"I really couldn't help it," he said, excusing himself shamefacedly, "the dear little things were pining for some one to play with, and we did have such fun—and got so grubby;" and there was such a genuine ring of honest pleasure in his tones, that Stanley again found cause to wonder which was the true man.
Something like an hour later, the Secretary emerged on the driveway, to find the pony cart and Belle, got up in faultless style; and as he looked on the technical mistress of his heart, sheseemed so exceedingly fair and gracious, that his morbid imaginings vanished away like smoke, under the spell of her presence.
"I'm afraid you'll be very angry with me," she said, apologetically; "but when I proposed our drive this afternoon, I'd quite forgotten a promise I made to Mr. Lambert to go and see a poor, sick, old woman, a parishioner of his."
"Then I suppose the drive is off?"
"Not at all, if you'll be a dear, good, self-sacrificing Jimsy, and do what you're told."
"What's that?"
"Just jump into the cart and take it round to the north gate—it's a couple of miles I know—but I'll walk straight across the fields, make my visit, and be at our rendezvous almost as soon as you are. I'll promise not to keep you waiting over ten minutes at the longest. Will you do it?"
"Certainly, if I may solace myself with a cigar while I wait."
"Two, if you like; but you won't have time to smoke them. Now off you go," and waving her hand to him, she watched him disappear round the corner of the house.
Once he was out of sight, Miss Fitzgerald lost no time in producing, from the mysterious recesses of her pocket, a telegram, the delivery of which she had intercepted, which she surveyed long and critically.
A telegram is generally regarded as best serving its purpose when most promptly delivered; but in the case of this message, Miss Fitzgerald evidentlyfelt it would improve by keeping, for it had arrived during the morning, and was now some hours old. The time had come, however, when it should be delivered to its proper owner, and she accordingly went in search of Lieutenant Kingsland.
Lady Isabelle and Lieutenant Kingsland sat on the lawn before the old manor house in the soft glow of an English afternoon, contemplating the inevitable. In this case the inevitable was represented by the Dowager, who was enjoying a peaceful nap not fifty feet away. Only fifty feet of faultlessly-kept turf separated them from the vials of a mother's wrath; and in spite of their supreme happiness of the morning, they felt the presence of this gathering storm which must now be faced—as soon as the Marchioness awoke—for to wake her would put her in a bad temper, and her rage promised to be violent enough without any external irritants.
But it happened that while the Dowager slumbered, Miss Fitzgerald, slipping around the corner of the house, appeared in the background, and signalling to the Lieutenant to come to her, where they could talk without awakening the Marchioness, gave him his telegram. He read its contents once, twice, and a third time, word by word, gave a sigh of unutterable relief, and then laughed joyously.
"Good news, apparently," commented Miss Fitzgerald.
"The best," he replied. "A crusty old relative, who is no good to anybody, lies dying in the north of England, and for some unknown reason has made me his heir— I must leave at once to see him out of this world in proper style—but it means I'm a rich man."
"I'm ever so glad. Must you start to-day?"
"I shall go up to London this afternoon, and on to-morrow."
"You'll spend the night in town, then?"
"Yes. I must go to my bank and draw some funds for my journey."
"Then you can do me a favour."
"A thousand, if you want them, after what you've done for me."
"Will you oblige me by taking charge of several chests of Mr. Riddle's stereopticon views; they're heavy, but fragile and very valuable, and I've promised him I'd find some one to take them up to town for him, and put them in safe keeping. Where do you bank?"
"Bank of England, Victoria Street branch."
"Will you leave it in their charge subject to my order?"
"Certainly. How many cases?"
"Five, and they're rather heavy."
"All right. Have the chests put in the luggage cart, and I'll look out for them. Now I must tell my—why, it's Kent-Lauriston!" and to their mutual astonishment, they beheld that gentleman standing close beside them.
"Good afternoon," he said. "You didn't expect to see me? I wired Mrs. Roberts."
"I know my aunt will be delighted," said Miss Fitzgerald. "Won't you come into the house?" and she led the way, calling back to the Lieutenant: "I'll see they're ready. Thank you so much."
Once in the hall, she wasted no time over the unexpected, and to her unwelcome, guest, but, consigning him to the butler, sped away to give directions as to the disposition of the chests, and was soon scurrying across the park to join the patient Secretary, who had had ample opportunity to smoke his two cigars.
The Lieutenant had in the meantime shown his despatch to Lady Isabelle, whose face at once assumed an expression very much in contrast to that of her liege lord's; her brows contracted in a frown, and tears sprang to her eyes.
"Oh, Jack!" she cried. "You won't leave me now— I can't spare you. Your poor uncle Benjamin!"
"But you don't understand!" he cried. "You don't see what it means! The Steward writes that I'll inherit his property, and that I should come and protect my interests."
"But he's not dead yet—only very ill," she argued, seeing the possibilities ahead—yet hoping against hope to win her husband from his better judgment.
"It's the same thing—they wouldn't have telegraphed for me if it wasn't the end."
"But it's so far off—nearly to the Scottish border."
"That's all the more reason for hurrying. I must take the first train for London."
"And leave me!"
"My darling, you must be brave, you must be sensible. If I inherit my uncle's property, I shall be a rich man, and your mother's scruples will be removed. It's vital that I should lose no chances—it means everything to us."
"But is there any danger of your doing so—doesn't the telegram expressly state that he means to make you his heir?"
"Yes, yes, but there are other relatives as near as I. They'll all be there, and if they suspect I'm chosen, will try and get him, at the last, to turn against me."
"But why should you be chosen?"
"Pure cussedness, I think, coupled with the fact that I've never troubled myself to be even civil to him. His other relatives have spent their time in fawning about him, and he has seen through it, and led them a lively dance in consequence. He lived in a beastly old hole of a place—dull as the water in his own moat. I was sent there as a boy, and when he tried to cane me for stealing his fruit, I pelted him with apples. Since I've been old enough to consult my own inclinations, I have entirely ignored him. I never supposed he'd leave me a penny, and I wouldn't have let him lead me a dog's life for it, if I had. Nowthat he has done so to spite the rest, I shall protect my own interests, never fear."
