Complete Story. THE ENIGMA.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXII, Issue XXI, 21 May 1904, Page 56

Complete Story. THE ENIGMA.

Mrs Congregc stood before a full-length minor and gazed at her reflection with critical eyes. Iler room was so brilliantly lighted that the many electric lamps caused almost a glare. Few women would have had the moral courage to survey themselves in this fierce and unbecoming light. But Mrs Congreve was not afraid. She knew that more critical eyes than her own would be turned towards her presently, even if the light were more subdued; would watch every feature, note every detail of her appearance, from the white rose placed in her dusky hair to her black satin slippers.

She was dressed entirely in black, the one touch of colour being lent by that white rose in the dark wealth of deepbrown hair —hair that matched the starlike passionate eyes. It was a daring thing for her to wear, she knew, for she was a pale-complexioned woman with a soft creamy skin that was only rarely touched Into carnation when her mood was an emotional one. She wore black because she thought it the most suitable frame fcr her face. It was a kind of foil which enabled one to follow the marvellous display of facial expression which so largely contributed in giving point and moaning to her recitations.

Mrs Congreve was the latest craze in fashionable society. She was the most popular reciter of her day. She had made a sensation on her first appearance in public, and many had been the offers made her by enterprising managers for her to go upon the stage proper, but she had refused them all, content to remain in the position she had long ago set herself out to attain, and which had been secured by years of hard work and unremitting study. Society hostesses had outbid one another for her appearance at their musical At Homes and receptions, and altogether Mrs Congreve had her hands pretty full with regard to engagements. She was supposed to be resting at present—a rest that she had fairly earned, and not in the sense of lacking an engagement. She had been invited to form one of a house party gathered together by a society friend of hers, Lady Plumton, who had been among the first to acknowledge her gift, and for whom she had some feeling of gratitude.

Although Lady Plumton had not expressed anything to that effect—had, in fact, insisted that she should take a thorough rest—Mrs Congreve knew very well that after dinner she would be asked by one or other of the guests just to road them a few verses, and that it would give pleasure to her hostess if she complied. The finishing touch had been given to her toilette, she had dismissed her maid, and was thinking of going downstairs to the largo, comfortable hall at Drake

Court, where the guests generally assembled while awaiting dinner, when there was a lap at her dcor. She gave permission to enter, and a short, rather florid woman came in. She had a smiling, vivacious face, covered with a thousand wrinkles, and surmounted by beautiful white hair elaborately dressed. “1 just want a moment’s chat with you, dear,"’ she said, “before we go downstairs. How well you are looking! Really I think you are the wisest of us all in yotir persistence in wearing black. It becomes you beautifully. Lady Plumton had taken a great fancy to this strange, gifted woman—whose history, so far as the world knew, was a blank. IV ho Mr. Congreve was, if he was still alive or had -ever existed, was unknown, as was the whole of this woman’s past. A few men. fascinated by her beauty and eharm—a charm that made one feel that to win a smile from her was something to remember—had dared to attempt love-making. But she had responded to none of their advances. However passionate, wilful or loving she might be in the little monologues she recited, and which had brought her such swift fame, when she relapsed into herself she was a quiet, self-contained woman, whom club-loungers called “The Enigma.” And an enigma she looked to-night, with those dark, haunting eyes fixed musingly on Lady Plumton’s face, and the still features pale and composed as those of any statue. “I hope you will nave a good time, Mrs. Congreve,” remarked her "hostess. “There are a number of people here who wish to make your acquaintance. Among them are Lord Bradacre and his wife. They have never seen you, but your fame has reached them in Italy, where they have spent the last few years. He was Ambassador there, you know, and his term of ofiice has just closed at his own request. He wanted to come back and live in England once more.” At the name of Lord Bradacre a sudden frightened expression came into Mrs Congreve’s eyes. A wave of scarlet stained her creamy skin, and her long, white, slender fingers were clasped and unclasped in nervous restlessnes. But Lady Pluir.ton observed nothing, and whatever emotion that name may have brought to life in Mrs. Congreve, long years of selfcontrol enabled her to master it now. In a moment or two she looked up, her white impassive face as enigmatic as ever, the strange eyes as introspective and musing. Lady Plumton chatted on a few minutes, and then suggested that they should go downstairs. The other paused for a moment. There was a moment’s sharp struggle with the instinct which prompted her to say to her hostess. “Let me get away from this house at once. There is someone you have named whom I cannot meet.”

