A PERTINENT QUESTION
A letter, without date or signature, written in an upright, clerkly
hand, correctly spelt, sufficiently well-expressed, and stamped at the
General Post Office! St. Josephs had no clue to his correspondent,
and could but read the following production over and over again with
feelings of irritation and annoyance that increased at each perusal:--
"You have been grossly ill-treated and deceived. A sense of justice
compels the writer of these lines to warn you before it is too late.
You are the victim of a conspiracy to plunder and defraud. One cannot
bear to see a man of honour robbed by the grossest foul play. General
St. Josephs is not asked to believe a bare and unsupported statement.
Let him recapitulate certain facts, and judge for himself. He best
knows whether he did not lately borrow a large sum of money. He can
easily discover if that amount corresponds, to a fraction, with the
losses of a young officer celebrated for his horsemanship. Let him
ascertain why that person's debts have stood over till now; also, how
and when they have been settled. Will he have courage to ask himself,
or _somebody_ he trusts as himself, whence came these funds that have
placed his rival in a position to return to England? Will he weigh
the answer in the balance of common-sense; or is he so infatuated by
a certain dark lady that he can be fooled with his eyes open, in full
light of day? There is no time to lose, or this caution would never
have been given. If neglected, the General will regret his incredulity
as long as he lives. Most women would appreciate his admiration; many
would be more than proud of his regard. There is but one, perhaps, in
the world who could thus repay it by injury and deceit. He is entreated
to act at once on this communication, and to believe that of all his
well-wishers it comes from the sincerest and the most reliable."
Everybody affects to despise anonymous letters. No doubt it is a wise
maxim that such communications should be put in the fire at once,
and ignored as if they did not exist. Nevertheless, on the majority
of mankind they inflict unreasonable anxiety and distress. The sting
rankles, though the insect be infinitesimal and contemptible; the blow
falls none the less severely that it has been delivered in the dark.
On a nature like the General's such an epistle as the above was
calculated to produce the utmost amount of impatience and discomfort.
To use a familiar expression, it _worried_ him beyond measure.
Straightforward in all his dealings, he felt utterly at a loss when
he came in contact with mystery or deceit. Nothing could furnish
plainer proof of the General's sincere attachment to Miss Douglas than
the fortitude with which he confronted certain petty vexations and
annoyances inseparable from the love affairs of young and old.
"Ah me! what perils do environ,
The man who meddles with cold iron,"
quoth Hudibras, but surely his risk is yet greater, who elects to heat
the metal from hilt to point in the furnace of his own affections, and
burns his fingers every time he draws the sword, even in self-defence.
To St. Josephs who, after a manhood of hardship, excitement, and some
military renown, had arrived at a time of life when comfort and repose
are more appreciated, and more desirable every day, nothing could have
been so distasteful as the character he now chose to enact, but for
_her_ charms, who had cast the part for him, and with whom, by dint of
perseverance and fidelity, he hoped to play out the play.
Though he often sighed to remember how heavily he was weighted with his
extra burden of years, he never dreamed of retiring from the contest,
nor relaxed for one moment in his efforts to attain the goal.
Twenty times was he on the point of destroying a letter that so annoyed
him, and twenty times he checked himself, with the reflection, that
even the treacherous weapon might be wrested from the enemy, and turned
to his own advantage by sincerity and truth. After much cogitation,
he ordered his horse, dressed himself carefully, and rode to Miss
Douglas's door.
That lady was at home. Luncheon, coming out of the dining-room
untouched, met him as he crossed the hall, and the tones of her
pianoforte rang in his ears, while he went upstairs. When the door
opened she rose from the instrument and turned to greet him with a pale
face, showing traces of recent tears.
All his self-command vanished at these tokens of her distress.
"You've been crying, my darling," said he, and taking her hand in both
his own, he pressed it fondly to his lips.
It was not a bad beginning. Hitherto he had always been so formal, so
respectful, so unlike a lover; now, when he saw she was unhappy, the
man's real nature broke out, and she liked him none the worse.
