BY MRS. HUNGERFORD.
Fenella rose to her feet. There had been one terrible moment when all
things faded from her, but she overcame that. She _would_ not faint!
She turned to the doctor, who, watching her anxiously, now came a step
nearer to her. In truth, her face, always colorless, was now ghastly;
but there was a sudden strength in her eyes, her whole demeanor,
that betokened, as it were, a new life within her. Lately, so weak
she had been, she had fainted at any small thing that fell into her
path threatening to annoy her; but now, when she had reached the most
momentous point of her life, her hardihood returned to her, and the
old, sweet, girlish gayety, that might almost be termed audacity,
developed into a courage true and noble.
This was no time for weakness. Now was the hour to rise and assert
herself! If this devilish letter meant that evil machinations were at
work to deprive her of her husband and her child, now was the time to
fling aside all considerations and fight for her own.
Her own! _were_ they her own? A terrible remembrance of the past when
he, Frank, had been untrue to her, returned again. What if he should be
untrue _again_! And again with that woman! Her heart for a second died
within her, but another thought restored her to herself. Her child! Her
darling! Her Ronny! He, at least, was all her own. She need fear no
rival in his affections.
There was something so tragic in the expression of her young, beautiful
face that the old doctor went closer to her and touched her arm as
though to rouse her.
“What is it, my dear?” asked he nervously. He had grown very fond of
her during these past weeks, when she hovered between life and death.
“Read that!” said she, holding out to him the fatal letter. She let her
eyes rest full on his--the lovely eyes now so much too large for the
pale, small face. Her long white robe fell to her feet, showing but
too plainly the attenuation of her figure. She looked like some tall,
sad, mediæval saint, with her white clinging garments and her nimbus of
red-brown hair.
“Good Heavens!” said the kind little doctor, letting the letter flutter
to his feet. “But what can this mean? Your husband--so devoted as he
seemed--and---- Who is this woman, then? This Mme. de Vigny?”
“A fiend,” said Fenella softly, bitterly. “But I shall overcome her
yet. Give me a paper, a telegram form, ink--I”--excitedly--“I have a
friend who will help me. _One_ friend,” she turned and looked piteously
at the old man. “I have only one friend in all the world,” said she,
“and he--distrusts me.”
“You have another,” said the good old doctor stoutly, “in me. And I do
not distrust you. Come! come now, my dear. Take courage. Here are pens
and paper. Let us telegraph to this distrustful, if useful, friend of
yours.”
Fenella wrote rapidly, and handed the telegram to the doctor. He read
it aloud:
“Come to me at once. Great trouble! Make no delay, I implore you?”
Having read it, he went back to the address--“Clitheroe Jacynth!”
“Jacynth!--a distinguished man. One almost unconquerable, they say now.
I congratulate you if you have _him_ on your side.”
“Ah! but you forget!”
“Tut--when he comes I shall speak to him. I shall dissolve all doubts,”
said the little man kindly. “And now to dispatch this at once. I shall
take it myself, if you will promise to lie down and try to rest for
awhile.”
“I promise,” said she meekly, but it was a promise vain indeed. The
door once closed behind him, she began her dreadful walk up and down,
up and down the room. She felt half mad. Her child--her little one,
in that woman’s power. It was noticeable that in this hour all her
thoughts went to the child.
* * * * *
“Hullo, Jacynth! This you? By Jove! what mad haste. Not even a word for
an old friend?”
“Why, Castleton! What brings you here?”
“Folly! Folly only, if it must be told,” said Lord Castleton, dismally.
“Sentiment is folly; isn’t it, Jacynth? Yet a sentimental desire to
know how the Onslows are going on is driving me back to Guernsey--a
spot I quitted a week ago.”
“To Guernsey! Why, that is where I am going too. Have you heard
anything?” He looked eagerly at his companion. “Do you know anything? I
have had a telegram from--from her. Can _you_ explain it?”
“A telegram! When?”
“A few hours ago. Look here, Castleton. I honestly think you are a
friend of Lady Francis Onslow’s--read this.”
“I am a friend of both the Onslows,” said Castleton deliberately. He
meant what he said. He took the telegram and glanced at it.
“Same old game!” said he at last, lifting his brows. “Another quarrel,
I suppose. I thought when they came together this time that they meant
business, but it seems not. How few married people are suited to each
other!”
“I never thought much of Onslow,” said Jacynth slowly. “A weak
character at all times, I suppose nobody would dispute the fact of his
having been unfaithful to his wife?”
“With Mme. de Vigny? Pouf! There were faults on both sides.”
“On Mme. de Vigny’s and his? Certainly.”
“Not at all. On his and Lady Francis’. She certainly led him a life.”
