The two men sat beside the fire almost in silence. Jack was trying to
get over his reluctance to go to the Hurst, and wondering what would
become of him if he did not, and Una left him all alone in town; and
Stephen was wondering whether it was time to strike the blow he
meditated.
Very soon Jack jumped up.
"If you've had enough wine, let us join the ladies," he said, and went
toward the door.
Stephen followed him, but turned back to fetch his pocket handkerchief.
Lying beside it, on the table, was a rose which had fallen from the
bosom of Una's dress. He took it up, and looked at it with that look
which a man bestows on some trifle which has been worn by the woman he
loves, and then, as if by an irresistible impulse, raised it to his
lips, kissing it passionately, and put it carefully in his bosom. As he
did so, he raised his eyes to the glass, which reflected one side of
the room, and saw the slight figure of a woman standing in the open door
and watching him.
The light from the carefully shaded lamp was too dim to allow him to see
the face distinctly, but something in the figure caused him to feel a
sudden chill.
He turned sharply and walked to the door; but the hall was empty and
there was no sound of retreating footsteps.
"Some servant maid waiting to come in to clear the table," he muttered.
But he returned to the dining-room, and drank off a glass of liquor
before going to the drawing-room, from which ripples of Jack's frank
laughter were floating in the hall.
Lady Bell was seated at the piano, playing and singing in her
light-hearted, careless fashion; Jack and Una were seated in a dimly-lit
corner, talking in an undertone.
Stephen went up to the piano and stood apparently listening intently,
but in reality watching the other two under his lowered lids.
The presence of the rose in his bosom seemed to heighten the passion
which burned in his heart; and the sight of Jack bending over Una, and
of her rapt, up-turned face as she looked up, drinking in his lightest
word as if it were gospel, maddened him.
It was with a start that he became conscious that Lady Bell had ceased
playing, and that she, like him, was watching the lovers.
"Miss Una and Mr. Newcombe seem very good friends," she said, with a
forced smile.
"Do they not?" said Stephen, in his softest voice. "Too good."
Lady Bell looked up at him quickly.
"What do you mean?"
Stephen looked down at her gravely.
"Can you keep a secret, Lady Bell?" he said, hesitatingly.
"Sometimes," she said. "What is it?"
Stephen glanced across at Jack and Una.
"I'm rather anxious about our young friends," he said, his voice dropped
still lower, his head bent forward with such an insidious smile that
Lady Bell could not, for the life of her, help thinking of a serpent.
"Anxious!" she echoed, her heart beating. "As how?"
"Can you not guess?" he said, raising his eyebrows.
"You--you mean that they may fall in love with each other. Well, they
are not badly matched," said Lady Bell, bravely, though her heart was
aching.
"Not badly, in one sense," said Stephen, after a pause; "but as badly as
two persons could be in all others. They are a match as regards their
means. They are both penniless."
Lady Bell looked up with a start.
"Is--is Mr. Newcombe so badly off? I thought--that is, I fancied he had
a wealthy uncle----" She paused.
"You mean Mr. Ralph Davenant," said Stephen, calmly, and with an air of
sadness. "I am sorry to say that he left everything which he possessed
to a less worthy person--to me."
Lady Bell looked at him inquiringly.
"To me," he repeated, "and poor Jack was--well, disinherited, and left
penniless. It is of him I think when I say that I am anxious about them;
naturally, I think of him. Miss Rolfe is a friend of my mother's, and
has been used to a straitened life; but poor Jack does not know what
poverty means, and in his ignorance may drift into an entanglement which
may embitter her life. No man in the world is less fitted for love in a
cottage, and nothing to pay the rent, than Jack Newcombe. You, who have
seen something of him, must have remarked his easy-going, careless
nature, his utter ignorance of the value of money, his unsuitableness
for a life of poverty and privation."
Lady Bell's heart beat fast.
"But--but--" she said, "you have plenty."
