"He is a beast!"
"Quite so, but as far as circumstantial evidence goes, he has some cause on his side. Yourarrival at my private apartments in London was most unfortunate; but your following me here was simply the worst sort of foolishness."
The Secretary was aggrieved and showed it; but the result of his plaint was most unexpected.
His fair companion sprang to her feet and gave him a flashing glance, that startled him out of the fancied security of his egotism.
"I come here to follow you! How dare you?"
"Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to be rude, really; but I naturally inferred——"
"No!" she cried. "Why should I come for you?— Bah! I come forher!"
"For whom?"
"Forher," she cried, pointing towards the Hall.
"For her?" inquired Stanley, somewhat dazed by this unexpected change of base. "But who is she?"
"I do not know. I do not care; but she writes to my husband—she makes appointments with him."
"Oh, the nameless friend."
"Now you understand why I have come?"
"Yes, I see. Still I think it lays you open to misconstruction. You had better return to London. I suppose you know you were followed to my house?"
She snapped her fingers airily.
"I care just that for being followed. What of it?"
"My dear Inez, you forget that you're not in our native country. We can't fight duels galore in this part of the world, and cut the throats of inconvenient witnesses. People will talk; there are the newspapers; and—the dowagers; and the nonconformist conscience to be considered. You don't know what you are letting me—I mean yourself, in for."
"I tell you, I must confirm my suspicions. I must see your—what you call it—your visitors' book—which they have in great houses— I must compare the handwriting of the guests with the handwriting of these letters. When I have proved my case I will return to London—not one moment before. You are my friend, you will help me."
"Of course I will help you; but I assure you there is no one in the house who could be suspected for a moment."
"At least, you will help me to prove myself wrong?" and she shot at him one of those unsettling glances.
"Of course—with all my heart—and then you'll go back to London and take Mr. Sanks' advice, won't you?"
"You are very anxious to have me go," she said, piqued.
"No, no!" he assured her hastily. "Far from it; but can't you see—that it is for your sake that I urge it. Supposing anyone saw us now; what would they think, what could they think—an early morning rendezvous."
"They would say that you were making areport to me of your progress in discovering the plot against the treaty between England and our country."
He looked at her dumbfounded and said nothing. Indeed there was nothing he could say without risking some imprudent disclosure.
"Ah," she cried, laughing merrily at his discomfiture. "You see, you diplomats do not know everything. It is true I only write supervised letters home, but that does not prevent my receiving letters from my country first hand, and my father has written much about this treaty. It seems they are going to try and bribe the Senators to defeat it, with money raised here, and some cowardly scoundrel has been engaged as go-between."
Stanley stood looking at her in horrified astonishment. Was it possible that if she knew so much she did not know that she was condemning her own husband? But her next words proved to him that such must be the case.
"My father writes me," she continued, "that on proving the identity of this go-between, the success or failure of the plot depends, and so far, the government have been at a loss to identify him."
The Secretary, who held the key to the situation, could see excellent reasons why the Executive had kept Señor De Costa in the dark; what Madame was saying was evidently what everybody knew. Of the truth she had not the remotest inkling.
"Well," she cried gaily, "why don't you speak?"
"I have nothing to say," he replied.
"Diplomatic to the end, I see," she retorted. "But you can't expect to share my confidences unless you give me yours. Now tell me, have you discovered any of the conspirators yet?"
"I can truthfully say," he replied, "that as far as I know, there is nobody at Roberts' Hall connected with the conspiracy to which you allude."
"So you've come down here at the busiest season of your year on indefinite leave just to pay a country-house visit."
"How did you know that?" he asked.
"Randell," she replied.
"Good Heavens!" he cried, "you haven't been to my rooms again."
"Naturally not," she returned coldly. "Your servant brought a pair of gloves to my hotel, which I left at your rooms."
The Secretary bit his lips and changed the conversation, and made a mental note of the fact that if Randell was becoming talkative, he would have to go.
"You asked me," he said, "if I had discovered one of the agents of this mysterious treaty of which you seem to know so much. Perhaps you will tell me if you have?"
"Yes," she said, smiling.
"Who is it?" he asked.
"Ah!" she cried. "I thought I should break down your reserve."
"Well," he said sheepishly, "what have you to say?"
"Nothing," she replied. "I only exchange confidences for confidences. Tell me whom you suspect, and I will tell you whom I know."
"What you ask is impossible," he replied, feeling that he could never wound her by admitting his suspicions of her husband.
"So be it," she said gaily, giving him her hand, and added, "Come and see me again when you can spare a little time from your detective work."
The Secretary saw she was laughing at him, and took his leave discomfited. Madame Darcy watched him go, and sighed gently as she turned to re-enter the house. She also had felt that she would not have dared to wound him by mentioning her suspicions.
It may have been contrition for her shortcomings which induced Miss Fitzgerald to offer her services to the Reverend Reginald Lambert to assist in decorating the altar of the little church for the ensuing Sunday, and it may not. At any rate, she did offer them, and they were gratefully accepted.
She was dressed in a garb which would have befitted a postulant for a religious order, and her sweet seriousness, and altogether becoming demeanour, charmed the Reverend Reginald.
The old parson was, it is needless to say, a thorough nonentity, and the skilful attentions of his fair assistant were the more appreciated, because the more rare.
"It's very kind of you, my dear," he said, "to give so much of your time to helping an old man."
"I'm afraid I don't give up half enough. I think we should give ourselves to the serious side of life at least for a little while every week, don't you? We are so apt to devote ourselves to frivolities."
"I'm very glad to hear you say that. Young people are none too serious nowadays; but I'm sure you're too strong a nature to be wholly frivolous."
