The hackney coach drew up at Lady Belrose's house in Hanover-square a couple of hours after it had left Kensington-square, and Lord Fordingbridge, descending from it, rang a loud peal upon the bell.
For some reason--the whereof was perhaps not known to him, or could not have been explained by even his peculiarly constituted mind--he had attired himself for the two interviews with great care. His black velvet suit, trimmed with silver lace--for he wore mourning for the late viscount--was of the richest; his thick hair was now confined beneath a handsome tye-wig, and his ruffles and breast lace were the finest in his possession. Yet he, knowing himself to be the unutterable scoundrel he was, could scarcely suppose that this sumptuousness of attire was likely to have much effect upon the woman who had deserted him for a cause which he had not the slightest difficulty in imagining. Perhaps, however, it was assumed for the benefit of the Duke of Newcastle, with whom he had had a satisfactory interview.
"Lady Fordingbridge is living here," he said quietly, but with a sternness he considered fitting to the occasion, to the grave elderly man who opened the door to him--a man whose appearance, Lady Belrose frequently observed, would have added respectability to the household of a bishop--"show me to her."
The footman looked inquiringly at him for a moment; he was not accustomed to such imperious orders from any of her ladyship's visitors, however handsome an appearance they might present. Then he said:
"Lady Belrose lives here. Lady Fordingbridge is her guest. And if you wish to see her, sir, I must know whose name to announce."
"I am her husband, Lord Fordingbridge. Be good enough to announce that, and at once."
The staid manservant gave him a swift glance--it was not to be doubted that many a gossip had been held below stairs as to the reason why Lady Fordingbridge had quitted and caused to be shut up her own house, only to come and dwell at his mistress's--then he invited his lordship to follow him into the morning room on the right of the door.
"I will tell her ladyship," he said, and so left him.
When he was alone, Lord Fordingbridge, after a hasty glance round the room, and a sneer at the portraits of a vast number of simpering young men which hung on the walls--her admirers, he considered, no doubt--took a seat upon the couch and pondered over the coming interview with his wife.
"It is time," he thought, "that things should draw to a conclusion. For," he said, as though addressing Kate herself, "I have had enough of you, my lady. You have long ceased to be a wife to me--never were one, indeed, but for a month, and then but a very indifferent spouse, a cold-hearted, cold-blooded jade; now it is time you should cease to be so much in even name. So, so. You shall be stripped of your borrowed plumage; we will see then how you like the position of affairs. I myself am heartily sick of them."
He had no premonition of what Kate might be about to say to him when she should enter the room in which he now sat; yet he had a very strong suspicion that her remarks would consist of accusations against him of having betrayed the Sholtos and Elphinston.
"Well, well," he said,-"let her accuse. I have the last card. It is a strong one. It should win the trick."
Yet at the same time, strong as any card might be which he held in his hand, he would have given a good deal to have known where at the present moment those three men might be harbouring whom he had endeavoured so strongly to give to the hangman's hands. And once, as a sudden thought came to his mind--a thought that almost made the perspiration burst out upon him--a thought that they might all be in this very house and appear suddenly to take vengeance on him for his treachery!--he nearly rose from his seat as though to fly while there was yet time. But, coward though he was, both physically and morally, he had strength to master his impulse, and, in spite of his fears that at any moment Elphinston, whom he had wronged the worst of all, might enter the room, to remain seated where he was.
Still his eyes sought ever the hands of the clock as moment after moment went by and his wife failed to come, until at last he was wrought to so high a pitch of nervousness that he started at any sound inside and outside of the house. A man bawling the news in the street or blowing the horn, which at that time the newsboys carried to proclaim their approach, set his nerves and fibres tingling; the laughter of some of the domestics in the kitchens below him had an equally jarring effect, and when aloud knock came at the street door he quivered as though the avenging Elphinston was indeed there. Then, at last, the door opened suddenly, and his wife stood before him.
He saw in one swift glance that she was very pale--she, whose complexion had once been as the rose-blush--and this he could understand. It was not strange she should be so. What he could not understand was the habit in which she appeared, the manner in which she was attired. Ever since she had become his wife he had caused her to be arrayed in the richest, most costly dresses he could afford; had desired, nay, had commanded, that in all outward things she should carry out the character of Lady Fordingbridge; that her gowns, her laces, her wigs, should all be suitable to his position.
Yet now she appeared shorn of all those adornments which his common, pitiful mind regarded as part and parcel of his dignity. The dress she wore was a simple black one, made of a material which the humblest lady in the land might have had on, without lace or trimmings or any adornment whatsoever. Also on her head there was no towering wig, nor powder, nor false curls; instead, her own sweet golden hair was neatly brushed back into a great knot behind. Nor on her hands, nor on her neck, was any jewellery, save only the one ring which, from the day he had put it on her finger, she had ever regarded as a badge of slavery.
"Madam," he said, rising and advancing towards her, while as he did so she retreated back towards the door, "Madam, I have come here to desire an explanation from you as to why I find you gone from my house and living under the shelter of another person's roof. And also, I have to ask," he continued, letting his eye fall upon the plainness of her attire, "why you present yourself before me in such a garb as you now wear? I must crave an immediate answer, madam."
"I am here to give it," she replied. "And since I do not doubt that it is the last time you and I will ever exchange words again in the world, that answer shall be full and complete. But, first, do you answer me this, Lord Fordingbridge. Was it by your craft that Mr. Elphinston and Douglas and Archibald Sholto were denounced?"
She spoke very calmly; in her voice there was no tremor; also he could see that her hands, in one of which she held a small packet, did not quiver.
"Madam," he replied, endeavouring to also assume a similar calmness, but not succeeding particularly well, while at the same time one of those strong waves of passion rose in his breast which he had hitherto always mastered when engaged in discussion with her, "madam, by what right do you ask me such a question as this? What does it concern you if I choose to denounce Jacobite plotters to the Government? Nothing! And again I ask why you have left my roof for that of the worldling with whom you have taken refuge, and why you appear before me in a garb more befitting a mercer's apprentice than my wife?"
