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"Forgive me, Mr. Lambert. Say you forgive me."
"My poor child," he said sadly, placing one hand on her bowed head. "My poor child, you are too much in need of forgiveness from others for me to withhold mine. It is yours freely; but promise me that you'll show your appreciation of it by coming to me in all your troubles."
She seized his other hand in both of hers, and kissing it, burst into tears.
"And now," he said sternly, "I will seek out that miserable girl."
But Miss Fitzgerald, dreading the tempest, had sought the haven of her own room.
She was not a picture of contrite repentance as she stood by the open window, looking out into the night.
"Fools all!" she mused. "So I am to blame – it is all my fault!"
An amused sneer played about her lips.
"Ah me! After all it is our faults that make life interesting to us – or us interesting to others," and she tossed away her half-smoked cigarette with a shrug.
CHAPTER XXX
TWO LETTERS
Precisely as the clock struck ten, Kent-Lauriston entered the smoking-room to find it in sole possession of Stanley, who stood leaning against the mantelpiece, lost in thought – a cigar, long ago gone out, hanging listlessly between his fingers.
"I'm afraid I'm late," said his genial adviser, glancing at the clock, "but I was just finishing a game of cribbage with Mr. Riddle."
"I don't envy you his society," growled the Secretary, whose temper was not improved by recent experiences.
"You misjudge him," replied Kent-Lauriston. "He's a very good fellow, in more senses of the word than one – he's just given Mr. Lambert a thumping big cheque, for the restoration of his little church."
"And made you the recipient of the fact of his generosity?"
"Far from it; our gossiping little parson did that, in direct violation of a pledge of secrecy; for Riddle never wishes his good works to be known – he's not that kind."
"I consider him a hypocrite," replied Stanley shortly.
"Then you do him a great injustice, my dear boy; and allow me to say, you'll never make a good diplomat till you've arrived at a better knowledge of human nature; it's the keystone of the profession. But, to change the subject, how have you been spending the evening?"
"Oh, making a fool of myself, as usual."
"So I suppose. What particular method did you adopt this time?"
"First, I chivied our amiable parson from pillar to post, in this very room, till I'd forced the admission of an important fact from him, and the practical admission of another."
"And then," continued Kent-Lauriston, "you went and tried the effect of your statements on the young ladies."
"I believe you're equipped with X-rays instead of eyes, Kent-Lauriston, for you were smoking down here and couldn't have seen me!"
"No, but I saw the ladies – afterwards."
"To speak to?"
"Oh, no. One of them at least has a rooted aversion to me. I know too much."
"What were they doing?"
"Pulling each other's hair out, I should judge, or its equivalent in polite society. What did you learn from the parson?"
"That he had not married Kingsland to Lady Isabelle; that Kingsland had been married to somebody; and a refusal to say that that somebody was Miss Fitzgerald, which was tantamount to an admission of the fact."
"Exactly, and what did you say to the young ladies?"
"I asked Miss Fitzgerald if she was Lieutenant Kingsland's wife?"
"And she denied it?"
"Absolutely."
"What else?"
"I charged Lady Isabelle with not having married Kingsland."
"And what was her answer?"
"I didn't wait to receive it."
"Had you done so, she would have denied it likewise."
"You think so?"
"I am certain of it, and, if it's any satisfaction to you, I can tell you that by your action you ensured Miss Fitzgerald one of the worst quarters of an hour at her Ladyship's hands that she is likely to experience for a very long time."
"But Mr. Lambert assured me solemnly, that he did not perform the ceremony between Lady Isabelle and the Lieutenant."
"He was quite right in doing so."
"But they can't all be right!"
"My dear fellow," said Kent-Lauriston, "it is very seldom, in this complex age, that anyone is wholly right or wholly wrong. All these people, except Miss Fitzgerald, know a part of the truth, and have spoken honestly according to their lights. She alone knows it all, and, believe me, she is much too clever to tell a lie on so important a point. If she told you she was not married to Lieutenant Kingsland, you may implicitly believe her."
"Do you know that it is the truth?"
"Yes, because I telegraphed to the man who has charge of the issue of special licences, and have received a line from him, to the effect that one has been issued in the last few days, for Lieutenant Kingsland and Lady Isabelle McLane."