"Of which Jack will not take one penny. You see he is as proud as he is
poor."
"I like him for that," murmured Lady Bell.
"Yes, so do I; though it pains and grieves me. If Jack would permit me
to help him, Lady Bell, he might marry Una Rolfe tomorrow; but as it is,
I fear, I am anxious. Another man would be wiser, but Jack has no idea
of prudence, and would plunge head first into all the misery of such a
union without a thought of the morrow."
"And you--you think he loves her," murmured Lady Bell; and she waited
for an answer as a man on his trial might wait for the verdict of the
jury.
Stephen smiled. He could read Lady Bell's heart as if it were an open
book.
"Loves her! No, certainly not--not yet. He is amused and entertained,
but love has not come yet."
"And she?" asked Lady Bell, anxiously, her eyes fixed on Una's face.
Stephen smiled again.
"No, not yet. She is ignorant of the meaning of the word. I have taken
some trouble to arrive at the truth, and I am sure of what I say. It is
well for her that she is not, for anything like a serious engagement
would be simply madness. Poor Jack! His future lies so plainly before
him, and if he would follow it, the rest of his life might be happiness
itself."
"You mean that he should marry for money," said Lady Bell, coldly.
"No, not for money alone," murmured Stephen. "Jack is too high-minded to
be guilty of such meanness; but is it not possible to marry for love and
money, too, Lady Bell?"
Lady Bell turned her head aside; her heart beating fast. The voice of
the tempter sounded like music in her ear. Why should not he marry for
love as well as money? She had both. She loved him passionately, and she
would pour her money at his feet to do as he liked with; to squander and
make ducks and drakes of, if he would but give her a little love in
return.
As she looked across the room at him, that awful, wistful longing which
only a woman who loves with all her heart can feel, took possession of
her and mastered her.
"Why do you tell me this?" she asked, sharply turning her face, pale and
working.
"Because," murmured Stephen, "because I have Jack's interest so much at
heart that I am bold enough to ask for aid where I know it can be of
avail."
"Do you mean that you ask _me_?" she said, tremulously. "What can I do?"
"Much, everything," he whispered, his head bent low, almost to her ear.
"Ask yourself, dear Lady Bell, and you will understand me. Let me be
plain and straightforward, even at the risk of offending you. There was
a time, not many months ago, when I and his best friends thought Jack
had made a choice at once happy and wise."
Lady Bell rose and moved to and fro, and then sank down again trembling
with agitation.
"You mean that--that he was falling in love with me?"
Stephen inclined his head with lowered eyes.
"It is true," he said. "You cannot fail to have seen what all observed."
And he went on quickly--"And but for this fancy--this passing fancy--all
would have been well. Lady Bell, I am speaking more openly than I ever
have spoken to woman before. I am risking offending you, but I do so
from the affection which I bear my cousin. Lady Bell, I implore you to
help me in saving him from a step which will plunge him into life-long
misery. He is totally unfitted to battle with the world; married wisely
and well, he would be a happy and contented man; married unwisely and
badly, no one can picture the future."
Lady Bell rose, her face pale, her eyes gleaming under the strain which
she was enduring.
"Don't say any more," she said; "I--I cannot bear it. You have guessed
my secret; I can feel that. Yes, I would save him if I could, and if you
are sure that--that there is no engagement----"
"There is none," said Stephen, lying smoothly. "There can be none; the
idea is preposterous."
Lady Bell moved away as he spoke, and turned over some book on the table
to conceal her agitation, and Stephen, humming a popular hymn tune,
crossed the room and looked down at Jack and Una with a benedictory
smile, as if he was blessing them.
"Are you aware of the time, and that Lady Bell's hall porter is uttering
maledictions for our tardiness?" he said, playfully.
Jack looked at his watch.
"By Jove! No idea it was so late. Are you ready, Mrs. Davenant?"
Mrs. Davenant woke from a sleep, and she and Una went upstairs.
