"If one believes in Providence, one must of course believe that these things are for the best."
"Here comes the Secretary," said Mrs. Roberts. "Does he know?"
"I must tell him," replied the Dowager. "It's my painful duty."
Mrs. Roberts precipitately left the room.
"Dear Mr. Stanley," murmured the Dowager, "I was just on the point of sending for you; you've come most opportunely. I feel I must speak to you about my dear daughter. She is a sadly wilful girl, and I fear——"
"Don't speak of it, your Ladyship. I know, that is, I've heard; and permit me to offer my congratulations on your daughter's recent marriage to Lieutenant Kingsland," he said, throwing into his voice what he trusted might pass for a note of resignation.
"Dear Mr. Stanley," said the Dowager, infinitely relieved, "you are so tactful, so generous——"
"I hope she'll be happy."
"Oh yes—yes—we must hope so." And her Ladyship sighed deeply. "You, of course, know what I wished from my heart."
"I'm going away," he said abruptly, "this afternoon in fact. I'm assigned on a diplomatic service, which, for the present, may take me out of England, so you'll make my adieux to Lady Isabelle, will you not?"
"I—er—trust you do not contemplate doing anything—foolish?"
"You may set your mind at rest on that score."
"You relieve me immensely—you'll excuse me if I'm too frank. I've come so near being a—er—mother to you, I feel a peculiar interest in your welfare. May I venture to express the hope, that you'll not commit yourself with that young Irish person?"
"Your ladyship may feel quite easy— Miss Fitzgerald and I have never been more than friends, and in the future——"
"Of course one must be kind; but a young man cannot be too careful. I assure you in regard to the young woman in question, that I was told in strict confidence—the most shocking——"
"Pardon me," he interrupted, "but I couldn't think of violating your strict confidence," and he passed by her out of the room.
"That young man," said the Dowager, in summing him up to a friend, "has tact, but lacks reserve."
"Have you come to insult me, Mr. Kent-Lauriston?"
Isabelle Fitzgerald stood in a wooded recess of the park, beside a young sapling; the one no more fair and tall and glorious with the joy of living than the other. Kent-Lauriston was beside her, hat in hand, with just the trace of a cynical smile about his parted lips; but serious enough with it all, well realising the gravity of the task he had undertaken, and pitying from his heart the fair girl who stood white and scornful before him, her garden hat hanging from its ribbon, unconsciously held in her hand.
"Have you come to insult me, Mr. Kent-Lauriston?" She said it defiantly, as if it were a gage of battle.
"I have come to apologise to you," he replied quietly.
"You tell me thathehas sent you to me. Well, I know what that means. Iknewwhy you came to the Hall, I would have stopped you if I could. You were my enemy, I felt it the moment I saw you. Iknewyou would have your way then. What chance had an unfortunate girl, whose onlyhope rested in the love of the man she loved, as against one who has made hundreds of matches, and broken hundreds of hearts? You owe me an apology you think—it is very good of you, I appreciate it deeply," and she made him an obeisance.
"I've not come to apologise to you for any point that I've gained, but for the means I must employ to gain it."
"Really," she said, her eyes blazing. "Thisisa condescension. Are not any means good enough to cope with an adventuress like myself—a young woman who is deterred by no conventions, and no maidenly reserve; whose every art and wile is strained to lure on to their fate weak and unsuspecting young men. Is it possible that such a person has any rights that need be respected?"
"Really, Miss Fitzgerald," said Kent-Lauriston, placidly, "you surprise me. In addition to the numerous virtues, which I'm confident you possess, I'd added in my own mind that paramount one, of cool clear-headedness. This lady, I had told myself, is at all events perfectly free from hysteria or nervous affections; she can discuss an unpleasant subject, if necessary, in its practical bearings, without flying into a fit of rage, and wandering hopelessly from the point. It appears that I was mistaken."
"No," she replied brusquely, "you are not; You've summed up my character very well, but you must remember that you've nothing to gain or lose in this matter. You're merely playing thegame—directing the moves of the pawns. The problem is interesting, amusing, if you like, but whether you win or lose, you've nothing wagered on the result. But the pawn! Its very existence is at stake—a false move is made, and it disappears from the board."
"Quite true! But the pawn has a better chance of life, if the moves are considered calmly, than if played at random; it is then inevitably lost."
"You're right," she said, seating herself on a grassy bank near by: "perfectly right. Let us talk this matter over calmly. I shan't forget myself again."
He seated himself beside her.
"Now frankly," she continued, "before you saw me, or spoke to me, you'd made up your mind to save your friend from my clutches, had you not? I beg your pardon—doubtless, you'd disapprove of such an expression—we'll say, you had determined to prevent him from marrying me."
"Frankly speaking, yes, I had."
"But you knew nothing about me; you could know nothing about me, except on hearsay."
"Pardon me—I knew your late father, and I was at Colonel Belleston's, when you ran off with his heir-apparent, and were not found till half the country-side had been searched, and the dinner quite spoiled."