"Your equivocation condemns you. Simeon Larpent, it was you who played the spy, you who were the denouncer of those three men. I knew that there could be no doubt on that score."
"And again I say, what if I did? What then? What does it concern you? What have you to do with it?"
"I have this to do," she replied; "but that which is to be done shall be done before witnesses," and stepping to the bell rope, she pulled it strongly, so that the peal rang through the house.
"Witnesses!" he exclaimed. "Witnesses! None are required. Yet, be careful; I warn you ere it is too late. If you summon witnesses to this interview, they may chance to hear that which, to prevent their hearing, you would rather have died. Be careful what you do, madam."
As he finished, the footman opened the door, and, without hesitating one moment, she said to the man:
"Ask the two gentlemen to step this way."
"Two gentlemen!" he repeated; "two gentlemen! So, this is a trap! Who are the two gentlemen, pray?" and as he spoke he drew his sword. "If, as I suspect, they are the two bullies--your lover, whom you meet at masquerades, whom you give assignations to, and his friend--they shall at least find that I can defend myself."
In truth, bold as he seemed, he was now in great fear. He expected nothing else but that, when the door again opened, Sholto and Elphinston would appear before him, and he began to quake and to think his last hour was come. His treachery was, he feared, soon to be repaid.
She made no answer to his vile taunt about her lover, nor did she take any heed of the drawn sword that shook in his hand; had she been a statue she could not have stood more still as she regarded him with contempt and scorn.
Then the door did open, and Sir Charles Ames and Douglas Sholto entered the room. The first he did not know; had, indeed, never seen him before; but at the sight of the other he grasped his weapon more firmly, expecting that ere another moment had passed the hands of the young Highlander would be at his throat, and that he would have to defend his life against him. To his intense surprise Sholto treated him with as much indifference as if he too had been a statue; after one glance--which, if disdain could have the power to slay, would have withered him as he stood--he took no further heed of him. As for Sir Charles Ames, he, observing the drawn weapon in the other's hand, smiled contemptuously, shrugged his shoulders, and then took his place behind Lady Fordingbridge and by the side of Douglas.
"Sir Charles and you, Douglas," she said, "forgive me for asking you to be present at this interview, yet I do so because I desire that in after days there shall be one or two men, at least, to testify to that which I now do." Then, turning towards her husband, who still stood where he had risen on her entrance, she said:
"Simeon Larpent, since first I met you--to my eternal unhappiness--your life has been one long lie, one base deceit. The first proposals ever made to me by you were degrading to an honest woman, were infamy to listen to. Next, you obtained me for your wife by more lies, by more duplicity, by more deceit. Also, from the time I have been your wife, you, yourself a follower of the unhappy house of Stuart by birth and bringing up, have endeavoured in every way to encompass the death of three followers of the same cause, because one of those men was to have been my husband had not you foully wronged him to me; because the other two were his and my friends."
She paused a moment as though to gather fresh energy for her denunciation of him; and he, craven as he was, stood there before her, white to the very lips, and with his eyes wandering from one to the other of the two listeners. Then she continued:
"For all this, Simeon Larpent, but especially for that which you have last done, for this your last piece of cruel, wicked treachery, for this your last bitter, tigerish endeavour to destroy three men who had otherwise been safe, I renounce and deny you for ever."
All started as she uttered these words, but without heeding them she continued:
"For ever. I disavow you, I forswear you as my husband. I have long ceased to be aught to you but a wife in name; henceforth I will not be so much as that. I have quitted your house. I quit now and part with for so long as I shall live your name, the share in the rank that you smirch and befoul. From to-day I will never willingly set eyes on you again, never speak one word to you, though you lay dying at my feet, never answer to the name of Fordingbridge. I return to what I was; I become once more Katherine Fane."
He, standing before her, moistened his lips as though about to speak, but again she went on, taking now from off her finger the one ring that alone she wore. Placing it on the table, she continued:
"Thus I discard you, thus I sever to all eternity the bond that binds me to you; a bond that no priest, no Church, shall ever persuade or force me into again recognising." And with these words she placed also on the table the package she had brought into the room with her.
"There," she said, "is every trinket you have given me, except the jewellery of your family, which you have possession of. At your own house is every dress and robe, every garment I own that has been bought with your money. So the severance is made. Again I say that I renounce you and deny you. From to-day, Lord Fordingbridge, your existence ceases for me."
It seemed that she had spoken her last word. With an inclination of her head towards those two witnesses whom she had summoned to hear her denunciation, she moved towards the door, while they, after casting one glance at him, the Denounced, standing there--Sir Charles Ames, conveying in his looks all the ineffable disdain which a polished gentleman of the world might be supposed to feel towards another who had fallen so low, and Douglas regarding him as a man regards some savage, ignoble beast--prepared to follow her.
Then, at last, he found his voice--a harsh and raucous one, as though emotion, or hate, or rage were stifling its natural tones--and exclaimed ere they could quit the room:
"Stay. The last word is not yet said. You, Katherine Fane, as you elect, wisely, to call yourself henceforth, and you, her witnesses, listen to what I have now to say. This parley, this conference, call it what you will, may justly be completed."
She paused and looked at him--disdainfully, and careless as to what he might have to say in this her final interview with him--and they, doing as she did, paused also.
Then he continued, still speaking hoarsely but clearly enough:
"You have said, madam, that you renounce and deny me for ever; that you are resolved never more to share my rank or title, nor again to bear my name. Are you so certain that 'tis yours to so refuse or so renounce at your good will and pleasure?"
"What, sir, do you mean by such questions?" asked Sir Charles Ames, speaking now for the first time. But Lord Fordingbridge, heeding him not, continued to address her, and now, as he spoke, he raised his hand and pointed his finger at her.
