"What is it?" he asked.
Tredennis walked over to him and sat down. He was pale, and wore a set and rigid look, the chiefcharacteristic of which was that it expressed absolutely nothing. His voice was just as hard and expressed as little when he spoke.
"I have a proposition to make to you," he said, "and I will preface it by the statement that, as a business man, I am perfectly well aware that it is almost madness to make it. I say 'almost.' Let it rest there. I will assume the risks you have run in the Westoria scheme. Invest the money you have charge of in something safer. You say there are chances of success. I will take those chances."
"What!" cried Richard. "What!"
He sat upright, staring. He did not believe the evidence of his senses; but Tredennis went on, without the quiver of a muscle, speaking steadily, almost monotonously.
"I have money," he said. "More than you know, perhaps. I have had recently a legacy which would of itself make me a comparatively rich man. That I was not dependent upon my pay you knew before. I have no family. I shall not marry. I am fond of your children, of Janey particularly. I should have provided for her future in any case. You have made a bad investment in these lands; transfer them to me and invest in something safer."
"And if the bill fails to pass!" exclaimed Richard.
"If it fails to pass I shall have the land on my hands; if it passes I shall have made something by a venture, and Janey will be the richer; but, as it stands, the venture had better be mine than yours. You have lost enough."
Richard gave his hair an excited toss backward, and stared at him as he had done before; a slight, cold moisture broke out on his forehead.
"You mean"—he began, breathlessly.
"Do you remember," said Tredennis, "what I told you of the comments people were beginning to make? They have assumed the form I told you they would. Itis best for—for your children that they should be put an end to. If I assume these risks there will be no farther need for you to use—to exert yourself." He began to look white about the mouth, and through his iron stolidity there was something revealed before which Richard felt himself quail. "The night that Blundel came in to your wife's reception, and remained so short a time, he had heard a remark upon the influence she was exerting over him, and it had had a bad effect. The remark was made publicly at one of the hotels." He turned a little whiter, and the something all the strength in him had held down at the outset leaped to the surface. "I have no wife to—to use," he said; "if I had, by Heavens, I would have spared her!"
He had held himself in hand and been silent a long time, but he could not do it now.
"She is the mother of your children," he cried, clenching his great hand. "And women are beginning to avoid her, and men to bandy her name to and fro. You have deceived her; you have thrown away her fortune; you have used her as an instrument in your schemes.I, who am only an outsider, with no right to defend her—Idefend her for her father's sake, for her child's, for her own! You are on the verge of ruin and disgrace. I offer you the chance to retrieve yourself—to retrieve her! Take it, if you are a man!"
Richard had fallen back in his chair breathless and ashen. In all his imaginings of what the future might hold he had never thought of such a possibility as this,—that it should be this man who would turn upon him and place an interpretation so fiercely unsparing upon what he had done! Under all his admiration and respect for the colonel there had been hidden, it must be admitted, an almost unconscious touch of contempt for him, as a rather heavy and unsophisticated personage, scarcely versatile or agile enough, and formed in a mould somewhat obsolete and quixotic,—a safe person to confide in, and one to invite confidence passively by hisbelief in what was presented to him; a man to make a good listener and to encourage one to believe in one's own statements, certainly not a man to embarrass and discourage a historian by asking difficult questions or translating too literally what was said. He had not asked questions until to-night, and his face had said very little for him on any occasion. Among other things Richard had secretly—though leniently—felt him to be a trifle stolid, and had amiably forgiven him for it. It was this very thing which made the sudden change appear so keen an injustice and injury; it amounted to a breach of confidence, thatheshould have formed a deliberate and obstinate opinion of his own, entirely unbiassed by the presentation of the case offered to him. He had spoken more than once, it was true, in a manner which had suggested prejudice; but it had been the prejudice of the primeval mind, unable to adjust itself to modern conditions and easily disregarded by more experienced. But now!—he was stolid no longer. His first words had startled Richard beyond expression. His face said more for him than his words; it burned white with the fire it had hidden so long; his great frame quivered with the passion of the moment; when he had clenched his hand it had been in the vain effort to hold it still; and yet the man who saw it recognized in it only the wrath and scorn which had reference to himself. Perhaps it was best that it should have been so,—best that his triviality was so complete that he could see nothing which was not in some way connected with his own personality.
"Tredennis," he gasped out, "you are terribly harsh! I did not think you"—
"Even if I could lie and palter to you," said Tredennis, his clenched hand still on the table, "this is not the time for it. I have tried before to make you face the truth, but you have refused to do it. Perhaps you had made yourself believe what you told me,—that no harm was meant or done.Iknow what harm has beendone. I have heard the talk of the hotel corridors and clubs!" His hand clenched itself harder and he drew in a sharp breath.
"It is time that you should give this thing up," he continued, with deadly determination. "And I am willing to shoulder it. Who else would do the same thing?"
"No one else," said Richard, bitterly. "And it is not for my sake you do it either; it is for the sake of some of your ideal fancies that are too fine for us worldlings to understand, I swear!" And he felt it specially hard that it was so.
"Yes," replied the colonel, "I suppose you might call it that. It is not for your sake, as you say. It has been one of my fancies that a man might even deny himself for the sake of an—an idea, and I am not denying myself. I am only giving to your child, in one way, what I meant to give to her in another. She would be willing to share it with her mother, I think."
And then, somehow, Richard began to feel that this offer was a demand, and that, even if his sanguine mood should come upon him again, he would not find it exactly easy to avoid it. It seemed actually as if there was something in this man—some principle of strength, of feeling, of conviction—which almost constituted a right by which he might contend for what he asked; and before it, in his temporary abasement and anguish of mind, Richard Amory faltered. He said a great deal, it is true, and argued his case as he had argued it before, being betrayed in the course of the argument by the exigencies of the case to add facts as well as fancies. He endeavored to adorn his position as much as possible, and, naturally, his failure was not entire. There were hopes of the passage of the bill, sometimes strong hopes, it seemed; if the money he had invested had been his own; if it had not been for the failure of his speculations in other quarters; if so much had not depended upon failure and success,—he would have runall risks willingly. There were, indeed, moments when it almost appeared that his companion was on the point of making a capital investment, and being much favored thereby.
"It is really not half so bad as it seems," he said, gaining cheerfulness as he talked. "But, after such a day as I have had, a man loses courage and cannot look at things collectedly. I have been up and down in the scale a score of times in the last eight hours. That is where the wear and tear comes in. A great deal depends on Blundel; and I had a talk with him which carried us farther than we have ever been before."
