I’ll let you know if I leave town. Good-bye.
“VIOLA HOLME.”
At first she had put only Viola. Then she added the second word. Viola alone suggested an intimacy which no longer existed between her and the man she had married.
The next day Lord Holme crossed the Channel. She was left with the servants.
Till then she had not been out of the house, but two days afterwards, swathed in a thick veil, she went for a drive in the Park, and on returning from it found Sir Donald on the door-step. He looked frailer than ever and very old. Lady Holme would have preferred to avoid him. Since that interview with her husband the idea of meeting anyone she knew terrified her. But he came at once to help her out of the carriage. Her face was invisible, but he knew her, and he greeted her in a rather shaky voice. She could see that he was deeply moved, and thanked him for his many inquiries.
“But why are you still in London?” she said.
“You are still in London,” he replied.
She was about to say good-bye on the door-step; but he kept her hand in his and said:
“Let me come in and speak to you for a moment.”
“Very well,” she said.
When they were in the drawing-room she still kept the veil over her face, and remained standing.
“Sir Donald,” she said, “you cared for me, I know; you were fond of me.”
“Were?” he answered.
“Yes—were. I am no longer the woman you—other people—cared for.”
“If there is any change—” he began.
“I know. You are going to say it is not in the woman, the real woman. But I say it is. The change is in what, to men, is the real woman. This change has destroyed any feeling my husband may have had for me.”
“It could never destroy mine,” Sir Donald said quietly.
“Yes, it could—yours especially, because you are a worshipper of beauty, and Fritz never worshipped anything except himself. I am going to let you say good-bye to me without seeing me. Remember me as I was.”
“But—what do you mean? You speak as if you would no longer go into the world.”
“I go into the world! You haven’t seen me, Sir Donald.”
She saw an expression of nervous apprehension come into his face as he glanced at her veil.
“What are you going to do, then?” he said.
“I don’t know. I—I want a hiding-place.”
She saw tears come into his old, faded eyes.
“Hush!” he said. “Don’t-”
“A hiding-place. I want to travel a long way off and be quite alone, and think, and see how I can go on, if I can go on.”
Her voice was quite steady.
“If I could do something—anything for you!” he murmured.
“You fancy you are still speaking to the woman who sang, Sir Donald.”
“Would you—” Suddenly he spoke with some eagerness. “You want to go away, to be alone?”
“Yes, I must.”
“Let me lend you Casa Felice!”
“Casa Felice!”
She laughed.
“To be sure; I was to baptise it, wasn’t I?”
“Ah, that—will you have it for a while?”
“But you are going there!”
“I will not go. It is all ready. The servants are engaged. You will be perfectly looked after, perfectly comfortable. Let me feel I can do something for you. Try it. You will find beauty there—peace. And I—I shall be on the lake, not far off.”
“I must be alone,” she said wearily.
“You shall be. I will never come unless you send for me.”
“I should never send for you or for anyone.”
She did not say then what she would do, but three days later she accepted Sir Donald’s offer.
And now she was alone in Casa Felice. She had not even brought her French maid, but had engaged an Italian. She was resolved to isolate herself with people who had never seen her as a beautiful woman.
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