DIPLOMACY AT A DISCOUNT.
It would be rather difficult to define Wyverne's feelings after his
interview with Knowles. I fear that the utter humiliation of his enemy
failed entirely to satisfy him; but, on the whole, I think he scarcely
regretted not having pushed reprisals to extremities. At least there was
this advantage; he could sit with the Rector now, for hours, and strive
to cheer the poor invalid, with a quiet conscience; he could never have
borne to come to his presence with the deliberate purpose at his heart
of bringing public shame on Gilbert's son.
At the beginning of the following week, Alan heard that the Squire and
Lady Mildred were in town for a couple of days, on their way home from
Devonshire. He knew the hour at which he was certain to find "my lady"
alone, and timed his visit accordingly. Now, though the family breach
had been closed up long ago, and though Wyverne was with Lady Clydesdale
perpetually, apparently on the most cousinly terms of intimacy, it
somehow happened that he met his aunt very seldom. Still, it was the
most natural thing that he should call, under the circumstances, and "my
lady" was in no wise disconcerted when his name was announced. The
greeting, on both sides, was as affectionate as it had ever been in the
old times; it would have been impossible to say why, from the first,
Lady Mildred felt a nervous presentiment of impending danger, unless it
was--it might have been pure fancy--that Alan's manner did seem
unusually grave. So she was not surprised when he said,
"Would you mind putting off your drive for half an hour? I will not keep
you longer; but I have one or two things that I wish very much to say to
you."
"I'll give you the whole afternoon if you wish it, Alan," she said, in
the softest of her silky tones; "it is no great sacrifice; I shall be
glad of an excuse for escaping the cold wind. Will you ring, and tell
them I shall not want the carriage, and that I am not at home to
anybody?"
So once again--this time without a witness--the trial of fence between
those two began; it was strange, but all the prestige of previous
victories could not make "my lady" feel confident now.
Alan broke ground boldly, without wasting time in "parades."
"Aunt Mildred, if some things that I have to refer to should be painful
to you, try and realize what they must be to _me_; you will see then,
that only necessity could make me speak. Do you remember when those
wretched anonymous letters first came to Dene, I told you I would find
out their author and thank him? I did both last week. More than this, I
have seen and spoken with the man who wrote those letters which we all
supposed came from Mrs. Rawdon Lenox. You never had a doubt on the
subject, of course, Aunt Mildred? I thought you would be surprised; you
will be still more so when you hear the forger's name--Harding Knowles."
"My lady" really did suffer from headaches sometimes--with that busy,
restless brain it was no wonder--and she always had near her the
strongest smelling-salts that could be procured; but she did not know
what fainting meant, so she was absolutely terrified, when the room
seemed to go round, and Wyverne's voice sounded distant and strange, as
if it came through a long speaking-tube; the sensation passed off in a
few seconds, but while it lasted she could only feel, blindly and
helplessly, for the jewelled vinaigrette which lay within a few inches
of her elbow. Wyverne's eyes had never left her face for a moment; he
caught up the bottle quickly and put it, open, into her hand, without a
word.
"It--it is--nothing," Lady Mildred gasped (the salts must have been
_very_ pungent.) "I have not been well for days; the surprise quite
overcame me. But oh, Alan, are you quite--quite sure? I don't like
Harding Knowles much; but it would be too cruel to accuse him of such
horrors unless you have certain proofs."
"Make yourself easy on that score," Alan said, with his quiet smile; "no
injustice has been done. I will give you all the proofs you care to see,
directly. While you recover yourself, Aunt Mildred, let me tell you a
short story. Years ago, when we were cruising about the Orkneys, they
showed us a certain cliff that stood up a thousand feet clear out of the
North Sea, and told us what happened there. A father and his son,
sea-fowlers, were hanging on the same rope, the father undermost.
Suddenly they found that the strands were parting one by one, frayed on
a sharp edge of rock. The rope might possibly carry one to the top--not
two. Then quoth the sire, 'Your mother must not starve--cut away,
_below_.' As he said, so was it done, and the parricide got up safely.
Do you see my meaning? You say you don't like Harding Knowles? I can
well believe it; but if you cared for him next to your own children, I
should still quote the stout Orkneyman's words--'cut away, _below_.'