"I'm afraid not, but I often do things I don't care for, to keep myself from thinking. My life hasn't been all a bed of roses, Mr. Lambert."
"You surprise me," he said, sitting down in the front pew to get a better view of their united arrangement of potted plants. "That's very pretty, my dear. Now come and sit by me, and tell me all about it, and if an old man's advice——"
"Oh, Idoso want advice," she said. "You can't realise what the life I lead means to a girl—my parents are both dead, you know."
"Yes, poor child. I remember; Mrs. Roberts told me. How sad!"
"I've no settled home— I knock about. I try my best, I do indeed, Mr. Lambert; but with no one to advise me—no older woman than myself who really cares—it is at times very hard."
"But you've relatives—Mrs. Roberts."
"Yes, of course, they're very kind, and all that; but a young girl needs far more than what she could ask of a remote relative. She needs watchful care, constant protection. You've had a daughter, Mr. Lambert."
"Yes, yes, I know. My dear Mary was a model girl, Miss Fitzgerald; a good child is a great blessing. I see your position."
"I'm sure you do. Try as one may, a younggirl has not that experience which comes with age, her best efforts are sometimes misinterpreted— I've suffered keenly myself."
"My poor child," said the old rector, patting her hand in a fatherly manner. "My poor child! You yourself see the need of a guiding hand."
"I do, I do. Having no one to fight life's battle for me, I've become of necessity self-reliant."
"Of course, of course."
"It has been misinterpreted, misunderstood. I've been called—hard; worse— I've been thought——" Her voice broke.
"My dear child," said the old man, "you'll forgive my speaking plainly, but you should be married. You need a husband. Someone who will take the responsibility from you."
Miss Fitzgerald breathed a contented little sigh, and her bowed head leaned, oh, so lightly, against his shoulder!
"I hoped you would say that," she murmured.
"Is there someone—then—someone you love? You rejoice me exceedingly."
Resuming a more erect posture, she said earnestly:
"Tell me, Mr. Lambert, would you ever consent to perform a marriage—quietly—very quietly—say, with the knowledge of only the contracting parties and witnesses?"
"If there were good and sufficient reasons. Of course, if the young lady's parents were living, I should wish to be assured of their consent first."
"Oh!" murmured Miss Fitzgerald.
"But, in your own case, if you really wished it, though it seems unnecessary, I could make some such arrangement as you suggest, because no one would be affected but yourself, though if a large estate or title was involved it would be a very different matter."
His companion thought long and deeply; then, looking up at him, she said:
"Would you, would you, dear Mr. Lambert, accept my word for it that silence is necessary?"
"I—yes. I suppose so. But, Mrs. Roberts?"
"I can assure you that Mrs. Roberts approves of my marrying; but——" and she laid her finger on her lips.
"Well, as you please; but remember the responsibility rests with you; then there would have to be witnesses."
"I could promise that Lady Isabelle McLane would be present, and the best man would be the other."
"Quite so—but—when would you wish the ceremony to take place?"
"Say Sunday."
"But, my dear young lady—there are the fifteen days required by law—unless, of course, you have a special licence."
"Perhaps thereisa special licence."
"Of course in that case everything is easy—but do nothing rash. Marriage is a most solemn covenant, and I should strongly advise that you speak to Mrs. Roberts. Indeed, I hardly know if I——"
"I have your word, Mr. Lambert. I'll come to you to-morrow, may I? and you'll talk to me earnestly, very earnestly, about it all. It will be decided then—and if I should wish it before early service Sunday morning, you would help me, I know. But remember, it's a secret, and oh, you're so kind!" And taking his hand, she kissed it.
"But, my dear," stammered the old man, quite flustered by this unexpected mark of affection, "you haven't even told me the gentleman's name."
Bending over, she whispered softly, "Lieutenant Kingsland," and fled out of the church.
In the light of the events of the morning, Miss Fitzgerald was naturally desirous of becoming better acquainted with the appearance of a special licence, and in the seclusion of the billiard-room, Lieutenant Kingsland was able to gratify her curiosity.
"Quite an expensive luxury, I've been given to understand," she said reflectively, regarding the parchment.
"Yes," admitted Kingsland regretfully, "it means a special messenger to the Archbishop, wherever he may happen to be. He never's by any chance at 'Lambeth' when you want him, and fees all along the line."
"A matter of forty pounds, I've been told."
"Well, call it thirty. I know the crowd."
"I shouldn't have suspected you of being ecclesiastical."
"It's a long story, and not to the point. Now, what have you done?"
"Considering that you were thoughtful enough to procure that licence, I've done everything."
"Bravo! When can the ceremony take place?"
"Before early service Sunday morning, say a quarter to eight."
"The sooner the better. I'm a thousand times obliged. You're a little brick, and I shall never forget it."
"I shall ask for a return some day," she said.
"And you shall have it, no matter what. Is there nothing more?"
"Only this. You know Mr. Lambert is somewhat aged, very blind—don't forget that—and a trifle deaf; so, though I assure you I never said so, I'm quite sure he is under the impression that you're going to marry—me."
"But I don't understand."
"Mr. Lambert informed me that in the case of a person of importance, or one whose parents were living, he couldn't perform the ceremony privately—that is, as privately as you would wish; but as regarded myself, an orphan—you see?"
"But the name?"
"Are we not both Isabelles? Besides, he is old, and deaf, and nearly blind, and the bride and I will both be closely veiled, under the circumstances. If we should appear to have signed our names in the wrong places in the registry—why, it's a stupid blunder that any one might make on such a trying occasion."
"But how account for Lady Isabelle's presence?"
"He asked me concerning the witnesses, and I promised that her Ladyship would be there. As for the other?"