"You have been very scornful, very cold and disdainful since first we came together, madam, treating me ever to your most bitter dislike, while all the time every thought and idea of yours was given to another man--all the time, I say, while you continued to bear the title of the Viscountess Fordingbridge. Once more, I ask, are you so sure that this title was yours to fling away, the husband yours to renounce and deny in your own good pleasure?"
And his eyes glared at her now as he spoke, and she knew that the devil which dwelt in him had got possession.
"Be more explicit," she said, "or cease to speak at all. If I could think, if I could awake as from an evil dream and learn that I had never been your wife, never plighted troth with you, I would upon my knees thank God for such a mercy."
"Those thanks may be more due than you dream of. How if I were to tell you----?"
"What?" fell from the lips of all, while Douglas took a step nearer to him, and Sir Charles felt sure that in another moment they would be told of some earlier marriage. "What?"
For answer he went on, one finger raised and pointing at her as though to emphasize his remarks:
"You have taunted me often with the Jesuit education I received at St. Omer--at Lisbon. Well, it was true: such an education I did receive at both places. Only, madam--my Lady Fordingbridge!--Miss Fane!--have you never heard that one so educated may, at such places, receive other things? may become acolytes, priests? What ifIbecame such? what would you then be--a priest----?"
"It is a lie!" she exclaimed, "and you know it."
"Are you so sure? Can you prove--or, rather,disproveit? Answer me that--answer, if you are sure that you share my name and rank--have power to renounce them."
As he finished, Douglas sprang at him and, in spite of his drawn sword, would have choked the life out of him on the spot had not Sir Charles interceded, while at the same moment Kitty's voice was heard bidding him desist.
"Even so," she said, "true or untrue, it is best. The infamy, if infamy there is, must be borne. At least, I am free. Free! Am justified after these hints!"
"Ay," Lord Fordingbridge said, "you may be free. To do what, however? To fling yourself into your lover's arms to-night--only, where will you find him? Newgate, the Tower, the New Gaol in Southwark are full of such as he; 'tis there, Mistress Fane, that doubtless you must seek him."
"And 'tis there," said Douglas Sholto, an inspiration occurring suddenly to his mind, "that you shall join him. The King has issued orders for every Jesuit priest to be arrested who shall be found, or denounced, in these dominions, and, Jacobite though I am, with my life at stake, I will drag you there with my own hands ere you shall be suffered to escape. You have proclaimed yourself, shown us the way; by your own lips shall you be judged."
That Douglas had spoken out of the fury of his heart and, consequently, without thought, was, however, very apparent at once; for when Kate had quitted the room, leaving Fordingbridge free from the grasp of the former--since Douglas, a second after he had seized him, flung him trembling and shivering on the couch--Sir Charles Ames spoke and said, as he drew Sholto aside to where the other would not hear them:
"It would indeed serve the scoundrel right if he were treated as you suggest. Only, unfortunately, it is not possible. First of all, I believe this insinuation is a lie."
"I am sure of it. If he had ever been admitted a priest my brother must have known of it, and, in any circumstances, the truth can soon be proved by him. A letter to the head of the Jesuit College at Lisbon from another Jesuit such as Archibald is will prove his statement to be false."
"Yet even," said Sir Charles, "were he a Jesuit priest and so subject to arrest and imprisonment in this country, you would stand in far too much danger to bring it about. Also, he can tell too much, as he would undoubtedly do if he was himself given up. Let us consider what is best."
"I," replied Douglas, speaking in an even lower whisper, so that the villain could not possibly hear him, "go to-night, as you know. Archie probably to-morrow, or the next night, and Bertie is already gone. Surely it might somehow be done."
"Impossible," replied Sir Charles, "impossible. Remember, we are in Lady Belrose's house; we must bring no scandal upon her. No, that way will not do."
"What then?" asked Douglas. "What then? For I am determined that his power of doing any harm shall be forever quenched now. We have him in our hands, and we will hold him fast."
As he spoke he glanced where the traitor sat glowering at them from the sofa. He seemed now to be thoroughly cowed, thoroughly alarmed also for his own safety, and his piercing black eyes scintillated and twinkled more like the eyes of a hunted, timorous creature than those of a man. Indeed, as Douglas looked at him, it seemed as though Fordingbridge were really mad with terror. Yet, abject as he now was, the other shuddered again, as he had more than once shuddered before when speaking of or looking at the man.
"We must get him away from this house," said Sir Charles. "I will have no disturbance here. Come, let us take him to the park. There we can talk at freedom, and, I think, so persuade his lordship of our intentions that henceforth he will be harmless. Do you agree?"
Douglas nodded, whereon Sir Charles, advancing into the room again, addressed Lord Fordingbridge.
"My lord," he said, in his coldest, most freezing manner, "it were best you sheathed that sword," and he pointed to it as it lay beside him on the sofa. "Such weapons are unfitted to a lady's house, and you may be at ease--no injury is intended you."
Fordingbridge gazed at him--still with the terror-stricken look in his eyes, the glance almost of madness or, at best, of imbecility; yet he did as the baronet bade him, and replaced his weapon. But he uttered no word.
"We shall be obliged," continued Sir Charles, "if you will accompany us to St. James's Park. We have something to say to you."
"If," said Fordingbridge, finding his voice at last, "you intend to make me fight a duel with that man, I will not do it. He----
"There is," interrupted Douglas, "no thought of such a thing. My sword is not made to cross one borne by you."
"Very well," replied the other meekly, "I will come." But, a moment later, he burst out into one of his more natural methods of speaking, and cried, "You have the whip hand of me for the moment, but we shall see. We shall see."
"We shall," replied Sir Charles, calmly; "but if your lordship is now ready we may as well depart. We have already encroached somewhat on Lady Belrose's hospitality."