"But you'll tell mamma before you go?"
"Most certainly not," replied the Lieutenant, glad of any valid excuse for putting off what promised to be a rather trying interview. "I should have to go at once in any event, and I certainly couldn't leave you to face your mother's wrath alone; besides, now I come to think of it, your late father was one of uncle's pet detestations, politically, and if a rumour of my secret marriage were to reach him before the end, it would be all up with my prospects, and you can easily see what splendid capital it would be for his precious relatives."
"But mamma might be trusted?" queried Lady Isabelle, feeling that she was venturing on untenable ground.
"Those who don't know won't tell; besides, my position will be much stronger as the heir in possession than the heir prospective. Now I must be off to make my excuses to Mrs. Roberts, and to pack up my belongings, or some of them, for I don't expect to be gone more than two or three days at the most, and till then everything depends on keeping the secret."
"But, Mr. Stanley," she expostulated.
"Oh, pshaw! I forgot him."
"But we mustn't forget him. You know we promised him that we would tell at once."
"Circumstances alter cases. You must arrange it between you somehow. You can stave off theevil day with your mother. Say you need time to think it over."
"You don't know mamma as well as I do, Jack."
"Then refuse absolutely."
"She'd take me away at once, abroad perhaps. She's made up her mind to this match."
"You must hold it off and on, that is all there is about it. Let her think you are going to consent, but that you mustn't be hurried."
"But think of Mr. Stanley's position. How would you feel in his place?"
"Now, what's the use of arguing suppositious cases when I'm pressed for time? Stanley has accepted the position, and he must make the best of it."
"But if he's afraid Miss Fitzgerald may learn of his proposal to me, and misunderstand."
"Not much danger of that, as she saw you married this morning."
"But Mr. Stanley doesn't know that Miss Fitzgerald was present at our wedding. Now, if I could tell him so——"
"Um!" murmured the Lieutenant thoughtfully. "On the whole, I don't think I would. It wouldn't be quite fair to Belle."
"To Miss Fitzgerald?"
"To Miss Fitzgerald. At least you must gain her consent first."
"But why should she object?"
"Well, to speak quite frankly, her own position in the matter was open to question. You see, shehad some difficulty in arranging the private marriage, and, out of friendship to me, she did and said certain things of which an over-conscientious person, like our friend the Secretary, might disapprove."
"Jack!" she cried, frightened. "Tell me the truth. Swear to me that our marriage was a true marriage—was legal."
"I swear it, my darling. Hadn't you the special licence to prove it? My remarks only referred to the means she used to induce the parson to keep his mouth shut. Not discreditable at all, you understand, and some day, when I'm at liberty to explain it, you'll see—but we owe it to her to keep quiet about the whole affair."
"I don't like it, dear—it doesn't sound honest."
"Well, I can't help it. It is all fair and square as far as you are concerned, and if you like you may tell Miss Fitzgerald all about Stanley's position, so that he can't injure himself in her eyes. But to him you must say nothing without her consent—absolutely nothing."
"But this does not settle the matter of the engagement."
"You must manage that as best you can. Stanley can't really be engaged to you, because you are a married woman; and Belle can't be jealous if she knows the truth."
"But poor Mr. Stanley—consider his feelings—how needlessly you are making him suffer. He'll think that Miss Fitzgerald will never forgive him."
"And a good thing, too, for he's treated hervery badly; he deserves to be made uncomfortable."
"What has he done?"
"Never mind. It's not a story for polite society. But he'll deserve all he gets, take my word for it. Now run along to the library and see if you can find our place in that old black letter book of the 'Lives of the Saints.' It'll be positively necessary for me to look up a reference or two before starting, to fortify myself for my journey;" and so saying he entered the house, feeling that in giving Belle the whip hand over the Secretary, he had more than compensated her for all she had done for him. But Lieutenant Kingsland was destined to find out that a whip—especially one with so long a lash—is apt to be a dangerous instrument in unqualified hands, and may even include the giver in its whistling sting.
Something over an hour later, the Lieutenant having been duly fortified, and dispatched on his journey, Lady Isabelle found herself closeted with her mother in the midst of a most trying scene. The Dowager had placed before her the manifest advantages of a union with the young diplomat, and her daughter, incautiously following her husband's short-sighted advice, had not only seemed to acquiesce in favour of the suit, but had even overdone the part, in the hopes of thereby inducing such amiability in her mother, as would lead her to be lenient concerning the final decision. The result of this was that Lady Isabelle had not, figuratively speaking, left herself a leg to standon, and having admitted all her mother's arguments with a complaisance which could only argue their ultimate acceptance, came to a standstill the moment a definite answer was demanded. She agreed to all her mother said, but could not of herself say yes—or no.
Lady Port Arthur could only attribute her daughter's hesitation to one of two reasons, either maidenly modesty which prevented her acceding to her requests—"A most becoming motive, my dear"—the Dowager assured her—"and one that does you infinite credit, but which, in this instance, must give way to my superior wisdom, or else——." Here the Marchioness expressed herself with a heat and bitterness which it would be hardly fair to put on record for cool and sober reading; referring to an "inherited obstinacy," which she assured her daughter had come direct from the late Lord Port Arthur, and had led to a certain amount of friction in her marital life, and concluding by remarking that—"this (obstinacy) I have determined to nip in the bud, and crush out with a stern hand."
She therefore requested an immediate answer. Lady Isabelle, not being of a strong nature, nor daring to brave her mother's wrath by a direct refusal, and feeling the impossibility of assent, replied that she had nothing further to say. This equivocal position proved to be most disastrous—for it left her mother free to lay down the law, which she proceeded to do.
"If," she said, "your refusal to answer is dueto a foolish access of modesty, I shall reply in the affirmative for you, and Mr. Stanley will see the propriety of your attitude, and will, I am sure, excuse its apparent childishness. If, on the other hand, your motive is due to obstinacy, I consider myself privileged to interfere in order to save you from the results of your own foolishness, and I shall still accept for you. Should you so far forget yourself as to oppose my wishes, I shall feel that seclusion and rigorous measures will be necessary—we will leave to-morrow for a six months' course of mud baths in Northern Bavaria, which will be highly beneficial to me, and will give you ample time for reflection on the sins of undutifulness and obstinate pride."