"My best man will serve."
"Who is he?"
Kingsland laughed.
"Wait and see," he said. "He's an old friend of yours. Anything else?"
"Yes, two things. Keep a still tongue in your head, and have the bride there to the minute."
"I promise. Belle, you're the best friend a man ever had."
"Not at all. I'm only doing you a service—for a service in return."
"What is that?"
"I don't know, I'm sure; but any woman who lives the life I do is sure, some day, to want a friend who is sufficiently in her debt—to—well, do anything that may be needful. You understand?"
"Done!" he cried, and wrung her hand.
"Oh, by the way," she added, "I've given the Marchioness her tip, and I don't imagine Jimsy's life will be worth living in consequence."
"Couldn't you help to make it a little more bearable—for instance?" insinuated the Lieutenant.
"It takes two to make a bargain of that sort," she returned.
"All right," he said, laughing. "I'll see that Little Diplomacy gets a steer in your direction," and he started to leave the room.
"No; I forbid you to do anything of the sort," she called after him.
In virtue of his good resolution to point out to Miss Fitzgerald the error of her ways, the Secretary had been nerving himself to an interview with her on this delicate question, and as result, when he found himself alone with Lieutenant Kingsland in the smoking-room after dinner that evening, both were silent. Each had something to think about, yet each was thinking about the same thing. The Secretary abstractedly wondering how he was to commence the awkward interview which was staring him in the face; while the young officer, relying on the axiom that "a woman never says what she means," was pondering over the best way in which to go to work upon his companion, in order to induce him to open his heart to the lady in question.
"I say, Stanley," he remarked, "do you know Bob Darcy?"
"Darcy? No, I don't think so."
"Why, he's the chap whose wife chaperoned your little dinner that night at the Hyde Park Club, when Lady Rainsford failed you."
"No, I don't know him. Do you?"
"I—oh, very slightly—I assure you—never exchanged more than half a dozen words with him in my life."
"I thought you seemed pretty well acquainted at Lady Rainsford's tea."
"I"—faltered the young man—"I think you're mistaken."
Stanley smiled quietly, as the nature of the conversation he had overheard came back to his mind—he was getting on.
"I'm afraid," he remarked, "that your friend doesn't attract me. What did you wish to say about him?"
"Only that he's awfully gone on Belle Fitzgerald, means business, and all that—lucky dog—I think he'll win hands down," and Lieutenant Kingsland heaved a sigh.
"But he's married, surely?"
"Oh, yes, I believe he is—but it hasn't been an unqualified success. I understand there's a divorce in the air, and after that—of course——"
"He's treated his wife like a brute!" spluttered Stanley.
"Don't know, I'm sure. He's a jolly good fellow at the club. Any way, he'd put a job with Belle to do the platonic under Mrs. Roberts' protecting roof for a week or two, when what does our hostess do but cut up rusty about his marital infelicities, and refuse to invite him. Rather a sell on the little Fitzgerald, eh?"
"I'll be obliged to you if you'll mention Miss Fitzgerald more respectfully in my presence.She's a lady for whom I have the highest consideration, and who would, I'm sure, if she knew what I know of Colonel Darcy, cut him off from her list of acquaintances immediately. I hope you'll not feel called upon to speak of this more than is necessary," and he rose stiffly and left the room.
Kingsland rolled over on the divan, on which he was sprawled out, and indulged in a fit of hearty laughter.
"Gad! how he rose to the bait!" he roared. "I supposed Darcy was too old a story to tempt anyone with; but the world's after all a very small place." And this, curiously enough, was precisely the reflection which the Secretary made ruefully to himself, as he sought the captivating Belle.
As can be understood in the light of that interview in the smoking-room, the two gentlemen were late in arriving upstairs, and when Stanley did put in an appearance, Miss Fitzgerald required all her courage to dare to claim him as her exclusive property and carry him off to the comparative seclusion of the conservatory, for black care sat heavy on his brow, and her interview promised to be anything but agreeable. However, she was nothing if not courageous, and opened the attack at once, on the ground that the defensive is always the weakest position.
"What an old bear you are to-night, Jimsy. I couldn't get a word out of you at dinner, and now you look as glum as if you'd lost your last friend."
"I've been talking to Lieutenant Kingsland," he said bluntly.
"Dear me, if it always has as bad an effect I must contrive to keep you two apart in the future."
"He's been telling me about your relations with Darcy. Confound it, Belle!—it's too bad of you! Why, he's a beastly cad. I wouldn't have him in my house, and to think that the woman I—well, any woman I respect as much as I do you—should be on intimate terms with a man like that, makes my blood boil. Great Heavens, have some consideration for your friends, if you haven't for yourself! Think of what will be said of you; think——"
"Don't do the heroic, Jimsy, it doesn't become you," she interrupted. "Give me a cigarette, and see if you can't talk this matter over without going all to tatters."
"You smoke too much. I don't approve of ladies smoking. It seems so common."
"Nonsense. It's uncommon not to. I'm dying for a whiff, and one never gets a chance in that crowd of old fogies. Thank you—now what's all this disturbance about Colonel Darcy? I declare, I almost believe you are becoming an old fogy yourself."
"I didn't even know you knew him— Darcy, I mean— I object to him strongly."
"Really, Mr. Stanley, I don't run my acquaintances on the lines of your choosing."
"Of course not; but I may claim the privilege of a friend."