"Farther," said Tredennis. "In what direction?"
Richard flushed slightly.
"I think I sounded him pretty well," he said. "There is no use mincing matters; it has to be done. We have never been able to get at his views of things exactly, and I won't say he went very far this afternoon; but I was in a desperate mood, and—well, I think I reached bottom. He half promised to call at the house this evening. I dare say he is with Bertha now."
Something in his flush, which had a slightly excited and triumphant air, something in his look and tone, caused Tredennis to start in his chair.
"What is he there for?" he said. "What do you mean?"
Richard thrust his hands in his pockets. For a moment he seemed to have lost all his grace and refinement of charm,—for the moment he was a distinctly coarse and undraped human being.
"He has gone to make an evening call," he said. "And if she manages him as well as she has managed him before,—as well as she can manage any man she chooses to take in hand, and yet not give him more than a smile or so,—your investment, if you make it, may not turn out such a bad one."
Bertha had spent the greater part of the day with her children, as she had spent part of many days lately. She had gone up to the nursery after breakfast to see Jack and Janey at their lessons, and had remained with them and given herself up to their entertainment. She was not well; the weather was bad; she might give herself a holiday, and she would spend it in her own way, in the one refuge which never failed her.
"It is always quiet here," she said to herself. "If I could give up all the rest—all of it—and spend all my days here, and think of nothing else, I might be better. There are women who live so. I think they must be better in every way than I am—and happier. I am sure I should have been happier if I had begun so long ago."
And as she sat, with Janey at her side, in the large chair which held them both, her arm thrown round the child's waist, there came to her a vague thought of what the unknown future might form itself into when she "began again." It would be beginning again when the sea was between the new life and the old; everything would be left behind—but the children. She would live as she had lived in Virginia, always with the children—always with the children. "It is the only safe thing," she thought, clasping Janey closer. "Nothing else is safe for a woman who is unhappy. If one is happy one may be gay, and look on at the world with the rest; but there are some who must not look on—who dare not."
"Mamma," said Janey, "you are holding me a little too close, and your face looks—it looks—as if you were thinking."
Bertha laughed to reassure her. They were used tothis gay, soft laugh of hers, as the rest of the world was. If she was silent, if the room was not bright with the merriment she had always filled it with, they felt themselves a trifle injured, and demanded their natural rights with juvenile imperiousness. "Mamma always laughs," Jack had once announced to a roomful of company. "She plays new games with us and laughs, and we laugh too. Maria and Susan are not funny. Mamma is funny, and like a little girl grown up. We always have fun when she comes into the nursery." "It is something the same way in the parlor," Planefield had said, showing his teeth amiably, and Bertha, who was standing near Colonel Tredennis, had laughed in a manner to support her reputation, but had said nothing. So she laughed now, not very vivaciously, perhaps. "That was very improper, Janey," she said, "to look as if I was thinking. It is bad enough to be thinking. It must not occur again."
"But if you were thinking of a story to tell us," suggested Jack, graciously, "it wouldn't matter, you see. You might go on thinking."
"But the story was not a new one," she answered. "It was sad. I did not like it myself."
"We should like it," said Janey.
"If it's a story," remarked Jack, twisting the string round his top, "it's all right. There was a story Uncle Philip told us."
"Suppose you tell it to me," said Bertha.
"It was about a knight," said Janey, "who went to a great battle. It was very sorrowful. He was strong, and happy, and bold, and the king gave him a sword and armor that glittered and was beautiful. And his hair waved in the breeze. And he was young and brave. And his horse arched its neck. And the knight longed to go and fight in the battle, and was glad and not afraid; and the people looked on and praised him, because they thought he would fight so well. But just as the battle began, before he had even drawn his sword,a stray shot came, and he fell. And while the battle went on he lay there dying, with his hand on his breast. And at night, when the battle was over, and the stars came out, he lay and looked up at them, and at the dark-blue sky, and wondered why he had been given his sword and armor, and why he had been allowed to feel so strong, and glad, and eager,—only for that. But he did not know. There was no one to tell him. And he died. And the stars shone down on his bright armor and his dead face."
"I didn't like it myself," commented Jack. "It wasn't much of a story. I told him so."
"He was sorry he told it," said Janey, "because I cried. I don't think he meant to tell such a sad story."
"He wasn't funny, that day," observed Jack. "Sometimes he isn't funny at all, and he sits and thinks about things; and then, if we make him tell us a story, he doesn't tell a good one. He used to be nicer than he is now."
"I love him," said Janey, faithfully; "I think he is nice all the time."
"It wasn't much of a story, that is true," said Bertha. "There was not enough of it."
"He died too soon," said Jack.
"Yes," said Bertha; "he died too soon, that was it,—too soon." And the laugh she ended with had a sound which made her shudder.
She got up from her rocking-chair quickly.
"We won't tell stories," she said. "We will play. We will play ball and blind-man's bluff—and run about and get warm. That will be better."
And she took out her handkerchief and tied it over her eyes with unsteady hands, laughing again,—laughing while the children laughed, too.
They played until the room rang with their merriment. They had not been so gay together for many a day, and when the game was at an end they tried another and another, until they were tired and ready fortheir nursery dinner. Bertha did not leave them even then. She did not expect Richard home until their own dinner-hour in the evening, so she sat at the children's table and helped them herself, in the nurse's place; and they were in high spirits, and loquacious and confidential.
When the meal was over they sat by the nursery fire, and Meg fell asleep in her mother's arms; and after she had laid her on her bed Bertha came back to Jack and Janey, and read and talked to them until dusk began to close in about them. It was as they sat so together that a sealed package was brought to her by a servant, who said it had been left at the door by a messenger. It contained two letters,—one addressed to Senator Blundel, and one to herself,—and both were in Richard's hand.
"I suppose something has detained him, and I am not to wait dinner," she thought, as she opened the envelope bearing her own name.
The same thing had occurred once or twice before, so it made but little impression upon her. There were the usual perfectly natural excuses. He had been very hard at work and would be obliged to remain out until some time past their dinner-hour. He had an engagement at one of the hotels, and could dine there; he was not quite sure that he should be home until late. Then he added, just before closing:
"Blundel said something about calling this evening. He had been having a hard day of it and said he wanted a change. I had a very satisfactory talk with him, and I think he begins to see the rights of our case. Entertain him as charmingly as possible, and if he is not too tired, and is in a good humor, hand him the enclosed letter. It contains testimony which ought to be a strong argument, and I think it will be."