"I see you have a new maid," she said, when they came down again. "What
a superior-looking young girl."
"Is she not?" said Lady Bell, absently. "She is more than superior, she
is interesting. She has a history."
Stephen, standing by, folding and unfolding his opera hat, smiled.
"Very interesting; but take care, Lady Bell; I am always suspicious of
interesting people with a history."
As he spoke, a pale, dark face looked down upon him from the upper
landing for a moment, then disappeared.
"You will come with us, Stephen?" said Mrs. Davenant, nervously.
"No, thanks. I should like the walk. Good-night," and he kissed her
dutifully, and shook hands with Jack and Lady Bell.
"Going to walk?" cried Mrs. Davenant. "It is very chilly, and you've
only that thin overcoat."
"I've a scarf somewhere--where is it?" said Stephen.
Una stooped, and picked up a white scarf.
"Here it is," she said, laughing, and all innocently she threw it round
his neck.
"Will you tie it, please?" said Stephen, in an ordinary tone, and Una,
laughing still, tied it.
Stephen stood motionless, his eyes cast down; he was afraid to raise
them lest the passion blazing in them should be read by all there.
"Thanks. I cannot catch cold now," he said, as he took her hand and held
it for a moment.
He put them into the brougham, and under the pretext of arranging her
shawl, touched her hand once again; then he stood in the chilly street
and watched the brougham till it disappeared in the distance.
Then he turned and walked homeward.
"One step in the right direction," he muttered. "Take care, Master Jack;
I shall outwit you yet."
As he ascended the stairs of his chambers, Slummers came out to meet
him.
"There is a--person waiting for you, Mr. Stephen," he said.
Stephen stopped, and his hand closed on the balustrade; his thoughts
flew to Laura Treherne.
"A--woman, Slummers?"
"No, sir, a man," said Slummers.
"Very good," said Stephen, with a breath of relief. "Who is it--do you
know?"
Slummers shook his head.
"A rough sort of man, sir; says he has come on business. He has been
waiting for hours."
"I am very sorry," said Stephen, aloud and blandly, for the benefit of
the visitor. "I am sorry to have kept anyone waiting. But it is rather
late----"
He entered the room as he spoke, and started slightly, for standing in
the center of the apartment was Gideon Rolfe.
Notwithstanding the start Stephen came forward with outstretched hand
and a ready smile of welcome.
"My dear Mr. Rolfe, I am indeed sorry that you should have been kept so
long. If I had only known that you were coming----"
Gideon Rolfe waived all further compliment aside with a gesture of
impatience.
"I wished to see you," he said. "Time is no object to me."
Stephen shut the door carefully and stood in a listening attitude. He
knew it was of no use to ask his visitor to sit down.
"You have come to inquire about your daughter?"
"No, I have not," said Gideon Rolfe, calmly. "I know that she is well--I
see her daily. I came to remind you of our contract--I came to remind
you of your promise that no harm should come near her."
Stephen smiled and shook his head.
"And I trust no harm has come near her, my dear Mr. Rolfe."
"But I say that it has," said Gideon Rolfe, coldly. "I have watched her
daily and I know."
"To what harm do you allude?" asked Stephen, bravely.
"Do you deny that the young man Jack Newcombe is near her?"
"Oh," said Stephen, and he drew a long breath.
Then he commenced untying the scarf, his acute brain hard at work.
Here was an instrument ready to his hand, if he chose to use it
properly.
"Oh, I understand. No, I do not deny it; I wish that I could do so, for
your sake and for Una's," he said gravely.
"Speak plainly," said Gideon Rolfe, hoarsely.
"I will," said Stephen. "Plainly then, Mr. Newcombe has chosen to fall
in love with--your daughter! That accounts for his constant attendance
upon her."
Gideon Rolfe's face worked.
"I will take her back," he said, grimly.
Stephen smiled.