"To make yourself uncommonly disagreeable; I suppose you may—and I was feeling so amiabletoo—just in the mood for an old-time chat. But it can't be helped. Colonel Darcy's an old friend, and was very kind to me at a time when I needed friends and hadn't many. I don't know what he has done or not done, and I don't care. I learned that he was to be in this neighbourhood shortly on business, and, wishing to make some return for his past kindness, I proposed to my aunt to invite him here, and she, who's a woman after your own heart, refused—because, forsooth, he didn't get on well with his wife—as if his wife mattered to me— I certainly didn't want to invite her."
"I assure you," burst out the Secretary, "that she's a most charming woman, and that her husband has treated her like the cad and brute he is."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Stanley. I didn't know you were posing as the knight-errant of hysterical wives."
"I'm not; but I can't stand by and see a lovely and innocent woman injured."
"I presume I'm not to defend my friend?" she asked, her small foot tapping the tiled floor in anger.
"You would not wish to do so if you knew his true character."
"I do not wish to prolong this interview, Mr. Stanley. I must remind you that there are limits even to the rights of friendship, and you have overstepped them."
"I fear I've forgotten myself, that I've been too vehement. I humbly beg your pardon. I won't trespass again, believe me. I only spoke foryour good—indeed, I wanted to have a serious talk with you about yourself; but the spirit in which you receive my suggestions makes it impossible."
"You mustn't say that," she replied, more quietly than she had hitherto spoken. "But you can surely understand that my friendship would be of little use to any man if I stood quietly by and let him be denounced without a word of resentment on my part. Are there other of my friends of whom you do not approve?"
"It's partly that, but rather the—you'll pardon me—the things that are said about you, Belle. People—my friends—men as well as women—have said things in my presence—that I did not like to hear. Things that show how easy it is for a careless, easy-going nature like yours to be misinterpreted; in short——"
"In short, they told you I was fast, I suppose, a sordid, scheming, money-making wretch. Is that correct?"
"Really, Belle!"
"Is that correct? Answer me."
"Well, they certainly wouldn't have used such words in my presence."
"But they meant that—or something like it?"
"I'm afraid they did."
Her face, white enough before, flushed red, as she demanded:
"And you! What did you say?"
"I—I don't remember— I refused to listen; but I made up my mind to speak to you— I thought you ought to know."
"You"—she cried, turning on him in a fury—"you, my friend, as you call yourself, had no answer to make, did nothing, except to decide to lecture me about what you should have known to be a lie! Let me tell you, Mr. Stanley, you'd have done better to defend me—knowing, as you must know, the slights, the buffets, the insults I've had to endure, because I'm unprotected, and men can dare——"
"I assure you I did. I didn't believe it of you for an instant."
"You believed it enough to question me as to the truth of these accusations. It's easy to preach prudence when you've nothing to gain or lose; but were you a woman, thrown on the world and on her own resources, you'd find it a different, a very different, thing, and you'd expect help and encouragement from friends who are stronger and more fortunate than you—not this!" and she burst into tears.
"Miss Fitzgerald!— Belle!" he cried, striving to take her hand, "I wouldn't have pained you in this way for worlds! Believe me, I'm your friend, your true friend!"
"I've friends enough of your sort," she sobbed, "too many."
"But at least let me explain."
"Don't say any more, please—you've said enough. Good night, you must excuse me. I—I'm not myself," and touching her handkerchief to her eyes, with a great effort she controlled herself and left the conservatory.
Roberts' Hall preserved the good old English custom concerning breakfast—which means that a rambling meal extended from eight to eleven in the morning—at which the butler served you with tea, or coffee and rolls, and you served yourself to the rest, from the cold cuts on the sideboard to the hot viands in copper vessels warmed by alcohol lamps. The cold cuts you had always with you, also the orange marmalade; as for the eggs and bacon, devilled kidneys, etc., their state was dependent on the taste of the guests who had preceded you, and your own ability as an early riser. You came down when you pleased, and ate your meal in solitary state or in any company that might happen to be present, which, if it proved to be congenial, made a very jolly, informal repast, and if it didn't,—well, that was fate, and you had to submit to it. Fate may be kind or it may not, sometimes it sets out to play ponderous practical jokes, which may include something nearly akin to a grim reality in the future for the persons involved.
This was probably the reason why Stanley, on his advent into the breakfast-room, found it tenantedby only one person, and that one, Lady Isabelle.
At the sight of her, the Secretary felt decidedly sheepish, because Miss Fitzgerald's tears and some subsequent hours of sleepless meditation thereon had convinced him that he was morally, if not actually, capable of all the weakness for which her Ladyship had upbraided him. He told himself that he owed a duty to the fair Belle, that he must save her from herself at all costs, even if it involved the sacrifice of his own future, that he had misjudged her cruelly, and that he was very, very sorry for her, and that, because he was conscience-stricken, he was certainly in love. Indeed he kept assuring himself with feverish insistence, that this must be the real article.
To Lady Isabelle, on the contrary, Stanley's deficiencies were almost lost sight of, in view of the disturbing suspicion that that young gentleman might be led to suppose that her well-meant interference in his affairs had proceeded from an undue regard for himself. A suspicion but a few hours old, and dating from an interview with the Marchioness, who, for some unknown reason, had suddenly assumed a totally different attitude towards the Secretary, and even tried to entrap her daughter into admitting that his attentions might mean something. This made Lady Isabelle most anxious to impress him with the fact that their friendship was purely platonic. Accordingly, to his intense surprise, she was exceedingly gracious, and chatted away all through breakfast in a charminglyeasy, if somewhat feverish, manner, even condescending so far as to say something pleasant about Miss Fitzgerald. Under this treatment Stanley simply glowed, and opened out as much as he dared in the presence of the butler and two expressionless footmen, upon that lady's charms. He was a very young diplomat, as the reader will have noticed ere this, or he would not have continued to praise one lady to another; least of all at breakfast time, an hour when the temper of mortals is by no means certain. But in the pleasure of his subject he did not notice the scorn that was suggested by the curl of his vis-à-vis' lip.