Bertha looked at the letter. It was not at all imposing, and seemed to contain nothing more than a slip of paper. She put it down on the mantel and sighed faintly.
"If he knew what a service he would do me by seeing the rights of the case," she said to herself, "I think he would listen to their arguments. I think he likes me well enough to do it. I believe he would enjoy being kind to me. If this should be the end of it all, it would be worth the trouble of being amusing and amiable one evening."
But she did not look forward with any great pleasure to the prospect of what was before her. Perhaps her day in the nursery had been a little too much for her; she was tired, and would have been glad to be left alone. But this was not to be. She must attire herself, in all her bravery, and sing, and laugh, and be gay a little longer. How often had she done the same thing before? How often would she do it again?
"There are some people who are born to play comedy," she said afterward, as she stood before her mirror, dressing. "They can do nothing else. I am one of them. Very little is expected of me, only that I shall always laugh and make jokes. If I were to try tragedy, that would be a better jest than all the rest. If I were to be serious, what a joke that would be!"
She thought, as she had done a thousand times, of a portrait of herself which had been painted three years before. It had been her Christmas gift to Richard, and had been considered a great success. It was a wonderfully spirited likeness, and the artist had been fortunate in catching her brightest look.
"It is the expression that is so marvellous," Richard had often said. "When I look at it I always expect to hear you laugh."
"Are they never tired of it?" she said; "never tired of hearing me laugh? If I were to stop some day and say, 'See, I am tired of it myself. I have tears as well as the rest of you. Let me'"—She checked herself; her hands had begun to tremble—her voice; she knew too well what was coming upon her. She looked at herself in the glass.
"I must dress myself carefully," she said, "if I am to look vivacious. One's attire is called upon to do a great deal for one when one has a face like that."
Outwardly her attire had done a great deal for her when, after she had dined alone, she sat awaiting her guest. The fire burned brightly; the old songs lay upon the piano; a low stand, with a pretty coffee service upon it, was drawn near her; a gay little work-basket, containing some trifle of graceful work, was on her knee. Outside, the night was decidedly unpleasant. "So unpleasant," she said to herself, "that it will surprise me if he comes." But though by eight o'clock the rain was coming down steadily, at half-past eight she heard the familiar heavy tread upon the door-step, and her visitor presented himself.
What sort of humor he was in when he made his entry Bertha felt that it was not easy to decide; but it struck her that it was not a usual humor, and that the fatigues of the day had left their mark upon him. He looked by no means fresh, and by the time he had seated himself felt that something had disturbed him, and that it was true that he needed distraction.
It had always been very simple distraction she offered him; he had never demanded subtleties from her or any very great intellectual effort; his ideas upon the subject of the feminine mind were, perhaps, not so advanced as they might have been, and belonged rather to the days and surroundings of his excellent, hard-worked mother and practical, unimaginative sisters than to a more brilliant world. Given a comfortable seat in the pretty room, the society of this pretty and smiling little person, who poured out his coffee for him, enjoyed his jokes, and prattled gayly of things pleasant and amusing, he was perfectly satisfied. What he felt the need of was rest and light recreation, cheerfulness, and appreciation, a sense of relief from the turmoil and complications of the struggling, manœuvring, overreaching, ambitious world he lived in.
Knowing this, Bertha had given him what he enjoyed, and she offered him no other entertainment this evening. She gave him his cup of coffee, and talked to him as he drank it, telling him an amusing story or so of the children or of people he knew.
"I have been in the nursery all day," she said. "I have been playing blind-man's buff and telling stories. You have never been in the nursery, have you? You are not like Colonel Tredennis, who thinks the society there is better than that we have in the parlor."
"Perhaps he's not so far wrong," said her guest, bluntly, "though I have never been in the nursery myself. I have a nursery of my own up at the Capitol, and I don't always find it easy to manage."
"The children fight, I have heard," said Bertha, "and sometimes call each other names; and it is even reported that they snatch at each other's toys and break those they cannot appropriate. I am afraid the discipline is not good!"
"It isn't," he answered, "or there isn't enough of it."
He set his coffee-cup down and watched her as she leaned back in her chair and occupied herself with the contents of her work-basket.
"Do you go into the nursery often," he asked, "or is it out of the fashion?"
"It is out of the fashion," she answered, "but"—She stopped and let her work rest on her knee as she held it. "Will you tell me why you ask me that?" she said, and her face changed as she spoke.
"I asked you because I didn't know," he answered. "It seemed to me you couldn't have much time for things of that sort. You generally seem to be pretty busy with one thing and another. I don't know much about fashionable life and fashionable women. The women I knew when I was a boy—my own mother and her sisters—spent the most of their time with their children; and it wasn't such a bad way either. They were pretty good women."
"Perhaps it was the best way," said Bertha, "and I dare say they were better for it. I dare say we compare very unfavorably with them."
"You don't compare at all," he returned. "I should not compare you. I don't know how it would work with you. They got old pretty soon, and lost their good looks; but they were safe, kind-hearted creatures, who tried to do their duty and make the best of things. I don't say they were altogether right in their views of life; they were narrow, I suppose, and ran into extremes, but they had ways a man likes to think of, and did very little mischief."
"I could scarcely estimate the amount of mischief I do," said Bertha, applying herself to her work cheerfully; "but I do not think my children are neglected. Colonel Tredennis would probably give a certificate to that effect. They are clothed quite warmly, and are occasionally allowed a meal, and I make a practice of recognizing them when I meet them on the street."
She was wondering if it would not be better to reserve the letter until some more auspicious occasion. It struck her that in the course of his day's fatigues he had encountered some problem of which he found it difficult to rid himself. There were signs of it in his manner. He wore a perturbed, preoccupied expression, and looked graver than she had ever seen him. He sat with his hands in his pockets, his hair on end, his bluff countenance a rather deeper color than usual, and his eyes resting upon her.
"This isn't an easy world," he said, "and I suppose it is no easier for women than for men. I shouldn't like to be a woman myself, and have to follow my leader, and live in one groove from beginning to end. It is natural that some should feel the temptation to try to get out of it, and use their power as men use theirs; but it does not pay—it can't. Women were meant to be good—to be good and honest and true, and—and innocent."