Now, if you will look at these papers, you will see how clear the
evidence is on which I rely."
There was silence for some minutes, while "my lady" pretended to read
attentively; in real truth, she could not fix her attention to a line.
All her thoughts were concentrated on the one doubt--"How much does he
know?" The suspense became unendurable; it was better to hear the worst
at once. Suddenly she looked up and spoke.
"Is it possible? Can you believe that Clydesdale was mixed up with such
a plot as this?"
"No," Wyverne answered, frankly. "I confess I did suspect him at first;
but I don't believe, now, that he was privy to any of the details. I
think, after securing his agent's services, he left him _carte blanche_
to act as he would. He is quite welcome to that shade of difference in
the dishonour. Well, are those proofs satisfactory? If not, I may tell
you that I saw Harding Knowles four days ago, and that he confesses
everything."
The peculiar intonation of the last two words made Lady Mildred, once
more, feel faint with fear. She had never encountered such a danger as
this. But her wonderfully trained organ did not fail her, even in her
extreme strait; though tiny drops of dew stood on her pale forehead,
though her heart throbbed suffocatingly, her accent was still measured
and full of subdued music.
"Did he implicate any one?"
It was the very desperation of the sword-player, who, finding his
science baffled, comes to close quarters, with shortened blade. Alan did
indulge vindictiveness so far as to pause for a full minute before
answering, regarding his companion all the while intently. But, though
he could be pitiless towards his own sex at times, he never could bear
to see a woman in pain, even if she had injured him mortally; that
minute--a fearfully long one to "my lady"--exhausted his revenge.
"He _would_ have done so," he replied, "but I stopped him before a name
could pass his lips. I am very glad I did. It don't follow that I should
have believed him. But it is better as it is. Don't you think so, Aunt
Mildred?"
The revulsion of feeling tried her almost more severely than the
previous apprehension had done. At that moment "my lady" was thoroughly
and naturally grateful. Wyverne saw that she was simply incapable of a
reply just then. He was considerate enough to give her breathing space,
while he went into several details with which you are already
acquainted, and mentioned the conditions he had imposed upon
Knowles--which the latter had subscribed to.
Lady Mildred listened and approved, mechanically. Her temperament had
been for years so well regulated that unwonted emotion really exhausted
her. Her bright dark eyes looked dull and heavy, and languor, for once,
was not feigned.
"There is another question," Alan went on; "it is rather an important
one to me, and, I think, my chief reason for coming here to-day was to
ask your opinion, and your help, if you choose to give it. What is to be
done about Helen? You know, when a man has been in Norfolk Island for
several years, and it comes out that some one else has committed the
forgery, they always grant him a free pardon. That is the government
plan; but it don't suit me. Besides, Helen has forgiven me long ago, I
believe, and we are perfectly good friends now. For that very reason I
cannot throw the chance away of clearing myself in her eyes. There are
limits to self-denial and self-sacrifice. Yet it is delicate ground to
approach, especially for me. As far as I am concerned--'let conjugal
love continue;' it would scarcely promote a mutual good understanding,
if Helen were told of the part her lord and master played in the drama,
and of the liberal odds that he laid so early in their acquaintance. Yet
it would be hard to keep his name out of the story altogether: mere
personal dislike would never account for Knowle's elaborate frauds. Aunt
Mildred, I tell you fairly, I am not equal to the diplomatic difficulty;
but I think _you_ are. Shall I leave it in your hands entirely? If you
will only satisfy Helen that I have satisfied _you_--if you will make
her believe implicitly that I have been blameless throughout in thought,
and word, and deed, and that black treachery has been used against us
both--on my honour and faith, I will never enter on the subject, even if
she wished to do so, unless Helen or I were dying. She shall send me one
line only to say--'I believe'--and then, we will bury the sorrow and the
shame as soon as you will. I think none of us will care to move the
gravestone."
For a moment or two "my lady" was hardly sure if she heard aright. She
knew that it was impossible to over-estimate the danger to which Wyverne
had alluded. Helen's temper had grown more and more wilful and
determined since her marriage; it was hard to say to what rash words or
deeds resentment and remorse might lead her. She knew Alan, too, well;
but she scarcely believed him capable of such a sacrifice as this. And
could he be serious in choosing _her_ as his delegate? She gazed up in
his face, half-expecting to find a covert mockery there; but its
expression was grave, almost to sternness.