"I do wish," he said in conclusion, "that you'd take a stroll with me this afternoon; the deer park is quite worth seeing, I understand, and besides there are lots of things I want to talk to you about."
It was during this proposition that Lieutenant Kingsland, preceded by the Dowager, entered the breakfast-room.
"Oh, I say," blurted out that officer, "I think we've got an appointment after lunch, haven't we?"
"I think not, Lieutenant Kingsland," replied Lady Isabelle, foreseeing the crisis, and realising the necessity of immediate action. Then turning to Stanley, she added:—
"Thanks, I should enjoy a good walk hugely, and I love deer. It was very kind of you to suggest it. What time shall we start?"
"Say three o'clock," said the Secretary, immensely rejoiced at his restoration to favour.
"Three, let it be then, if mamma approves."
It was only too evident that mamma did approve; she nodded and smiled, and said that exercise was a splendid thing for young people; till Stanley became frightened at her excessive geniality, and Kingsland looked black as a thunder-cloud.
The Lieutenant was not, however, so easily baffled, and jumped to the conclusion that half of Lady Isabelle was better than no Lady Isabelle at all.
"Three's not company, I know," he said, laughing with attempted gaiety, "but I'm no end fond of deer myself."
"I was about to ask you, Lieutenant Kingsland," interrupted the Dowager, coming promptly to the rescue, "to execute a few commissions for me this afternoon, at Tunbridge Wells. I'm sure our hostess will put a dog-cart at your service, and it's not above fifteen miles."
"Charmed, I'm sure," replied the Lieutenant—but he did not look it. However, he had his reward, for Lady Isabelle had just finished her breakfast, and Kingsland declared he had already had his, which was not true, so they disappeared together and left the Dowager to enjoy her repast in the company of the Secretary, to whom she was so extremely affable, that, had it not been for his instructions, he would have had serious thoughts of leaving for London, before he was appropriated body and soul.
"What have you been telling my mother about Mr. Stanley?" asked Lady Isabelle of the Lieutenant, in the seclusion of the library. "I know you had a long conference with her last night—and something must have happened."
"I'm sure I don't know, unless it was that he's a millionaire, and made his money, or had it made for him, in some beastly commercial way—sugar, I think."
Lady Isabelle gave him one look, and remarked with a depth of scorn which even the unfortunate Secretary had not evoked:—
"Oh, you idiot!"
Kingsland was immersed in literature the entire morning in company with Lady Isabelle, who doubtless found the Lieutenant's companionship a great comfort, under the circumstances, since now that she knew the reason of her mother's attitude towards the Secretary, she was as anxious to avoid the walk with him, as she had previously been willing to take it.
Kingsland, however, bore up bravely, for his trip to the Wells gave him an opportunity to settle several little matters of business, which the Dowager, had she known of them, would hardly have approved. Moreover, Belle saw him off, saying as he mounted the dog-cart:—
"Don't be upset by Lady Isabelle's defection this afternoon, Jack; the most trustworthy little mare will sometimes jib, just before taking a desperate leap."
When two people start out on a long walk together, each with the firm intention of doing his duty by the other, the result is apt to be far from pleasant; but in this case both had so much to talk about that for the first hour of their walk they said nothing, and their arrival at the deer-park was a distinct relief, since it furnished a new and harmless subject for discussion. And, indeed, the pretty animals warranted more than a passing word. They were seen in numbers, peeping out of a fringe of woodland across the width of an uncultivated field, and they were in that delightful state of semi-tameness, when a longing for the bits of bread, with which Stanley and Lady Isabelle were well supplied, battled equally with an impulse, born of natural training, to flee the proximity of the human race.
But there was not much going in the line of food, and so gradually, step by step, the most daring of the herd ventured into the open, and slowly approached the visitors, who were wise enough to throw tempting bits about twelve feet away from them. Watchful to note the slightest movement of a muscle, the bread was at length secured, and the herd scampered away in a panic of fear, only to return for more, thrown nearer the feet of their friends. So it was at last, with advances of six feet and retreats of as many yards, at the crackling of a bush or a change in the wind, that the most adventurous consented, standing as far aloof as possible, and stretching their necks tothe last degree of tension, to take the bread from the visitors' hands.
But finally even the charms of the deer were exhausted, and as they turned about and began slowly to stroll homeward across the park, Lady Isabelle abruptly broached the subject which both of them had nearest at heart.
"I'm afraid," she began, "that I'm very prone to order the lives of my friends, from my own point of view."
"My life, for instance?" he asked.
"Mr. Stanley," she said, "I shan't be really happy till I have apologised for the way I spoke at Lady Rainsford's tea. I'd no right to do so, and I'm sure my judgment was hasty and ill-advised. I've been trusting to my eyes and ears rather than to the reports of other people, and I'm sure I've been mistaken. Do you know how Miss Fitzgerald spent part of yesterday?"
"I have not seen her to speak with to-day."
"Then I'll tell you. She was helping poor old Mr. Lambert trim the church for to-morrow. I think it was very nice of her."
"I'm afraid your commendation has come a trifle late. The fact is, I took it upon myself to counsel the young lady in question against a friend of hers—a Colonel Darcy."
"Not Colonel Robert Darcy?"
"The same."
"Do you know him?" she asked.
"No, but I know how he treats his wife, and his own character is none too good."
"It's curious," she said, a trifle sadly, "but I'm in just your position in regard to a dear friend of mine, and concerning the same man."
"Concerning Colonel Darcy?"
"Yes."