It was an amazingly ingenuous creed, and hepresented it with a rough simplicity and awkwardness which might have been laughable but for their heavy sincerity. Bertha felt this seriousness instantaneously, and, looking up, saw in his sharp little eyes a suggestion of feeling which startled her.
"Wondering what I'm thinking of?" he said. "Well, I am thinking of you. I've thought of you pretty often lately, and to-night I've a reason for having you in my mind."
"What is the reason?" she asked, more startled than before.
He thrust his hands deeper into his pockets; there was no mistaking the evidences of strong emotion in his face.
"I am a friend of yours," he said. "You know that; you've known it some time. My opinion of you is that you are a good little woman,—the right sort of a little woman,—and I have a great deal of confidence in you."
"I hope so," said Bertha.
She felt that as he gained warmth and color she lost them; she thought of the letter which lay on the mantel-piece within a few feet of him, and wished that it was not so near. There had been evil spoken of her, and he had heard it. She realized that, and knew that she was upon her defence, even while she had no knowledge of what she was to defend herself against.
"I hope so," she said again, tremulously. "I hope so, indeed;" and her eyes met his with a helplessness more touching than any appeal she could have made.
It so moved him that he could remain quiet no longer, but sprang to his feet and drew his hand from his pocket and rubbed it excitedly over his upright hair.
"Damn it!" he broke forth, "let them say what they will,—let what will happen, I'll believe in you! Don't look at me like that; you are a good little woman, but you are in the wrong place. There are lies and intrigues going on about you, and you are too—too bright and pretty to be judged fairly by outsiders. You don'tknow what you are mixed up in; how should you! Who is to tell you? These fellows who dangle about and make fine speeches are too smooth-tongued, even when they know enough. I'll tell you. I never paid you compliments or made love to you, did I? I'm no good at that; but I'll tell you the truth, and give you a bit of good advice. People are beginning to talk, you see, and tell lies. They have brought their lies to me; I don't believe them, but others will. There are men and women who come to your house who will do you no good, and are more than likely to do you harm. They are a lot of intriguers and lobbyists. You don't want that set here. You want honest friends, and an innocent, respectable home for your children, and a name they won't be ashamed of. Send the whole set packing, and cut yourself loose from them."
Bertha stood up also. She had forgotten the little work-basket, and still held it in her hands, suspended before her.
"Will you tell me," she said, "what the lies were,—the lies you heard?"
Perhaps she thought, with a hopeless pang, they were not lies at all; perhaps he had only heard what was the truth, that she had been told to try to please him, that his good-will might be gained to serve an end. Looked at from Richard's stand-point that had been a very innocent thing; looked at from his stand-point it might seem just what it had seemed to herself, even in the reckless, desperate moment when she had given way.
He paused a moment, barely a moment, and then answered her.
"Yes," he said, "I will tell you if you want to know. There has been a big scheme on hand for some time,—there are men who must be influenced; I am one of them, and people say that the greater part of the work is carried on in your parlors here, and that you were set on me because you were a clever little manœuvrer, and knew your business better than I should be likely tosuspect. That is what they say, and that is what I must believe, because"—
He stopped short. He had drawn nearer the mantel-piece, and as he spoke some object lying upon it caught his eye. It was the letter directed to himself, lying with the address upward, and he took it in his hand.
"What is this?" he demanded. "Who left it here?"
Bertha stood perfectly motionless. Richard's words came back to her: "Give it to him if he is in a good humor. It contains arguments which I think will convince him." Then she looked at Blundel's face. If there could be any moment more unfit than another for the presentation of arguments it was this particular one. And never before had she liked him so well or valued his good opinion so highly as she did now, when he turned his common, angry, honest face upon her.
"What is it?" he said again. "Tell me."
She thought of Richard once more, and then of the children sleeping upstairs, and of the quiet, innocent day she had spent with them. They did not know that she was an intriguing woman, whom people talked of; she had never realized it herself to the full until this moment. They had delicately forborne giving any name to the thing she had done; but this man, who judged matters in a straightforward fashion, would find a name for it. But there was only one answer for her to make.
"It is a letter I was to give you," she said.
"And it is from your husband?"
"I have not read it," she replied.
He stopped short a moment and looked at her—with a sudden suggestion of doubt and bewilderment that was as bad as a blow.
"Look here!" he said. "You were going to give it to me,—you intended to do it."
"Yes."
He gave her another look,—amazement, anger, disbelief, struggling with each other in it,—and thenthrust his obstinate fists into his pockets again and planted himself before her like a rock.
"By the Lord!" he said. "I won't believe it!"
The hard common-sense which had been his stronghold and the stand-by of his constituents for many a year came to his rescue. He might not know much of women; but he had seen intrigue, and trickery, and detected guilt, and it struck him if these things were here, they were before him in a new form.
"Now," he said, "tell me who gave it to you."
"You will know that," she answered, "when you read it."
"Tell me," he demanded, "if you know what is in it."
"I know something," she replied, "of what is in it."
"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "I'd give a great deal to know how much."
Only Richard could have told him how much or how little, and he was not there.
"Come," he said, as she made no reply, "they might easily deceive you. Tell me what you know, and I will believe you,—and there are very few women in your place I would say as much to."
"I do not think," she answered, "that they have deceived me."
"Then," he returned, his face hardening, "youhave deceivedme!"
"Yes," she answered, turning white, "I suppose I have."
There was a moment of dead silence, in which his shrewd eyes did their work as well as they had done it at any time during his fifty years of life. Then he spoke to her again.
"They wanted me here because they wanted to make use of me," he said. "You knew that."
"They did not put it in that way," she answered. "I dare say you know that."
"You were to befool me as far as you could, and make the place agreeable to me,—you knew that?"
She turned paler.
"I—I have liked you very sincerely!" she broke forth, piteously. "I have liked you! Out of all the rest, that one thing was true! Don't—ah, don't think it was not."
His expression for a moment was a curiously undecided one; he was obliged to rally himself with a sharp rub at his hair.
"I'll tell you what I think of that when you have answered me another question," he said. "There is a person who has done a great deal of work in this matter, and has been very anxious about it, probably because he has invested in it more money than he can spare,—buying lands and doing one thing and another. That person is your husband, Mr. Richard Amory. Tell me if you knew that."
The blood rushed to her face and then left it again.
"Richard!" she exclaimed. "Richard!" and she caught at the mantel and held to it.
His eyes did not leave her for an instant. He nodded his head with a significance whose meaning was best known to himself.
"Sit down," he said. "I see you did not know that."