"Softly, softly. There are two to that bargain, my dear Mr. Rolfe. For
Miss Una to go back to a state of savagery in Warden Forest is
impossible. You, who have seen her in her new surroundings, and the
change they have wrought in her, must admit that."
Gideon Rolfe wiped the perspiration from his brow.
"I know that she is changed," he said. "She is like a great lady
now. I see her dressed in rich silks and satins, and coming and
going in carriages, with servants to wait upon her, and I know that
she is changed, and that she has forgotten the friends of her
childhood--forgotten those who were father and mother to her----"
"You wrong Miss Una," said Stephen, smoothly. "Not a day passes but she
inquires for you and deplores your absence----"
"But," went on Gideon, as if he had not been interrupted, "I have not
forgotten her, nor my promise to her mother. In a weak moment, moved by
your threats more than your persuasions, I consented to part with her,
but I would rather she were dead than that should happen--which you say
will happen."
"Pardon me," said Stephen, blandly, and with an evil smile. "I said that
Mr. Newcombe had fallen in love with her; I did not say that he would
marry her. _I_ would rather she were dead than that should happen," and
he turned his face for one moment to the light.
It was pale even to the lips, the eyes gleaming with resolute purpose.
Gideon Rolfe looked at him in silence for a moment.
"I do not understand," he said, in a troubled voice.
"Let me make it clear to you," said Stephen. "Against my will and wish
these two have met and become acquainted. Against my will and wish that
acquaintance has ripened into"--he drew a long breath as if the word
hurt him--"into love, or what they mistake for love. Thus far it has
gone, but it must go no further. I am at one with you there. You and I
must prevent it. You cannot do it alone, you know. You have no control
over Miss Una; you who are not her father and in no way related to her."
Gideon Rolfe set his teeth hard.
"You see," said Stephen, with a haggard smile, "alone you are helpless.
Be sure of that. If you move in the matter without me, I will declare
the secret of her birth. Stop! be calm! But you and I can put an end to
this engagement."
"They are engaged?" muttered Gideon Rolfe.
Stephen smiled contemptuously.
"My good friend, this matter has passed beyond your strength. Leave it
to me. Yes, they are engaged; the affair has gone so far, but it must go
no further. While you have been lurking outside area gates and behind
carriages I have been at work, and I will stop it. I am not too proud to
accept your aid, however. When the time comes I will ask your aid. Give
me an address to which to write to you."
Gideon Rolfe, with a suspicious air, drew a piece of paper from his
pocket and wrote an address.
"This will find you?" said Stephen. "Good. When the time comes I will
send for you; meanwhile"--and he smiled--"you can go on haunting area
gates and watching carriages, but be sure of one thing, that this
marriage shall never take place."
Gideon Rolfe watched the pale face grimly.
"I must know more," he said. "How will you put an end to this?"
Stephen smiled. It was not a pleasant smile.
"You want to see the _modus operandi_? How the conjurer is going to
perform the wonderful feat? Well, it is very simple. My friend and
somewhat cousin, for all his romance, will not care to marry a girl
whose name is stained with shame. If I know my dear Jack, he will not
care to make an illegitimate child of Gideon Rolfe, the woodman, Mrs.
Newcombe."
Gideon Rolfe started.
"You will tell him?" he said, hoarsely.
"Yes," said Stephen; "I shall tell him the truth, of course concealing
the proper names, and you must be here to confirm my statement. That is
all you have to do. Mind! not a word of my uncle's connection with the
matter, or all is lost. You understand?"
"Yes, I understand," said Gideon, hoarsely. "I care not by what means so
that the marriage is prevented."
"Nor I," said Stephen, coolly; "and now we are agreed on that point.
When I want you I will write to you. Until then--will you take any
refreshment?"
Gideon Rolfe waved his hand by way of negative, and Stephen rang the
bell. "Show this gentleman out, Slummers. Mind the lower stairs, the gas
has been put out. Good-night, good-night."