"And his intimacy with Lieutenant Kingsland?"
"How did you know?"
"'He that hath eyes to see——'" quoted the Secretary.
"They never even knew each other till a short time ago, but in the last few weeks they've been constantly together. I can't understand it."
Mr. Stanley thought he could, but forbore to say so.
"I don't know why I distrust Colonel Darcy, but I do," she continued, "and his sudden intimacy with Jack—Lieutenant Kingsland—makes me apprehensive. Do you think——"
"I think your friend is of too pliable a nature to be in the hands of so unscrupulous a rascal."
She sighed, and then feeling perhaps that she had said too much, hastened to revert to their original subject, saying:
"Don't tell me there's a misunderstanding between you and Miss Fitzgerald. I'm so sorry. I wouldn't for the world—that is, I almost feel as if I'd been to blame."
"You're not the only one of my friends who has misjudged her— I've done so myself—utterly."
"But surely this little difference will not be lasting—I hoped——"
"Would you wish me to marry Miss Fitzgerald, Lady Isabelle?"
"Well, perhaps I won't say that—but I should certainly not wish anything I might have said to prevent you from so doing. Of course, my only reason for interfering was prompted by a wish for your happiness."
"Do you think you understand what that comprises?"
"That's just the point I wanted to make clear," she said hastily, determined that he must understand, even at the expense of a slight indiscretion on her part, which she felt would be far preferable to the slightest misunderstanding of their relative positions, in view of any future action of her mother's.
"You see," she continued, "to put it frankly, what could I possibly know of the requirements which, in a woman, would go to make you happy. Of course, you and I are friends, great friends; but just that state of affairs, as far as we're concerned, makes any judgment of mine useless concerning the kind of woman you could love."
Stanley, who could scarcely help drawing his own inferences, was piqued that she should have felt it necessary to batter a self-evident fact into his brain in such a bald manner.
"I wish," he said, "that her Ladyship, your mother, was possessed of the same lucid views on kindred subjects."
"Poor mamma," murmured his companion, "she's a trifle conventional; but, of course, ifyou're not in sympathy with her, you can easily avoid her."
There, the cat was out of the bag at last, and both felt easier in consequence. Stanley threw himself into the breach at once, and took the burden of the conversation.
"I'm sure," he said, "I don't believe that half of the people in the world can tell for the life of them why they fall in love with a certain person and not with another. As we're talking confidentially, I don't mind telling you that I've decided that I'm in love with Miss Fitzgerald, and that the best thing I can do is to tell her so as soon as possible, though I'm afraid there is little chance of her having me."
"I can honestly say," rejoined his companion, "that, if that is how the case stands, I do hope you'll be successful."
Having arrived at this amicable and highly satisfactory conclusion, they realised that in the earnestness of their discussion they had not noticed the lapse of time.
"Dear me, it must be getting late. I trust we're not far from the Hall," said Lady Isabelle.
"To tell you the truth, I don't know just where we are," he replied.
They were standing in a thick plantation at the time, through which meandered the little path they were following.
"There's rising ground ahead, however," he continued, "and, I think, a clearing."
This proved to be the case, and when they hadgained the little knoll they saw, nearly in front of them, across a slight valley, bordered on either side by wide stretches of fields and pasture-land, the Hall.
"It doesn't look to be half a mile distant, but I doubt the wisdom of trying a short cut," he said, "We'd much better keep to our path."
Their prudence had its own reward, for they had not been walking five minutes before they encountered a peasant, who, with more good nature than brevity, directed their steps in a way that was too plainly not a short cut. However, there was nothing for it now but to push on, and though they walked rapidly, it was a long time before they reached the Hall.
Unkind fate prompted them on their arrival to venture into the drawing-room in search of a belated cup of tea, and, to their dismay, they found the apartment, which should have been deserted at this hour, tenanted solely by the Dowager, who had evidently been awaiting their return.
She was much too formally polite to make them feel at their ease, and with a word dismissed her daughter, on the plea of removing her wraps, thus leaving the Secretary to his fate.
Once they were alone, her Ladyship surveyed the young man deliberately through her lorgnettes, and when she had made him sufficiently nervous, remarked in a chilling tone that she trusted her daughter had caught no cold from walking so late in the park.
The Secretary acquiesced, and then the Marchioness opened the attack in earnest.
"We—my daughter—has had the pleasure of seeing a great deal of you lately, Mr. Stanley."
"Er, yes," he replied, scenting danger. "Of course it's been a great pleasure to me."
"Still," she continued, "it is not usual for a young lady, unchaperoned, to walk in the park with a gentleman at this hour; a gentleman who is, shall we say, a mere acquaintance."
"The matter was one of necessity," he replied shortly. "We lost our way."
"Mrs. Roberts has driven me over her grounds repeatedly, and it appears to me to be quite impossible for anyone to really lose his way."
"Deference to your Ladyship's opinion prevents me from saying more."
"It is certainly not pleasant," resumed the Dowager, ignoring his last remark, "to continue this conversation, and, were my late husband living, I should naturally have left the matter to him; as it is, my duty as a mother and my desire for dear Isabelle's welfare bids me——"
"Really, your Ladyship, am I to understand you to imply——"
"I can only say that I have heard your name associated with my daughter's in a manner—that was not—quite as I could wish. Dear Lady Wintern, a woman most interested in the good of her friends, spoke to me herself, and of course you, as a man of honour and a gentleman——"
"As a man of honour and a gentleman, I deeplyregret that anything in my conduct should have led to a misconception in regard to my relations with Lady Isabelle, and in the future——"
"In the future, Mr. Stanley, you will of course see little or nothing of my daughter—unless——"
She paused, and for a moment neither spoke. Then the Secretary, who, whatever else may be said of him, was not a coward, seeing what was impending, determined to face the situation and have it over as soon as possible.