The Dowager paused to watch the effect of her threat. It was all she could have desired.
Lady Isabelle knew Snollenbad by reputation; knew that it was a stuffy, dull, German, provincial town; loathed mud baths; longed for the gaieties of the world as a girl longs who has only had one season; and, worst of all, realised that the settlement of estates and the limitations of leave would make it a six months' exile from her husband. She hesitated, and the Dowager, relying on the proverb, felt that she had won.
"Give me half an hour to consider," she asked.
"There is nothing to consider," replied her mother. "You know what my course of action will be; the future will depend on yours; but you had better retire to your room and think matters over;" and she dismissed her with a gesture.
In spite of her words, however, the Dowager did not feel perfectly secure, and determined to clinch matters in a manner which, had her daughter suspected it, would have moved even that vacillating nature to rebellion. As it was, Lady Isabelle contemplated a confession to Stanley on his return from the drive, in direct disobedience to her husband's commands; which, at the eleventh hour, would have sealed her mother's lips by apprising her of the truth. But fate ordained otherwise, and the Secretary and Miss Fitzgerald were disgracefully late; giving them barely time to rush to their rooms, hurry into evening clothes, and appear in the drawing-room, flushed and breathless as the butler announced dinner.
As the Secretary sat in the governess' cart finishing his second cigar, he reflected that if he had any strength of character he would never have lent his aid in countenancing a secret marriage between one of his best friends, and a man, who, he believed, could be proved guilty of something very nearly approaching treason to the Sovereign whose uniform he wore; nor, for that matter, would he be waiting for a girl who had insulted him by her suspicions of the evening before, and who had capped the climax by taking the refusal of him at her own valuation.
However, his reflections were cut short by the appearance of Miss Fitzgerald herself, who had not hurried so much as to be flushed or out of breath, and who had arrived with the fixed intention of keeping the Secretary away from the Hall during the entire afternoon.
"I'm awfully sorry to have kept you waiting so long," she said, mounting to the seat which faced him, he driving under her direction. "But you shall have your reward—for I've two bits of good news for you."
"That's encouraging," he replied, praying inwardly that one of them was the announcement of Lady Isabelle's marriage.
"In the first place, your friend Mr. Kent-Lauriston has arrived."
The Secretary's face did not express any excess of joy.
"Won't you be glad to see him?" she asked.
"Of course," he replied.
"He's an old friend of yours?"
"My oldest in England."
"How nice that he's here!" she said, a slight frown clouding her brows. "His coming will mean so much to you."
"Yes," said the Secretary meditatively, "I don't know how much," and there was silence between them for a while.
"And your second piece of news?" he asked suddenly, recollecting himself.
"Is, that your pet detestation is going away."
"You refer to Colonel Darcy?"
She nodded.
"Away from here?"
"Away from England."
"Really."
"You know so much about him, I thought you might have heard of it."
"Where is he going?"
"Abroad somewhere."
"Does he take his wife with him?"
She laughed light-heartedly, as though relieved from some oppression.
"No, I fancy not—in fact I think it is rather to escape her."
"Oh!" he said, and relapsed into silence. Then suddenly reverting to his original train of thought, which Darcy's name suggested, he spoke abruptly:—
"Why did you ask me to drive with you this afternoon?"
"Because I wanted to talk to you—no, I didn't— I wanted you to talk to me."
"About last night?"
"Yes."
"But it's impossible—if you can believe——!" he cried hotly.
"What Bob said, about you and his wife?" she interjected. "I don't, but it made me very angry just the same. You see, up to last night, you had been an ideal to me. Then suddenly you proposed to change all our relations; and just at that moment Bob came in and made those charges, which, though untrue, showed me how very human you would have to be to me if I accepted you, and I was bitter and lost my head."
"But if you didn't believe them, why did you refuse to give me a definite answer?"
"Because you'd brought me face to face with new conditions. I wanted to readjust myself to them."
"But if you love me—— Do you love me?" he said earnestly.
"Yes, Jim," she replied, with a quiet seriousnessthat carried conviction to him, "I do love you."
"Really, love me?"
"Really, more than I have loved any man—ever."
"But then, how can you doubt?" and he turned impulsively towards her.
"You'd better keep both hands on the reins—the pony is only just broken. As I was saying—I love you—in my way—but that's not all, it's merely the beginning. If I only had to meet you for the rest of our lives at afternoon tea and dinner, and we had on our best clothes and our company manners, there would be no question—but you see there are breakfasts and luncheons to be considered. Suppose after our honeymoon was over I was to discover that you wanted to live at West Hempstead, or dined habitually at the National Liberal Club, or wore ready-made suits—it might wreck my life's happiness."
Her sincerity had disappeared, and her change in manner grated on him. He was certain she did not mean what she was saying, but he forced a laugh in replying:—
"Diplomats are not allowed to belong to political clubs, in the first place," he said, "and I've been told that well-cut clothes may be met with even at the N. L. C. Besides, if you loved me, it wouldn't really matter."
"Ah! But it might, and that's just the point. Either I loveyou, the real, imperfect, humanyou—and nothing else counts—or else I love theSecretary of the —— Legation, in a frock coat or a dress suit, and everything does count. I've got to determine which. My feminine intuition will tell me that in an instant some day, and then I can answer you."
"Let us hope that your feminine intuition will make up its mind to act quickly then, for I must be getting back to London in a few days."
"Why?" she cried. "What have you to do?"
What indeed, when the canny old messenger the night before had told him that this beautiful girl was the main spring of the conspiracy he was here to crush? He did not believe that, but the whole conversation had revolted him—it was not decent somehow to discuss the most serious things of life flippantly. His face showed his feelings.
She was quick to take the cue.
"I doubt if you really know yourself," she continued. "Suppose Madame Darcy were unmarried— I have sometimes thought——"
"Suppose the impossible," he interrupted. "Suppose you should decide to drop her husband——"
"I wonder," she said, ignoring his petulant outburst, "if you would mind my asking you a very frank question?"
"About the Colonel?"