“A life he deserved! _He_--married to _her_.” He looked suddenly at his
companion, and the touch of passion in his eyes revealed _all_ things.
“To that poor, sweet, pretty girl. _He_ to play fast and loose with
her, a child just out of her schoolroom. It”--he paused and commanded
himself--“In my opinion it was contemptible.”
“You give yourself away a good deal,” said Castleton, who looked
amused--who looked, indeed, as if he would like to laugh. He had a
great affection for Jacynth, who was rather a special sort of man, and
in spite of his mirth felt sorry for him. “You are, I presume, on the
side of Lady Francis.”
“That would be an impertinence from any man but you,” said Jacynth
moodily. “There is no need to go into it, however. Whether I love her
or not is no matter. It”--miserably--“can _never_ matter now. What I
_do_ is--to pity her with all my soul.”
“Because of her marriage?”
Jacynth looked at him as if hesitating.
“For that too,” said he deliberately. “She married, in my opinion, the
last man in the world who would have made her really happy. But my pity
did not run that way. I was thinking of that miserable trial and its
consequences.”
“Yes, she was a trifle too magnanimous there,” said Castleton,
believing the other knew all about it. “It would have been better, to
my way of thinking, if she had told the broad truth, and let Onslow
take his chance.”
“His chance!” said Jacynth, staring at him.
“Certainly; it wasn’t so bad a chance. He might, he positively _would_
have got off all right. But she chose to take the guilt on her own
shoulders, and now she has created an enigma very difficult of
solution.”
“You mean----” Jacynth paused; he seemed gasping for breath.
“I mean----” suddenly Lord Castleton grew silent, and gazed at his
companion with a troubled countenance. “Do _you_ mean,” said he, “that
you didn’t know? Why, you conducted the case for _her_.”
“I know nothing,” said Jacynth, with great agitation. “If you can throw
any honest light on the matter, do it, I entreat you.”
“I hardly know whether I should. I”--Castleton drew back from him--“I
was so sure you knew that----my dear fellow, _pray_ forget what I have
said.”
“I shall forget nothing,” said Jacynth sturdily. “I should advise you
not to forget either. Look here, Castleton,” catching his arm, “is it
advisable to forget? Who knows what this telegram may mean? We are both
friends of hers.”
“Are you a friend of _his_?”
“No! Why should I disguise the truth? I have told you before how I
regard him. But what has that got to do with it?”
“You are prejudiced.”
“I am not. If you _have_ anything to disclose, Castleton, disclose it!
I may be of use to you----” He hesitated.
“Well, considering she has sent for you, I suppose she means to tell
you herself,” said Castleton. “And,” reluctantly, “it is well you
should know beforehand what there is to know, though I am surprised
that she has not already told you.” To him there was but one certainty,
and that was that Fenella had betrayed to Onslow the part he took in
the fatal night’s work that murdered De Mürger. Probably Onslow had
resented what she told him, and disbelieved it, and she had then sent
for her lawyer. What else could demand so imperative a telegram? On the
instant he opened his heart to Jacynth, and told him all his belief,
all his doubts.
“I could never forget,” said he, “how he looked in the last hypnotic
fit, and hypnotic is the fashionable word for it, I know, but I call it
madness. And his heart isn’t sound, you know. He inherits disease in
that direction. His father died of aneurism of the heart. Some day he
will have a fashionable fit too strong for him, and there will be an
end.”
“The best thing that could happen for both of them,” said Jacynth
deliberately. He had been terribly upset by Castleton’s revelation, and
though hardly permitting himself to believe in it, still felt a wild,
mad joy in the thought that she--_she_, the only woman the whole wide
world contained for him--might be innocent of bloodshed after all.
“See here,” said he vehemently, “if this thing be true, if she saw him
commit that crime--for crime it was--do you think they could ever live
happily together in the future? Why, think, man, would she not see
the color of blood upon his hands, would she fail to rank him among
murderers? And he----”
“Why, he knows nothing.”
“True; and therein lies the real tragedy. Knowing nothing, he thinks
of _her_ as a murderess. There it lies, you see, in a nutshell. _He_
thinks _her_, _she_ thinks _him_ guilty of a ghastly crime, and you
madly believe they could live together happily.”
“It need not go on like that; she might tell him the truth.”
“She? Never!”
“At all events, he might learn it.”
“And if so, what would be gained? The world would shun them both; and
they were made for the world. We are all made for the world.”
“True.” A shrill whistle aroused them both. “Come on, the train is
about to start,” said Castleton.
* * * * *
As Jacynth entered her sitting room, Fenella rose and ran toward him.
“At last, at last!” she said. The words came in a sort of gasp.
