In Friendships Guise | Page 4

married," he said to
himself, "but it is too late for that now. I must make the best of it. I still
love Diane, and I don't believe she has ceased to care for me. Poor little
girl! Perhaps she feels my neglect, and is too proud to own it. I was
ready enough to cut work and spend money. Yes, it has been my fault.
I'll go to her to-night and tell her that. I'll ask her to move back to our
old lodgings, where we were so happy. And then I'll turn over that new
leaf--"
"What's wrong with you, my boy?" broke in Victor Nevill. "Have you
been dreaming?"
"I am going home," said Jack, rising. "It will be a pleasant surprise for
Diane."
Nevill looked at him curiously, then laughed. He took out his watch.
"Have another drink," he urged. "We part to-night--who knows when
we will meet again? And it is only half-past eleven."
"One more," Jack assented, sitting down again.

Brandy was ordered, and Victor Nevill kept up a rapid conversation,
and an interesting one. From time to time he glanced covertly at his
watch, and it might have been supposed that he was purposely
detaining his companion. More brandy was placed on the table, and
Jack frequently lifted the glass to his lips. With a cigar between his
teeth, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, he laughed as merrily as
any in the room. But he did not drink too much, and the hand that he
finally held out to Nevill was perfectly steady.
"I must be off now," he said. "It is long past midnight. Good-by, old
chap, and bon voyage."
"Good-by, my dear fellow. Take care of yourself."
It was an undemonstrative parting, such as English-men are addicted to.
Jack sauntered out to the boulevard, and turned his steps homeward.
His thoughts were all of Diane, and he was not to be cajoled by a
couple of grisettes who made advances. He nodded to a friendly
gendarme, and crossed the street to avoid a frolicksome party of
students, who were bawling at the top of their voices the chorus of the
latest topical song by Paulus, the Beranger of the day--
"Nous en avons pour tous les gouts."
Victor Nevill heard the refrain as he left the brasserie and looked warily
about. He stepped into a cab, gave the driver hurried instructions, and
was whirled away at a rattling pace toward the Seine.
"He will never suspect me," he muttered complacently, as he lit a cigar.
With head erect, and coat buttoned tightly over his breast, Jack went on
through the enticing streets of Paris. He had moved from his former
lodgings to a house that fronted on the Boulevard St. Germain. Here he
had the entresol, which he had furnished lavishly to please his wife. He
let himself in with a key, mounted the stairs, and opened the studio
door. A lamp was burning dimly, and the silence struck a chill to his
heart.

"Diane," he called.
There was no reply. He advanced a few feet, and caught sight of a letter
pinned to the frame of an easel. He turned up the lamp, opened the
envelope, and read the contents:
"Dear Jack:--
"Good-by forever. You will never see me again. Forgive me and try to
forget. It is better that we should part, as I could not endure a life of
poverty. I love you no longer, and I am sure that you have tired of me. I
am going with one who has taken your place in my heart--one who can
gratify my every wish. It will be useless to seek for me. Again, farewell.
DIANE."
The letter fell from Jack's hand, and he trampled it under foot. He
reeled into the dainty bedroom, and his burning eyes noted the signs of
confusion and flight--the open and empty drawers, the despoiled
dressing table, the discarded clothing strewn on the floor.
"Gone!" he cried hoarsely. "Gone at the bidding of some
scoundrel--perhaps a trusted friend and comrade! God help my betrayer
when the day of reckoning comes! But I am well rid of her. She was
heartless and mercenary. She never could have loved me--she has left
me because she knew that my money was nearly spent. But I love her
still. I can't tear her out of my heart. Diane, my wife, come back! Come
back!"
His voice rang through the empty, deserted rooms. He threw himself on
the bed, and tore the lace coverings with his finger nails. He wept bitter
tears, strong man though he was, while out on the boulevard the
laughter of the midnight revelers mocked at his grief.
Finally he rose; he laughed harshly.
"Damn her, she would have dragged me down to her own