"Yes. You see I've been thinking a good deal of what you said the other night, but of course one can't throw over old friends without good cause—merely for marital infelicity—there are always two sides to those stories, you know. Iwas wondering if there was anything else—anything about him which you knew and I wouldn't be likely to— I've sometimes thought—that perhaps——" she paused and looked inquiringly at him.
The Secretary longed to tell her the truth; but remembering his Chief's instructions, and chastened by his late reverse, hardened his heart.
"As for that," he replied guardedly, "he doesn't bear an altogether savoury reputation, I've understood, but as my personal knowledge of his affairs dated with his wife's visit to me two or three days ago—my information is comparatively recent."
She smiled contentedly, and changed the subject, by suggesting that they should get out and walk. A long hill was before them, and since from the construction of governess carts the tendency of an up-grade is to put all the weight at the rear, it seemed advisable to descend.
"To give the pony a fighting chance," as the Secretary suggested.
Miss Fitzgerald complained that it was hot, and, barring the fact of cruelty to animals, a nuisance to have to climb the hill; saying which, she took off her hat, giving an unobstructed view of her hair.
If there is any excuse for the fact that the Secretary forgot his good resolutions, it must lie in the heart of the reader, who perhaps has been young some time himself, and had the exquisite pleasure of driving during a long, perfect English afternoon, through glorious wooded lanes, andall the picturesque antiquity which England alone knows, with a winsome Irish girl, with a peaches-and-cream complexion, a ravishing laugh, bewitching blue eyes, and golden hair loose upon her shoulders, which a madcap wind whipped in his face.
"I think it's glorious," said Stanley, reverting to the landscape, a little later, when the conversation had turned to less serious topics, "There's no country like England—but it's comparable to the little girl of the nursery rhyme—
"When it is good, it is very very good,And when it is bad, it is horrid."
"I'm glad to see you appreciate it at its true worth. Isn't this scene perfect—but think of it in a November fog," she said.
"Think of those people wasting their afternoon on the lawn at the Hall, drinking bitter tea and eating heavy cake."
"I dare say some of them are above those things," replied Belle.
"Lady Isabelle and the Lieutenant?" queried the Secretary.
"Lady Isabelle and the Lieutenant," she acquiesced. "I wonder if there is really anything serious in that affair?"
She said this to probe Stanley, and, as a result, she put him on his guard.
"What do you think?" he asked cautiously. "I imagine the Dowager could never be induced to approve of it."
"The Marchioness!" cried Belle scornfully, as, having reached the summit of the hill with a long, downward slope before them, they remounted into the cart. "She doesn't count."
"Oh, doesn't she?" said the Secretary. "She counts a great deal, as"—he added half to himself—"I ought to know."
They had already turned homewards and were rattling down the hill, and at that moment they swung at top speed round a corner, to come upon a wrecked luggage cart, which blocked the whole road. Without hesitation, Stanley pulled the pony up on its haunches, bringing them to a stop with a tremendous jerk, within three feet of the obstacle; nearly throwing them out, and driving, for the time being, all thoughts of their interrupted conversation from the Secretary's head.
"Why, Tim!" he said, recognising the driver as one of Mrs. Roberts' servants. "You've had a spill!"
"Axle broke, sir. That's what it is, and if it hadn't been as the carrier"—indicating a second cart on the further side—"had happened to come up just now, I don't know as Mister Kingsland would have got his luggage."
"Lieutenant—Kingsland—is he going away?"
"Why, didn't you know that, sir? Called sudden on the death of his uncle—Miss Fitzgerald there—she——"
"Don't spend all the afternoon gossiping, Tim," broke in that young lady, sharply—"but attend toyour work. Drive round somehow, can't you?"—she continued, addressing the Secretary—"or we shall be late for dinner?"
"Don't you see it's impossible? Besides I want to help Tim."
"Nonsense, turn round and we'll drive back—some other way. Tim and the carrier can help themselves," she cried petulantly.
"I'm not so sure of that," drawled the driver. "Them chests are powful heavy—for all the Lieutenant said they contained glass picture slides—it's more like lead."
"Mr. Riddle's slides, eh?" said Stanley, jumping down, despite his fair companion's remonstrances. "Then we mustn't let Lieutenant Kingsland go without them;" and he seized the handle of one of the boxes, and pulling it off the partially overturned cart, dragged it along the road, while Miss Fitzgerald sat holding the pony, and biting her lips in ill-disguised vexation.
"Gad! They are heavy!" admitted the Secretary, as, with the carrier's help, he swung it into the cart, and returned for another.
Four were transported safely, but in lifting the fifth chest, whose cover seemed a trifle loose, Stanley turned his foot on a round stone, and losing his grip on the handle, the chest fell to the ground bottom side up.
"No great harm done, we'll hope," he said, righting it, and helping the carrier to lift it beside the others.
"Why, bless me," ejaculated that official, "ifthere ain't a bran new sovereign lying in the dust!"
The Secretary regarded it critically, and plunging his hands into his trousers pockets, fished out a lot of loose change, which he examined carefully, saying:
"I must have dropped it in bending over; thank you for finding it. There's a shilling for your trouble." And straightening up, he realised that Miss Fitzgerald was regarding him intently.
Half an hour later the wreck was sufficiently cleared for them to resume their homeward way.
The remainder of the afternoon was not a success, including, as it did, a drive home in the teeth of a wind which had suddenly sprung up; which, finding them hot and dusty, left them at their destination cold and cross, and utterly fagged out; Stanley with a twinge of rheumatism, devoutly hoping that Lady Isabelle had got it over, and Miss Fitzgerald with a splitting headache, realising that she had lost a move in the game.
They both looked forward to dinner as a salve for all evils, though when they entered the drawing-room just in time to go down, they were naturally surprised, Miss Fitzgerald at being committed to the charge of Kent-Lauriston, and the Secretary to Lady Isabelle—for the latter of which arrangements the Dowager was directly responsible—indeed, she had held an interview with her hostess a few minutes before, which had left that lady very much excited.
As soon as they were seated at table, he noticedthat he was separated from Miss Fitzgerald as far as might be, so he lost no time in putting Lady Isabelle at her ease by engaging her in conversation. Knowing what he did, he felt that to give her a chance to talk about her husband would be most acceptable to her, and probably useful to him; so, noting his absence, he told her of accidentally hearing of his departure.