"But Georgie Belleston was only eight, and I scarcely twelve. We had determined, I remember, to join a circus—no, he wanted to fight Indians; but it was childish nonsense."
"The spirit was there, nevertheless. But in the present case I was considering Mr. Stanley, I must confess, rather than yourself. The world, my dear young lady, is an open market, a prosaic, mercantile world."
"Don't you suppose I know that?"
"I'm willing to believe it if you wish me to do so. It will help us to understand the commonsense proposition that marriageable young men, like cabbages, have a market value, and that a young man like our friend, who has a great deal to offer, should—shall I be perfectly plain, and say—should expect a pretty handsome return for himself."
"And you didn't think that I'd much to offer," she said, laughing. "In other words, that you'd be selling your cabbages very cheap. Eh?"
Kent-Lauriston said nothing, but she saw the impression she had produced, and bit her lips in mortified rage. She wished at least to win this man's respect, and she was showing herself to him in her very worst light.
"I had, as you say," she continued, "nothing to offer Mr. Stanley but my love; but I dare say you don't believe in love, Mr. Kent-Lauriston."
"Not believe in love? My dear young lady, it forms the basis of every possible marriage."
"Does it never form thewholeof such a union?"
"Only too often, but these are the impossible marriages, and ninety-nine per cent. of them prove failures, or worse."
"I can't believe you—if one loves, nothing else counts."
"Quite true for the time being, but God help the man or woman who mistakes the passion aroused by a pretty face or form for the real lasting article, and wagers his life on it."
"You've never married; you can, therefore, talk as you please."
"My dear Miss Fitzgerald, if I'd ever married, I should probably not talk at all."
"You don't regard our affair as serious?"
"Not on Mr. Stanley's side?"
"And on mine?"
"That we shall see later on; but my young friend is in his salad days, and he's not responsible, but he is almost too honest."
"I suppose you'll say I tempted him."
"N-o—but you let him fall."
"However, you were at hand to rescue him. I wonder you should have wasted your valuable time in going through the formality of consulting me over so trivial an affair."
"But it's not trivial. I thought it was till this morning, now I've changed my mind. It's very serious. I've a right to save my friend from making a fool of himself, when he only is the real sufferer; but it's a very different question when the rights of another person are involved, especially when that person is a woman."
"So you've come to me?"
"To persuade you, if possible, to relinquish those rights."
"For his sake?"
"No, for your own."
"Really—that's a novel point of view to take of the matter."
"You think so. I only want you to see the affair in its true light, to realise that the game isn't worth the candle."
"I think you'll find it difficult to prove that."
"We shall see. Suppose I state the case. Here are you, a charming young lady of good family, but no means, thrown on your own resources; in a word, with the opportunity of marrying a—shall we say,pliable—young man, of good official standing, and an undoubtedly large income and principal; who is infatuated—thinks he's fallen in love with you, and whom you really love. There, have I stated the case fairly?"
"So fairly, that you'll find it difficult to prove your point."
"Let me continue. Suppose you're married; grand ceremonial, greatéclat, delighted friends and relatives, handsome presents, diamonds and all—he'd do the thing well—honeymoon, say, the Riviera—limit, three months—what next? Where are you going to live? London? It won't do. Property—that property you're so interested in—can't take care of itself; the young heir of those broad plantations must go home and learn the business. Your practical mind shows you the necessity of that. Do you know the life of his native country? No? Your nearest neighboursthirty miles away, and deadly dull at that; your climate a damp, sultry fog; your amusements, sleeping in a hammock two-thirds of the day, when the mosquitoes will let you, and your husband's society, as sole company, the rest of the time. After two or three years, or perhaps four or five—long enough to ruin your matchless complexion, and cause you both to be forgotten by all your friends, except those who can't afford to do so—you come back to London for a nice long visit—say three months. How you will enjoy it! Let me see, what do you most like? Horses, riding, hunting? Ever heard the Secretary's ideas on hunting?"
She laughed nervously, and Kent-Lauriston pursued his subject.
"Then he's so indefatigable at balls and parties; I've known him to stay half an hour, when he's been feeling fit! His friends, too, such dear old fogies, like your esteemed aunt, not likeyourfriends—you know how fond he is of them. The Kingslands and Darcys of your acquaintance would simply revel in the house of a man who never plays cards for money, and can't tell an eighty from a ninety-eight champagne—and he'd be master in his own house, too—you received an ultimatum yesterday. A man who will do that to a woman to whom he isn't even quite engaged will command his wife and see that she obeys him. You would have before you the choice of living in an atmosphere and associating with people entirely uncongenial to you, or living whollyapart from your husband; either would be intolerable. Have I proved my point?"
"You've forgotten to include in your charming sketch that I should still have the comforts of life, and, what is more important, a house to cover me, enough to eat and drink, and clothes to wear—things which I have sometimes in the past found it pretty difficult to obtain."