And then she signified her assent, and together they descended the wide oak staircase, which was one of the beauties of Drake Court.

Most of the visitors had arrived that afternoon, among them Mrs. Congreve. But a few others had come by a later train, and they were nearly ah seated in the cosy hall. A kind of hush fell upon their chatter when Mrs. Congreve came quietly among them. She always created an atmosphere about her, and what had been commonplace seemed instantly to change into something unaccustomed and rare. Introductions were effected, but several of the people had met Mrs. Congreve before, and they were charmed to remember that fact now that Lady Plumton had taken her up socially.

Th? conversation was resumed, and a few minutes later the dining-gong sounded. At the same moment the curtain was brushed aside, and Lord Bradacre appeared. He was a man who looked older loan his years. The hair was brushed back from a high, intellectual forehead, and was already grey, although he was only a year or two over forty. There was something courtly and distinguished in his manner that savoured of the Ambassador, but his voice when he spoke was disappointing, and something of a contrast to those handsome, mobile features, for it was cold and unvarying in tone. Mrs. Congreve heard that voice—heard and remembered it. She nerved herself to face this man, and she felt a touch on her shoulder. “Allow me to introduce Lord Bradacre,” murmured Lady Plumton. The softly-shaded lamps threw a pleasant glow over the scene, but Mrs. Congreve’s face was half in shadow. She bowed to the ex-Ambassador, saw him start forward with something more than conventional words upon his lips, and then recover himself in a moment, and quietly respond to her bow. Lady Plumton paired her guests, and they passed into the dining-room. During dinner Mrs. Congreve could feel rather than see Lord Bradacre’s eyes fixed upon her. She herself glanced, not at him, but at the fair, exquisitely-dress-ed nonentity with the practised Society smile who bore his name. Mrs. Congreve did not enjoy her dinner. The sight of this man, of something in those careworn features, something in the aged and altered face, awoke strange and tender memories in her, brought? back to life dead dreams that she had thought put out of sight and mind for ever. Those few moments in which they had stood face to face had shaken that splendid self-restraint and quiet confidence she was so justly proud of—remembering the price that had been exacted to obtain it. She found herself -wishing that she had not accepted Lady Plumton’s invitation. She was only a pretender, with no right to Society beyond that of one of its mummers. She felt that it was a loss of dignity to have come to Drake Court. What had induced her to accept the invitation when she had been so firm in refusing all others? Was it fate that had seemed to impel her to break a rule that she had vowed should always be kept? She did not wish the world to regard her as anything beyond an artist whose services were paid for in hard eoin. It was a derogation from that

ideal she had held, that almost scornful pride, that though she might sell her art to those who wished to buy it, and found amusement in it, herself and her soul should be her own—and one other’s—her child’s.

But something—she could not tell what, since human, and especially feminine, inconsistency must always be a puzzle—moved her to do her best when presently she was asked if she would recite something—any little thing that she could manage without putting herself to any strain. Iler choice was a ballad out of a book of verses written by au anonymous author. It was called “ Plainte Eternelie,” and was the cry of a deserted lover for his vanished mistress. Throughout the poem there rang the poignant pleading for the faithless one to return to the aching heart that had been forsaken. She gave it little gesture—the poem did not call for that —but she spoke the words as perhaps they had never been spoken before. And had the poet who wrote them been present they might have held a new meaning even to him. Every modulation and expression of which the human voice is capable did she give to the seven verses which composed the piece. There was despair.

unavailing regret, a passion of longing that would never be satisfied, the cry of a bruised and aching heart —and she drew the swift tears to more than one of her listeners’ eyes. It was the most perfect of all art—• 'that which conceals itself. She was entreated to recite again, and she chose another little piece from her repertoire. It was quite a small thing; but it was dramatic, and gave her full opportunity for displaying her gifts, and was so brief that her audience were left, as always —wanting more.