Withdrawing her hand, but looking very kindly, and speaking in a softer
tone than usual, she bade him take no notice of her agitation.
"I'm nervous," said she. "I often am. You men can't understand these
things, but it's better than being cross at any rate."
"Cross!" he repeated. "Be as cross and as nervous as you like, only
make _me_ the prop when you require support, and the scapegoat when you
want to scold."
"You're too good," said she, her dark eyes filling again, whereat he
placed himself very close and took her hand once more. "Far too good
for _me_! I've told you so a hundred times. General, shall I confess
why I was--was making such a fool of myself, and what I was thinking of
when you came in?"
"If it's painful to _you_, I'd rather not hear it," was his answer. "I
want to be associated with the sunshine of your life, Blanche, not its
shade."
She shook her head.
"Whoever takes that part in _my_ life," she replied, "must remain a
good deal in the dark. That's what I was coming to. General, it is
time you and I should understand each other. I feel I could tell _you_
things I would not breathe to any other living being. You're so safe,
so honourable, so punctiliously, so _ridiculously_ honourable, and I
_like_ you for it."
He looked grateful.
"I want you to like me," said he. "Better and better every day. I'll
try to deserve it."
"They say time works wonders," she answered wistfully, "and I feel
I shall. I _know_ I shall. But there are some things I _must_ tell
you now, while I have the courage. Mind, I am prepared to take all
consequences. I have deceived you, General. Deceived you in a way you
could never imagine nor forgive."
"So people seem to think," he observed coolly, producing, at the
same time, the anonymous letter from his pocket. "I should not have
troubled you with such trash, but as you have chosen to make me your
father-confessor, perhaps I ought to say your _grand_-father confessor,
this morning, you may as well look through it, before we put that
precious production in the fire."
He walked to the window, so as not to see her face while she read it,
nor was this little act of delicacy and forbearance lost on such a
woman as Blanche Douglas.
Her temper, nevertheless, became thoroughly roused before she got to
the end of the letter, causing her to place herself once more in the
position of an adversary. Her eyes shone, her brows lowered, and her
words came in the tight concentrated accents of bitter anger while she
bade him turn round, and look her in the face.
"This has only anticipated me," said she, pale and quivering. "I stand
here, arraigned like any prisoner in the dock, but with no excuses to
offer, no defence to make. It is a fine position, truly; but having
been fool enough to accept it, I do not mean to shrink from its
disgrace. Ask me what questions you will, I am not afraid to answer
them."
"Honestly?" said he, "without quibbles or after-thought, and once for
all?"
She looked very stern and haughty.
"I am not in the habit of shuffling," she replied. "I never yet feared
results from word or action of mine. And what I say, you may depend
upon it, I mean."
On the General's face came an expression of confidence and resolution
she had never noticed before. Meeting his regard firmly, it occurred to
her that so he must have looked when he rode through that Sepoy column,
and charged those Russian guns. He was a gallant fellow, no doubt,
bold and kind-hearted too.
If he had only been twenty years younger, or even ten!
He spoke rather lower than usual; but every syllable rang clear and
true, while his eyes looked frankly and fearlessly into her own.
"Then answer my question once for all. Blanche, will you be my wife?
Without farther hesitation or delay?"
"Let me explain first."
"I ask for no explanation, and will listen to none. Suppose me to
repose implicit confidence in the vague accusations of an anonymous
slander. Suppose me to believe you false and fickle, a shameless
coquette, and myself an infatuated old fool. Suppose anything and
everything you please; but first answer the question I ask you from the
bottom of my heart, with this anonymous statement, false or true, I
care not a jot which, in my hand."
He held it as if about to tear it across and fling it in the grate. She
laid a gentle touch on his arm and whispered softly--
"Don't destroy it till I've answered your question. Yes. There is
nobody like you in the world!"
We need not stop to repeat a proverb touching the irreverent
persistency of Folly in travelling hand-in-hand with Age; and of what
extravagances the General might have been guilty, in his exceeding joy,
it is impossible to guess, had she not stopped him at the outset.