She did as he told her. It was as if such a flash of light had struck across her mental vision as half blinded her.
"Not Richard!" she cried out; and even as she said it a thousand proofs rushed back upon her and spoke the whole shameful truth for themselves.
Blundel came nearer to her, his homely, angry face, in spite of its anger, expressing honest good feeling as strongly as any much handsomer one might have done.
"I knew there had been deep work somewhere," he said. "I saw it from the first. As for you, you have been treated pretty badly. I supposed they persuaded you that you might as well amuse one man as another,—and I was the man. I dare say there is more behindthan I can see. You had nothing to gain as far as you knew, that's plain enough to me."
"No," she exclaimed, "it was not I who was to gain. They did not think of—of me!"
"No," he went on, "they lost sight of you rather often when they had a use for you. It's apt to be the way. It's time some one should think of you, and I mean to do it. I am not going to say anything more against those who—made the mistake" (with a resentful shuffle of his shoulders as he put it thus mildly), "than I can help, but I am going to tell you the truth. I have heard ugly stories for some time, and I've had my suspicions of the truth of them; but I meant to wait for proof, and it was given me this afternoon. More was said to me than it was safe to say to an honest man, and I let the person who talked go as far as he would, and he was too desperate to be cautious. I knew a bold move was to be made, and I guessed it would be made to-night."
He took the envelope from his pocket where he had tucked it unopened. His face grew redder and hotter.
"If it were not for you," he said; "if I didn't have faith in your being the honest little woman I took you for; if I didn't believe you spoke the truth when you said you liked me as honestly as I liked you,—though the Lord knows there is no proof except that I do believe you in spite of everything,—I'd have the thing spread the length and breadth of the land by to-morrow morning, and there would be such an uproar as the country has not seen for a year or so."
"Wait!" said Bertha, half-starting from her seat. "I did not understand before. This is too much shame. I thought it was—only a letter. I did not know"—
He went to the fire.
"I believe that, too," he said, grimly; "but it is not a little thing I'm doing. I'm denying myself a great deal. I'd give five years of my life"—He straightened out his short, stout arm and closed hand with a robust gesture, and then checked himself. "You don't knowwhat is in it. I don't know. I have not looked at it. There it goes." And he tossed it into the fire.
"The biggest fool of all," he said, "is the fool who takes every man for a knave. Do they think a country like this has been run for a century by liars and thieves? There have been liars and thieves enough, but not enough to bring it to a stand-still, and that seems to argue that there has been an honest man or so to keep a hand on their throats. When there are none left—well, it won't be as safe to belong to the nation as it is to-day, in spite of all that's bad in it."
The envelope had flamed up, and then died down into tindery blackness. He pointed to it.
"You can say it is there," he said, "and that I didn't open it, and they may thank you for it. Now I am going."
Bertha rose. She put her hand on the mantel again.
"If I do not thank you as I ought," she said, brokenly, "you must forgive me. I see all that you have spared me, but—I have had a heavy blow." He paused to look at her, rubbing his upright hair for the last time, his little eyes twinkling with a suspicious brightness, which had its softness too. He came back and took her hand, and held it in an awkward, kindly clasp.
"You are a good little woman," he said. "I'll say it to you again. You were not cut out to be made anything else of. You won't be anything else. You are young to be disappointed and unhappy. I know all that, and there doesn't seem much to say. Advice wouldn't amount to much, and I don't know that there is any to give."
They moved slowly toward the door together. When they stood upon the threshold he dropped her hand as awkwardly as he had taken it, and made a gesture toward the stairway, the suspicious brightness of his eyes more manifest than ever.
"Your children are up there asleep," he said, unsteadily. "Go to them."
And turning away, shrugged himself into his overcoat at the hat-stand, opened the door for himself, and went out of the house without another word.
The last words of his half-reluctant, half-exultant confession had scarcely left Richard Amory's lips when Tredennis rose from his chair.
"If you can," he said, "tell me the literal truth. Blundel is at your house with your wife. There is something she is to do. What is it?"
"She is to hand him an envelope containing a slip of paper," said Richard, doggedly. "That is what she is to do."
Tredennis crossed the room, and took his hat from its place.
"Will you come with me," he said, "or shall I go alone?"
"Where?" asked Richard.
Tredennis glanced at his watch.
"He would not call until late, perhaps," he said, "and she would not give it to him at once. It is ten now. We may reach there in time to spare her that, at least."
Richard bit his lip.
"There seems to be a good deal of talk of sparing her," he said. "Nobody spares me. Every folly I have been guilty of is exaggerated into a crime. Do you suppose that fellow isn't used to that sort of thing? Do you suppose I should have run the risk if he had not shown his hand this afternoon? She knows nothing of what she is to give him. There is no harm done to her."
"How is he to know she is not in the plot?" said Tredennis. "How is he to guess that she is not—what she has been made to seem to be? What insult is he not at liberty to offer her if he chooses?"
"She will take care of herself," said Richard. "Let her alone for that."
"By Heaven!" said Tredennis. "She has been let alone long enough. Has she ever been anything else but alone? Has there been one human creature among all she knew to help or defend or guide her? Who has given her a thought so long as she amused them and laughed with the rest? Who"—
Richard got up, a dawning curiosity in his face.
"What is the matter withyou?" he said. "Have you been"—
The words died away. The colonel's gleaming eye stopped him.
"We will go at once, if you please," said Tredennis, and strode out of the room before him.
When they reached the house Bertha was still standing where her guest had left her a few moments before, and but one glance at her face was needed to show both of them that something unusual had occurred.
"You have had Blundel here?" Richard asked, with an attempt at his usual manner, which ill-covered his excitement. "We thought we saw him crossing the street."
"Yes," she answered. "He has just left me."
She turned suddenly and walked back to the hearth.
"He left a message for you," she said. "That is it,"—and she pointed to the last bit of tinder flickering on the coals.
"The—letter!" exclaimed Richard.
"Yes," she answered. "Do you want Colonel Tredennis to hear about the letter, Richard, or does he know already?"
"He knows everything," answered Richard, "as every one else will to-morrow or the day after."
For a moment his despair made him so reckless that he did not make an effort at defence. He flung himself into a chair and gave up to the misery of the hour.
"You knew," said Bertha, looking toward Tredennis,"and did not tell me. Yes, I forgot,"—with a bitter little smile,—"there was something you warned me of once and I would not listen, and perhaps you thought I would not listen now. If you know, will you tell me what was in the letter? I do not know yet, and I want to hear it put into words. It was money—or an offer of money? Tell me, if you please."