The grave manservant seemed somewhat astonished, when he opened the street door at a summons from the bell, to observe the three gentlemen go down the steps together and enter the hackney coach which was still waiting for the viscount. Also he was surprised--since he and all the other servants in the house had gathered a very accurate knowledge of what had transpired in the small saloon--to witness the courteous manner in which Sir Charles motioned to his lordship to enter the vehicle before him, and then entered it himself, followed by Douglas. Next, he heard the direction given to the man to drive to St. James's Park, and retired, wondering what it all meant. After the words he had--by chance, of course--overheard in the room, he, too, naturally supposed that a duel was about to be fought; but being a discreet man, he only mentioned this surmise to his fellow-servants, and took care not to alarm his mistress.
Arrived in the park and the coach discharged by Sir Charles, who even took so much of the ordering of these proceedings upon himself as to pay the man the hire demanded, the former, still with exquisite politeness, requested Fordingbridge to avail himself of a vacant bench close by, since he and his friend, Mr. Sholto, had a few words to say to each other before they laid their deliberations before him. And Fordingbridge, still with the terror-stricken look upon his face and the vacillating glance in his eyes, obeyed without a word.
And now the others paced up and down the path at a short distance from him, but always keeping him well in their view, and the deliberations mentioned by Sir Charles took some time in arriving at. But they came to an end at last, and the baronet, drawing near to the bench where Fordingbridge was seated, proceeded to unfold them to him.
"My lord," he said, speaking with great clearness and cold distinctness, "you may perhaps think that I should have no part in whatever has transpired between you and others. Yet I think I have. It fell to my lot--to my extreme good fortune--to be of assistance to the Viscountess Fordingbridge, for so I shall continue to call her in spite of your observations and disclosures this morning, which I do not believe. It fell to my lot, I repeat, to be of some service to her ladyship on a certain night a week or two ago. That service was rendered necessary by your betrayal of a cause which you had once espoused, of a man whom you had previously injured cruelly, and of another man, Mr. Douglas, who had never injured you. Therefore, I was of assistance to her ladyship, who was more or less under my charge and protection that evening, and I am glad to have been able to do so."
"I wish," muttered Fordingbridge hoarsely, glaring at him, "that you had been at the devil before you did so."
"Doubtless. But I was not. That service, however, and your visit to-day to the house of a lady who is shortly about to honour me by becoming my wife, justifies me, I think, in taking some part in these proceedings, though only as spokesman. In that character I now propose to tell you what Mr. Sholto intends to do."
"What?" gasped Fordingbridge, moistening his lips.
"First," said Sir Charles, unsparingly, "when he has left the country, which he will do almost immediately, to denounce you to His Majesty's Government. You are pledged by every oath that can be regarded as sacred in any cause to the House of Stuart----"
"No!" exclaimed Fordingbridge. "No. I am now an adherent of the House of Hanover."
"I am afraid even that will be of little avail to you. For, if you are, you are a double traitor. It was you who planned the attack on the 'Fubbs,' which brought the King from Herrenhausen at the outbreak of the Scotch Invasion; you who circulated the papers offering a large reward for his assassination; you who, but a month or so ago, brought over with you Father Sholto, the most notorious plotter among the Jesuits."
"I denounced him," whined Fordingbridge. "I denounced him. That alone will save me from the King's anger."
"That," replied Sir Charles, "is possible. I am willing to allow it. But you are by your own confession a Jesuit priest, therefore you will be subject to all the punishments and penalties now in force against such persons. Also, you will have let loose against you the whole of the anger of the Jesuits--should His Majesty be inclined to spare you--when Mr. Sholto has informed them of your treachery. You, as one yourself, can best imagine what form that anger is likely to take."
Fordingbridge gasped as he stared at the baronet; and now, indeed, it seemed as if the light of idiocy alone shone in his eyes.
"But," went on Sir Charles, "you have also something else to reckon with, namely, the punishment which your brother religionists may see fit to accord to you for having, as a priest--as you suggest yourself--gone through the form of matrimony. I have not the honour to be of the Romanist religion myself, therefore I do not know what shape that punishment may take, but, from what Mr. Sholto tells me, it is for your own sake to be hoped that you have hinted a lie and are, indeed, no priest."
"Let me go," said Fordingbridge, "let me go." Then he muttered, "Curses on you all. If I could kill you both as you stand there, blast you both to death before me, I would do it."
"Without doubt," replied Sir Charles; "but if you will pardon my saying it, your schemes for injuring others seem to fall most extraordinarily harmless. And I trust your aspirations for our ill will not take effect until, at least, we have had time to put some leading Jesuits in France--if not here--in possession of your true character."
"Curse you both, curse you all," again muttered Fordingbridge impotently.
"Now," continued Sir Charles, "I propose to accompany your lordship as far as the door of your own house. Once I have seen you safe there, care will be taken that you shall find no means of communicating in any way with those who have it in their power to injure our friends. When, however, they are beyond your reach you will be free from observation, and will be quite at liberty to devote yourself to making another peace with the Government and with the--Order of the Jesuits. My lord, shall we now proceed to Kensington-square?"
"Have a care," said Fordingbridge, with an evil droop of his eye at him, "have a care, however, for yourself. If they escape me, you may not. A harbourer of Jacobites, an abettor in their escape from England and from justice, I may yet do you an evil turn, Sir Charles Ames."
"I do not doubt it if you have the power. But, Lord Fordingbridge, you have so much to think of on your own behalf, you will be so very much occupied in you own affairs shortly--what with the State on one side and the Church (your Church) on the other--that I am afraid you will have but little time to devote to me. And I think, my lord, I can hold my own against you. Now, come."
Douglas shook hands with Sir Charles as they stood apart once more from the wretched man, and after one hearty grasp strode away through the park, leaving the other two alone. Yet he did not hesitate to acknowledge the truth of the baronet's last whispered words to him.
"Lose no time," that gentleman said as they parted, "in putting the sea between you and England. Also induce your brother to go at once. I have frightened the craven cur sufficiently to keep him quiet for a day or so--alas! mine are but idle threats. The Government must find out his villainies for themselves, while for his Church you must put them on the scent, but afterwards I cannot answer for what he may do. Once he finds that they are but idle threats he may go to work again. Begone, therefore, both of you, and let me hear when you are safe in France."