"Then you convict Mr. Lambert of deception?"
"Not at all. If he told you he had not married Lady Isabelle to the Lieutenant, he told you what he believed to be the truth."
"But is it possible that he could have married them without knowing it?"
"It seems that it was possible."
"How could he make such a mistake?"
"A man who never makes a mistake makes little or nothing in this world."
"And Miss Fitzgerald signed in the place of the bride, to divert suspicion?"
"It seems impossible to suppose that she would commit herself in that way," said Kent-Lauriston.
"But the register proves that she did," reported Stanley.
"Ye-es. It rather savours of the paradox. Perhaps we'd better content ourselves with the facts that Lady Isabelle did marry Kingsland, and Miss Fitzgerald did not. How it was accomplished does not immediately concern us, and, as I fear no very creditable means were used, we'd better not try to find out what they were, especially as we've more serious matters to consider."
"You mean – "
"I mean the charge unconsciously made by Madame Darcy."
"I feared you were going to speak of that."
"True, it is an unpleasant business; but you must remember that you owe it to Miss Fitzgerald to ask her for a definite answer, or to give her some explanation for declining to do so."
"You think there's no escape from it?"
"None that a gentleman can take."
"What do you advise me to do?"
"Find out where you stand in the first place."
"How I stand?"
"Yes. At least one serious charge has been made against the woman whom you propose to make your wife. If true – for your own sake, for your father's sake, you must surrender her. If false, you are equally bound, by honour and chivalry, to disprove it."
"How can I do this?"
"The charge to which I refer is based on the direct evidence of certain letters. See them, and judge for yourself."
"That is easier said than done."
"Here they are," replied Kent-Lauriston, handing him a little packet.
"You have seen Madame Darcy?"
"Yes."
"And she has given you these letters, knowing they would be shown to me?"
"Yes, on my representation, that if they substantiated her charges, she would be doing you the greatest kindness in her power."
Stanley bowed, and opened the little packet. For a few moments there was silence in the room, broken only by the occasional crackle of paper, as he turned a page. Most of the dozen or so documents he read through quickly, and laid upon the table at his side. A couple he re-read several times. Finally he looked up, saying simply: —
"You've read these letters?"
"Yes. I was given permission to do so."
"What do you think of them?"
"Two of them are suggestive."
"The two most recent?"
"Yes, they bear dates, you will observe, within the last three days."
"And the others – ?"
"The others merely show the existence of some relationship between Colonel Darcy and Miss Fitzgerald, which they wished kept secret. I don't remember the exact wording. There's a letter which she writes from London to him at his home, begging him to come to town and 'leave his tiresome wife,' as they have 'matters of more importance' to attend to; and again she writes that she cannot meet him at 5 p. m., 'because she must account for her time to her "dragon,"' – alluding, I infer, to her aunt – but that he must manage to 'meet her accidentally and take her down to supper' at a party she is attending that night, 'so as not to arouse suspicion.'"
"All this proves nothing."
"Perhaps not – but the extracts are significant. Now take the two most recent."
"They were written from here. How were they obtained?"
"That doesn't concern us if they are genuine."
"One is certainly in Miss Fitzgerald's hand."
"The other was evidently torn from Darcy's letter-book. Read it."
Stanley did so, with evident effort.
"Dearest Belle:
"I did not know, till after I had seen you the other night – "
"The night you proposed," interjected Kent-Lauriston.
The Secretary nodded, and resumed his reading.
" – the other night, how cleverly you got my letter out of the Secretary's clutches. It quite retrieves your losing it at the Hyde Park Club, and now I have lost it under the secret door in the Hall, as you will probably have heard. If A. R. cannot get a duplicate, which is doubtful, the door must be opened.
"I have entrusted you with all I hold most dear. You know what that is. If my plans go well, it will mean a happy future for us both.
"Your affectionate old"Bob."
"Now read the other," commanded Kent-Lauriston; and, sick at heart, the Secretary complied:
"You old Stupid:
"Is the report really true that you have lost that letter under the secret door? There is no time to duplicate it, so it must be recovered. Why didn't you write and tell me you had lost it? – "
"But he did," commented the reader.
"Both letters were intercepted before delivery, I imagine," said Kent-Lauriston, "but finish the note."
