As the carriage rolled homewards on the Bath Road, Lady Standish, both
hands folded over the mysterious letter, sat staring out of the window
with unseeing eyes. The dawn had begun to break upon a cloudless sky;
the air was chill and brisk; mists wreathed white scarves over the
fields. She felt conscious in every fibre of her being that Sir Jasper
was eagerly contemplating her in the cold grey light. Heart and brain
were in a turmoil; the anguish, the violent emotions, the successive
scenes of the last forty-eight hours passed again before her mind like
a phantasmagoria. Partly because of Mistress Bellairs's advice and
partly because of a certain womanly resentment, which, gentle as she
was, still reared itself within her, she did not even cast a look upon
her husband, but sat mutely, gazing at the land. Presently she became
aware that he had slid an arm behind her waist. She trembled a little,
but did not turn to him.
"Julia," said he, in a muffled uncertain tone, "Julia, I--I have done
you injustice." Then, for jealousy is as ill to extinguish as a fire
that smoulders, a flame of the evil passion leaped up again with him.
"But you must admit," said he, "that I had cause. Your own words, I
may say your own confession----"
Lady Standish turned her head, lifted heavy lids and for a moment fixed
upon him the most beautiful eyes in the world.
"Nay," said she, "I made no confession." Her tongue trembled upon
other protestations, yet Kitty's warning carried the day.
"Tell me," said he, and bent to her, "tell me was it Lord Verney after
all?"
Lady Standish again raised her eyes to his face, and could such a thing
have been possible in a creature whose very being was all tenderness,
he would have sworn that in her gaze there was contempt.
"Sir Jasper," said she, "it never was Lord Verney!" And then she
added: "Has there not been enough of this?"
As she spoke she moved her hands and involuntarily looked down at the
letter she held. Then she sat as if turned to stone. The letter was
in Sir Jasper's writing and addressed to Mistress Bellairs!
"What have you there?" cried he.
"Nay," said she, "I know not, for 'tis not my letter. But you will
know." And she held it up to him, and her hand did not tremble, yet
was a cold fear upon her. "You wrote it," she said. He stared and his
countenance changed, utter discomposure fell upon him.
"Julia," cried he, "Julia, upon my honour! I swear 'twas nothing, less
than nothing, a mere idle bit of gallantry--a jest!" As he spoke he
fell upon one knee in the chaise, at her feet.
"Then I may read it?" said she.
"Ah, Julia!" cried he, and encircled her with his arms. She felt the
straining eagerness of his grasp, she felt his heart beat stormily.
With a sudden warmth she knew that after all his love was hers.
Then she had an inspiration, one worthy of a cleverer woman: but love
has his own geniuses. She disengaged herself from his embrace and put
the letter into his hand.
"Take it," said she.
"Julia," he cried, and shook from head to foot, and the tears sprang to
his eyes, "I never gave her a serious thought. I vow I hate the woman."
"Then tear it up," said Lady Standish, with a superhuman magnanimity
that almost turned her faint.
He rose and tore the letter in shreds (quickly, lest she should repent)
and flung them out of the window. She watched the floating pieces
flutter and vanish. In her secret soul she said to herself:
"Mistress Bellairs and I shall be very good friends at a distance!"
Her husband was kneeling at her feet again. "Angel," cried he
pleadingly, and once more she was in his arms; and yet his jealous
heart kept growling within him, like a surly dog that will not be
silenced. "Julia," said he in her ear, "but one word, one word, my
love! Julia, is there anyone, anything between us?"
"Oh, that," she said, and smiled archly, "that, sir, you must discover
for yourself." Her head sank on his shoulder as she spoke.
"You torture me!" he murmured. But she knew that he had never kissed
her with such passion in all his life before.
* * * * *
As her chaise followed on the road, some hundred yards or so behind Sir
Jasper's, Mistress Bellairs, sitting beside Lady Maria (who snored the
whole way with rhythmic steadiness) gazed across the livid fields
towards the low horizon where the slow fires of dawn were pulsing into
brightness. She was in deeply reflective mood.
In her excited, busy brain she revolved many important questions and
weighed the gains and losses in her game of "Love and Hazard" with all
the seriousness of the gambler homeward bound after a heavy night.
"At least," she thought, with a little sigh, but with some complacency,
"I did a vastly good turn to my Lady Standish. But the woman is a
fool, if a sweet one, and fools are past permanent mending. I did
well," thought she, "to condemn the Calf--there is no doubt of that."
She glanced at Lady Maria's withered countenance, unlovely and
undignified in her stupor---- "The menagerie would have been the death
of me, promptly.... But, my poor O'Hara! How could I ever have called
him a cucumber? _There_ was love for the taking, now--yet no!
Worshipper, vastly well; but husband? not for me, not for me! Bless
me," she cried to herself testily; "is a woman to have no choice
between mid-winter, green spring, or the dog days? If I ever allow
myself to be abducted again, 'twill be with your Man of the World--one
with palate enough to _relish me_ without wanting to swallow me at a
gulp."
She paused in her train of thought to laugh at the recollection of Mr.
Stafford's parting speech. "There is an easy heart for you!" she
murmured. "A gallant gentleman, with as pretty a wit as O'Hara
himself, and every whit as good a leg. Perhaps," thought Mistress
Kitty, yawned and grew sleepy; nodded her delicate head; dreamed then a
little dream and saw a silver Beau in the moonlight, and woke up with a
smile. The spires of Bath Cathedral pierced silver grey through a
golden mist; far beneath her gaze, as the chaise began to tip the crest
of the great hill, like a silver ribbon ran the river. "Perhaps....
We shall see," said the widow.
GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO
BY EGERTON CASTLE
Young April.
Consequences.
The Light of Scarthey.
La Bella and Others.
Marshfield the Observer.
The Pride of Jennico. [_With Agnes Castle._]
The Jerningham Letters. [_With portraits and illustrations._]
English Book-plates, ancient and modern. [_Illustrated._]
Schools and Masters of Fence, from the
Middle Ages to the XIXth Century. [_Illustrated._]
Le Roman du Prince Othon. [_A rendering in French of
R. L. Stevenson's Prince Otto._]
Etc.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Bath Comedy, by Agnes Castle and Egerton Castle