"Have no fear," Douglas replied; "by to-morrow, if all is well, we may be in Calais. McGlowrie sends another vessel to-night. If possible, Archie and I, Kate and her father, may be in it. But the day grows late, there is much to do. Again farewell, and thanks, thanks, thanks for all."
"He is safe from you," said the baronet, turning, after Douglas was gone, to Fordingbridge. "Now, my lord, I am ready."
"I will not go with you," replied the other, some spark of manliness, or perhaps shame, rising in his breast at the manner in which he was dominated by this man whom, until to-day, he had never seen nor heard of. "I will not go with you."
And he drew back from him and laid his hand upon the hilt of his sword.
"No?" inquired Sir Charles, with his most polished air. Then he continued: "I am sorry my enforced society should be so unwelcome." As he spoke he glanced his eye round the grassy slopes of the park and across the low brick wall which at that time separated it from Piccadilly. "I regret it very much. But, my lord, I must not force myself where I am disliked. Therefore, since I see a watchman outside who appears to have little to occupy him, I will, with your lordship's permission, ask him to accompany you and see you safely home. Or, stay," and again his eye roved over the grass, "there is a sergeant's guard passing towards Buckingham House--your lordship can see their conical caps over the bushes--I will summon them and relieve you of my presence, since it is so distasteful."
"Oh!" exclaimed Fordingbridge, "if ever the time should come--if ever the chance is mine!"
"It is not at present," replied the baronet. Then, with an air of determination which until now he had not assumed, he stamped his foot angrily and exclaimed: "Come, sir, I will be trifled with no longer. Either with me, or the watch, or the soldiers. But at once. At once, I say!"
And Fordingbridge, knowing he was beaten, went with him.
A coach was found at the park wicket, into which they entered and proceeded to Kensington, no word being uttered by either during the drive. Then, when they had arrived outside Fordingbridge's house, Sir Charles, with a relaxation of the courteous manner that he had previously treated the other to, said, coldly and briefly:
"Remember, for two days you will have no opportunity of injuring anyone. That I shall take steps to prevent. Afterwards, you will have sufficient occupation in consulting your own welfare," and, raising his three-cornered hat an inch, he entered the coach again. Only, he thought it well to say to the driver in a clear, audible voice which the other could not fail to hear:
"Drive to Kensington Palace now; I have business with the officer of the guard."
With those terrifying words ringing in his ears--for Fordingbridge knew how, at that time, soldiers quartered in the neighbourhood of suspected persons acted as police act in these days, and were employed often to make arrests of persons implicated with the State--he entered his house, locking himself in with a key he carried. Then he proceeded at once to ring the bells and shout for the deaf old servitor, Luke, but without effect. There was no response to the noise he made, no sound of the old man's heavy, shuffling feet, and he began to wonder if he, too, had taken flight like the rest of the servants. Yet, even if he had, his master meditated, it would matter very little now. He was himself about to take flight. London was too hot to hold him.
A coward ever from his infancy, there could have been no better plan devised to frighten this man from doing more harm to those whom he wished to injure than the one adopted by Sir Charles Ames; while the latter's statement that he had business with the officer of the guard at Kensington Palace was the culminating point to the other's fears. Moreover--although his mind appeared to him to be strangely hazy and distraught now, and unable to retain the sequence of that day's events--he recognised the fearful weapon he had drawn against himself in suggesting that he was a Jesuit priest. Upon that statement, testified to by Sir Charles, a man of responsible position, he would certainly be arrested at once; while, if proof could be obtained that he was in truth a priest, or had ever been trained to be one, the most terrible future would lie before him.
As he thought of all this in a wandering, semi-vacant manner, he set about doing that which, since the interview in the park, he had made up his mind to do. He would fly from England, he would return to France. Yet, he reflected, if in France, Paris would still be closed to him. There the Jesuits were in possession of terrible authority, although an authority not recognised by the Government; if they knew what he had done, even in only betraying Archibald Sholto to the English authorities, their vengeance on him would be sharp, swift, terrible. And in Paris also--he could not doubt it--would soon be Bertie Elphinston and Douglas, even Archibald himself. No, it must not be Paris. Not yet at least!
But he must be somewhere out of London, out of England, and he set to work--still in a dazed, stupefied manner--to make his plans.
He went first to his own bedroom, to which was attached a small toilet or dressing-room, and, unlocking an iron-bound strong box, took from it some money--a small casket of Louis d'ors and English guineas, a leather case stuffed full of bills of exchange and several notes, among them a large one drawn by a Parisian money-lender on a London goldsmith. Then, next, he opened a false tray, or bottom, in the strong box, and from it took out several shagreen cases which he slipped into his pocket. These contained all his family jewels.
Yet the man's fear was so great that he might even by now have been denounced by Sir Charles Ames to the officer of the guard at Kensington Palace, that more than once he rose from the box and, on hearing any slight noise in the square, ran to the window and peered out of it and down into the road, and then came back to his task of packing up his valuables. And all the while as he did so he muttered to himself continually:
"The notary must see to all--I will write to him from France. He had best sell all and remit the money. England is done with! Neither Hanoverian nor Jacobite now. Curse them both and all." Then he laughed, a little sniggering, feeble laugh--it was wondrous that, in the state his mind was and with the ruin which was upon him, he could have been moved by such a trifle!--and chuckled to himself and said:
"If Luke comes back now he will find the door barred forever. A faithful servant! A faithful servant! Well, his home is gone. Let him go drown himself."
He fetched next all the silver which he could find about the house, and which had been brought forth on his return from the coffers where it had lain since his father's flight into France years ago--candelabras, old dishes and baskets and a coffee pot, with a tankard or so--and hurled them into the strong box and locked it securely.
Then, after once more peering into the square and seeing that all was clear, he descended to the hall, opened the door an inch or two and again glanced his eye round, and, a moment later, drew the door to and went forth into the night.