"I suppose," he said, "that as he was carrying so much of value, he'll stop in London before going north?"
"Of value," she said. "I do not understand."
"Why, five cases of stereopticon slides for Mr. Riddle. I helped the carrier to reload them, and very heavy they were."
"He said nothing to me of it," she replied; "but he certainly is going to stop in London one night."
"I wish I'd known, I'd have asked him to cash a cheque for me. It's so hard to do that sort of thing in the country, and I imagine we bank at the same place."
"He banks at the Victoria Street branch of the Bank of England. I'm sure he would have been glad to have done it for you."
"Thanks, but it really doesn't matter," replied Stanley, who, having thus learned the probable destination of Mr. Riddle's chests of sovereigns was contented to change the subject, saying: "I do hope that the Lieutenant unburdened his soul to your mother before he left."
She then told him all the events of the afternoon,even the interview with her mother, the whole in a conversational tone of voice. The Secretary sat dazed as the magnitude of what he had let himself in for dawned upon him; and her Ladyship's eager explanations and apologies, which presently died down to a whisper, as there came a lull in the conversation, fell unheeded on his ears. Suddenly he became intuitively aware that everyone was looking at him—no, at them. His hostess was making a feeble attempt to smile at him from far down the table—he felt a horrible premonition of coming catastrophe; he looked at Lady Isabelle, she was white to the lips.
"My friends," came Mrs. Roberts' voice, trembling a little, "Lady Port Arthur has just told me some interesting news, with the request that I would transmit it to you all; so I am going to ask you to drink your first glass of champagne this evening in honour of the engagement of Lady Isabelle McLane and Mr. Aloysius Stanley."
Had Mrs. Roberts' interests not led her in another direction, she must have felt no small gratification at the effect which her speech produced. It was a greatcoupfor any hostess, and of tremendous force, because absolutely unexpected.
A number of guests had been invited for this particular evening to swell the party, making a dinner of sixteen, and it was delightful to witness the manner in which they took the announcement. The men received it in silence, while the women broke instantly into a confused, joyous cackled exclamation, surprise and curiosity.
The Dowager was the person who probably derived the most satisfaction from the scene, for her work was over and she could survey it calmly; but Stanley, though the table and the guests whirled before his eyes, caught some lightning glimpses of various expressions, which he was destined never to forget.
He saw the Marchioness' satisfied smile, which said as plainly as words could: "There, what did I tell you? You see how successfully I have brought about this affair." He caught the glance of sympathy which his hostess shot at Miss Fitzgerald,and he caught the glance of vindictive rage which that young lady bestowed upon him, though he did not see the smile which followed it.
It needed no one to tell Miss Fitzgerald that she held the whip now, or to teach her how to use it. Her lover should smart for this.
One other glimpse the Secretary caught in that moment—a disgusted shrug of the shoulders from Kent-Lauriston, and this latter hurt him the most keenly of all. He wondered how all these people could be so stupid as not to see the ghastly mistake they were making, the awful position in which they were placing them both; and then he understood that Lady Isabelle's pallor and his own flushed face might as easily be traced to natural embarrassment as to utter confusion. What a shocking complication—but if it was so bad for him, what must it be for her? Thank Heavens, he was not to blame for it—he had only done what she had asked him. What would people say when they learned the truth? What would Inez think—what—Good Heavens! Why were all the men rising from their seats? He must rise too—to drink his health. He felt fairly dazed from agitation. They drained their glasses, he drank with them. The champagne served to steady him; he was himself once more, ready to do battle for his honour and hers. What was that they were saying—some idiot at the far end of the table was crying "Speech—Speech!" Stanley made a mental note that, despite laws against duelling, he'd run him through before breakfastto-morrow morning, or know the reason why. Now all the others were taking it up, every one was crying: "Speech! Speech! Speech!" Good Heavens, what could he say! Would it not be better to stand up and tell the truth of this miserable matter? One look at the bent head of Lady Isabelle, and her nervous fingers clutching the tablecloth, determined his course of action—he could not expose her to the criticism of this table of scandal-mongers. She sat there, almost fainting, hanging on his every word; chivalry, honour, manliness, left but one course open—he must sacrifice himself to save her. The future would decide itself—his duty lay clear before him. He saw that he must speak—and that he must by his words deceive the company, and yet not compromise either her or himself. He raised his hand to command attention; the rest sat down—it gave him thirty seconds for reflection, an infinitesimal amount of time in which to take action, but ample space in which to take thought: then he spoke:—
"My friends:—
"You have just done us the honour to drink a toast to our united happiness. I thank you for your kind intention. Those who are already married have, by drinking this toast, very gracefully assured me of my own future happiness, and those who are single have given me the opportunity to express a hearty wish that it may some day be my privilege to drink a similar toast to them."
Had Mr. Stanley never given other evidence of his fitness for a diplomatic career, this speech alone would have conclusively furnished it. He resumed his seat, and the look of gratitude which his companion gave him was sufficient reward.
How that dinner passed off the Secretary never knew. It was a horrible nightmare, and it seemed interminable; but it did come to an end at last, and he repaired to the smoking-room where even a worse purgatory awaited him. Kent-Lauriston distinctly avoided him, the rest evidently regarded him as their lawful prey. His over-taxed nerves were beginning to give way. He laughed hysterically, threw his cigar into the fireplace, and, begging to be excused, left the room. A burst of laughter followed him. He knew what it meant—every action of his must henceforth be misinterpreted.
His appearance in the drawing-room was the signal for a preparatory giggle, and then an, only too apparent, ignoring of his presence, accompanied by meaning glances towards the conservatory. He took the hint, and went in that direction, to find Lady Isabelle weeping her eyes out on a divan.
"There's no use crying over spilt milk," he said to her, cheerfully; "but you must admit it's a deuce of a mess."
"How can I ever sufficiently thank you, Mr. Stanley?" she exclaimed, looking up at him in undisguised admiration. "You were splendid."
"Oh, not at all—but I'll admit your mother's announcement rather staggered me."