"It was money," said Richard, defiantly. "And there are others who have taken the same thing peacefully enough."
"And I was to give it to him because—because he was a little more difficult, and seemed to be my friend. Do all female lobbyists do such things, Richard, or was I honored with a special service?"
"It is not the first time it has been done," he answered, "and it won't be the last."
"It is the first time I have done it," she returned, "and it will be the last. The—risk is too great."
Her voice shook a little, but it was perfectly cold; and, though her eyes were dilated, such fire as might have been in them was quenched by some light to which it would have been hard to give a name.
"I do not mean the risk to myself," she said to Richard. "That I do not count. I meant risk to you. When he burned the letter he said, 'Tell them I did it for your sake, and that it is safer for them that I did it.'"
"What else did he say?" asked Richard, desperately. "He has evidently changed his mind since this afternoon."
"He told me you had a reason for your interest in the scheme, which was not the one you gave me. He told me you had invested largely in it, and could not afford to lose."
Richard started up, and turned helplessly toward Tredennis. He had not expected this, just yet at least.
"I—I"—he faltered.
The colonel spoke without lifting his eyes from the floor.
"Will you let me explain that?" he asked. "I think it would be better."
There was a moment's silence, in which Bertha looked from one to the other.
"You?" she said.
Richard's lids fell. He took a paper-knife from the table he leaned against, and began to play with it nervously. He had become a haggard, coarsened, weakened copy of himself; his hair hung in damp elf-locks over his forehead; his lips were pale and dry; he bit them to moisten them.
"The money," said Tredennis, "was mine. It was a foolish investment, perhaps; but the money—was mine."
"Yours!" said Bertha. "You invested in the Westoria lands!"
She put her hand in its old place on the mantel, and a strange laugh fell from her lips.
"Then I have been lobbying for you, too," she said. "I—wish I had been more successful."
Richard put his hand up, and pushed back the damp, falling locks of hair from his forehead restlessly.
"Imade the investment," he said, "and I am the person to blame, as usual; but you would have believed in it yourself."
"Yes," she answered; "I should have believed in it, I dare say. It has been easy to make me believe, but I think I should also have believed in a few other things,—in the possibility of their being honor and good faith"—
She paused an instant, and then began again.
"You told me once that you had never regarded me seriously. I think that has been the difficulty—and perhaps it was my fault. It will not be necessary to use me any more, and I dare say you will let me go away for a while after a week or so. I think it would be better."
She left her place to cross the room to the door. On her way there she paused before Colonel Tredennis.
"I beg your pardon," she said, and went on.
At the door she stopped again one moment, fronting them both, her head held erect, her eyes large and bright.
"When Senator Blundel left me," she said, "he told me to go to my children. If you will excuse me, I will go."
And she made a stately little bow, and left them.
The great social event of the following week was to be the ball given yearly for the benefit of a certain popular and fashionable charity. There was no charity so fashionable, and consequently no ball so well attended; everybody was more or less interested; everybody of importance appeared at it, showing themselves for a few moments at least. Even Mrs. Merriam, who counted among the privileges earned by a long and unswervingly faithful social career, the one of immunity from all ordinary society duties, found herself drawn into the maelstrom, and enrolled on the list of patronesses.
"You may do all the work, my dear," she said to Mrs. Sylvestre, "and I will appropriate the credit."
But she was not so entirely idle as she professed to be, and indeed spent several mornings briskly driving from place to place in her comfortable carriage, and distinguished herself by exhibiting an executive ability, a promptness and decision in difficulty, which were regarded with secret awe and admiration by her younger and less experienced colleagues. She had been out doing such work on the afternoon of the day before the ball, and returned home at her usual hour; but not in her usual equable frame of mind. This was evident when she entered the room where Mrs. Sylvestre sat talking to Colonel Tredennis, who had called. There were indeed such signs of mental disturbance in her manner that Mrs. Sylvestre, rising to greet her, observed them at once.
"I am afraid you have had an exciting morning," she said, "and have done too much work."
"My dear," was the reply, "nothing could be more true than that I have had an exciting morning."
"I am sorry for that," said Agnes.
"I am sorry for it," said Mrs. Merriam; "more sorry than I can say." Then turning to Tredennis, "I am glad to find you here. I have been hearing some most extraordinary stories; perhaps you can tell me what they mean."
"Whom do they concern?" asked Agnes. "We are entertained by many stories."
"They will disturb you as much as they have disturbed me," Mrs. Merriam answered. "They have disturbed me very much. They concern our little friend, Mrs. Amory."
"Bertha!" exclaimed Agnes.
Her tender heart beat quickly, and a faint flush showed itself on her cheek; she looked up at Colonel Tredennis with quick, questioning eyes. Perhaps she was not as unprepared for the statement as she might have been. She had seen much during the last few weeks which had startled and alarmed her. Mrs. Merriam looked at Tredennis also.
"You may be able to guess something of what the rumors form themselves upon," she said. "Heaven knows there has been enough foundation for anything in that miserable Westoria land scheme."
"You have heard something of it this morning?" said Tredennis.
"I have heard nothing else," was the answer. "The Westoria land scheme has come to an untimely end, with a flavor of scandal about it, which may yet terminate in an investigation. The whole city is full of it, and stories of Mrs. Amory and her husband are the entertainment offered you on all sides. I say 'Mrs. Amory and her husband,' because it is Mrs. Amory who is the favorite topic. She has been making the most desperate efforts to influence people; her parlors have been filled with politicians and lobbyists all the season; the husband was deeply involved in the matter; bribes have been offered and taken; there are endless anecdotes ofSenator Planefield and his infatuation, and the way in which it has been used. She would have accomplished wonders if it had not been for Senator Blundel, who suspected her and led her into betraying herself. It is Senator Blundel who is credited with having been the means of exploding the whole affair. He has been privately investigating the matter for months, and had an interview with Mrs. Amory the other night, in which he accused her of the most terrible things, and threatened her with exposure. That is the way the stories run."
"Oh, this is very cruel," said Agnes. "We must do something. We must try; we cannot let such things be said without making an effort against them."
"Whatever is done must be done at once," replied Mrs. Merriam. "The conclusion of the matter is that there seems actually to be a sort of cabal formed against her."
"You mean"—began Agnes, anxiously.