All through Picardy, from Artois to the Ile de France, from Normandy to Champagne, the wheat was a-ripening early that year, the trees in the orchards and gardens of the rich, fruitful province had their boughs bent to the earth with their loads, and, so great was the summer heat, the cattle stood in the rivers and pools for coolness, or sought shelter under the elms and poplars dotted about by the river's banks.
Yet, heat notwithstanding, the great bare road that runs from Calais through Boulogne, Abbeville, and Amiens, as well as through Clermont and Chantilly and St. Denis to Paris, had still its continuous traffic to which neither summer nor winter made much difference, except when the snows of the latter belated many diligences and waggons--for it was the high road between the coast and the capital. And thus it was now, in this hot, broiling June of 1746. Along that road, passing each other sometimes, sometimes breaking down, sometimes, by the carelessness of drunken drivers or postillions, getting their wheels into ditches and sticking there for hours, went almost every vehicle that was known in the France of those days. Monseigneur's carriage, drawn by four or six stout travelling roadsters--wrenched for the occasion from the service of Monseigneur's starving tenants--and with Monseigneur within it looking ineffably bored at the heat and the dust and the inferiorcanaillewho obtruded themselves on his vision--would lumber by the diligence, or Royal Post, farmed from Louis the well-beloved--so, loved, perhaps, because he despised his people and said France would last his time, which was long enough!--or be passed by adesobligéant, or chaise for one person, or by a fat priest on a post-horse, or by a travelling carriage full of provincialsen routefor Paris. Also, to add to the continuous traffic on this road in that period, wereberlins à quatre chevaux, carriers' waggons loaded with merchandise either from or to England, countless horsemen civil and military, and innumerable pedestrians, since the accomplishment of long journeys on foot, with a wallet slung on the back, was then one of the most ordinary methods of travelling amongst the humbler classes.
Seated in thebanquette, or hooded seat, attached to the back of the diligence from Calais to Amiens, on one of these broiling days in June of 1746, were Kate Fane--as now she alone would describe herself or allow herself to be styled--and her father. They had crossed from England in the ordinary packet-boat a day or two before, and were at this moment between Abbeville and Amiens, at which latter place they proposed to remain for the present at least. To look at her none would have supposed that, not more than a week or two before, this golden-haired girl, now dressed in a plain-checked chintz, with, to protect her head from the heat, a large flapping straw hat, had been discarded by the man whom she had imagined to be her husband; had been told that she was, possibly, no lawful wife. For she looked happier, brighter at this time than she had ever done since she went through a form of marriage with the Viscount Fordingbridge, because--though not in the way that he had falsely insinuated--she was free of him.
"What was it Archie said to ye?" asked her father as the diligence toiled up a small hill, the road of which was shaded by trees from the burning sun. "What was it he said to ye in the letter you got at Calais? Tell me again; I like not to think that my daughter has been flouted and smirched by such a scoundrel as that. Lawfully married, humph! Lawfully married, he said, eh?"
"Lawfully married enough, father," Kate replied. "Lawfully enough to tie me to him for ever as his wife. But," she went on, "lawful or not lawful, nothing shall ever induce me to see him, to speak with him again."
"Read me the letter," said Fane; "let me hear all about it."
"Nay, nay," answered his daughter, "time enough when we get to Amiens, when we shall all meet again. Oh, the joyful day! The blessed chance! To think that to-night we shall all of us be together once more! All! all! Just as we used to be in the happy old times in the Trousse Vache," and she busied herself with taking a little wine and water from a basket she had with her, and a bunch of grapes and some chipped bread, and ministering to the old man.
So, as you may gather from her words, those who had been in such peril in England were back safe in France. Bertie Elphinston had crossed, disguised, of course, as a drover, unmolested by "infernal sloops o' war and bomb-ketches"--to use honest McGlowrie's words--or anything else. And, also, the Sholtos had come in the same way, finding, indeed, so little let or hindrance in either the river or on the sea, that they began to think the English King's rage and hate against all who had taken part in the late rebellion were slacked at last. They were, in truth, not nearly glutted yet, and the safe, undisturbed passage which they had been fortunate enough to make was due to that strange chance which so often preserves those who are in greatest danger.
Still, they were over, no matter how or by what good fortune, and that night--that afternoon, in another hour's time--all would meet at the Inn,La Croix Blanche, in Amiens.
At Calais Kate had learned the welcome tidings; a letter had been given into her hands by no less a person than the great Dessein himself--hotel-keeper,marchand-de-vin, job-master, and letter of coaches, chaises, and post-horses, and plunderer of travellers generally!--and in it was news from Father Sholto, as he might safely be called here in France, and from Bertie and Douglas.
Sholto's letter told her all she desired to know, viz., that Fordingbridge's suggestion of his being a priest was a lie, "the particulars of which," the Jesuit wrote, "I will give you at Amiens when we meet." Bertie's, on the other hand, told her--manfully and, of course, as a woman would think, selfishly--that he regretted that it was an implied lie. "Because," wrote he, "had it been the truth, we might have become man and wife within twenty-four hours of meeting, and now we are as far apart as ever." Some other details were also given, such as that Father Sholto was in residence for the time being at the Jesuit College, and that Bertie had rejoined his regiment and was now on duty at the Citadel. Douglas was at theCroix Blanche, and would take care that suitable rooms were kept for them, though, since it happened to be the great summer fair-time, the city was full of all kinds of people, and rooms in fierce demand at every hostelry.
These letters, received by Kate as they landed from the packet-boat in the canal at Calais, were sufficient to prompt her to lose no time in hastening onward--north. The diligence, she found, left the hospitable doors of Monsieur Dessein at five o'clock on summer mornings, and did the distance of sixty miles to Amiens in eleven hours, which Dessein spoke of approvingly--and falsely--as being the fastest possible. Still they could not afford anything that was faster--for they had little money in their purse these days. Therefore, at dawn, they clambered into thebanquette, which happened to be vacant, and set out upon their road.