She never satiated. She was too clever a woman, too true an artist, ever to weary her audience. And though she was entreated to recite again—they would have listened and not wished to break the spell for an hour —she courteously refused, and Lady Plumton would not let her be worried.

Many of the women present, noting the immense sensation she had produced iipon her audience, and feeling her power upon themselves, held out pressing invitations to her. If she had cared she could have had a delightful round of visiting during the whole of the autumn. But although, a few days before, she had thought she would like to go out into Society a little, no longer as the artist but as the woman, to-night there came back to her her old desire for complete isolation The woman must be separated from the artist. As the latter, she would continue to win success in town and country drawing-rooms. But as the woman, she must not expect any greater happiness, nor wish for it, than she possessed at present. It was some time before she could get away from the groups of people who .were congratulating her on her wonderful gift. But presently, feeling tired,

and more than a trifle headachy, she escaped to one of the large conservatories, where she leaned back on a comfortable ottoman, and gazed round the softlylighted place, shadowed with huge palms and starred with thousands of white blossoms, with weary eyes. She gave a long sigh of relief at being alone. But there was another - occupant of that conservatory whom she had not noticed at first. Hearing that sigh, ami recognising her, he came forward and stood before her. “You!” she said, looking up at him quickly. There was no surprise in her voice. It seemed quite natural that he should be there. “Yes,” replied Lord Bradacre. “I want to have just a word or two with you—for the sake of old times. May I be seated?” She bowed in silence, but her eyes became cold, and she could not trust herself to speak. “To meet like this after all these years!” he said; and there was a fire in his eyes, a passion in his voice, that the world rarely saw or heard. “I daresay you were surprised,” she said. “I did not know that you were in England; certainly not that you were to be one of Lady Plumton’s party, or I should not have come. It —it was a shock.” “To you as well as to me?” He asked the question almost eagerly. “Meeting old friends unexpectedly has always something dramatic in it,” she answered, with a slow smile. “And we were something more than friends.” — “Were we? All I remember - was that once I hated you —hated you so fiercely that I could have killed you.” She spoke in a bitter whisper. There was a smouldering fire in her dark

eyes, but it was gone in a moment, and she gave n little laugh, half-mirthful, half-mocking. “Why should you have hated me?” he questioned, in his low-pitched voice.

“What need to ask - ? You know well enough. Because you were a villain, Lord Bradacre, who stooped to dazzle a poor, ignorant girl with your courtly speech, your wealth of knowledge, your unscrupulous arts of fascination. What a poor little fool I was! And yet what wonder that I should have believed in you, loved you! I was only a child. Fancy! a month or two over sixteen — ah, you might have left me alone in my perfect innocence; it was no triumph to be proud of, I thought you something greater than a man, scarcely less than a god; and 1 loved you. You could do no wrong. How was it possible for me to read your mind? I was so young, so ignorant. It is such an old story, so old and yet so new - that it is played every day in real life by real men and women. It has become hackneyed, ceased to be tragedy, and affords a subject for burlesque. The profligate nobleman and the trusting village maiden. It drives me mad sometimes to think of it.” “I was a villain, I acknowledge it now,” he said, a little brokenly. "But I loved you, Agnes, and no other woman has ever meant what you did to me. But what was I to do? It was a case of noblesse oblige. I had other duties to fulfil—duties that I owed to my birth, my position. I could not disregard them. And I never thought that you would take it to heart so sadly as you must have done; and I did mean to see you again as I promised. But I was sent abroad by my father on an errand which seemed genuine enough at the time, but which, I have since thought, was invented for the purpose.”