"I tried to prepare you."
"I'm afraid you didn't succeed," he replied coldly, for he felt that he had been ill-used.
"I assure you," she said, "if I'd had the remotest idea of what mamma intended doing, I would have faced all possibilities and told her the truth, rather than have exposed you to what has occurred. I can never, never forgive myself for it."
"It was really more my fault than yours. I gave your mother permission to announce our engagement whenever you gave your consent."
"I never gave it!" she cried.
"Of course," he continued, "I never supposed that your mother would so far forget herself as to force you."
"You mustn't be too hard on mamma."
"Under the circumstances you could hardly expect me to be lenient; I think we'd better agree to change the subject."
She bowed silently.
"There's one thing, however, that you can do to help me," he continued.
Lady Isabelle shivered as she saw the approach of the dreaded request, and asked:
"What is that?"
"You can go to Miss Fitzgerald and tell her the truth. No statement of mine, unsupported by you, would have any credence in her ears after what has passed. You're the only person whose word can right me in her estimation."
"Mr. Stanley," she replied slowly, and with evident exertion, "I cannot tell you the pain, the chagrin, which it gives me to refuse your request."
"You won't do it!" he cried, utterly amazed.
"I can't do it."
"But do you realise the position in which you place me with Miss Fitzgerald?" he protested, unwilling to believe his ears.
"Perfectly—only too keenly," she replied. "The knowledge that I've wronged you in her estimation is the bitterest part of the whole matter. I feel it much more than my own position in the affair."
"And knowing this you can still refuse to interfere in my behalf, when a word from you would set all right."
"I deeply regret it, Mr. Stanley, but I must."
He stood looking at her for a moment in the deepest scorn. Had he sacrificed himself for a woman like this?
"Don't think too hardly of me," she pleaded; "believe me, I have reasons."
"I've only this to say, Lady Isabelle," he replied coldly. "Until you absolve me from the unfortunate position in which your foolishness and weakness have placed me, my good name, my honour, and my future prospects are in your hands. Your conscience should tell you how far you have the right to trifle with them," and turning on his heel he left the conservatory.
After the departure of the Secretary, Lady Isabellelost no time in seeking out Miss Fitzgerald, who had retired to her chamber.
To pursue a woman who believes that you have cruelly wronged her was a bold undertaking, but if she could not assure the Secretary that she would right him in his lady's eyes, her duty, under the circumstances, was all the more imperative to do so without delay; so summoning all her courage to her aid, she ascended to Miss Fitzgerald's chamber, and knocked timidly; so timidly, indeed, that at first she was not heard, and was compelled to knock again.
"Come in," called Belle.
Her Ladyship partially opened the door.
"It's I," she said.
"Lady Isabelle!" exclaimed Miss Fitzgerald, in unfeigned surprise, rising to receive her visitor. "You're the last person I expected to see!"
"I must beg your pardon for intruding upon your privacy, but I felt I must come to you the first moment that I was able."
"Really?"
"I owe you an explanation, Miss Fitzgerald."
Belle looked at her proudly and coldly, with the air of an insulted queen. It was not often she had the chance to triumph over a lady of title, and she enjoyed it thoroughly.
"You owe me more than an explanation," she said, and indicating a chair for her guest, they both sat down.
"Of course, you're aware that Mr. Stanley cannot be engaged to me," Lady Isabelle began,after some hesitation, in which Belle gave her no help, for she knew this interview was her real punishment.
"I should hardly have supposed so," replied Miss Fitzgerald, and lapsed into silence.
"I"—Lady Isabelle began, covered with confusion—"I—the fact is—I asked him to propose to me."
"You asked him to propose to you?"
"I don't wonder you are surprised; but the facts of the case are these. My mother asked Mr. Stanley his intentions last evening. Being engaged to you, he naturally had none."
"Mr. Stanley is not engaged to me."
"I beg your pardon, I thought——"
"He has proposed to me, I admit; but I must say his conduct doesn't prejudice me in his favour."
"But you mustn't allow this to injure him, Miss Fitzgerald. Really you must not."
"A man who could accept a lady who had so far forgotten herself as to propose to him——"
"Pray let me state my case before judging me," pleaded her Ladyship, ready to sink through the floor with mortification.
"Proceed, Lady Isabelle," said her tormentor.
"Mr. Stanley told me of his interview with my mother, who, I knew, was very anxious to make a match between us. This morning I discovered that she intended to go to early service. You know what that would have involved."
Miss Fitzgerald nodded.
"I tried every means to deter her, but in vain.Then, as a last resort—I admit it was very wrong to do so—I asked Mr. Stanley to intercept my mother on her way to the church, and make her a proposal for my hand, as I knew this was the only way to detain her, telling him that I was about to be married, and that I would tell her the truth to-day."
Miss Fitzgerald drew a sharp breath.
"Then he knows that you're a married woman?"
"He knew that I was to be, before the ceremony."
The Irish girl gave a contented little sigh, and murmured to herself—"So he did know after all."
Then waking up to the immediate present, she continued, with exaggerated courtesy:—
"Your Ladyship has not, I think, finished your story. You promised Mr. Stanley that you would tell your mother the truth—but you have not done so."
"No, I have not, and for the following reasons. My husband, as you know, received a telegram apprising him of the fact that a relative, who was dying, intended leaving him a large fortune, and required his immediate presence. He forbade me to speak till he came back, and insisted that I must hold out the prospect of my engagement with Mr. Stanley as a bait to keep my mother here till he could return to me. She, however, pressed me for an answer, and on my refusing to commit myself either way, took matters into her own hands, as we have seen. I assure you entirelywithout the knowledge of Mr. Stanley or myself."
"I see. You feel it necessary to continue this bogus engagement, for the present."
"I'm between two fires, Miss Fitzgerald: obedience to my husband's commands, and the reparation I owe to you."
"What does Jimsy say?"
"Mr. Stanley has, of course, behaved like a gentleman, and left the matter for me to decide. I'm in a most dreadful position, either way I must wrong some one."
"I'll spare your conscience, Lady Isabelle. I shan't require you to break your engagement with the Secretary."
"But you'll forgive him, will you not? It was not his fault, really."
