The Venetians by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

Before addressing his confidences to Sophy Marchant, Mr. Sefton had assured himself that she did not belong to that exceptional order of womankind who, in honour and discretion, are on a level with wise and honourable men. He had known the young lady quite long enough to know that, although sharp and clever, she was shallow-brained, impulsive, and emotional. He was very sure that with every desire to spare her sister pain she would end by telling Eve of her husband's infidelity. The secret would be kept for some days, perhaps, or even for some weeks; but it would be as a consuming fire, and would ultimately burst into flame -- a flame that would devastate his rival's home.

The more scathing that whirlwind which was to come from the wind of his sowing, the happier the result for Sefton. It was in vain that Lisa had denied her son's paternity. In Sefton's mind there was no shadow of doubt that Vansittart had been, and even now was her lover -- and it was for love of Vansittart that his, Sefton's, honourable attachment had been scorned by her. King Cophetua had offered himself to the beggar-maid, and the beggar-maid had refused him. Was that a humiliation for a man to forgive? Was that a disappointment to go unavenged? All the latent malignity of Sefton's nature was aroused into active life by that fierce passion of jealousy.

He had not misinterpreted Sophy's character. She was very silent during the homeward drive with her sister, lolling back in the victoria, looking vacantly at the carriages and the people as they passed.

"How tired you look, Sophy! " Eve said, as they crossed the path, where the carriages and riders and loungers had dwindled considerably within the past week. "I fancy even you begin to feel you have had enough of gadding about?"

"Yes, I have had enough, more than enough," Sophy answered, with a little choking sob.

She could no more suppress her own feelings, bear her own troubles, and be dumb, than a child can. It was quite as much as she could do to keep herself from crying, in the broad light of summer evening and Hyde Park.

"My poor Sophy, what has happened to distress you? " Eve asked affectionately. "You and Mr. Sefton had such a long confabulation in that inner room. I really thought the crisis had come."

"There was no crisis; there never will be. You were right. He was only fooling me. All his fine speeches, his sentimental talk -- his way of holding one's hand as if he would like to squeeze it, and was only prevented by his deep respect for one -- he _did_ squeeze it at the carriage door that night when we stayed so late at Mrs. Macpherson's dance -- it all meant nothing -- less than nothing."

"But how do you know, Sophy? " Eve asked earnestly. "He can't have told you that he doesn't care for you?"

"No; but he can have told me that he is in love with another woman -- a low-born, ignorant creature, who can do nothing but sing and strut about the stage in the boldest, horridest way, showing her lace petticoats and her legs," said Sophy, disgustedly, forgetting how she had admired Signora Vivanti.

"Do you mean the singer at the Apollo? " asked Eve.

"Yes, Signora Vivanti. He is in love with her, if you please, and she has refused him."

Eve remembered her husband's explanation of Lisa's letter.

"He told you this -- chose you for his confidante. How odd!"

"Rather bad form, wasn't it? I fear I had been too -- what young Theobald calls -- coming on. I thought he liked me, and I encouraged him, and he rewards me by confiding his attachment to that creature."

"And she has refused to marry him. Why? " asked Eve, very pale.

"Who knows? Mere airs and graces, I dare say. She thinks she has all London at her feet, and that she can pick and choose. How I wish I were on the stage! I can sing pretty well, can't I, Eve? And I have often been told that I am like Ellen Terry."

In her angry excitement, Sophy saw a vision of herself as the queen of a theatre, all the town rushing to see her act, as they went to see this Venetian peasant. Surely a young lady with good blood in her veins must be better than a girl bred in a hovel. Sophy did not pause to consider that it was the rough freshness, the primitive vigour of the peasant which constituted Signora Vivanti's chief claim to notice.

Sophy had exercised no small amount of self-control in restraining her tears during the homeward drive; but once safe in the sanctuary of her bedroom she let loose the flood of her emotions, with its cross-currents of anger and sorrow, disappointed ambition, and disappointed love. Yes, love. Considering Mr. Sefton, in the first instance, only from the social point of view, with the mercenary feelings engendered by a youth of poverty, she had allowed herself to be beguiled by his attentions, and had entered at the golden gate of that fool's paradise which first love creates for its victim -- a world of fevered dreams, where nothing is but what is not. Walking in the enchanted groves of that paradise, she had seen Wilfred Sefton in the light that never was on land or sea -- the light that beautifies all waking dreams -- and she had interpreted every speech of his after her own fashion. Words lightly spoken took the deepest meaning -- not his meaning, but hers. She told herself again and again that, if he had not actually asked her to be his wife, he had spoken words which a man only speaks to the woman whose life is to be interwoven with his own.

Eve came to her sister's door and insisted upon being admitted.