" – Do not try to see me again," read Stanley; "it might arouse suspicion, and you know how necessary it is for me to play the rôle of the innocent. I am more afraid of Inez than anyone else. I am sure she suspects there is something between us. There is no danger in Little Diplomacy; he is young enough to believe he knows everything, and that is a great safeguard. I have found a trusty messenger for our affairs in Jack Kingsland.
"As ever,"Belle."
The Secretary stopped reading; his throat was very dry. He took a glass of Apollinaris, and then said: —
"These letters are not incriminating – in the way you mean."
"No, perhaps not in so many words; but you must ask yourself two questions concerning them. Are they letters that an honourable or refined woman would write to or receive from a married man, at any time, and particularly when she herself was practically engaged?"
"May I ask to what you imagine Darcy's expression, 'all I hold most dear,' refers?"
"Oh, his heart, or his love, or some such sentimental rubbish."
"So I supposed; it hasn't occurred to you to take it in a more literal sense?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, say that all he holds most dear refers to the five chests of sovereigns."
"You believe this?"
"I know it to be so – and have known it all along – the fact that I tell you confidentially, that I'm acting under secret instructions in this matter, will, I'm sure, suffice not only to seal your lips, but to make you understand that, for the present, you must be contented not to know more."
Kent-Lauriston nodded.
"You'll see, then," continued the Secretary, "that what you supposed was an intrigue turns out to be – shall we say – a commercial transaction."
Kent-Lauriston shrugged his shoulders, remarking: —
"I'd better return the letters to Madame Darcy at once then?"
"No, leave that to me, I shall ask her to let me keep them, if she will; they may be useful – as evidence."
"But, surely, any woman who could connect herself with so dishonourable an affair, as I imagine this to be, is no fit wife for you. Give me your word you'll break with her once and for all."
"I've sources of information about Darcy which, as I have said before, I'm not at liberty to reveal, but forty-eight hours may loose my tongue. If I could tell Miss Fitzgerald what I know, she might throw him over even now, for I still hope she's only his dupe. Give me two days to prove her innocent; if I fail – I'll do what you please."
Kent-Lauriston reluctantly acquiesced, and Stanley, putting the incriminating letters carefully in an inside pocket, bade him good-night, and left the smoking-room. In the hall he met Lady Isabelle.
"I don't know what you'll think of me for coming to you, Mr. Stanley," she said, "after what has passed this evening."
"I think myself an infernal ass, for I've found out the truth of the matter since I left you, and I think you're very good to overlook it, and very condescending to speak to me at all."
"Do not let us talk of that," she said.
"Agreed," he replied. "Only permit me to say, I'd the parson's solemn assurance that he'd not married you, and, however unadvisedly I may have spoken, I spoke in good faith."
"I quite understand," she returned. "But now you know the truth."
"I do, and I'm very much ashamed of myself."
She smiled, a trifle sadly, and changed the subject abruptly, saying: —
"I've come to ask you a great favour. In the face of the past I almost hesitate to do so, but there's no one else to whom I can turn – and so – "
"Anything I can do – " he began.
"I only want to ask you a question."
"Only a question!"
"Yet, I hesitate to ask even that – because it concerns a lady in whom you're interested."
"Miss Fitzgerald?"
"Yes."
"You need have no hesitation," he said coldly.
"I'm sure you will not misunderstand me," she continued.
He bowed silently.
"After you left us, I questioned Miss Fitzgerald about the part she'd played in my marriage."
Stanley nodded.
"You can understand that I was very angry. Whose feelings would not have been outraged at discovering that they'd been so played upon? I'm sure that my husband was as innocent of the deception as I."
She paused a second, but the Secretary did not speak, and she continued, afraid, perhaps, that he might say something to overthrow her theory.
"I dare say I forgot myself – in fact I'm sure I did – and said things that I now regret; but in the heat of the argument she taunted me with the fact that she had it in her power to have my husband cashiered from the navy, if she chose to tell what she knew. Is this true?"
"Did she specify what he'd done?" asked Stanley, the horrid suspicion that Belle was not innocent once more reasserting itself with increased force.
"No, but she said it was something he'd done in London, during his present absence."
"My God!" murmured the Secretary, as the full force and meaning of this avowal became apparent to him, and he saw that Belle must be fully cognisant of the plot.