"I mean," said Mrs. Merriam, "that my impression is that if she appears at the ball there are those who will be so rude to her that she will be unable to remain."
"Aunt Mildred!" exclaimed Agnes, in deep agitation. "Surely such a thing is impossible."
"It is not only not impossible," returned Mrs. Merriam, "but it is extremely probable. I heard remarks which assured me of that."
"She must not go!" said Agnes. "We must manage to keep her at home. Colonel Tredennis"—
"The remedy must go deeper than that," he answered. "The fact that she did not appear would only postpone the end. The slights she avoided one night would be stored up for the future, we may be sure."
He endeavored to speak calmly, but it was not easy, and he knew too well that such a change had come upon his face as the two women could not but see. Though he had feared this climax so long, though he had even seen day by day the signs of its approach, it fell uponhim as a blow at last, and seemed even worse than in his most anxious hour he had thought it might be.
"She has friends," he said; "her friends have friends. I think there are those—besides ourselves—who will defend her."
"They must be strong," remarked Mrs. Merriam.
"There are some of them," he answered, "who are strong. I think I know a lady whose opinion will not go for nothing, who is generous enough to use her influence in the right direction."
"And that direction?" said Mrs. Merriam.
"If the opposing party finds itself met by a party more powerful than itself," he said, "its tone will change; and as for the story of Senator Blundel I think I can arrange that he will attend to that himself."
"Mere denial would not go very far, I am afraid," said Mrs. Merriam. "He cannot deny it to two or three score of people."
"He can deny it to the entire community," he answered, "by showing that their intimacy remains unbroken."
"Ah!" cried Agnes, "if he would only go to the ball, and let people see him talking to her as he used to; but I am sure he never went to a ball in his life!"
"My dear," said Mrs. Merriam, "that is really a very clever idea, if he could be induced to go."
"He is an honest man," said Tredennis, flushing. "And he is her friend. I believe that sincerely; and I believe he would prove it by going anywhere to serve her."
"If that is true," said Mrs. Merriam, "a great deal will be accomplished, though it is a little difficult to figure to one's self how he would enjoy a ball."
"I think we shall have the pleasure of seeing," replied the colonel. "I myself"—He paused a moment, and then added: "I chance to have a rather intimate acquaintance with him; he has interested himself in some work of mine lately, and has shownhimself very friendly to me. It would perhaps be easier for me to speak to him than for any other friend of Mrs. Amory."
"I think you would do it better than any other friend," Mrs. Merriam said, with a kindly look at him.
The truth was that, since his first introduction to Colonel Tredennis, Blundel had taken care that the acquaintance should not drop. He had found the modest warrior at once useful and entertaining. He had been able to gather from him information which it was his interest to count among his stores, and, having obtained it, was not ungrateful, and, indeed, was led by his appreciation of certain good qualities he recognized in him into something bordering on an attachment for his new friend.
"I like that fellow," he used to say, energetically.
And realizing something of this friendliness, and more of the honor and worth of his acquaintance, the colonel felt that he might hope to reach his heart by telling his story simply and with dignity, leaving the rest to him. As for the lady of whom he had spoken, he had but little doubt that that kind and generous heart might be reached; he had seen evidences of its truth and charity too often to distrust them. It was, of course, the wife of the Secretary of State he was thinking of,—that good and graceful gentlewoman, whose just and clear judgment he knew he could rely upon, and whose friendship would grant him any favor.
"She is very generous and sympathetic," he said, "and I have heard her speak most kindly of Mrs. Amory. Her action in the matter must have weight, and I have confidence that she will show her feeling in a manner which will make a deep impression. She has always been fond of Professor Herrick."
"That is as clever an idea as the other," said Mrs. Merriam. "She has drawn her lines so delicately heretofore that she has an influence even greater than was wielded by most of those who have occupied herposition. And she is a decided and dignified person, capable of social subtleties."
"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Sylvestre, "it seems very hard that it should be Bertha who should need such defence."
"It is miserable," said Mrs. Merriam, impatiently. "It is disgraceful when one considers who is the person to blame. It is very delicate of us not to use names, I suppose; but there has been enough delicacy—and indelicacy—and I should like to use them as freely as other people do. I think you remember that I have not been very fond of Mr. Richard Amory."
When Colonel Tredennis left them he turned his steps at once toward the house of the woman who was his friend, and upon whose assistance so much depended. To gain her sympathy seemed the first thing to be done, and one thought repeated itself again and again in his mind, "How shall I say it best?"
But fortune favored him, and helped him to speak as he had not anticipated that it would.
The lady sat alone in her favorite chair in her favorite room, when he was ushered into her presence, as he had frequently happened to be before somewhere about the same hour. A book lay open upon her lap, but she was not reading it, and, he fancied, had not been doing so for some time. He also fancied that when she saw him her greeting glance had a shade of relief in it, and her first words seemed to certify that he was not mistaken.
"I am more than usually glad to see you," she said. "I think that if you had not appeared so opportunely I should have decided in about half an hour that I must send for you."
"I am very fortunate to have come," he answered, and he held her kind hand a moment, and there came into his face a look so anxious that, being in the habit of observing him, she saw it.
"Are you very well?" she asked, gently. "I amafraid not. You are rather pale. Sit down by my chair and let me look at you."
"Am I pale?" said the colonel. "You are very good to notice it, though I am not ill. I am only—only"—
She looked at him with grave interest.
"Have you," she said,—"have you heard ill news of some friend? Is that it? I am afraid it is!"
"Yes," he answered, "that is it; and I am afraid you have heard of it, too."
"I am afraid I have," she returned. "Such things travel quickly. I have heard something which has distressed me very much. It is something I have heard faint rumors of before, but now it has taken on a definite form. This morning I was out, and this afternoon I have had some callers who were not averse to speaking plainly. I have heard a great many things said which have given me pain, and which embarrass me seriously. That was the reason I was wishing to see you. I felt that you would at least tell me a story without prejudice. There is a great deal of prejudice shown, of course. We need expect nothing else. I am sure Professor Herrick can know nothing of this. Will you tell me what you yourself know?"
"That is what I came to do," said the colonel, still paler, perhaps. "There is a great deal to tell—more than the world will ever know. It is only to such as you that it could be told."
There was more emotion in his voice and face than he had meant to reveal; perhaps something in the kind anxiousness of his companion's eyes moved him; he found that he could not sit still and speak as if his interest was only the common one of an outsider, so he rose and stood before her.