"True, but you'd be paying too high a price for them, much too high. Take my word for it, again and again you'd long to be back in your present state; yes, and in harder straits than you are now."
"What you say to me could be equally well applied to Mr. Stanley, in reverse."
"Quite so; it sums up in the mere fact, that you two have nothing in common except passion and sentimentality, very frail corner stones on which to build a life's happiness. You're not even companionable. What are you going to talk about for the rest of your lives? It's an appalling prospect. I want to save you both from making a very bad bargain."
"I don't agree with you," she cried vehemently, springing to her feet, "not at all; but what difference does it make? I know well enough I'm not really to be consulted as to the issue; you'd never have had the effrontery to speak to me as you have done, if you were not already sure of the game. To use a commercial phrase, you've cornered the market, and can make what terms you please. I must accede to them."
"You entirely mistake the situation, Miss Fitzgerald," he said, calmly rising, and facing her. "It is you who have cornered the market, and it is I who must buy at your price."
"Explain yourself! What do you mean?" she cried, a gleam of hope, almost of triumph, lighting up her face.
Kent-Lauriston was now playing a bold game.
"I mean," he replied, "that circumstances have rendered me powerless to prevent Mr. Stanley's marrying you, if you allow him to do so."
"Tell me!——" she exclaimed abruptly.
"It's for that purpose that I've sought you out."
She nodded. She was watching him guardedly.
"I've admitted that our young friend was in love with you. I don't say you encouraged him, but you certainly excited his pity, a very dangerous proceeding with a person of his nature."
"What's all this to do with my position?"
"A great deal," resumed Kent-Lauriston. "You see, I want you to understand your hold over Mr. Stanley—it's really because he pities you." The girl flushed painfully. "Excuse me if I speak things which are unpleasant, but you most understand your weakness, and your strength. You've nearly ruined yourself by being too clever, and now, by the wildest stroke of luck, you're in a very strong position."
"Would you mind speaking plainly?"
"Certainly. In a word, the situation is just this. Within the last few days, Mr. Stanley hasmade three discoveries about you, which have gone far to destroy his sympathy for you, and make him believe that his pity or his love, as he chooses to call it, has been misplaced. Two of these discoveries I believe to be true; one—the worst—I know to be false. If he discovers how shockingly you've been maligned, he'll probably forget the past, and, in a burst of contrition at having so misjudged you, will do what his common sense forbids—I mean, marry you."
"You're really becoming interesting. I had underrated your abilities. Pray be more explicit," she said, quite at her ease at these reassuring words, and putting Kent-Lauriston down, mentally, as a fool for giving the game away, when he need only have kept silent to have had it all in his own hands.
He read her thoughts and smiled quietly, for, by her expression, he could gauge the depth of her subtlety. She was no match for him, if she were innocent enough to believe him capable of such folly.
"You compliment me," he returned, "but to go on—in the first place, he learned of your connection with Lady Isabelle's marriage. It opened his eyes somewhat."
"She told him?"
"She did. You forced her to do so, by your threat against her husband."
Miss Fitzgerald bit her lip, and said nothing.
"Lady Isabelle," continued Kent-Lauriston, "in appealing to the Secretary to save her husband,gave him the clue he was searching for; which resulted in his discovery of the friendly turn you had done the Lieutenant, in making him unconsciously, shall we say,particeps criminis?"
"Ah!"
"Have you seen Colonel Darcy to-day?"
She paused for a moment, considering, and then decided it was better to be straightforward, and replied:
"Not since yesterday morning. I went to see him last evening, but found him out."
"I know you did."
Miss Fitzgerald breathed a sigh of relief. It was well she had decided not to lie to this man.
"You're probably not aware, then," continued Kent-Lauriston, "that Stanley succeeded in opening the secret door last night, and obtained possession of Darcy's letter of instructions."
The Irish girl turned very white, looking as if she were going to faint.
"Then he knows everything," she whispered.
"Everything," replied her tormentor. "The details of the plot he has known for some time, being stationed here by the Legation to watch the Colonel—but it was not till Darcy was brought to book this morning, and in order to save himself, signed a written confession, that he really knew the extent to whichyouwere incriminated."
She burst into tears. Kent-Lauriston proceeded unconcernedly with his story.
"The Colonel's chivalry is not of such a nature as would cause him to hesitate in shifting all theresponsibility he could, on the shoulders of a woman."
She dried her tears at that, and her eyes fairly snapped.
"The fact," resumed Kent-Lauriston, "that Stanley had on several occasions tried to help you to clear yourself, and the fact that you'd persistently—well—not done so—made matters all the worse. In short, on these two counts alone, you had given evidence of an amount of deceit and cold-blooded calculation that completely upset even such an optimist as he. Still, I think he would have overlooked it, if properly managed—if that had been the worst."
"Can anything be worse?"
"Yes, for this last charge against you is not true."
"Go on."