"Don't tell me it's true!" cried Lady Isabelle.
"I'm afraid it is," he replied.
"But that my husband could be guilty of – "
"I didn't say that," he interjected. "He may be merely an innocent instrument; but he might have difficulty in proving it, if the charges were made."
"But what are the charges?"
"Ah! That you must not ask me."
"You know?"
"Perhaps, but you must be content to be sure that, had I the right to tell you, I would do so."
"But what is to be done?"
"Nothing. The threat is an empty one. Miss Fitzgerald will make no charges against your husband; I will guarantee that, and it may transpire that the Lieutenant has done nothing worse than deliver some cases, of the contents of which he was ignorant, to oblige a friend."
"But if she could prove that he did deliver them, he might be charged with complicity?"
"Exactly."
"Can I not warn him?"
"No, Lady Isabelle, you owe it to me to keep silence, at least for the next few days. In telling you this, to relieve your anxiety, I have exceeded my instructions, and placed my honour in your hands."
"It shall be held sacred; but who is to warn my husband?"
"I'll do so, if you wish."
"I can never be sufficiently grateful, if you will."
"Then we'll consider that settled," he said.
"You've been a true friend to me," she replied, taking his hand, "and I've ill repaid you for your kindness."
"Don't think of that," he said, and turned away, heavy-hearted; for now he fancied he knew the worst.
CHAPTER XXXI
MISS FITZGERALD BURNS HER BOATS
"My dear," said the Secretary, as he shook hands with Madame Darcy over the little wicket gate entwined with roses, which gave admittance to her rustic abode, "I want to thank you for those letters."
"To thank me?"
"Yes. Why not?"
"Why not? Why, I was almost ashamed to meet you face to face."
"But why should you be?"
"That I should have spoken of them at all, and to you."
"But surely you cannot blame yourself for that. You thought they related to quite a different person."
"Now who would have supposed a man would have given me credit. But why do I stand talking at the gate – come in, you've not perhaps had your breakfast yet this morning?"
"Yes, thanks, and a hearty one. Do you think I come to eat you out of house and home?"
"I think you come only to the gate."
"Unfortunately, beggars must not be choosers – and I've just time for a word. It's my busy day, as they say in the city."
She was piqued, and showed it.
"Do you not think I would willingly spend all day with you, if – "
"I think," she replied, "that you're engaged to a certain young lady – and you've told me that you're busy."
"It's about her I wished to speak," he said, abruptly changing the subject. "These letters have misled you."
"You mean – "
"I mean that they refer to the plot in which your husband and this young lady are engaged."
She looked at him searchingly.
"You are speaking the truth to me. You know this to be so?"
"On my honour. I am not trying to deceive you. I only ask you to believe that your original suspicions were incorrect."
"But you substitute something quite as bad."
"Well, no – hardly that. In fact it may benefit you greatly."
"How so?"
"That I'm not at liberty to tell you just now; I hope I can in a day or two. Meantime, may I ask you to keep silence about what I've said, and trust your affairs to me – they shall not suffer in my hands."
"Have I not trusted you, my friend?"
"You have indeed, and I've appreciated it; but that you'll understand better a little later – when I've been able to help you more."
"You have done all for me; you have saved me, and I can never forget it."
"Nonsense, I've done nothing as yet."
"You have given me your sympathy. Is not that something? You have been a true friend to me."
"For old friendship's sake – could I do less?"
She flushed and said hurriedly.
"My father will know how to thank you properly. When I see him – " and she unburdened her heart to the Secretary, who gave her a willing ear. Together they discussed her plans for the future, her return home, her welcome; in short, a thousand and one pleasant anticipations, till Stanley declared, regretfully, that he must go.
"But you have stood already an hour," she murmured, "surely you will come in and rest."
"An hour!" he exclaimed, looking at his watch. "Impossible!"
"No," she said. "Not impossible, I also have stood."
He was overcome at his thoughtlessness, but she silenced his excuses by throwing open the gate and saying:
"Come." And he entered.
Miss Fitzgerald was seated at her ease in a West Indian chair on the lawn. A white parasol shielded her from the sun, and a novel lay unopened in her lap. As she leaned back looking up into the earnest face of a man, with a supercilious smile and a veiled fire in her blue eyes, she seemed to be at peace with herself and with the world. In reality, she was enduring the last of three most disagreeable encounters.