"You seem to forget that I've not accepted him as yet."
"But you'll not let this prejudice your ultimate decision. Promise me that?"
"Yes, I'll promise—for I don't think there's anything proved against him in this matter, except that he's weak, and I did not need you to tell me that."
"He's a very large heart, Miss Fitzgerald."
"He has," assented that lady. "Of which I've had ample evidence in the last few days."
"You've been so gracious to me in this matter," continued Lady Isabelle, "that unsuitable as the occasion is, I'm going to venture to ask you a favour.
"And what is that, your Ladyship?"
"Mr. Stanley doesn't know that you're aware of my marriage, and for some reason which I don't understand, my husband forbade me to tell him of the fact unless I had your permission; so he fancies that he's put himself in a worse position than is really the case. Do allow me to tell him the truth. Poor fellow, he's so unhappy."
"No," replied Miss Fitzgerald, a gleam of triumph lighting up her face, as she realised the power which Kingsland had placed in her hands. "Your husband is quite right; there are excellent reasons why he should not be told; besides he deserves to be miserable, he's treated me very badly."
"In that case," said Lady Isabelle, stiffly, rising to go, "I've nothing more to say."
"Quite right, Lady Isabelle, and may I give you a parting word of caution? When your husband, Lieutenant Kingsland, advises a course of action, follow it blindly."
"Really, Miss Fitzgerald!" exclaimed her Ladyship, bridling up at the Irish girl's remark.
"Good-night, Lady Isabelle," murmured Belle in her silkiest tones, opening the door, and laughing softly to herself, as her visitor rustled away in the distance. Then she leaned over the staircase and listened. No sound met her ears, but her eyes beheld the disconsolate figure of the Secretary, standing alone in the hall below. She tripped noiselessly down, and, arriving within a few pacesof him unnoticed, drew herself up haughtily, and said, in her most chilling tones:—
"Will you kindly permit me to pass, Mr. Stanley?"
"Belle—Miss Fitzgerald," he cried. "I must have a few words with you— I must explain."
"It's not necessary, Mr. Stanley. I've already heard a detailed account of the affair from Lady Isabelle's mother."
On the verity of the statement we will not attempt to pass judgment; suffice it to say, that it simply staggered the young diplomat.
"Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "I—it's not true, believe me, it's not true."
"Do I understand you to insinuate that the Marchioness has prevaricated?"
"No, no, of course not; but it's all a mistake. I can explain—really."
"Mr. Stanley, answer me one question. Did you or did you not give the Marchioness to understand, in your interview with her this morning, that you wished to marry her daughter?"
"Why, yes—I suppose I did—but, then, you see——"
"That is quite sufficient. Good-night."
"If you'd only let me explain!"
"Good-night, Mr. Stanley," she repeated icily, and swept past him into the drawing-room.
"You graceless young dog!" cried Kent-Lauriston, falling upon Stanley in a half-feigned, half-real burst of anger, as he entered the smoking-room after his encounter with Belle. "Do you know you've caused me to refuse invitations by the score, and dragged me down to this God-forsaken place, at the most impossible season of the year, on false pretences?"
"False pretences! How so?"
"Why? You shameless Lothario! Why? Because what's left of my conscience smote me for leaving a lamb amidst a pack of wolves, and wouldn't let me rest; nearly destroyed my digestion, I give you my word. I came down to pluck your innocence alive from the burning, and I've been a fool for my pains. Why, confound you, I not only find youépriswith Madame Darcy, but engaged to both the Fitzgerald and Lady Isabelle."
"My dear Kent-Lauriston, pray soothe your ruffled feelings; your logic is excellent, but your premises are one and all false."
"What!"
"I say there's nothing between Madame Darcyand myself, and that I'm neither engaged to Miss Fitzgerald nor Lady Isabelle."
"But, my dear Stanley, I've heard——"
"But, my dear Kent-Lauriston, you've heard wrongly."
"What—isn't Madame Darcy here?"
"Yes."
"And haven't you seen her?"
"Yes."
"And walked with her early in the morning?"
"Yes."
"And breakfasted with her,tête-à-têteat a farmhouse?"
"Yes."
"And hasn't her husband challenged you to a duel on her account?"
"Yes."
"And didn't he, moreover, catch you in the act of proposing to Miss Fitzgerald?"
"Yes."
"And haven't you asked the Marchioness for Lady Isabelle's hand?"
"Yes."
"And in the face of all this—you attempt to deny——"
"In the face of all this—circumstantial evidence—I'm quite prepared to deny everything. Would you like to hear thefactsof the case?"
"Rather!"
As will have been inferred, the two men had the smoking-room entirely to themselves, and the best part of an hour passed before the Secretaryhad finished his account of events with which the reader is familiar.
Kent-Lauriston heard him out with great interest, and after drawing a long breath, at the close of his recital, remarked:—
"I think I shall be fully repaid for any inconvenience to which I've put myself on your account. This whole affair is most interesting, and, believe me, there's more in it than appears on the surface."
"I feel the same way myself," replied the Secretary; "but let us hear your views on the subject."
"First," replied his friend, "you must assure me of how you yourself stand. Are you still in your unregenerate state, or have you yet begun to see the fruits of your folly?"
The young diplomat was silent for a long time, but finally he said, looking up into Kent-Lauriston's face with an almost appealing glance:
"I'm afraid you would think me awfully caddish if I told you the truth about it."
"About the state of your affections for Miss Fitzgerald, you mean?"
"Yes."
"Of course, I shouldn't think you justified in making a public declaration of a change of sentiment, because it might seem to reflect on the lady, but in my case it's very different. Having spoken so frankly and freely on the subject already, I might almost say that you owe it to me to continue to do so. Certainly I've given you no causefor reticence by anything I've done, and, as certainly, you must confide fully in me if you wish my help in the future."
"Well, then, the truth is," he blurted out, "that you were right and I was wrong, and I've found it out too late."
"I thought as much."
"But I'm not going back on my word. If I've made a mistake, I must suffer for it; and if Miss Fitzgerald accepts my proposal, which she now has under consideration, I shall live up to my part of the agreement; and if I can prevent it, she shall never suspect that I would have matters otherwise. If she should refuse me, however——"
"You'd make a fool of yourself just the same," continued Kent-Lauriston, "by jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire, and marrying Madame Darcy the instant she obtained her divorce."