"I cannot even tell you how it is that I know what I do to be true," he said. "I have only my word, but Iknowyou will believe me."
"You may be sure of that," she answered.
"Iamsure of it," he returned, "or I should not behere, for I have no other proof to offer. I came to make an appeal to you in behalf of a person who has been wronged."
"In behalf of Mrs. Amory?" she said.
"Yes," he replied, "though she does not know I am here, and will never know it. It scarcely seems my business, perhaps; she should have others to defend her; but there are no others who, having the interest of relationship, might not be accused of self-interest too. There is a slight tie of kinship between us, but it is only a slight one, and we have not always been very good friends, perhaps, though it must have been my own fault. I think I never pleased her very well, even when I saw her oftenest. She was used to brighter companionship. But her father liked me; we were friends, warm and close. I have felt almost as if I was his son, and have tried to spare him the knowledge of what would have hurt him. During the last few weeks I think he has had suspicions which have disturbed him, but they have not been suspicions of trouble to his child."
"I felt sure of that," the lady remarked.
"Shehas no suspicions of the true aspect of affairs," he continued, "though she has lately gained knowledge of the wrong done her. It has been a great wrong. She has not been spared. Her inexperience made her a child in the hands of those who used her as their tool. She understands now that it is too late—and it is very bitter to her."
"You knew her when she was a girl," his companion said, with her kind eyes on his sad, stern face.
"Yes," he answered, "when she was a girl and happy, and with all of life before her, and—she did not fear it."
"I knew her, too," she replied. "She has greatly changed since then."
"I saw that when I returned here," he said. And he turned his head aside and began to take up and setdown a trifle on the mantel. "At first I did not understand it," he added. "Now I do. She has not changed without reason. If she has seemed light, there are women, I suppose, who hide many a pain in that way. She has loved her children, and made them happy—I know that, at least—and—and she has been a kind wife and an innocent woman. It is her friends who must defend her."
"She needs their defence," said his hearer. "I felt that when I was out this morning, and when my callers were with me, an hour ago." She held out her hand with sympathetic frankness. "I am her friend," she said, "and her father's—and yours. I think you have some plan; there is something you wish me to do. Tell me what it is."
"Yes," he answered, "there is something I wish you to do. No one else can do it so well. There are people who intend to testify to their belief in the stories they have heard by offering her open slights. It is likely that the attempt will be made to-morrow night at the ball. If you testify to your disbelief and disapproval by giving her your protection, the popular theory will be shaken, and there will be a reaction in her favor."
"It is not to be denied," she said, "that it is only women who can aid her. It is women who say these things, as a rule, and who can unsay them. The actions of men in such matters are of less weight than they should be, though it is true there is one man who might do her a service"—
"You are thinking of Senator Blundel," he said. "I—we have thought of that. We think—hope that he will come to the ball."
"If he does, and shows himself friendly toward her," she returned, "nothing more can be said which could be of much importance. He is the hero of the story, as I dare say you have heard. If he remains her friend, that proves that he did not accuse her of plotting againsthim, and that he has no cause for offence. If the story of the grand scene between them is untrue, the foundation-stone is taken away, and, having the countenance of a few people who show their confidence with tact and discretion, she is safe. I will go to the ball, my friend, and I will use what influence I possess to insure that she is not badly treated."
"I knew you would be kind to her," Tredennis said, with kindling eyes. "I have seen you kind before to those who needed kindness, even to those who did not deserve it—and she does!"
"Yes, yes, I am sure she does!" she answered. "Poor child! Poor child!"
And she gave him her hand again, and, as he wrung it in his, her eyes were fuller of sympathy than ever.
He reached Senator Blundel's rooms an hour later, and found him in the midst of his papers and pigeon-holes,—letters and pamphlets to right of him, to left of him, before and behind him.
"Well," he said, by way of greeting, "our Westoria friends are out of humor this morning."
"So I have heard," Tredennis answered.
"And they may well be—they may well be," he said, nodding sharply. "And there are some fine stories told, of course."
"I have come to tell you one myself, sir," said Tredennis.
"What!" cried Blundel, turning on his chair,—"you have a story?"
"Yes," returned the colonel, "not a pleasant one, and as it concerns you I will waste as few words as possible."
He wasted no words at all. The story was a brief one, but as forcible as simple words could make it. There was no effort to give it effectiveness, and yet there were touches here and there which appealed to the man who heard it as he had been rarely appealed to before.They brought before him things which had found a lodging in corners of his practical political mind, and had haunted him rather pathetically since the night he had shrugged himself into his overcoat, and left the slight, desolate-looking figure behind him. He had enjoyed his friendship too much not to regret it now that he felt it was a thing of the past; he had felt the loss more than once of the new element it had introduced into his life, and had cast about in his mind in vain for a place where he could spend a spare hour or so as pleasantly as he had often spent such hours in a bright parlor he knew of. Before Tredennis had half finished his relation he was moving restlessly in his chair, and uttering occasional gruff ejaculations, and when it came to an end he sprang up, looking not a trifle heated.
"That's it, is it?" he exclaimed. "They have been inventing something new about her, have they, and dragged me into it into the bargain? And they are making up plots against her,—poor little woman!—as if she hadn't been treated badly enough. A lot of gossips, I'll wager!"
"Some of them are good enough," said the colonel. "They only mean to signify their disapproval of what they would have the right to condemn if it were a truth instead of a lie."
"Well, they shall not do it at my expense, that's all," was the answer. "It is a lie from beginning to end, and I will do something toward proving it to them. I don't disapprove of her,—they shall see that. She's a genuine good little thing. She's a lady. Any fool can see that. She wonmeover, by George! when everything was against her. And she accused nobody when she might have said some pretty hard true things, and nine women out of ten would have raised the very deuce. She's got courage, and—yes, and dignity, and a spirit of her own that has helped her to bear many a bitter thing without losing her hold on herself, I'd be willing to swear. Lookhere," he added, turning suddenly and facing Tredennis, "how much do you know of her troubles? Something, I know, or you wouldn't be here."
"Yes," answered the colonel, "I know something."
"Well," he continued, in an outburst of feeling, "I don't ask how much. It's enough, I dare say, to make it safe for me to speak my mind,—I mean safe for her, not for myself. There's a fellow within a hundred miles of here I should like to thrash within an inch of his life; and an elegant, charming, amiable fellow he is too, who, possibly, persuaded himself that he was doing her very little injury."