"You placed yourself in Darcy's power. A clever woman, a really clever woman, my dear Miss Fitzgerald, would not have done that. It would be easy for him to manufacture circumstantial evidence, to back any lie he might choose to exploit, to your discredit. Say, for instance, that you were the prime mover in this plot, and that you went into it for a financial consideration, for three thousand pounds."
"But Bob never would——"
"Wouldn't he, when he was thirsting for revenge, believing that your careless threat against Lieutenant Kingsland had ruined his hopes."
"Did he do this?"
"He did, and that is why I'm here this morning in Mr. Stanley's place—commissioned to return to you your letters," and he handed her the packet.
"It's not true!" she cried. "Before Heaven, Mr. Kent-Lauriston, it is not true!"
"I know it's not true, for Darcy's confessed to me."
"But Mr. Stanley does not know."
"No."
"Then he must be told."
"If you tell him he'll fling prudence to the winds in an agony of remorse, and you'll have won the game."
"You mean he'll keep to his engagement?"
"I mean he'll marry you."
"And you dare to ask any woman to allow such a slander to live when she can deny it?"
"I ask you, for your own sake, for the reasons I've stated, for your future happiness, and as an escape from certain misery—to let him go."
"I tell you I love him."
"Then I ask you forhissake. A brilliant diplomatic career is just opening before him, as the result of the discovery of this plot. Is his government likely to repose confidence in him in the future, with you as his wife—a woman who has practised treason? His father would never receive you, and might disinherit him. Do you love this man so little that you wish to ruin him?"
"I tell you I love him—you do not understand."
"I understand that you love him in one of two ways. If it's a great love it's capable of sacrifice to prove its greatness. Show that it is so by giving him up. If it's any other sort of love it will not stand the strain to which you propose to subject it, and within six months after your marriage you'll realise that you've ruined two lives, and are yourself the chief sufferer. Come, prove that what you say is true, and save him from himself."
"But if I do, I do it at a fearful price. It means social ostracism."
"Not at all. Who will know of this charge against you? Four people at the most, and not one of them will ever speak of it. Darcy, who originated the lie, will, for obvious reasons, keep silent. Stanley's the soul of honour; he'd rather tear his tongue out than speak a word of it. I've proved my discretion through several generations, and Kingsland must be held in check by you."
"Why do you include Lieutenant Kingsland?"
"Because, I believe, he holds the only piece of evidence which could appear to substantiate Darcy's trumped-up lie."
"And that is?"
"The receipt for the forty thousand poundsin your name."
"And you wish me to ask Kingsland to proclaim my own shame!"
"I wish you to ask him to give that receipt to the Secretary."
"Now I see why you come to me, why you didnot ruthlessly throw me over; your little plot had a weak point, and you needed my co-operation to complete my own degradation!"
"Miss Fitzgerald is fast becoming a diplomatist!"
"I'm a fool!"
"Pardon me, you are nearer wisdom than you've ever been in your life."
"If—I—do—this," she said very slowly, "you must help me to reinstate myself in the eyes of the world."
"I've told you it'll not be necessary."
"Bah! I know the world better than you do, with all your cleverness. Mine is a practical, not a theoretical, knowledge."
Kent-Lauriston bowed.
"They'll talk, no matter if it be truth or not. It will be believed. I must have a few questions answered in any event."
"Ask them."
"Who is Mr. Stanley to marry?"
"Madame Darcy."
"But——"
"Her husband has consented to the divorce."
"On what grounds?"
"Incompatibility of temper, I believe."
"So you think the Secretary will marry her?"
"I'll take charge of that matter."
"I know they love each other!" she exclaimed, passionately. "It was love at first sight. Then there was a misunderstanding. Now, one more question. This sum of forty thousand pounds?"
"Yes, what of it?"
"Who's to have it?"
"Darcy."
"What!"
"The Secretary told him he might draw it from the bank to-morrow, as, well—as compensation for turning State's evidence."
She laughed a harsh, unmusical laugh.
"You've won," she said. "I will do what you wish—for his sake."
"I believed that you would," he replied gravely, but one eyelid raised just a trifle. She saw it, and turned on him like a flash.
"No!" she cried, "it isn't for that reason! I've some good in me yet, some pride! I tell you, it's not your cleverness that has done this! I wouldn't surrender my good name for the sake of any man in the world! I wouldn't allow the breath of suspicion to linger in the minds of my friends, for the love of your friend, or any other weak fool, whom I can turn round my fingers! No! the reason I surrender is because your last words have told me how I can right myself before all the world, save one man; and I'll consent to sacrifice my reputation in his eyes, because I love him. But for all that, Robert Darcy cannot divorce the woman who bears his name."
"Why not?"
"Because she's not his wife."
"Not his wife! Who is his wife, then?"
"I am."
"You are Robert Darcy's wife," he said slowly, trying to adjust his ideas to this altered state of affairs. Then, as some comprehension of the results which would follow this declaration dawned upon him, he continued:—
"Why have you told me this?"