"Am I to understand," he inquired, "that you're asking me my intentions?"
Her Ladyship raised her eyebrows. If the French shoulder is expressive, the English eye-brow, feminine, speaks volumes.
"You do not make the situation easy for me," she replied. "Of course I speak only for myself. What my daughter may feel——"
"You don't suppose," he exclaimed, "that Lady Isabelle really thinks——"
"Iknow, Mr. Stanley, that my daughter thinks nothing and does nothing that would not be proper in a young lady of her position."
"Then I've only to apologise," he said, rising, "for what you force me to believe is my fault, however unintentional." And, bowing gravely to her, he quietly left the room.
As he dressed for dinner that evening, Stanley was still smarting with irritation at the undeserved attack which had just been made upon him by the Marchioness, and which through no fault of his own placed him in an exceedingly unpleasant and awkward position towards her daughter. The sooner he proposed to Miss Fitzgerald, and their engagement was announced, the better for all parties concerned. So seeking to justify himself by force of circumstances, he threw prudence to the winds and determined to speak that very night.
If, however, his private affairs had progressed rapidly to a crisis, the official interests which, he assured himself, were the real cause of his presence here, had not progressed at all, and he seemed no nearer the solution of the mystery, and the apprehension of the conspirators, than when he arrived.
True, Lady Isabelle's confession concerning Kingsland only served to strengthen his own conviction that the Lieutenant was Darcy's confederate; but Darcy himself, the prime mover of the plot, had not as yet put in an appearance, and till he arrived there was nothing to be done but to watch and wait.
Five minutes later the Secretary had joined theparty in the drawing-room just as dinner was announced, and to his utter consternation his hostess whispered to him:
"I am sending you down with Lady Isabelle. I hear you and she are great chums."
"Great chums!" Stanley was tempted to plead sudden indisposition, and have his dinner in his room. Then a remembrance of his recent interview caused a wave of adverse feeling to sweep over him. Yes, he would take down Lady Isabelle. Was he to be badgered out of his dinner because a designing old woman could not leave well enough alone?
He could not indeed resist casting a look of amused triumph at the Dowager as he passed her with her daughter on his arm, but his conscience pricked him nevertheless, for he felt that his presence must be distasteful to his fair companion. That she really cared for him at all he could not bring himself to believe in the light of their conversation on the walk. Still, her frankness might have been assumed through pique at unreturned affection, and with a desire born of pride, to blind him to the true state of her feelings. The more he thought of this the more uneasy he became, and he could not help noticing that she was much more pale than he had as yet seen her, and seemed singularly abstracted. Moreover, he was certain that she was incurring her mother's displeasure, which would be to her a grave matter. He tried to make such atonement as lay in his power to make her feel at ease and to divert her mind. Hetold her his best stories, gave her his most brilliant conversation, but in vain. His endeavours fell hopelessly flat, and at last, after a dreadful pause, they spoke that which was in their hearts.
"Do you think it was nice of you to take me in to dinner?" she asked in that quiet conversational tone with which so many secrets have been told at dinners without arresting the attention of others.
"Really," he said, "I'd no option. Our hostess——"
"You managed to avoid it last night."
Stanley flushed.
"Do you mind so much?" he asked.
"Oh, no; but mamma."
"She didn't show me much consideration the last time we met."
"I was very sorry for you," she replied, "but as it had to come I thought I was better out of the way."
"Do you mean to say that you deliberately left me to my fate?"
"You mustn't be too hard on mamma. She wouldn't have thought she was doing right if she had not spoken."
"But," he continued relentlessly, "you——"
"Oh! I——?"
"Yes, supposing I had—succumbed."
She paused a minute, and then looked shyly up at him.
"In that case," she began, when Mrs. Roberts rose, and gave the signal for the ladies to retire.
Stanley cursed the convention, yet perhaps it was fortunate, as the Dowager had been growing dangerously red and puffy in the face, owing to the fact that the two young people had, unconsciously, drawn closer together in the excitement of those unfinished words.
The cigars seemed interminable; but at last they were over, and the gentlemen were at liberty to seek the drawing-room.
There is generally a moment of indecision when the men come up from dinner. The ladies have appropriated the most comfortable and naturally the most isolated chairs, and their lords and masters huddle like sheep in the doorway, uncertain where to flee for refuge and the most desirable companion. The Secretary had studied this peculiarity of his sex, and had learned to choose his goal beforehand. One glance showed him that Lady Isabelle was absent; either she had retired, her mother was quite capable of ordering her off to bed to keep her out of harm's way, or else she was in the conservatory. He trusted that this last supposition was correct, and disappeared among the palms, when the Marchioness' attention was directed elsewhere.
"And in that case?" he said, as he stood beside her, recalling her last words at the table. "In that case?"
"In that case," she replied, flushing slightly, "I should probably have said something I might have regretted, had not Mrs. Roberts come to my rescue."
"And now?"
"Don't be stupid, Mr. Stanley. Surely you know that any well-brought-up girl would always obey her mother—and—and you ought to see that this conversation is impossible."
"It's certainly unique."
"Don't you think we had better change the subject?"
"By all means, if you wish it, after I've asked you one more question. I trust you won't think me rude to persist, but—do you care for me, Lady Isabelle?"
"As a friend, yes."
"But in no other way?"
"In no other way."
"You're quite sure?"
"Quite, and I'm very sorry you asked me the question. I tried hard to prevent you."
"You've succeeded admirably," he said, laughing. "I was afraid you did care."