Jacynth, holding her hands, stared at her, shocked at the change in her
appearance. Every vestige of color was gone from her face, her eyes
looked wild, and her parted lips were very pale. She had pushed back
her hair from her forehead with a quick gesture, just as he entered
the room. She was at her worst this moment, but the man’s love was
so strong that he failed to see that. He thought her lovely--lovely
always, and what was strange, even younger than she used to be.
“You know, you have heard,” she went on, her tone feverish.
“You forget!” said he gently, with a view to calming her agitation. “I
know nothing. I have had only your telegram, and that was so vague.”
“Ah! You shall see another telegram then. That,” thrusting Mme. de
Vigny’s into his hand, “_that_ is not vague at all events.”
Jacynth read it carefully. He frowned. “That woman again!” he said.
“Yes. Again.” She stood back from him. “Do you believe he has gone back
to her? _Do_ you? Do you?” The very vehemence of her question conveyed
to him the knowledge that she thought he had gone back.
“There is only this,” said he, striking the paper. “And it is from
_her_. She is not the woman to believe in.”
“No! But I have thought it out for all that, and----” She paused and
pressed her hands to her head. Jacynth gently led her to a seat. She
looked exhausted. “He left me,” said she presently--“to find my child
and bring him to me. He came back, and there was no child with him. I
was ill then--very ill. I could not think, but for all that, I _knew_.
Then he went away again, and I waited--waited. Great Heaven!” said she,
clasping her hands, “if you only knew what it was to wait like that for
a sight of your child! and then there came--_that_!” She pointed to the
telegram that he still held. “Well, what do you think?” asked she in a
low voice, bending forward.
“It is hard to think----”
“No, it is not!” He was horrified by the change in her tone, and looked
at her. She was still bending forward, her hands clasped, her young,
sweet face as hard as misery could make it. “It is the easiest thing,”
she said. “He met her again, I suppose--I think, and together they have
gone away, taking my child with them. Oh!” She sprang to her feet, and
flung out her arms. “Oh! the child! He might have gone--gone forever.
It would be hard, for I loved him; but to take the child from me! The
child! My darling! My baby! Do you know how many months I have lived
without my little sweetheart? You, you of all men know!” She turned to
him, and caught him by the arm. “Ever since that awful trial! I gave
him up then, my little one; and for what?” she almost hissed out the
words--“_to shield his father!_”
“You mean----” said Jacynth, his heart beating; was he now to hear the
truth from her own lips? But the sound of his voice broke in upon her
passion, and checked her.
“Nothing,” said she quickly, “except that--that he is false to me.”
“I tell you again not to dwell too much on that,” said Jacynth slowly.
Although his whole life seemed to depend upon it, he could not refrain
from pleading his rival’s cause. “You have only that woman’s word for
it. This telegram may be a fabrication from beginning to end.”
“A curiously well-timed one,” she laughed, in a cruelly miserable way.
“If she knew nothing of him, how did she learn that my child and my
husband were now away from me?”
“More curious things have been explained,” said he.
“You! _you_ talk to me like this?” cried she passionately. “_You_ would
defend him! _You!_ who knew he was once untrue? You”--faintly--“who
once loved me?”
“I shall be your friend always,” said he, putting a great constraint
upon himself. “It is because I _am_ your friend that I speak thus;
why not look at it in another light? You say your husband left you
hurriedly; you say that Mme. de Vigny must have known of his absence
from you, and also of your boy’s. It might be that she, out of revenge,
stole the boy, and that your husband is now pursuing her with a view of
restoring him to you.”
He said this more to gain time than anything else, little thinking that
he had guessed the truth, and had laid before her the exact facts of
the case.
“A fairy tale,” said she mournfully. “No! He lied to me the last time
I saw him. When I asked him to bring me my child, he said he was
tired--asleep. I, too, was tired, worn-out from sickness and a broken
heart, and too weak to do aught but believe him. The child was not here
at all!” She stepped back from Jacynth, and covered her face with her
hands. “Oh, my Ronny! My beloved! Oh, my little child!” She took down
her hands. Her lips were trembling. “Mr. Jacynth, what shall I do?”
said she.
“The first thing to do,” said he harshly, “is to keep up your courage.”
He spoke in a queer, grating tone. He knew if he once gave way, he
should betray himself. Betray the wild, mad longing he felt to take
her in his arms, and press her poor, sweet, pretty head down upon his
breast, and try with all his soul to comfort her. “You are condemning
your husband unheard. Is that fair? Is it just?”
“He has not been just to me!”
“True! And, therefore, you find it difficult in such a crisis as this
to believe in him.” He looked at her suddenly. “Still you love him?”
said he. The words were a question.