Her first had been with her aunt, Mrs. Roberts, who, quite justly, ascribed the occurrences which had interrupted the harmony of her house-party to the machinations of her niece.
"I invited you here at your own request," she had said, in a private interview before breakfast, in the course of which much righteous wrath was vented. "You assured me that Mr. Stanley was on the point of asking your hand in marriage, and only needed an opportunity of doing so; which I was the more willing to give, because I saw the extreme advisability of such a step. His actions have belied your words, and moreover, have made you the subject of unpleasant comment in my house, which has greatly annoyed me. I do not wish to be unkind, but you must understand that matters, for the rest of the time we are together, must run more smoothly, or I shall be obliged to suggest your returning to London."
It is hard enough to endure the faulty criticism of an elderly and misguided person, when one is in the right; but when one is in the wrong, and has hanging over one the probability, if not the certainty, of coming disclosures, which will force threats to become realities, such a state of things is unbearable, and Miss Fitzgerald partook of her morning meal feeling that fate had been more than unkind.
Immediately after breakfast she had been treated to an interview with the outraged Mr. Lambert, of which a detailed account is unnecessary, but which resulted in the unpalatable presentation of those obnoxious criticisms known as "home truths."
With all her faults, Miss Fitzgerald, like the parson, came of fighting stock, and, game to the last, she began the dangerous experiment of burning her boats behind her, by informing her hostess that she should leave to-morrow afternoon in any event, as it was not her wish to stay where she was unwelcome. Then, possessed by the spirit that has always prompted heroic deeds, the determination to do or die, she sought and found an interview with Mr. Stanley. She boldly opened the attack, by calling that young gentleman to account for his neglect of the last twenty-four hours.
"I've hardly seen so much as your shadow, Jimsy, and I've been nearly bored to death in consequence. What have you been doing with yourself?"
"Trying to find out to whom you were married."
"Ah! Have you succeeded?"
"Yes, the parson has confirmed your assertions this morning."
"Did you need his confirmation of my word?"
Stanley said nothing, and his companion, considering the silence dangerous, hastened to break it.
"If I really were to marry you," she asked, "would you desert me as you did yesterday?"
"If you treated me as you've treated me these last few days, I should probably desert you altogether."
The situation was going from bad to worse, and something must be effected or the cause was lost.
"What have I done, Jim?" she asked piteously, taking the bull by the horns, and allowing her eyes to fill with tears.
"What have you done?" he said nonchalantly, with a flippancy which, in the case of women, constituted his most dangerous weapon. "What have you done? Oh, nothing out of the common, I suppose, only, you see, unfortunately, we men are cursed with a certain, though defective, standard of morals; and the amount of – well, prevarication you've practised over this affair has shattered a number of cherished illusions."
"I wish you wouldn't wax so disgustingly moral, Jimsy. It's so easy to be moral – and it bores me. Of course, I don't like saying what's not so, any more than you do, but one must be consistent. I promised Kingsland I'd arrange the match for him, and when that old fool of a parson put obstacles in the way, and then assumed I was the bride, – I'll give you my word I never told him so – why, it offered an easy solution of the difficulty. There was nothing illegal about the marriage. I'm sure I'm not responsible for every man who makes a fool of himself, and since I'd undertaken the affair, I was bound, in common decency, to see it through."
"Do you consider 'common decency' just the word to apply to the transaction?"
"Don't pick up details and phrases in that way, Jimsy. They're unimportant – but very irritating."
"Do you think so? Details and phrases go far to make up the sum of life. Why does Colonel Darcy still remain here?"
"Why do you still persist in harping upon my friend's name?"
"Because I loathe him, Belle. If you knew his true character, you'd cut him the next time you met."
"Ignorance is the only thing that makes life tolerable."
"Nonsense."
"Jim, answer me this question. If I were your wife, would you permit me to keep up my intimacy with Colonel Darcy?"
"No."
"Then I must choose between you two?"
"Do you love me so little that there can be a question of choice?"
"You don't understand. It's easy for you to say, 'Throw him over'; the reality is a very different matter. He's my oldest friend."