"Because I need your co-operation, and you're the only man I know whom I can trust to keep the secret."
"I've given you no pledge to do so."
"Quite true, and I've asked for none; but I've misread you sadly, if you can't keep a still tongue in your head, when the advantage to all concerned by so doing can be made clear to you."
"Can you prove your point?"
"Yes, even to your satisfaction."
"I'm all attention," he said.
"In the first place," she began, "you must understand that Colonel Darcy and I were secretly married four years ago, in Ireland. I'll show you my marriage certificate, to prove my words, when we return to the house. I always carry it with me in case of an emergency."
Kent-Lauriston nodded, and she continued:—
"The Colonel married me under the impression that I was an heiress. I married him because I thought I loved him. We both discovered our mistakes within the first few days. No one knew of the step we had taken, so we agreed to separate. This is a practical age. As Miss Fitzgerald I'd hosts of friends; as Mrs. Darcy, a girl who had made a worse than foolish marriage, I should have had none. The Colonel had expected his wife to support him; he was in no condition to support her. His regiment was ordered to India; if he resigned, his income was gone. We decided to keep our secret. I remained Miss Fitzgerald. He went to India. Three years later he was invalided home. Travelling for his health, he returned by way of South America. There he met Inez De Costa, and won her love. She combined the two things he most craved, position and wealth. He had heard nothing from me for many months. He allowed his inclinations to guide his reason, and, trusting that I was dead, or had done something foolish, he married her and returned to England. We met. My natural impulse was to denounce him, but sober second thought showed the futility of such a course. I'd nothing to gain; everything to lose. He sent me money. I returned it. Do you believe that?"
"I believe you implicitly," replied Kent-Lauriston.
"Then he came to see me; for I think he still loved me. He came, I say, fearfully at first, lestI should betray him. Then growing bolder, he threw off all reserve. Believing, fool that he was, because I didn't denounce him, that I could ever forget or forgive the wrong he'd done me. He mistook compliance for forgetfulness, even had the audacity to suggest that I, too, should marry.
"Then this scheme for defeating the treaty was proposed to him. He was willing enough to undertake it, for his second matrimonial venture had been a pecuniary failure, thanks to the wisdom of Señor De Costa in tying up his daughter's property; but he lacked the brains to carry it out, and, like the fool that he is, came to me for assistance. I had lulled his suspicions, and he needed a confederate. He even held out vague promises of a future for us both, as if I'd believe his attested oath, after what had passed! I consented to help him, and would have brought the matter to a successful issue, if it hadn't been for his stupidity. What did I care about the success or failure of his plot? It had put the man in my power, put him where I wanted to have him. At any time within the last six weeks I could have forced him to publicly recognise me, if need were."
"What prevented you from doing this?"
"I'd fallen in love with your friend. Yes, I admit it. It was weak, pitiably weak. At first I played with him, then too late I understood my own feelings."
"But it could have come to nothing."
"Can you suppose I didn't realise that keenly?Yet I hoped against hope that Darcy would die; that he'd be apprehended and imprisoned, and perish of the rigours of hard labour; anything that would set me free. Then I saw that Stanley loved Inez De Costa. It was an added pang, but it caused me to hesitate; because in taking my revenge, I should wreck both their lives."
"But you? Had you pity for Inez De Costa?"
"Yes, incomprehensible as it may seem to you; for I'd learned to loathe Darcy before he had committed bigamy. I never met her till that night at the Hyde Park Club, and she asked me if I knew her husband.Her husband!I pitied her from that moment. She'd done me no wrong. Why should I wreck her life, if it could be avoided?"
"And now?"
"Now you've solved the problem. Darcy won't dare to contest the suit for divorce. He'll be glad to get rid of her, because he can't control her money. Having the purse-strings, I can force him to recognise me as his wife, after the divorce has been granted. I shall have an assured position, and I can begin to pay back some of my debts," and her eyes flashed.
"And in all this, what is there to compel me to keep your secret?"
"Because the marriage between Inez De Costa and Mr. Stanley might never take place if they knew the truth. I'll keep the secret if you will. She's in no way to blame. At first I hated her; now that I've known her, my hate is turned to pity."
"You're right," said Kent-Lauriston. "I'll keep your secret inviolate."
"Now about the receipt for the forty thousand pounds."
"Yes?"
"I think Mr. Stanley had better see it, it'll save further awkwardness, but I must have it back. It's my one hold over Darcy, my one chance of righting myself."
"There's a receipt for the amount," said Kent-Lauriston, tearing out a leaf from his note-book, on which he wrote a few lines. "I'll be responsible for its return to you. I can't do less."
"Here comes Lieutenant Kingsland now," she said. "Don't say anything. I'll manage this affair."
"Jack!" she called, "come here a moment."
The young officer approached.
"Yes?" he said interrogatively.
"You needn't hesitate to speak before Mr. Kent-Lauriston," she assured him. "He's one of mybestfriends. You've not forgotten the promise which you made me, when I helped you about arranging your wedding, to do anything I might request?"
