The malevolent glance with which D’Almayne favoured Kate passed away
in a moment, and was succeeded by his usual expression of quiet,
contemptuous sarcasm.
“If you choose thus to resent the warmth of expression into which my
sympathy for your trials has betrayed me,” he said, “at the same time
that you inform Mr. Crane of my delinquencies, pray tell him of the
attentions which you have accepted from me, as well as of the one you
reject. Tell him of the scroll wrapped round the rose-stalk, asking
a private interview, which you instantly granted; tell him of the
ostensible visits to the portrait-painter, undertaken to conceal the
secret expedition to Mrs. Leonard; tell him that this expedition was
made in a carriage hired by me to convey you to meet me by appointment
at a house in an obscure quarter of London; and ask him, as a man of
the world, whether he imagines you went there simply out of pure
benevolence, and whether that benevolence to the wife of a man whom he
supposes to have defrauded him, meets with his approval; or rather, I
will ask him all this when he applies to me for an explanation of my
conduct.” He paused, then perceiving from Kate’s look of embarrassment
and annoyance that she recognized and was disconcerted by the force of
his remarks, he continued: “You now see the absurdity, as well as the
danger, of threatening me. Were Mr. Crane to break with me to-morrow, it
would only be the loss of a dull acquaintance--”
“Indeed!” interrupted Kate, with quiet but cutting irony “I should
rather have compared it to the fact of your banker failing.”
D’Almayne’s cheeks grew pale, and his lips quivered with suppressed
anger, but he continued as if she had not spoken:--
“His vengeance does not greatly alarm me. A man who can snuff a candle
with a bullet at twelve paces need not fear an old _gentleman!_”--(he
sneered as he pronounced the word)--“who probably never saw a pistol
levelled in his life, and would not easily be brought to face one.”
Finding that Kate made no reply, he resumed in a more conciliatory tone:
“I think your quick intelligence has by this time shown you the folly
of quarrelling with me; let there be truce between us. I will own that
carried away by my feelings, I used language in which perhaps I was
scarcely warranted; but you must remember that the blood of sunny France
sparkles through my veins--that one of my parents sprang from a race,
who (unlike you cold and cautious islanders), when they feel strongly,
speak with warmth and ardour; and now say, is it to be peace or war
between us?”
“I perceive that by my own imprudence, springing not so much from a
misconception of your true character, as from a desire not to act
from the dictates of what I strove to convince myself was an unfounded
prejudice against you, I have so far placed myself in your power that
I cannot in a moment judge whether I shall be doing right or wrong by
informing my husband of your conduct towards me; but of two things be
sure, first, that whatever I decide to be right, I will do; secondly,
that neither your threats nor your sophistries will turn me from my
purpose; for the rest, after what has occurred to-day, there can be
no farther--friendship I will not call it, for it never was so--but
alliance between us. I now _know you, sir!_ and that is enough.”
Again the evil look flashed across D’Almayne’s handsome features, but so
transient was it that even Kate failed to perceive it. D’Almayne’s quick
wit showed him that he had already gained an advantage, which, if
he could follow it up, would go far to retrieve the false, or as he
considered it premature, step he had taken. If he could induce Kate to
conceal the declaration he had made her, the very fact of her having
done so would place her still more in his power, his schemes in regard
to Mr. Crane might yet be prosecuted; and so confident was he in his own
resources, that he even believed he might gain from Kate’s fears that
which he began to doubt whether he should obtain from her affection. So
assuming the manner of a good man suffering injustice meekly, he rose to
depart, saying--
“You are now angry, and unable to regard the matter in its true light.
You have confessed you are prejudiced against me, but I know you well
enough to feel sure of justice at your hands; nor shall I allow this
painful misunderstanding between us to cause any relaxation, on my part,
of such efforts as I may be able to make towards freeing your brother
from his embarrassments--do not interrupt me,” he continued, seeing
Kate was about indignantly to refuse his aid, “I know what you would
say--how, still mistrusting me and misinterpreting my motives, you would
reject my assistance--and I would gladly save myself the pain of hearing
from your lips bitter words, which at some future time you would repent
having uttered. I will now leave you, nor shall I again intrude upon you
until I have won, at least, your forgiveness.”
D’Almayne was an excellent actor, and as he pronounced the concluding
words of the last sentence, his voice trembled with so good an imitation
of the pathos of real emotion, that Kate actually glanced towards him
to ascertain whether the expression of his face confirmed the idea.
Unwilling, however, to weaken the effect he trusted his words had
produced, he turned and quitted the room, without having afforded her
the opportunity she sought for.
Mr. Crane did not return home that day, being summoned by telegraph
to Liverpool,--a merchant there, who was concerned with him in the
speculation for which they had chartered the _Bundelcundah_, East
Indiaman, having, on hearing of its loss, blown out his brains.
Thus Kate had no opportunity of revealing to her husband D’Almayne’s
misdeeds. As soon as she found Mr. Crane had left town, she sent to her
brother, intending to warn him against accepting D’Almayne’s offers
of assistance, but her messenger brought back her missive, with the
announcement that Mr. Marsden had quitted his lodgings. Early the next
morning she received the following note:--
“Dear Kate,--You need be under no farther uneasiness on my account. My
difficulties are at an end, and a career far better suited to me than
the drudgery of a counting-house is afforded me. I am not at liberty to
inform you to whom I am indebted for this unhoped-for assistance; but I
have indeed met with a true friend in my distress, towards whom I, and
all who care for my welfare, must ever feel the deepest gratitude. I am
bound by an express stipulation not to reveal the name of the benefactor
who has so generously come forward to assist me, even to you; but,
believe me, I am not deceived this time. I long to tell you all, but my
lips are sealed. I will write to my mother when I can explain more fully
my future prospects. Farewell, dear Kate, my faith in human nature
is restored; this is not one of the least obligations I owe to my
noble-hearted friend.
“Ever yours,
“Fred Marsden.”