"And I'm the man who has asked you to share his name and his honour. If I could prove to you that Darcy was unworthy – would you give him up, for my sake?"
"Can you prove this?"
"I'm not at liberty to say."
She smiled faintly, and thought hard. She had learned in that last speech what she most wanted to know – the measure of the Secretary's knowledge.
"Well?" he said, interrogatively.
"I don't know how to answer," she replied. "My intuition says no; my heart says – yes."
The Secretary turned cold, as a new phase of the situation presented itself to his view.
"Do you love this man?" he asked.
"Love Darcy – love him!" she cried. "I hate him more than any man in the world, and yet – "
"You're in his power?"
"No!"
"Then accept me."
"Jim," she said earnestly, "you're asking me to decide my whole life. Give me twenty-four hours to think it over."
"Haven't you had sufficient time?"
"To-morrow you shall have your answer."
"Much may happen before to-morrow."
"But you'll grant me this respite. I promise that to-morrow I'll say – yes or no."
"To-morrow I too may be able to speak more clearly; till then, promise me you'll not see this man."
"Can't you trust me, Jim? I trust you, and how little a woman can know of a man's life."
"I don't know," he said, and left her discomfited – praying to Heaven that some power might intervene to reconcile her heart and conscience; for this wild, wayward and desperate woman had a conscience, and so far it had withheld her from committing an unpardonable sin.
After lunch, as fate willed it, the Irish girl and the Dowager were left a moment alone together. Being both inflammable substances, sparks flew, and a conflagration ensued.
The credit of starting the combustion must be accorded to the Marchioness. She had observed the young lady's earnest conversation with Stanley on the lawn in the morning, and coupling this with the undemonstrative behaviour of that gentleman towards her daughter, had jumped to the conclusion that Miss Fitzgerald was trying to rob her of her rightful prize. Being possessed of this belief, and the circumstances being exaggerated from much thinking, her wrath found expression in the offender's presence, and she gratuitously insulted the Irish girl; a dangerous thing to do, as she presently discovered.
"How are you to-day?" asked the Dowager with irritating condescension.
"Excessively trivial, thank you. An English Sunday is so serious, one has to be trivial in self-defence."
"It is different in your country, then?"
"Rather."
"You seemed nervous and absorbed, at lunch."
"No. Simply absorbed with my luncheon. I find that eating is really important in England. It takes one's mind off the climate."
"I'm leaving to-morrow," continued Miss Fitzgerald, for the purpose of breaking an awkward silence, which had already lasted several minutes.
"I think it's the wisest thing you can do," replied the Dowager.
Such provocation could not pass unnoticed.
"Why?" queried her companion, outwardly calm, but with a dangerous gleam in her eye.
"Because if you were not leaving the house at once, I should feel it my duty to take Lady Isabelle away – with young girls one must be careful."
"Explain yourself, Lady Port Arthur."
"I do not think it necessary, really; do you? Of course I can quite understand that it's most advisable, perhaps necessary, for you to marry; but common decency would prevent you from thrusting your attentions on a man who – "
"If you're alluding to Mr. Stanley, your Ladyship, I don't mind telling you, if it'll make you feel easier, that I've about decided to refuse him."
"What!"
"He proposed to me some days ago, but, as you say, one has to be careful."
"Impossible!"
"As for marrying," continued her adversary, relentlessly, determined, since Lady Isabelle's marriage must be known, to have the satisfaction of imparting the news herself – "as for marrying – you're hardly qualified to speak on that subject, if you will pardon my saying so, as you don't even know the name of your daughter's husband."
The Dowager gasped. She had no words to express her feelings.
"You needn't get so agitated, for I shall probably leave you Mr. Stanley to fall back upon, if this present marriage proves illegal. Lady Isabelle would be provided with some husband in any case."
The Dowager gripped the handle of her sunshade until it seemed as if it must snap, and turned purple in the face.
"Don't tell me I lie," pursued her tormentor, "it's not good form, and besides, if you want confirmation, look in Mr. Lambert's register at the chapel next door, where your daughter was married two days ago."
"Insolence!!!" gasped the Dowager.
"I ought to know," continued Miss Fitzgerald, calmly, "as I was one of the witnesses – you – " but she never finished her sentence, for the Dowager had hoisted her sunshade and got under way for the church door.