"No, and I'd do it if the occasion required," he replied heartily.
"Good," she said, "the occasion is here."
"What must I do?"
"You hold in your possession a receipt from the Victoria Street Branch of the Bank of Englandfor the deposit in my name of five chests belonging to Mr. Riddle."
"Yes, I've been meaning to give it to you."
"I wish you to give it to Mr. Stanley."
"To Mr. Stanley?"
"Yes."
"Is that all?"
"All, except that I charge you, on your honour, never to let him know I asked you to do this. Tell him only that I gave you the chests, and how you disposed of them, and place the receipt in his hands, as coming from yourself. Not a syllable about me, mind!"
"I'll follow your instructions literally; but how am I to have the opportunity of doing this?"
"Mr. Stanley will give you the opportunity, perhaps to-day. Then see that you do it."
"I promise."
"Swear."
"Well, I swear on my honour as an officer and a gentleman."
"Good. One more word. Before to-night you may change your feelings towards me, may feel absolved from all obligations to me; but whatever events occur, do not forget that you have sworn to do this on your honour as an officer and as a gentleman, without any mental reservations whatsoever, and to do neither less nor more than this."
"You can trust me, and if you think that anything my wife——"
"No! no! I do trust you. Go now, and give Mr. Stanley a chance to see you at once. You'll be serving me best so."
He left them wondering, and, she, turning to Kent-Lauriston, said:—
"I tell you it is the greatest proof of my affection for him; for what he thinks of me is worth all the criticism of the world and more. Oh, you may scoff! I know you think him too good for me!"
"Pardon me," interrupted Kent-Lauriston, taking off his hat, and bowing his head over her hand, which he held, "I have misunderstood you."
It was nearly two hours later that the Secretary found time, amidst the distractions of a hurried departure, for he had made his peace with his hostess and was leaving for town that afternoon, to redeem his promise to Lady Isabelle.
"Is Lieutenant Kingsland in the house?" he asked of the servant, who answered his summons.
"He's in the billiard-room, sir."
"Very well. Will you present my compliments to him, and ask him to be so kind as to come to my room for a few minutes?"
In less time than it takes to tell it, the young officer responded to the summons, saying as he entered:—
"Here I am. Can I do anything for you?"
"Perhaps. But I sent for you primarily for the purpose of doing you a favour."
"That sounds encouraging. By the way, didyou know that your especial admiration, Darcy, was planning to vacate at the earliest opportunity?"
"Yes," replied the Secretary, drily. "I gave him leave to go, but he's to all intents and purposes under arrest."
"The devil!"
"Quite so, there's the devil to pay, and I'm afraid you may have to foot part of the bill, if you're not careful."
"What do you mean?" cried the Lieutenant, starting uneasily.
"I'll explain. That's why I sent for you; but you mustn't resent a certain inquisitiveness on my part. It's only for your good."
"Go on, go on!"
"You went to London a few days ago, and executed a commission for Darcy."
"No—for Belle Fitzgerald."
"It's the same thing."
"I think not. There were some chests containing stereopticon slides, and Belle asked me to put them in a bank for her."
"The Victoria Street Branch of the Bank of England."
"Exactly."
"A good many slides, I imagine; rather heavy, weren't they?"
"Gad, I should think they were. It took two porters to lift each chest."
"I suppose you told the bank authorities what was in the chests?"
"No, I was told there was nothing to say. I was only to surrender them, and a sealed note, which would explain all."
"Did they give you a receipt for it?"
"Yes."
"Can anybody get the chests out?"
"No, only the person mentioned in the receipt."
"Have you still got the receipt?"
"Yes."
"Very good," said the Secretary. "I see your luck has not deserted you."
"And now," said Kingsland, "that I've answered all your questions, perhaps you'll tell me what you mean."
"This is what I mean," replied Stanley, handing him that first part of his Minister's letter which he had shown to Darcy.
The Lieutenant read it once, not understanding its purport; then again, his brow becoming wrinkled with anxiety; and yet again, with a very white face.
"What is it?" he gasped.
"It looks dangerously like treason, doesn't it?" returned the Secretary.
"But what is this bribe?"
"You ought to know that, as you carried it up to London, in sovereigns."
"What—how much was it?"
"Forty thousand pounds in gold."
"Good heavens!" said the Lieutenant, and mopped his brow. "But I didn't know anything about it!"
"That doesn't prevent you from having participated in one of the most rascally plots of your day and generation; from being a party in an attempt to overthrow, by the most open and shameless bribery, a treaty pending between the government you serve and mine."
"But, if this gets out, I'll be cashiered from the navy."
"Oh, I don't think they'd stop there," said the Secretary reassuringly. "Not with the proof of that receipt."
"Good Lord, I forgot that! Here, take it, will you?"
