Karel Čapek - Essential Science Fiction Novels - Volume 7

“How dare you, girl, behave like this?” had cried the countess furiously. “How dare you so answer my darling boy, who has thus condescended to honour you with his love?”

In vain the miserable child had striven to explain to the infuriated woman that she did not care for Lord Altai. Such an explanation had only aggravated the countess’s auger, who, after many and various threats, had declared that unless Speranza consented to gratify her darling boy’s passion, she would induce the earl to deprive Speranza’s two brothers of their allowances, and therefore of their professions, which, in other words, meant ruin to them.

She was a clever woman was Lady Westray. She knew exactly where to strike to gain her end. The threat which she threw out about Speranza’s two brothers she knew pretty well would take effect; for did she not also know that out to them the poor child’s whole heart had gone? Rather than injure them, the girl determined to sacrifice herself.

A month later a great wedding took place. Envied of all who saw her, Speranza de Lara became Viscountess Altai, and the wife of the man whom she detested and loathed. Sold by the law which declares that however brutally a man may treat his wife, so that he does not strike her, she has no power to free herself from him; sold by the law which declares her to be that man’s slave, this woman, bright with the glory of a high intellect, perfect in Nature’s health and strength, was committed to the keeping of a man whom Fashion courted and patted on the back, whilst declaring him at the same time to be the veriest roué in London. He could go and do as he pleased; indulge in brutal excess, pander to every hideous passion of his heart, poison with his vile touch the beautiful creature whom he looked down upon as “only a woman”; but she, if she dared to overstep the line of propriety, and openly declare her love for another, she would be doomed to social ostracism, shunned and despised as a wanton, 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.

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.