"Do you really mean it?" she faltered. "It is so good, so generous of
you. And will you trust me thoroughly?"
"Yes, Aunt Mildred, I will trust you--_again_."
A thousand complaints and revilings would not have carried so keen a
reproach as that which was breathed in those few sad, quiet words. Lady
Mildred shrank as she felt them come home. Involuntarily she looked up
once more: it was a fatal error. She encountered the full light of the
clear, keen eyes--resistless in the power of their single-hearted
chivalrous truth. In another second her head had gone down on Wyverne's
shoulder, as he sat close to her couch, and she was sobbing out
something incoherent about "forgiveness."
Now, I do not suppose that the annals of intellectual duelling can
chronicle a more complete defeat than this. It is with the greatest pain
and reluctance that I record it. What avails it to be a model
_diplomate_, to sit for half a lifetime at the feet of Machiavel, to
attain impassibility and insensibility--equal to a Faquir's as a
rule--if womanhood, pure and simple, is to assert itself in such an
absurdly sudden and incongruous way? It is pleasant to reflect, that
this human nature of ours is hardly more consistent in evil than in
good. There are doubts if even the arch-cynicism of Talleyrand carried
him through to the very last. I once before ventured to draw a
comparison between him and "my lady"--that was when I _did_ believe in
her.
Wyverne was intensely surprised, rather puzzled what to do or say, and
decidedly gratified. Though he had suspected her from the first, he had
never nourished any bitter animosity against Lady Mildred. He had a sort
of idea that she was only acting up to her principles--such as they
were--which were very much what popular opinion assigns to the ideal
Jesuit. Quite naturally and easily, he began to soothe her now.
"Dear Aunt Mildred, I hardly know what I have to forgive" (this was
profoundly true); "but here, in my ignorance, I bestow plenary
absolution. I fear I have worried you, when you were really not well. I
won't tease you with a word more. Mind, I leave everything in your
hands, with perfect confidence."
Lady Mildred had fallen back on her sofa again, pressing her
handkerchief against her eyes, though no tears were flowing.
"If I had only known you better--and sooner," she murmured.
I dare say she meant every word sincerely when she said it;
nevertheless, as a historian, I incline to believe that no insight into
Alan's character would have altered "my lady's" line of policy at any
previous moment. Perhaps some such idea crossed Wyverne's mind, for
there certainly was a slight smile on his lip, as he rose to take an
affectionate farewell. The few parting words are not worth recording.
Alan was more than discontented, whenever he thought over these things,
calmly and dispassionately, in after days. Twice he had looked his
enemies in the face, and on both occasions had doubtless borne off the
honours of the day; but it was an unsubstantial victory at best, and a
triumph scarcely more profitable than that of the Imperial trifler, who
mustered his legions to battle, and brought back as trophies shells from
the sea-shore. The recollection was not poisonous enough to destroy the
good elements of his character, but it darkened and embittered his
nature, permanently.
The fact is, when a man has been thoroughly duped and deluded, and has
suffered irreparably from the fraud, it is not easily forgotten, unless
retaliation has been fully commensurate with the injury. I am not
advocating a principle, but simply stating a general fact. With a great
misfortune it is different. We say--"Let us fall into His hand, not into
the hand of man." So, at least, is consolation more easily sought for,
and found.
Remember Esau--as he was before he sold his birthright--as he is when,
in fear and trembling, Jacob looks upon his face again. That score of
years has changed the cheery, careless hunter of deer into the stern,
resolute leader of robber-tribes--ruling his wild vassals with an iron
sceptre--no longer "seeking for his meat from God," but grasping
plunder, where he may find it, with the strong hand, by dint of bow and
spear--truly, a fitting sire from whose loins twelve Dukes of Edom
should spring--not wholly exempt from kind, generous impulses, as that
meeting between Penuel and Succoth proves--but as little like his former
self, as a devil is like an angel. If the eyes of the blind old
patriarch, who loved his reckless first-born so well, had been opened as
he lay a-dying, he could scarcely have told if "this were his very son
Esau, or no."