“But you left me,” she said, doggedly. “Explanations are easy, and, of course, it doesn’t matter now. H I were disposed to tell you all that I went through, nil that I suffered, it would merely try your patience and not excite your pity. You are in an after-dinner mood. Lord Bradacre, if you will allow me to say so without rudeness. You are mellow, kindly, a little remorseful for past errors —we will not call them sins, people in your position are allowed such licenses, and women in mine are fair sport (that is your code) —but you yourself are hard, Lord Bradacre —hard as granite.” “You have estimated my character very cruelly. I was the sport of circumstance.” “And what, was I?” she asked, with a momentary bitterness. And then sho laughed, smiles chasing away that expression of stein judgment that had come to her features. He looked at her in amazement. How wonderful this woman was! How she had changed! Was this splendid butterfly, garbed in all the rich colours of fame and beauty and genius, the little grub he had known, the lovely timid child whom he had sworn he had loved? ‘•The years have not brought me much happiness,” he went on, after a pause. “1 have married, as you sec--the usual marriage of convenience-—but I might have been content and even happy had there been a child. But there is no child, Agues. What, are all the dignities, the honours I have won, the title I have inherited, unless I can hand them down to my son? But such a gilt has been denied me.” He spoke in tones of deepest dejection. He was a man to whom ambition had been as the breath of life. And now as he had said, every gift-

that the world had showered upon him was no more than dead-sea fruit. ‘‘But I do not wish to talk about myself, Agnes, but about you," he pursued, after a moment's silence. "You have made good use of your years. I can hardly believe that you anti the untaught, girl that I knew are one and the same.’.’ "Oh, it was your reading to me which first gave me the idea of becoming a reciter, 1 suppose. You remember that afternoon when you read me ‘Romeo and Juliet’? Ah! how it all comes back to me!" Iler voice trailed off into silence, but she quickly recovered herself. "Well, it was you who opened io me roads of knowledge that had been closed to me until then. It was you who awoke my soul. 1 had to wait patiently for years before 1 could do anything that brought me i». more than a pittance. Aly father turned me out of his house, for bringing shame upon him and myself. "1 found employment after nearly Starving—how the paragraph writers would like to know all this!—it was something that just sufficed to keep body and soul together. 1 was a sweated worker in the J£ast End of London. Ah, how I worked! And all the time I was educating myself, training mysei; in th is art which 1 felt I should one day excel in." "And then, 1 suppose, Air Congreve came along?” "There was no Sir Congreve! 1 assumed the name. 1 thought it sound -d attractive. I happened to be reading Congreve’s comedies at the time.” A long silence fell between them. Suddenly lx>rd Bradacre looked up. ‘1 don’t suppose you will believe me. Agnes, but 1 wish from my soul that I had defied the wishes of my family and had married you." "You say that now,” she answered, “because you see me as 1 am. not as I was, not as I might have become. You isay that because 1 was strong and endured, and at last triumphed. Bui supposing you had met me in the gutter? Fortunately. I escaped that. But Would you then have wished you had married me?” ‘•Ah. you do well to reproach me,” he answered. "But whatever yon have Suffered, I tell you 1 have suffered also.” "Because you have had no son. you moan lie bowed his head in silcncce. Mrs. Congreve, veiling a kind of triumqli I h it shone in her eyes, bent down and unclasped a small locket that was concealed in the bosom of her black gown —-a locket she always wore. Within was a face, a child face—that of a boy, with laughing grey eyes, and merry, boyish features. She handed it to Lord Brad“Don’t you wonder what kept me from sinking, what made me endure, and determine to win fame, to conquer fate, to make a something of the life you had ruined?” There was hatred, undisguised, almost brutal, in her voice now. lie looked at. the boy’s face and then at hers, in wonderment. "I don’t understand." “Oh. it is quite simple." she said. “It was the thought of my child—my son." ‘’Your son!” Ilia eyes took in bun-

grily that fair aspect of boyhood at its best. He gave a low cry, a.rd handed her rhe portrait back. "Your son—and urine!" he muttered. "Yours!" she said, almost snatching it from him with a sudden burst of passionate anger. "How dare you make any claim to him! lie has never missed his father. I have been lioth father and mother to him. lie loves me; you are a stranger to him.” "If it was revenge you wanted, you have it in full," he answered in a low tone. ‘’Yes, Lord Bradacre, if I have waited all these years for revenge, 1 have it now.” She had risen to her feel, and was looking down at him with her strange, enigmatical eyes. But could he have seen, there was only pity and nothing of triumph in th ir depths. Pity for this childless man and for her fatherless boy, and a little for herself. A movement made Lord Bradacre glance up. He was alone. Mrs. Congreve had returned to the drawing-room.