And now, as the diligence skirted the river Somme, and drew near to Picquigny, the towers of the cathedralNôtre Dame d'Amienscame into sight, and the ramparts of the city. And, because it was fair-time, the roads were full of people of all kinds streaming towards it; of market people, with their wares, and waggons of fruit and vegetables, and poultry, of saltimbanques and strolling actors, strong men, fat women, dwarfs, and giants--since in those days fairs were not much different from what they are now, only the play was a little rougher and the speech a little coarser even among the lowest.
Nevertheless, amidst the ringing of the cathedral bells, as well as those of the Collegiate Church and Amiens' fourteen parish churches, the diligence arrived at last, and only one hour late, at the office of thePoste du Roi, and there, walking up and down in front of it, were Bertie and Douglas, both in their uniforms, and waiting for them.
"How did you know, Mr. Elphinston," Kate asked, glad of the bustle and confusion in the streets caused by the fair and by the arrival of the diligence, "that we should come to-day? We might not have crossed from England for another week--nay, another month, for the matter of that."
"We should have been here all the same," Bertie replied. "I am not on duty at this time in the day, and Douglas would have come every afternoon. We have watched the arrival of the diligence, Kate, for the last week--since--ever since you wrote to say you were about to set out."
"I did not know I told Archie that."
"No, but you told me. Have you forgotten all you wrote to me, Kate?"
"No," she said, in a low voice, and with her soft blush. "Yet, remember, Ber----Mr. Elphinston--we are as far apart as ever. Archie says I am, in truth, that man's wife."
"I remember," he replied; "I must remember," and he led the way into the inn, which was close by thePoste du Roi.
The young men had been fortunate enough to secure a room for themselves and the new arrivals, where they could sit as well as take their meals apart, in spite of the inn being crowded. Nay, those who crowded it now were scarcely of the class who require sitting-rooms, nor, in some cases, bedrooms even; many of them being very well satisfied to lie down and take their rest in the straw of the stables. For among the customers ofLa Croix Blanchewere horse-dealers from Normandy and from Flanders; the performers at the booths, the strolling actors, mendicant friars--if friars they were!--vendors of quack medicines, and all theolla-podridathat went to make up a French fair. These cared not where they slept, while of those who sought bedrooms there werecommis voyageurs, ruffling gentlemen of the road, bedizened with tawdry lace, and with red, inflamed faces beneath their bag-wigsà la pigeon--on whom the local watch kept wary eyes--large purchasers of woollen ribbons and ferrets, serges, stuffs, and black and green soap for the Paris market, in the production of all of which things Amiens has ever been famous, as well as for itspâti de canard. Nor did any of these people require private rooms for the consumption of their food, but, instead, ate together at the ordinary, or fed in the kitchen among the scullions and their pots and pans.
Therefore, undisturbed, or disturbed only by the cries that arose from below, as evening came on and the guests' table became crowded, Douglas and Bertie ministered to the wants of Kate and her father, and compared notes of the passages they had made across from England. Also they spoke of their future, Kate's being that which needed the most discussion.
"Prince Edward is safe," said Bertie, "of this there is no doubt. He is known by those of this country, though by none in England, to be secure with Cluny in the mountain of Letternilichk, near Moidart. Off Moidart is the 'Bellona,' a Nantes privateer, with three hundred and forty men on board, and well armed. She will get him away, in spite of Lestock's squadron, which is hovering about between Scotland and Brittany. Now, Kate, when he arrives in Paris, as he will do shortly, his household will be a pleasant one. Your place must be there."
"In the household of the prince!" exclaimed Kate.
"Ay! in the household of the prince. Nay, never fear. You will not be the only woman. The Ladies Elcho and Ogilvie will be with you; also old Lady Lochiel. Oh, you will be a bonnie party! While, as for Mr. Fane, some place must also be found."
"But who is to find these places?" she asked.
"Archie," replied Douglas. "He has interest enough with Tencin to do anything. Indeed, from finding a post at court to obtaining alettre de cachet, he can do it."
"Why," said Bertie to him aside, noticing that he turned pale as he spoke, "did you shiver then, Douglas, as I have seen you do before now? You do not fear alettre de cachetfor Vincennes or the Bastille--and--and--we are not talking of the man at whose name I have seen you shiver before."
"I--I do not know," his companion replied. "It must be that I am fey, or a fool, or both. Yet, last night I dreamt that Archie was asking the minister for alettre de cachetto consign someone--I know not whom--to the Bastille, and--and--I woke up shivering as I did just now."
"It could not be for you, at least," answered the other.
"Perhaps," replied Douglas, moodily, "for someone who had injured me. Who knows?"
Whatever reply his stronger-minded friend might have made to this gloomy supposition, which was by no means the first he had known Douglas to be subjected to, was not uttered since at that moment Archibald Sholto himself entered the room.
His greetings to Kate were warm and, at the same time, brotherly. He, too, remembered how for years the little party assembled now inLa Croix Blanchehad all been as though one family; he remembered the black spot that had come amongst them; that to Fordingbridge, whom he himself had introduced into Fane's house, was owing most, if not all, of the evil that had befallen them. Also he recalled that, but for Fordingbridge's treachery, neither he, nor Bertie, nor Douglas would have been forced to flee out of England for their lives; that Kate would never have forfeited her position nor have had the foul yet guarded suggestion hurled against her that she was no wife, but only a priest's mistress. Then, when their first welcomes and salutations were over, he spoke aloud to her on the subject that, above all, engrossed their minds.
"Kitty," he said, "is Fordingbridge gone mad? For to madness alone can such conduct as his be attributed."
"I do not know," she replied. "I cannot say. All I know is that he is a villain and a traitor--that I have done with him for ever. Yet he must be mad when he throws out so extraordinary a hint as that he is a priest. He could not have been a priest, and you not know it--could he?"