He held out his hand, and she took it, saying with a little constraint in her manner:
"You're certainly frank."
He was pleased to see that she was only piqued; the speech had been unfortunate; but Lady Isabelle had plenty of common sense, and she realised that his naïve confession had cleared the atmosphere, and made social intercourse possible.
He made another attempt to interest her in general conversation, this time succeeding admirably. And so an hour slipped by unnoticed, until thestern voice of the Dowager recalled them to the realities of life.
"Isabelle," she said coldly, "you are surely forgetting your duty to our hostess, and to me also, it seems."
"I'm coming, mamma," she replied, and left him with a quiet "Good-night."
Stanley felt immensely relieved. That was over; Lady Isabelle and he understood each other now, and his path was clear for—was it to be matrimony after all? He told himself he was a weak fool—that Miss Fitzgerald cared nothing for him; would not take him after last night; that he was under no real obligation and that he was a sentimental idiot—yet, he must see her—for his own sake—to justify himself—to—— He resolutely shut his eyes to the future, and went in search of the lady in question.
Ten minutes later, Belle and he were alone in the most favourable place in the house for a tête-à-tête, a curious old corner, the two sides of which were converted into a capacious seat to which there was but one approach, screened by a heavy curtain on one side and a suit of armour on the other—safe from all observers.
"What a quaint old house this is!" he said. "We might almost suppose we were back in the sixteenth century."
"Yes," she replied dreamily. "We're out of place in these surroundings."
She was in a strange mood this evening, sad and thoughtful, yet lacking the repose which shouldhave accompanied reverie. It was the only time that the Secretary had ever seen her nervous ordistraite.
"What have you been doing all day?" he asked, hoping to lead the conversation to some more cheerful subject.
"Trying to forget myself," she replied.
"Surely it would be a pleasure to remember yourself, I should think."
"Should you? I fear not."
"Your ears must have burned this afternoon," he continued, unheeding her comment. "Pleasant things were being said about you."
"Did you say them?"
"Of course I said them, I always do; but I was referring to someone else—to Lady Isabelle."
"People only patronise me, when they think me unworthy of reproof."
"How can you say that!" he exclaimed. "I——" but she silenced him with a gesture.
"You've said it. That's why. I've never had one friend with whom there did not come a day, that he or she threw me over and cast my failings in my face. I'd believed it was different with you, I believed you trusted me; that you'd have trusted me through good and evil report—but no, you're like the rest. Society points its finger at me, and you accept its verdict, and you're right. You, secure in your social position, powerful, influential, you shall determine what is right and what is wrong, and I,—I must accept it without a murmur—I'm only a woman without a friend."
"No! no! no!" he cried vehemently. "You wrong me, you do not understand. No one can respect a woman more than I respect you. It's of some of your friends that I disapprove."
"A man is known by the company he keeps—how much more a woman. I'm like my friends—and you—you"—and for the moment she forgot to be meek and suffering, and her eyes blazed with passion—"you are the Pharisee of the nineteenth century, the hem of whose robe we outcasts are unworthy to touch!"
"How can you!" he cried, springing to his feet. "How can you do me so much wrong? It's not that you're like your friends. It is the fear that you may become so that moves me to speak as I do. But since you've seen fit to suspect me, you must allow me to justify myself. I know the affairs of this Colonel Darcy; know them as few others could, by virtue of my diplomatic position, and I assure you he has wronged and brutally treated one of the most beautiful and sweet-natured women I have ever seen. Treated her so badly that she was forced to flee to our Legation for assistance and protection. Imagine my feelings when you tell me that this man is your friend—when I hear your name coupled with his in the idle gossip of the smoking-room."
"I only know that Colonel Darcy was kind to me once upon a time," she replied, interrupting the flow of his eloquence.
"But what's that to do with this?"
"A man who can be kind to a woman in distress cannot be wholly bad."
"Why do you defend him?"
"Never mind why. Don't let us talk any more about it," she said wearily. "You cannot deny that you think worse of me for defending him; you can't take back your words of last night. I've been thinking it over carefully, and I've make up my mind. I'm of no use to anyone. I make my friends ashamed of me— I'm misunderstood and misjudged. It's the way of the world, but it's hard. My spirit's broken. I no longer have the wish to continue the battle. I'm going away."
"Going away! When?" he cried, in amazement.
"At once."
"And where?'
"I don't know; somewhere where I'm not known, where I've no friends to be annoyed at having to claim me as an acquaintance. Somewhere where people will take me for what I am, not for what I have been, for whom I know, for what I have done or left undone. Oh, I'm so tired, so sick of it all," and she bowed her head and wept.
The effect of all this on Stanley can hardly be over-stated. He supported her, he soothed her, he told her all that was in his heart, or all he thought was there. She should not go away alone; he would go with her; he had shockingly misjudged her; it should be his life task to makeher forget that, to proclaim to all the world how great a heritage he had received in her love. They would triumph over all obstacles. He would show the world what a true, noble woman she really was; he would prove it in the best way possible by marrying her, if she would have him, if she would so far honour him. His heart was at her feet. She would be quite right in spurning it, but he besought her to be merciful, to give him his answer, and let that answer be consent.
And the lady, who, under these ministrations and protestations, had gradually recovered her self-control, ceased her passionate sobbing, rested her head contentedly on his shoulder, and allowed him, with but feeble resistance, to encircle her waist with a protecting arm—in short, everything seemed prepared for her success, when the curtain was pushed aside and there stood before them the figure of a man, which caused them both to spring to their feet, in time, as they fondly hoped, to escape detection; the Secretary with a smothered exclamation of rage; the lady, as she recognised the intruder, with a startled cry of:
"Colonel Darcy!"