"Certainly. Suppose we open it and see if it proves my assertion," and, suiting the action to the word, he placed in the Lieutenant's shaking hands a receipt of deposit in the Victoria Street Branch of the Bank of England, by Miss Isabelle Fitzgerald, kindness of Lieutenant J. Kingsland, of forty thousand pounds.
"Can't you help me?" he asked.
"It rests entirely with me."
"Then you will?"
"Tell me all you know.
"But I don't know anything, except what I've told you. I give you my word as an officer and a gentleman, that I've been let into this affair in a most shameful manner, and that I'm entirely innocent, and ignorant of everything connected with it."
"I believe you, Lieutenant Kingsland."
"And you won't prosecute?"
"Not if you'll promise to drop this gang; they're a bad lot. Promise me you'll cut loose from them as soon as possible, for your wife's sake."
"I will," he said. "I will, old man. I can't thank you enough for what you've done."
"You've nothing to thank me for; I'm sure you are innocent, and so I don't consider the circumstantial evidence; but you might not be as lucky another time. I hope this will be a lesson to you. I need hardly caution you to silence," and he appeared to peruse some papers to ease the young officer's exit from the room.
That evening in the privacy of the library, the Lieutenant confided the news of his lucky escape to his wife, ending up with the question:
"Do you think the Fitzgerald really loves him?"
"My dear Jack," said Lady Isabelle, "a woman of that stamp does not know what love means, she's simply scheming to marry him for his money. How can people do such things?"
"I'm sure I don't know, my dear," replied her spouse, yawning. The subject was inopportune, and it bored him.
Stanley had made all his adieux, or at least all he wanted to make. He was tired with the exciting events of the day, and longed for a little peace and quiet before the exacting ordeal of a railway ride to London. He had given up the time-table as a Chinese puzzle. "What with the trains that go somewhere and those that don't," he protested, "I'm all at sea!" He, therefore, sent Kent-Lauriston ahead in the trap, and walked across the park to the station.
That gentleman had convinced him of the propriety of restoring the order for the forty thousand pounds to Miss Fitzgerald. He had pointed out that she was the rightful owner of the document, and that Darcy was an infernal rascal. The Secretary had acquiesced in his demand, and promised, should he not see Belle before he left, an interview he much wished to avoid, that he would mail it to her from the station.
He had first, however, a far more pleasant commission to perform, and a few minutes later was seated under the spreading branches of an old apple tree with Inez Darcy.
"I felt I must come and see you," he said. "I'm going away to-day, to London, on important business."
"Yes," she murmured. "You've been very good to me."
"Some time ago," he continued, "you did me the honour to entrust your affairs to my keeping, or, perhaps, to the keeping of the Legation."
"To your keeping, I should prefer."
"I fear that you may think I've been remiss, that other things have taken my mind off them, that I've, in short, forgotten them, but it is not so."
"I never doubted you."
"I hope to prove to you that you've not misplaced your confidence, in evidence of which I bring you this," and he handed her a paper.
"What is it?" she said.
"A line from your husband," she started, "which gives you your freedom."
"You mean a divorce?"
"Yes."
"But I do not understand."
"He agreed to consent to your obtaining such a decree on any ground you choose. I've decided on 'incompatibility of temper,' as being the least embarrassing to you. He will not appear to contest the suit when it is brought forward. This paper, signed in my presence, promises as much."
"My husband is a bad man, he would never have surrendered unless he was forced to do so; for he believes that by retaining the control of me, he may yet obtain control of my property."
"Perhaps he has seen the futility of these hopes."
"No, no, his own self-conceit would have blinded him to the possibility of being outwitted. You've forced this from him. How have you done so?"
"I had hoped you would not press me for these reasons. Can't you accept my assurance that whatever I've done, has been done in your interests alone."
"Don't think me ungrateful if I say no, but I've had to endure so many mysteries, that, for once, my great desire is to be clear of them."
"I hesitate to tell you, because it may give you pain."
"I am used to that and can bear it."
"Well, if you will have it. Colonel Darcy, as a result of his own actions, was placed in my power."
"You mean that it was your duty to have him arrested?"
"That was left to my discretion."
"And you forced his consent?"
"No, I gave him a chance to purchase his freedom, and a substantial reward, by a confession, and this——" and he touched the paper.
"But had you a right——?"
"I had a right to make any terms I pleased. I was given unlimited power to impose my own conditions, and I'm sure, had my Chief known, he would have wished you to derive any benefit possible from the transaction."
"It's dearly bought with that man's disgrace.In the eyes of the world, he will still be my husband."
"There will be no disgrace."
"I do not understand."
"The government doesn't wish to punish Colonel Darcy; it merely wishes for his evidence, to aid in the detection of others."
"But his name will appear."
"It is strictly stipulated that it shall not do so; be assured your secret is safe."
"And he could have sunk so low as to sell himself and those who trusted him."
"They were criminals."
"It doesn't lessen his treachery."
"Don't waste a thought on him, least of all any sentimental emotion. He wasted little enough on you, and would have insulted you in my presence, had I permitted it; he sold your freedom with less compunction than he sold his honour or his friends."