Up from the guests' room below there came the hubbub of those at supper, the shouts of the copper captains for more petits pigolets of wine, mixed with the clattering of plates and dishes, the calls of other travellers for food, and the general disturbance that accompanies a French inn full of visitors, as Father Sholto answered gravely:
"My child, he might have been a priest and I not know it; God might even have allowed so wicked a scheme to enter his heart as that, being one, he should go through a form of marriage with an innocent woman. But, my dear, one thing is still certain, he was not, is not, a priest--I know it now beyond all doubt; you are as lawfully his wife as it is possible for you to be."
"What--what, then, was the use of such a statement, such a lie, added to all the others which--God forgive him!--he has already told since first he darkened our door?"
"The gratification of his hate, his revenge against you and all of us. He hated you because you had never loved him, and had at last come to despise him; he hated Bertie because you had always loved him" (as he spoke, the eyes of those two met in one swift glance, and then were quickly lowered to the table at which they sat); "he hated me because I knew him. And, remember, until he had put himself in the power of Douglas and Sir Charles Ames by insinuating himself to be what he was not--a priest--he thought that I should soon be removed from his path for ever. Once in the power of the English Government, my tongue would have been silenced; it would have been hard to prove, perhaps, that he was not a priest; that you were a lawful married woman."
"Yet, surely, it could have been proved in some way. And--and--of what avail such a lie to him? Knowing he is not a priest, he would not have dared to take another wife."
"Perhaps," replied Sholto, "he had no desire to take another. If he is not mad, he had but one wish, to outrage and insult you, and thereby avenge himself upon you. Moreover, he must have some feelings still left in him--your very renunciation of him may have led to his denial of you."
"How have you found for certain that he is no priest?"
"In the easiest manner. A letter to the 'General' at Rome, another to the 'Provincial' at Lisbon, and, lo! a reply from each to the effect that neither under the name of Simeon Larpent nor the title of Viscount Fordingbridge had anyone been ever admitted to the Society of Jesus. At St. Omer, I knew, of course, such a thing could not have happened; nay, I knew more: I knew that neither as novice nor acolyte, even, had Fordingbridge ever been admitted, nor had he submitted to any of those severe examinations which all must pass through ere they can become these alone. As for priest--well, it was impossible, impossible that he could be one and I not know it, never have heard of it."
"So, Kate," whispered Bertie to her, "you are still Lady Fordingbridge. As far apart as ever--as far apart as ever."
"Surely," said she to him, as now they talked alone and outside the general conversation that was going on, "surely it is better so. I have renounced him, it is true; willingly I will never see nor speak to him again; he and I are sundered for ever. Yet--yet--Bertie," and for the first time now, after so long, she called him frankly by the old, familiar name, "I could never have come to you had I been that other thing. You could not have taken such as I should have been for your wife."
He looked at her, but answered no word. Then he sighed and turned away.
They sat far into the evening talking and making plans, while still, through the warm summer night, the noise of the crowded city came in at their windows and nearly deafened them. And this is what they decided upon for the future.
The troop to which Bertie Elphinston belonged in the Regiment of Picardy would be removed, later on, to quarters at St. Denis, and at about the same time Douglas would rejoin his regiment in Paris, while his brother Archibald was about to depart for St. Omer, where he should remain for some time. He had, he said, nothing more to do now in the world, since the restoration he had hoped so much from had failed altogether. Therefore, because at present there was no need for Kate to go to Paris, and because, also, her father became more and more ailing every day, they decided to remain at Amiens, to live quietly there in lodgings, and to have at least the friendship of the two young men to cheer them. There was still a little money left from the sale of Doyle Fane's fencing school in Paris--indeed, it had never been touched since Kate's marriage--which would suffice for their wants, especially since Amiens was cheaper than Paris to reside in. Then, when the time came, they would all move on to the capital, and there, as they told each other, try to forget the black, bitter year which had come and separated them all from the happy life they had once led together.
"Only," said Bertie once again that night to her, ere he went back to the Citadel, "only, still we are parted; the gulf is ever between us. O Kate, Kate! if it were not for that."
And once more for reply she whispered:
"'Tis better so, better than if it had been as he, that other, said. At least I am honest; if--if freedom ever comes, no need for you to blush for me."
"Nay," he said, "none could do that, knowing all. For myself, Kate, I would it had been as the wretch said. Then the bar would not be there."
"But the blot would."
With which words she left him and the others, going with her father to the rooms prepared for them.
Meanwhile, as now the full night was upon them, the hubbub and the uproar grew greater in the inn. Back from the booths and open-air theatres came the mummers and the mountebanks, the mendicant friars with their pills and potions, balsams, styptics, and ointments, the Norman and Flemish horse dealers--the latter drunk and shouting for more drink--and all the rest. And they distributed themselves about theCroix Blanche, as, indeed, they were doing in every other hostelry in Amiens, and laughed and shrieked and howled and cursed as they sought their beds in the straw or the garrets, and turned the ancient city into a veritable pandemonium.
"I will walk with you a part of the way," said Douglas to his brother and Bertie as they rose to depart. "This narrow street is hot and stuffy, especially with the fumes that arise from the revellers below. The night air will be cool and refreshing before sleep."
And buckling on his sword he went down with them, and out through the still crowded inn yard.
At the Jesuit College he parted with Archibald, and went on a little farther with Bertie, and then, saying that he was refreshed with the coolness, bade him also good-night.
"It is good for us all to be together again, Bertie, boy, is it not?" he exclaimed as they shook each other by the hand; "good to think that, with but a few intervals of separation when on service, we shall scarcely ever be parted more. Nothing is wanting now but that you and Kate could come together lawfully."
"That," replied the other, "seems never likely to be permitted to us. Well, we must bear it, hard as it is. Yet, Douglas, I am as honestly glad as you can be that we are safe back in France with all our troubles over."
"Yes," replied Douglas, "with our troubles over. Yet I wonder where that rogue ingrain, Fordingbridge, is?"
He was soon to know.