THE PRICE OF LOVE
"Have you come to insult me, Mr. Kent-Lauriston?"
Isabelle Fitzgerald stood in a wooded recess of the park, beside a young
sapling; the one no more fair and tall and glorious with the joy of
living than the other. Kent-Lauriston was beside her, hat in hand, with
just the trace of a cynical smile about his parted lips; but serious
enough with it all, well realising the gravity of the task he had
undertaken, and pitying from his heart the fair girl who stood white and
scornful before him, her garden hat hanging from its ribbon,
unconsciously held in her hand.
"Have you come to insult me, Mr. Kent-Lauriston?" She said it defiantly,
as if it were a gage of battle.
"I have come to apologise to you," he replied quietly.
"You tell me that _he_ has sent you to me. Well, I know what that means.
I _knew_ why you came to the Hall, I would have stopped you if I could.
You were my enemy, I felt it the moment I saw you. I _knew_ you would
have your way then. What chance had an unfortunate girl, whose only
hope rested in the love of the man she loved, as against one who has
made hundreds of matches, and broken hundreds of hearts? You owe me an
apology you think--it is very good of you, I appreciate it deeply," and
she made him an obeisance.
"I've not come to apologise to you for any point that I've gained, but
for the means I must employ to gain it."
"Really," she said, her eyes blazing. "This _is_ a condescension. Are
not any means good enough to cope with an adventuress like myself--a
young woman who is deterred by no conventions, and no maidenly reserve;
whose every art and wile is strained to lure on to their fate weak and
unsuspecting young men. Is it possible that such a person has any rights
that need be respected?"
"Really, Miss Fitzgerald," said Kent-Lauriston, placidly, "you surprise
me. In addition to the numerous virtues, which I'm confident you
possess, I'd added in my own mind that paramount one, of cool
clear-headedness. This lady, I had told myself, is at all events
perfectly free from hysteria or nervous affections; she can discuss an
unpleasant subject, if necessary, in its practical bearings, without
flying into a fit of rage, and wandering hopelessly from the point. It
appears that I was mistaken."
"No," she replied brusquely, "you are not; You've summed up my character
very well, but you must remember that you've nothing to gain or lose in
this matter. You're merely playing the game--directing the moves of the
pawns. The problem is interesting, amusing, if you like, but whether you
win or lose, you've nothing wagered on the result. But the pawn! Its
very existence is at stake--a false move is made, and it disappears from
the board."
"Quite true! But the pawn has a better chance of life, if the moves are
considered calmly, than if played at random; it is then inevitably
lost."
"You're right," she said, seating herself on a grassy bank near by:
"perfectly right. Let us talk this matter over calmly. I shan't forget
myself again."
He seated himself beside her.
"Now frankly," she continued, "before you saw me, or spoke to me, you'd
made up your mind to save your friend from my clutches, had you not? I
beg your pardon--doubtless, you'd disapprove of such an
expression--we'll say, you had determined to prevent him from marrying
me."
"Frankly speaking, yes, I had."
"But you knew nothing about me; you could know nothing about me, except
on hearsay."
"Pardon me--I knew your late father, and I was at Colonel Belleston's,
when you ran off with his heir-apparent, and were not found till half
the country-side had been searched, and the dinner quite spoiled."
"But Georgie Belleston was only eight, and I scarcely twelve. We had
determined, I remember, to join a circus--no, he wanted to fight
Indians; but it was childish nonsense."
"The spirit was there, nevertheless. But in the present case I was
considering Mr. Stanley, I must confess, rather than yourself. The
world, my dear young lady, is an open market, a prosaic, mercantile
world."
"Don't you suppose I know that?"
"I'm willing to believe it if you wish me to do so. It will help us to
understand the commonsense proposition that marriageable young men, like
cabbages, have a market value, and that a young man like our friend, who
has a great deal to offer, should--shall I be perfectly plain, and
say--should expect a pretty handsome return for himself."
"And you didn't think that I'd much to offer," she said, laughing. "In
other words, that you'd be selling your cabbages very cheap. Eh?"
Kent-Lauriston said nothing, but she saw the impression she had
produced, and bit her lips in mortified rage. She wished at least to win
this man's respect, and she was showing herself to him in her very worst
light.
"I had, as you say," she continued, "nothing to offer Mr. Stanley but my
love; but I dare say you don't believe in love, Mr. Kent-Lauriston."
"Not believe in love? My dear young lady, it forms the basis of every
possible marriage."
"Does it never form the _whole_ of such a union?"
"Only too often, but these are the impossible marriages, and ninety-nine
per cent. of them prove failures, or worse."