"Sit down there," she said, pointing to a corner of the sofa,
while establishing herself in an armchair on the other side of the
fire-place. "Now that you have had your say, perhaps you will let me
have _mine_! Hush! I know what you mean. I take all that for granted.
Stay where you are, hold your tongue, and listen to me."
"The first duty of a soldier is obedience," he answered in great glee.
"I'll be as steady as I can."
"It is my _right_ now to explain," she continued gravely. "Believe
me. I most fully appreciate; I never can forget. Whatever happened
I never _could_ forget the confidence you have shown in me to-day.
Depend upon it, when you trust people so unreservedly, you make it
_impossible_ for them to deceive. I have always honoured and admired
you. During the last hour I have learned to--to--well--to think you
deserve more than honour and esteem. Any woman might be proud and
happy--yes--happy to belong to you. But now, if I am to be your
wife--don't interrupt. Well, _as_ I am to be your wife, you must let me
tell you everything--everything--or I recall my promise."
"Don't do that," he answered playfully. "But mind, I'm quite satisfied
with you as you are, and ask to know _nothing_."
She hesitated, and the colour came to her brow while she completed
her confession. "You--you lent me some money, you know; _gave_ it me,
I ought to say, for I'm quite sure you never expected to see it back
again. It was a good deal. Don't contradict. It _was_ a good deal, and
I wonder how I could have the face to ask for it. But I didn't want it
for myself. It was to save from utter ruin a very old and dear friend."
"I know all about it," said he cheerfully. "At least, I can guess. Very
glad it should be so well employed. But all that was _your_ business,
not mine."
"And you never even asked who got it!" she continued, while again there
gathered a mist to veil her large dark eyes.
"My dear Blanche," he answered, "I was only too happy to be of service
to you. Surely it was your own, to employ as you liked. I don't want to
know any more about it, even now."
"But you _must_ know," she urged. "I've been going to tell you ever so
often, but something always interrupted us; and once, when I had almost
got it out, the words seemed to die away on my lips. Listen. You know
I'm not very young."
He bowed in silence. The reflection naturally presented itself that if
_she_ was not very young, _he_ must be very old.
Miss Douglas proceeded, with her eyes fixed on her listener, as if she
was looking at something a long way off.
"Of course I've seen and known lots of people in my life, and had
some great friends--I mean _real_ friends--that I would have made any
sacrifice to serve. Amongst these was Mr. Walters. I used to call him
Daisy. General, I--I liked him better than all the rest. Better than
anybody in the world--"
"And now?" asked the General anxiously, but carrying a bold front
notwithstanding.
"_Now_, I know I was mistaken," she replied. "Though that's not the
question. Well, after that horrid race--when my beautiful mare ought
to have won, and _didn't_--I knew Daisy--Mr. Walters, I mean--had lost
more than he could afford to pay--in plain English, he was ruined; and
worse, wouldn't be able to show, unless somebody came to the rescue.
I hadn't got the money myself. Not a hundredth part of it! So I asked
_you_, and--and--sent it all to _him_. Now you know the whole business."
"I knew it long ago," said he gently. "At least, I might have known it,
had I ever allowed the subject to enter my head. Does _he_ know it too,
do you think, Blanche?"
"Good heavens! No!" she exclaimed. "That _would_ be a complication.
You don't think there's a chance of it! I took every care--every
precaution. What _should_ I do? General, what would you advise?"
He smiled to mark how she was beginning to depend on him, drawing
a good augury from this alteration in her character, and would no
doubt have replied in exceedingly affectionate terms, but that he was
interrupted by the opening of the drawing-room door, and entrance of
a servant, who, in a matter-of-fact voice, announced a visitor--"Mr.
Walters!"
Blanche turned white to her lips, and muttered rapidly, "Won't you
stay, General? _Do!_"
But the General had already possessed himself of his hat, and, with
an air of good-humoured confidence, that she felt did honour both
to herself and him, took a courteous leave of his hostess, and gave
a hearty greeting to the newcomer as they passed each other on the
threshold.
"I think I've won the battle," muttered the old soldier, mounting his
horse briskly in the street; "though I've left the enemy in possession
of the ground!"