"Kent-Lauriston," Stanley exclaimed, "you know a d——d sight too much!"
The Englishman laughed softly, and then resumed the thread of his discourse.
"Now that I understand your position——" he began.
"Do you understand it?"
"Better than you do yourself, I fancy; let me see if I can state it. You've proposed to Miss Fitzgerald, and she has taken the question of marrying you into consideration; since which time you have come to the conclusion, for reasons which we will not specify out of consideration for your feelings, that, if she refuses, or could beinduced to refuse you, you'd accept the decision without an appeal. Am I correct?"
The Secretary nodded gloomily.
"Under the circumstances, do you give me permission to do what I can to effect your release?"
"Do what you please."
"I'll do my best. Now what induced you to propose to her against your better judgment? Did she lead you on?"
"No, certainly not—if you suppose——!"
"Well, something must have started you up."
"Charges were made against her. I thought it my duty to tell her what had been said——"
"How did she receive it?"
"She accused me of being a false friend, of not having defended her."
"And you proposed—when—that day?"
"No, the next night."
"I see, the next night; because you thought it your duty to protect her."
"Confound you. You read me like a book."
"An open page is easy reading. Now who made the charges?"
"Kingsland."
"I thought so. Whom did they concern?"
"Darcy."
"Exactly. And at the very moment that you were asking her to give you the right to protect her from men of Darcy's stamp—he turns up and proves you the worst of the lot."
"And she— I wonder she didn't refuse me out of hand."
"I wonder she didn't accept you—but let that pass. All I wish to point out to you is this:—Kingsland drove you by the charges he made against Darcy to propose to Miss Fitzgerald. What was his motive for doing so?"
"Friendship for Miss Fitzgerald."
"Would that be likely to induce him to make serious charges against her?"
"Friendship for me."
"Nonsense! I know the man. He did it because it paid him to do it."
"How was that possible?"
"I can suggest one motive. The removal of the obstacles preventing Lady Isabelle's secret marriage. Now who could have effected this? Not Lady Isabelle, she never had the audacity to carry out such a scheme; not Kingsland, he hasn't brains enough; our hostess is above suspicion; in fact there's only one person who could have conceived and carried out the plan to its successful conclusion—namely, Miss Fitzgerald."
"What grounds have you for proving it?"
"Was she with the parson at all, before the ceremony?"
"I knew you'd ask that question!"
"Then she was."
"Twice, on the days just preceding—to my knowledge."
"That's sufficient."
"Not for me."
"Then I'll tell you where we can find the missing link of evidence."
"Where?"
"In the marriage register of the church. Find the names of the witnesses, and you'll find the people who have carried it through. If you'll kindly leave it in my hands, I'll verify my statements to-morrow morning. I'd prefer that you did not do it yourself."
"As you please. But even admitting you're right, it doesn't give the cause for the motive."
"Oh, yes, it does—Miss Fitzgerald's intervention in this matter was the price of Kingsland's egging you on to propose."
"Nonsense!"
"I'll lay you a thousand to one on it."
Stanley shrugged his shoulders, saying:—
"But your own arguments defeat you, my dear fellow. If Miss Fitzgerald was such a calculating person, why should she put herself out, and run the risk of compromising herself, merely to induce the Lieutenant to play upon my jealousy, when, as you've already shown, and I've admitted, I was so weak as to make such strategy unnecessary."
"Perhaps that was not the only favour Miss Fitzgerald looked for, and the Lieutenant's hands——"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, taking five chests for her to London."
"Oh," said the Secretary, much relieved, "I know all about that. I quite assure you it has nothing to do with Miss Fitzgerald."
"But I heard her asking Kingsland to take themup for her this afternoon, and to put them in his bank."
"Look here, Kent-Lauriston, your dislike for poor Belle must have got the better of your common sense. You certainly misinterpreted what she said. Those chests belong to Mr. Riddle."
Kent-Lauriston changed the subject.
"What is Colonel Darcy here for?"
"He says, to watch his wife."
"What is she here for?"
"She says she has letters written to her husband by some member of this household, which have aroused her suspicions."
"That sounds more promising. Who is this person?"
"A woman of course—but she only knows her Christian name."
"And that is?"
"She will not tell me."
"Ah!" said Kent-Lauriston drily.
"I've sources of information about Darcy, which I'm not at liberty to give you," resumed Stanley, "but you're not on the right track, believe me."
"Time will prove the correctness of some of my theories, at least," replied his mentor, "and I shall be better able to talk when I've seen the marriage register. Now let's have something to drink, and go to bed;" and he pressed the bell.
An interval having elapsed without an answer, he rang again, but no servant appeared.
"It must be later than I thought. We'll haveto shift for ourselves. There'll be something going in the billiard-room."
"Hark!" said Stanley. "There's somebody in the hall; it's probably the butler shutting up for the night."
They both listened, and a peculiar, shuffling, scraping sound became audible.
"That's a curious noise," said the Secretary. "Let's see what it means," and, suiting the action to the word, he threw open the smoking-room door.
The light in the hall was turned out, and the sombre black oak panelling made the great apartment seem darker than it really was. Absolute stillness reigned. It was, to all appearance, empty.
"Must have been rats," said the Secretary. "Everyone seems to have retired."
"Have they?" said Kent-Lauriston.
"Listen!"
And both could have sworn that they heard, far up the hall, the dying rustle of a skirt. But there were some things that Stanley had no wish to know, and he set his face and his steps towards the stairs, continuing:—
"As I was saying, we are the only people up.
"Then we'd better go to bed."
"By all means."
"Shall I turn out the electric lights in the smoking-room?"
"Yes, we're evidently the last."
A moment later they stood on the upper landing about to separate for the night.
"The woman was behind that screen at the foot of the stairs," said Kent-Lauriston.
"Yes, I know," replied the Secretary.
"Good-night, my dear Stanley."
"Good-night, old man. You possess a rare talent."
"Yes?"
"You know when not to ask questions."