"I can't believe you--if one loves, nothing else counts."
"Quite true for the time being, but God help the man or woman who
mistakes the passion aroused by a pretty face or form for the real
lasting article, and wagers his life on it."
"You've never married; you can, therefore, talk as you please."
"My dear Miss Fitzgerald, if I'd ever married, I should probably not
talk at all."
"You don't regard our affair as serious?"
"Not on Mr. Stanley's side?"
"And on mine?"
"That we shall see later on; but my young friend is in his salad days,
and he's not responsible, but he is almost too honest."
"I suppose you'll say I tempted him."
"N-o--but you let him fall."
"However, you were at hand to rescue him. I wonder you should have
wasted your valuable time in going through the formality of consulting
me over so trivial an affair."
"But it's not trivial. I thought it was till this morning, now I've
changed my mind. It's very serious. I've a right to save my friend from
making a fool of himself, when he only is the real sufferer; but it's a
very different question when the rights of another person are involved,
especially when that person is a woman."
"So you've come to me?"
"To persuade you, if possible, to relinquish those rights."
"For his sake?"
"No, for your own."
"Really--that's a novel point of view to take of the matter."
"You think so. I only want you to see the affair in its true light, to
realise that the game isn't worth the candle."
"I think you'll find it difficult to prove that."
"We shall see. Suppose I state the case. Here are you, a charming young
lady of good family, but no means, thrown on your own resources; in a
word, with the opportunity of marrying a--shall we say, _pliable_--young
man, of good official standing, and an undoubtedly large income and
principal; who is infatuated--thinks he's fallen in love with you, and
whom you really love. There, have I stated the case fairly?"
"So fairly, that you'll find it difficult to prove your point."
"Let me continue. Suppose you're married; grand ceremonial, great
_eclat_, delighted friends and relatives, handsome presents, diamonds
and all--he'd do the thing well--honeymoon, say, the Riviera--limit,
three months--what next? Where are you going to live? London? It won't
do. Property--that property you're so interested in--can't take care of
itself; the young heir of those broad plantations must go home and learn
the business. Your practical mind shows you the necessity of that. Do
you know the life of his native country? No? Your nearest neighbours
thirty miles away, and deadly dull at that; your climate a damp, sultry
fog; your amusements, sleeping in a hammock two-thirds of the day, when
the mosquitoes will let you, and your husband's society, as sole
company, the rest of the time. After two or three years, or perhaps four
or five--long enough to ruin your matchless complexion, and cause you
both to be forgotten by all your friends, except those who can't afford
to do so--you come back to London for a nice long visit--say three
months. How you will enjoy it! Let me see, what do you most like?
Horses, riding, hunting? Ever heard the Secretary's ideas on hunting?"
She laughed nervously, and Kent-Lauriston pursued his subject.
"Then he's so indefatigable at balls and parties; I've known him to stay
half an hour, when he's been feeling fit! His friends, too, such dear
old fogies, like your esteemed aunt, not like _your_ friends--you know
how fond he is of them. The Kingslands and Darcys of your acquaintance
would simply revel in the house of a man who never plays cards for
money, and can't tell an eighty from a ninety-eight champagne--and he'd
be master in his own house, too--you received an ultimatum yesterday. A
man who will do that to a woman to whom he isn't even quite engaged will
command his wife and see that she obeys him. You would have before you
the choice of living in an atmosphere and associating with people
entirely uncongenial to you, or living wholly apart from your husband;
either would be intolerable. Have I proved my point?"
"You've forgotten to include in your charming sketch that I should still
have the comforts of life, and, what is more important, a house to cover
me, enough to eat and drink, and clothes to wear--things which I have
sometimes in the past found it pretty difficult to obtain."
"True, but you'd be paying too high a price for them, much too high.
Take my word for it, again and again you'd long to be back in your
present state; yes, and in harder straits than you are now."
"What you say to me could be equally well applied to Mr. Stanley, in
reverse."
"Quite so; it sums up in the mere fact, that you two have nothing in
common except passion and sentimentality, very frail corner stones on
which to build a life's happiness. You're not even companionable. What
are you going to talk about for the rest of your lives? It's an
appalling prospect. I want to save you both from making a very bad
bargain."
"I don't agree with you," she cried vehemently, springing to her feet,
"not at all; but what difference does it make? I know well enough I'm
not really to be consulted as to the issue; you'd never have had the
effrontery to speak to me as you have done, if you were not already sure
of the game. To use a commercial phrase, you've cornered the market, and
can make what terms you please. I must accede to them."