“Do I?” said she. _Her_ words were also a question addressed to her own
heart. “I feel so tired, so tired,” she said. “It has been a struggle
always, and through many things I loved him, I----” She hesitated. “I
despise myself,” she said, “but I think I love him still!” A pang shot
through Jacynth’s heart. He did not note the suggestion of doubt in her
voice. “I love him, I think,” she went on slowly, “_I think_, but this
I _know_, I distrust him.”
“Distrust means ruin,” said Jacynth.
“To what? To love?”
“To all things.”
“To friendship?”
“Yes. To all things.”
She went close to him.
“That is not true,” she said. “You are befriending me now, yet you
distrust me.”
“I? No! You are thinking of that wretched trial!” He spoke with extreme
agitation. “But I have heard all.”
“_All?_”
“Yes! _All._ And if ever a man craved another’s pardon upon his knees,
I crave yours.”
“All?” repeated she faintly. She seemed to have heard that one word
only.
“Yes,” said he. He let his voice sink to a whisper, he leaned toward
her. “Who killed De Mürger?” asked he.
* * * * *
“It is true!” said he presently, when she had told him all. “It is true
that the world still produces heroines. It is now more imperative than
ever that Lord Francis should be found.”
“For what?” said she. “Do you think I should betray him now--even now?
Ah! Mr. Jacynth, you do not know me. No! I shall go to my grave bearing
this burthen. After all”--sadly--“he once _did_ love me!”
“If he has gone off with that woman again I don’t see why you should
spare him,” said Jacynth. “But, as I have said, I hope for the best
about that. In the meantime----”
She interrupted him.
“In the meantime, find my child!” said she. She was still ghastly pale,
but a little fire had come into her eyes. “Bring _him_ back to me, get
him back from that woman. Oh!” a little nervously, “I have no right to
speak to you like this. Why should I order you about? Only--only--you
are kind--kind always, and--I have now no friends! And Ronny--Ronny
always hated strangers! Oh! my child, my little heart!” She broke down
suddenly, and burst into violent weeping. “O God!” cried she, “what
shall I do? That woman! That woman, if she has him, she will kill
him! He, who never knew anything but love? My little lamb! Oh! his
eyes, his laugh! _You_ saw him! Was there _ever_ so pretty a boy? Oh!
once--once”--passionately--“you said you loved me! _Help_ me now! Tell
me how I shall _begin_ to search for Ronny.”
“You would go yourself?”
“Oh, yes, yes! Oh, if you only _knew_ what this last day and night have
been!” She was sobbing violently, but now, by a supreme effort, she
controlled herself; she took down her hands from her face, and pressed
them against her throbbing bosom. “I will be calm,” she said, “this is
no time for tears, and you must not think me weak. I am strong--very
strong. Tell me now how I shall begin.”
“I will tell you,” said he, “but you must try and see my plan as I see
it. Now, it seems to me impossible that you, in your weak health, just
recovered from a dangerous illness, could possibly institute such a
troublesome search as this is likely to prove.”
“And if not?” began she despairingly.
“There is a substitute,” said he. “_I_ shall undertake this matter.”
“You?”
“Yes. If you will intrust this affair to me, I will promise to bring
you back your--husband.”
“Bring me back my child,” said she.
“Fenella! your husband! you will want to have _him_ back!”
“I have told you I am tired,” said she coldly. “I have borne a great
deal, and----” she paused.
“There is something on your mind,” said he.
“His hands!” she said. She seemed to shrink visibly. She shuddered.
“_The blood!_ I was unconscious then, I think--and it is only
now--now---- But his hands! and his face! Great Heavens, how he _held_
him. He choked him! It was as if he was over there now,” staring wildly
at the far part of the room. “His fingers closed round his throat,
and there was such a sound--_a gurgle_--Heaven, what a sound! and
then he stabbed, and stabbed, and _stabbed_--he was mad. Oh!” with a
long-drawn, piercing sigh, “_I_ shall go mad if I think of it!”
“Then don’t think,” said Jacynth. He caught hold of her arm and shook
her sharply.
“Whenever I see him I see blood,” said she, still trembling.
“Never mind him, think of your child,” said he, with a desire to rouse
her. “Am I to start now? and when I find him, what message am I to give
him from his mother?”
He had roused her indeed. “A message!” she said. The old, sad, dreadful
fear in her face died away. Hope lit it into a lovely life. “A message
to Ronny!” she cried.
She fell on her knees before Jacynth and took his hand and laid her
cold cheek upon it, a cheek wet with tears. “Tell him his mother loves
him,” said she. “Tell him, too, that his mother will forever love the
one who will restore him to her.”