"Enough!" she cried, her eyes sparkling. "He is forgotten. We will speak of something else. Let me use my time to better purpose, by trying to thank you—to begin to thank you, for all you've done for me."
"You can repay me if you like."
"What is the payment, then, for which you ask?"
"My Chief has received a request from your father this morning, that you be put in charge of some responsible person, to come home to him."
"Ah!" she said, "that is no favour, it is good news."
"You must hear me out. Your father requested the Minister to nominate your escort."
"Well?"
"He has nominated me."
"What, are you going home?"
"Almost at once. Will you trust yourself in my hands?"
"Trust you! I will go with you anywhere! I will trust you always!"
"Perhaps," he said, looking down into her eyes, as he stood before her, "I shall ask you to fulfil those promises some day."
"Perhaps," she replied, rising and standing by his side, "I shall then be free to answer you," and a radiant smile lit up her face.
They took each other's hands, and stood silent for a long time. Then he bade her good-bye, and resumed his walk to the station.
Midway in his path, a figure lying prone in the tall grass roused itself into action at his coming, sprang up and stood facing him, flushed, defiant, and on the verge of tears.
It was the last person in the world Stanley wished to see—Belle Fitzgerald. He had felt it was impossible to meet her again; that she had put herself beyond the pale of his recognition; that it was not even decent that she should face him; that he should have been left to forget; and she, seeing all this in his face, and more—longed to throw her good resolutions to the winds, and cryout against this great injustice. But as they stood there, her subtle woman's instinct told her that, even were her innocence proclaimed with the trumpet, the thought that it had been otherwise would stand between them as an insurmountable barrier for ever, and she hardened her heart for his sake.
"You are going away," she said.
"Yes," he replied, looking down at the road. She told herself passionately, that he would look anywhere rather than at her.
"Some of your property has come into my possession," he said. "I wish to return it to you," and he handed her the receipt for the forty thousand pounds.
"I'll trust you'll see," he continued, in a strained voice, "that Colonel Darcy has his proper share."
"He shall have what he deserves," she replied coldly; and then she burst out, her words tumbling one over the other, now that she had found speech: "You ought to know, you must know, that when Colonel Darcy is free, we shall be man and wife."
"I'm very glad," he said, and he said it from his heart.
There was an awkward pause, neither seemed able to speak. At length he remarked, more to break the silence than anything:—
"You know, I always thought, that, in your heart, you loved Darcy, before anyone else."
She laughed her hard, cold laugh, saying:—
"You diplomats know everything."
The Secretary bowed silently and passed on, well satisfied to close the interview; his thoughts full of the brilliant future which was opening before him, unconscious that behind him, face down in the grass, a woman was sobbing her heart out.
TWO GUINEAS, post free, for a SUBSCRIPTION of Twelve Volumes, or separately in special binding at 4d. per Volume.
The American Copyright Act, during its nine years' life, has been of the greatest benefit to American fiction, if not to American literature in general. It is hardly an exaggeration to say that America drew her chief supplies of fiction from England up to the year '91, because the earlier school of American writers, however distinguished, had a comparatively limited circle of readers, and could not be considered to counterbalance the enormous vogue of English writers. The Act changed little at first, and English books continued to have the greatest popularity, but this popularity was soon encroached upon by the rivalry of indigenous fiction. To-day there are in America, American authors whose books have circulations compared to which even those of the most popular modern English authors are as nothing. Several books have recently attained to circulations of upwards of a quarter of a million copies, and new authors of merit are eagerly welcomed, not only from the East but also from the West, from big centres, and from quieter and remoter places; giving actual proofs of America's new and remarkable literary activity.
More striking than the greatest of these successes—for popular successes are frequently scored by mediocre talents—is the fact that a school of young American writers is pressing for recognition, gifted with the sense of form, and not wanting either in pathos or in humour—real delineators of life and character. And what an inexhaustible field lies ready for them, to depict—if they will only depict justly—the actual life of America, of the most variedly composite and interesting people the modern world knows!
Inspired possibly at first by several exceptional men who stood on the threshold of this new literary development, there is now growing up a school of writers of talent to whom respect cannot be denied and whom we can no longer afford to ignore in England.
The Dollar Librarywill give to English readers a representative selection of the best American fiction of the day, and also a few of the best works of two writers who are, perhaps, more than any others, responsible for this new development, for, although both HAROLD FREDERIC and STEPHEN CRANE have in these brief nine years departed from among us, no series representative of American fiction of to-day would be thought complete without them. For the rest The Dollar Library will devote itself mainly to the introduction of hitherto unknown authors, and it appeals to readers particularly as a pioneer. It will afford an opportunity to English readers of gaining an impression of the mercurial genius picturesquely expressing itself on the other side of the Atlantic, of appreciating a new graft on the tree of English Literature, which, transplanted to another clime, bids fair to yield yet another rich and luxuriant growth.