"You entirely mistake the situation, Miss Fitzgerald," he said, calmly
rising, and facing her. "It is you who have cornered the market, and it
is I who must buy at your price."
"Explain yourself! What do you mean?" she cried, a gleam of hope, almost
of triumph, lighting up her face.
Kent-Lauriston was now playing a bold game.
"I mean," he replied, "that circumstances have rendered me powerless to
prevent Mr. Stanley's marrying you, if you allow him to do so."
"Tell me!----" she exclaimed abruptly.
"It's for that purpose that I've sought you out."
She nodded. She was watching him guardedly.
"I've admitted that our young friend was in love with you. I don't say
you encouraged him, but you certainly excited his pity, a very dangerous
proceeding with a person of his nature."
"What's all this to do with my position?"
"A great deal," resumed Kent-Lauriston. "You see, I want you to
understand your hold over Mr. Stanley--it's really because he pities
you." The girl flushed painfully. "Excuse me if I speak things which are
unpleasant, but you most understand your weakness, and your strength.
You've nearly ruined yourself by being too clever, and now, by the
wildest stroke of luck, you're in a very strong position."
"Would you mind speaking plainly?"
"Certainly. In a word, the situation is just this. Within the last few
days, Mr. Stanley has made three discoveries about you, which have gone
far to destroy his sympathy for you, and make him believe that his pity
or his love, as he chooses to call it, has been misplaced. Two of these
discoveries I believe to be true; one--the worst--I know to be false. If
he discovers how shockingly you've been maligned, he'll probably forget
the past, and, in a burst of contrition at having so misjudged you, will
do what his common sense forbids--I mean, marry you."
"You're really becoming interesting. I had underrated your abilities.
Pray be more explicit," she said, quite at her ease at these reassuring
words, and putting Kent-Lauriston down, mentally, as a fool for giving
the game away, when he need only have kept silent to have had it all in
his own hands.
He read her thoughts and smiled quietly, for, by her expression, he
could gauge the depth of her subtlety. She was no match for him, if she
were innocent enough to believe him capable of such folly.
"You compliment me," he returned, "but to go on--in the first place, he
learned of your connection with Lady Isabelle's marriage. It opened his
eyes somewhat."
"She told him?"
"She did. You forced her to do so, by your threat against her husband."
Miss Fitzgerald bit her lip, and said nothing.
"Lady Isabelle," continued Kent-Lauriston, "in appealing to the
Secretary to save her husband, gave him the clue he was searching for;
which resulted in his discovery of the friendly turn you had done the
Lieutenant, in making him unconsciously, shall we say, _particeps
criminis_?"
"Ah!"
"Have you seen Colonel Darcy to-day?"
She paused for a moment, considering, and then decided it was better to
be straightforward, and replied:
"Not since yesterday morning. I went to see him last evening, but found
him out."
"I know you did."
Miss Fitzgerald breathed a sigh of relief. It was well she had decided
not to lie to this man.
"You're probably not aware, then," continued Kent-Lauriston, "that
Stanley succeeded in opening the secret door last night, and obtained
possession of Darcy's letter of instructions."
The Irish girl turned very white, looking as if she were going to faint.
"Then he knows everything," she whispered.
"Everything," replied her tormentor. "The details of the plot he has
known for some time, being stationed here by the Legation to watch the
Colonel--but it was not till Darcy was brought to book this morning, and
in order to save himself, signed a written confession, that he really
knew the extent to which _you_ were incriminated."
She burst into tears. Kent-Lauriston proceeded unconcernedly with his
story.
"The Colonel's chivalry is not of such a nature as would cause him to
hesitate in shifting all the responsibility he could, on the shoulders
of a woman."
She dried her tears at that, and her eyes fairly snapped.
"The fact," resumed Kent-Lauriston, "that Stanley had on several
occasions tried to help you to clear yourself, and the fact that you'd
persistently--well--not done so--made matters all the worse. In short,
on these two counts alone, you had given evidence of an amount of deceit
and cold-blooded calculation that completely upset even such an optimist
as he. Still, I think he would have overlooked it, if properly
managed--if that had been the worst."
"Can anything be worse?"
"Yes, for this last charge against you is not true."
"Go on."
"You placed yourself in Darcy's power. A clever woman, a really clever
woman, my dear Miss Fitzgerald, would not have done that. It would be
easy for him to manufacture circumstantial evidence, to back any lie he
might choose to exploit, to your discredit. Say, for instance, that you
were the prime mover in this plot, and that you went into it for a
financial consideration, for three thousand pounds."
