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.