And now before I go,’ said Sutherland, changing his manner, ‘I have
something for you: I think it will be a surprise. Look there!’
So speaking, he took out a pocket-book and drew from it a cheque for
fifty pounds, payable to ‘bearer.’
‘I see,’ said Sister Ursula; ‘another contribution to Mount Eden. Ah!
you are indefatigable.’
‘I assure you this is quite a windfall; I did not even shake the tree.
Look at the signature. Do you know it? 5 ‘“Hubert Lagardère.” No!’
‘Lagardère, the editor of the “Plain Speaker.”’ Sister Ursula raised her
eyebrows and lifted her hands.
‘That man! Why, I thought----’
‘And so did I,’ cried Sutherland, laughing. ‘So thorough a worldling did
I think him, that I have been twice on the point of horsewhipping him.
Well, I was sitting yesterday morning in my rooms when he was shown in.
It turned out afterwards that he had seen my name connected in some way
with this institution. He entered mysteriously, carefully closed the
door, and before I could address him he handed me that cheque, with the
intimation that it was to be paid over to you. “It seems to me rather a
good sort of idea,” he said in his drawling way; “so I have brought you
a trifle I won from Banbri Pasha last night at nap.”
“Really, Mr. Lagardère,” I said, “I didn’t give you credit for so much
sympathy with misfortune.” I added: “I shall have much pleasure in
making public acknowledgment of your liberality.” As I spoke the words
he trembled violently and clutched me by the arm.’ ‘How singular!’ said
Sister Ursula.
‘“For God’s sake,” he cried, “do nothing of the kind.”
“Excuse me,” I said, “it is only just. To be frank, I, in common
with many others, have held your style of journalism in the utmost
detestation. In one case, at least, I know you have helped to wreck a
human life; it is only fair to proclaim that you are perhaps penitent,
and----”
He interrupted me with an expletive. “Nothing of the sort,” he
exclaimed; “I don’t profess to be a saint, and I won’t have my character
taken away. Damme, sir, what would the readers of the ‘Plain Speaker’
think, if they thought I had any commonplace compunctions? They’d all go
back to the ‘Whirligig,’ vote me a molly-coddle, and, as a journalist, I
should be ruined.” So I took the cheque, on the condition that I should
not disturb the public in its happy confidence in the moral perversity
of the donor.’
Sister Ursula joined heartily in Sutherland’s laughter.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘you have certainly discovered a phenomenon. Most men,
even some good men, like to have their charities written large for
the world to read; whereas Mr. Lagardère is actually ashamed of a good
action.’
‘After all,’ answered Sutherland, as they shook hands, ‘he is what the
world has made him. In a society which sets success above goodness, and
despises any kind of sentiment, he poses as a Cockney Mephistopheles.
For the future I shall never think of him without calling up the lines
of Burns:--
Then fare-thee-weel, auld Nickie-Ben,
Ah, wad you tak’ a thoucht, and men’!
You aiblins might--I dinna ken--
Still hae a stake!
I’m wae to think upon yon den,
E’en for _your_ sake!
For “den” substitute “journal,” and the allusion--though not the
rhyme--would be perfect. I, for one, am “wae to think” of the diabolic
journalism of the period, even for the sake of--Lagardère!’
*****
As Sutherland hurried away through the night, driving to catch a late
train at a lonely railway station seven miles from Mount Eden, his
thoughts were not of Lagardère and the newest thing in journalism,
but of her whom that man and that system had helped to destroy. A
wild suspicion, deepening almost to certainty, and based upon the
extraordinary resemblance between Madeline Forster and the woman calling
herself Jane Peartree, had complete possession of his mind. Strange and
impossible as it seemed, he could not shake away the belief that Jane
Peartree was, in flesh or spirit, the living image of the woman whose
death he had avenged on the body of Gavrolles.
It may be _a propos_, at this point, to allay the reader’s curiosity
as to what took place at Boulogne after Gavrolles fell by Sutherland’s
hand. Of course there was an inquiry and a great scandal--duels with
fatal terminations being very unusual in these days. Forster lay at the
hotel slowly recovering from his wound, under surveillance. Sutherland
was under arrest for some hours, and was only released on giving
substantial pledges to appear when called upon. For a time it seemed
likely that a prosecution of a serious nature would ensue; but money
and influence were brought to bear on the authorities, and the two
Englishmen were eventually suffered, whilst the police pretended to
‘look another way,’ to cross the Channel.
After the death of Gavrolles, Forster seemed to resign himself more and
more to melancholic prostration; and more than once when his wound was
slowly healing, he avowed his regret that it was not to have a fatal
termination. He would sit for days in a sort of mental stupor, scarcely
looking up when spoken to, seldom or never uttering a word. On his
return to England, instead of again occupying his house at Kensington,
he took chambers near Bond Street for himself and his little son, and
had the family mansion closed. His sister Margaret wished to remain with
him, but at his strong desire she went away to dwell with some relations
in the country. To tell the truth, he had not quite forgiven her the
want of sympathy she had shown for the lost idol of his life.
The morning after his return from Mount Eden, Sutherland found Forster,
sad, despairing, but convalescent, in his lonely chambers. The two had
by this time become great friends, or more than friends; and Sutherland
was welcomed with as bright a smile as the weary face could wear.
‘I have been looking over some old photographs,’ said Forster presently.
‘Strange! how they one and all fail to represent her I have lost. Here
is one of “Imogen.” The features are there, but the soul is altogether
wanting.’
Sutherland glanced over the pictures, which were lying on a small
writing-table at Forster’s side; then he said quietly--
‘Do you think it wise to open up old wounds in this way? Can you not try
to forget?’
‘Never, never!’ returned Forster, while his eyes filled with tears. ‘My
only comfort, _now_, is to think of my darling--to wait and pray until,
with God’s blessing, we meet again.’
‘Can you bear to speak of her, _now_?’
‘Yes.’
‘Could you bear to think it possible that, after all, you might yet
meet--not up yonder in the heaven of the preacher, but here, on solid
earth, in broad day?’
‘What do you mean!’ cried Forster, trembling violently. ‘Alas, she is
dead! dead!’
‘The dead have once risen. Might they not rise again?’