"But Bob never would----"
"Wouldn't he, when he was thirsting for revenge, believing that your
careless threat against Lieutenant Kingsland had ruined his hopes."
"Did he do this?"
"He did, and that is why I'm here this morning in Mr. Stanley's
place--commissioned to return to you your letters," and he handed her
the packet.
"It's not true!" she cried. "Before Heaven, Mr. Kent-Lauriston, it is
not true!"
"I know it's not true, for Darcy's confessed to me."
"But Mr. Stanley does not know."
"No."
"Then he must be told."
"If you tell him he'll fling prudence to the winds in an agony of
remorse, and you'll have won the game."
"You mean he'll keep to his engagement?"
"I mean he'll marry you."
"And you dare to ask any woman to allow such a slander to live when she
can deny it?"
"I ask you, for your own sake, for the reasons I've stated, for your
future happiness, and as an escape from certain misery--to let him go."
"I tell you I love him."
"Then I ask you for _his_ sake. A brilliant diplomatic career is just
opening before him, as the result of the discovery of this plot. Is his
government likely to repose confidence in him in the future, with you as
his wife--a woman who has practised treason? His father would never
receive you, and might disinherit him. Do you love this man so little
that you wish to ruin him?"
"I tell you I love him--you do not understand."
"I understand that you love him in one of two ways. If it's a great love
it's capable of sacrifice to prove its greatness. Show that it is so by
giving him up. If it's any other sort of love it will not stand the
strain to which you propose to subject it, and within six months after
your marriage you'll realise that you've ruined two lives, and are
yourself the chief sufferer. Come, prove that what you say is true, and
save him from himself."
"But if I do, I do it at a fearful price. It means social ostracism."
"Not at all. Who will know of this charge against you? Four people at
the most, and not one of them will ever speak of it. Darcy, who
originated the lie, will, for obvious reasons, keep silent. Stanley's
the soul of honour; he'd rather tear his tongue out than speak a word of
it. I've proved my discretion through several generations, and Kingsland
must be held in check by you."
"Why do you include Lieutenant Kingsland?"
"Because, I believe, he holds the only piece of evidence which could
appear to substantiate Darcy's trumped-up lie."
"And that is?"
"The receipt for the forty thousand pounds _in your name_."
"And you wish me to ask Kingsland to proclaim my own shame!"
"I wish you to ask him to give that receipt to the Secretary."
"Now I see why you come to me, why you did not ruthlessly throw me
over; your little plot had a weak point, and you needed my co-operation
to complete my own degradation!"
"Miss Fitzgerald is fast becoming a diplomatist!"
"I'm a fool!"
"Pardon me, you are nearer wisdom than you've ever been in your life."
"If--I--do--this," she said very slowly, "you must help me to reinstate
myself in the eyes of the world."
"I've told you it'll not be necessary."
"Bah! I know the world better than you do, with all your cleverness.
Mine is a practical, not a theoretical, knowledge."
Kent-Lauriston bowed.
"They'll talk, no matter if it be truth or not. It will be believed. I
must have a few questions answered in any event."
"Ask them."
"Who is Mr. Stanley to marry?"
"Madame Darcy."
"But----"
"Her husband has consented to the divorce."
"On what grounds?"
"Incompatibility of temper, I believe."
"So you think the Secretary will marry her?"
"I'll take charge of that matter."
"I know they love each other!" she exclaimed, passionately. "It was love
at first sight. Then there was a misunderstanding. Now, one more
question. This sum of forty thousand pounds?"
"Yes, what of it?"
"Who's to have it?"
"Darcy."
"What!"
"The Secretary told him he might draw it from the bank to-morrow, as,
well--as compensation for turning State's evidence."
She laughed a harsh, unmusical laugh.
"You've won," she said. "I will do what you wish--for his sake."
"I believed that you would," he replied gravely, but one eyelid raised
just a trifle. She saw it, and turned on him like a flash.
"No!" she cried, "it isn't for that reason! I've some good in me yet,
some pride! I tell you, it's not your cleverness that has done this! I
wouldn't surrender my good name for the sake of any man in the world! I
wouldn't allow the breath of suspicion to linger in the minds of my
friends, for the love of your friend, or any other weak fool, whom I can
turn round my fingers! No! the reason I surrender is because your last
words have told me how I can right myself before all the world, save one
man; and I'll consent to sacrifice my reputation in his eyes, because I
love him. But for all that, Robert Darcy cannot divorce the woman who
bears his name."
"Why not?"
"Because she's not his wife."
"Not his wife! Who is his wife, then?"
"I am."