A NOBLE SACRIFICE.
Through the lanes, swiftly, but ever so wearily, sped Lady Gwendolyn.
Her eyes were dim with unshed tears--she had no time for womanly
weakness--her lips were compressed, until they looked like a mere
thread; her head drooped on to her bosom. She had never known what
shame meant before, and she felt as if she should never be able to look
her fellow creatures in the face again.
It took her half an hour only to reach Bridgton Hall--this morning.
The stable clock was striking seven as she entered the grounds, and
made her way hurriedly to the front door. Everything was very quiet, or
seemed so to her, recalling the gay music and laughter that had filled
the house a few hours back.
The butler was yawning in the hall, but did not appear at all surprised
to see her. He was getting too much accustomed to the caprices and
vagaries of fine ladies to be surprised at anything now.
“Lady Lenox was at breakfast,” he said, “and Miss Wyndham and three
gentlemen were there; but he fancied Lady Teignmouth had gone to her
room. However, he would inquire directly, if Lady Gwendolyn would step
into the drawing-room for a moment.”
“Thank you, I need not trouble you,” her ladyship replied. “I know Lady
Teignmouth’s room, and will go and see for myself.”
“Shall I tell Lady Lenox you are here, my lady?”
“It is not worth while, as I shall only stay a few minutes.”
And, hearing the breakfast-room door open, Lady Gwendolyn fled
precipitately. The thing she could have least borne at this moment was
an encounter with Lady Lenox, or any of her fast friends.
Knocking at her sister-in-law’s door, she was told to enter. Lady
Teignmouth was reclining on a couch, her face as white as her
embroidered peignoir, and she looked startled and surprised at this
sudden apparition.
“Why, I thought you had gone back to the Grange!” she said.
“I did go back,” returned the other coldly; “but I simply changed my
dress, and returned on foot, as I wished to speak to you.”
Lady Teignmouth knitted her brows, and did not seem overpleased.
“I can’t imagine what you can have to say to me of so much consequence
as that, Gwen. But you do take very ridiculous notions into your
head at times. However, now you are here you may as well have a cup
of coffee. I sent Clémentine to get me something, and”--with evident
relief--“here she comes. Now make us comfortable, Clémentine; I am
dreadfully hungry. I hope you have brought enough for two.”
“There is half a chicken, and some ham, my lady.”
“And I shall take nothing but a cup of coffee,” put in Lady Gwendolyn.
“Nonsense, Gwen; it’s the greatest mistake in the world not to eat.
When people lose their appetites they invariably lose their looks.”
“I’ll take my chance of that,” replied Lady Gwendolyn coldly. “Do you
want Clémentine?” she added, in a lower voice. “It is really necessary
that I should speak to you at once.”
“What, have you got mysteries as well as Colonel Dacre?” she exclaimed,
with a levity that would have displeased Lady Gwendolyn at any time,
and absolutely disgusted her now. “I am very unfortunate in my friends.”
“I think you are,” replied Lady Gwendolyn, with involuntary sternness.
Lady Teignmouth looked straight at her sister-in-law, flushed slightly,
and then assumed a sulky air.
“At any rate, Reggie doesn’t complain,” she said at last. “And if he is
satisfied no one else has a right to interfere.”
Lady Gwendolyn sipped her coffee, and was silent, waiting for
Clémentine to go. But her sister-in-law evidently made work to detain
her; not, perhaps, relishing the prospect of a tête-à-tête.
However, at last she could not find any further excuse for her
presence, and dismissed her. Nothing loath, Lady Gwendolyn opened her
mouth to speak, then, but Pauline stopped her nervously.
“I know you are going to say something disagreeable, that will spoil
my appetite; and after being up all night, I really require support.
Please, therefore, let me finish my breakfast before you begin.”
“I am afraid I can’t; every moment is precious.”
“I warn you fairly, I don’t believe you. However, I suppose you must
have your own way,” returned Lady Teignmouth. And reaching out her hand
for a silver flask that lay on the dressing-table, she poured half its
contents into her coffee-cup, and drank it off like one well accustomed
to potent drafts.
Lady Gwendolyn watched her with rising horror and dismay. The other
laughed defiantly, pretending to be vastly amused at the effect she saw
she had created.
“I thought I should shock you,” she said; “but, really, I have such
miserable nerves, I could not get on without stimulants. Now, you may
talk as much as you like; only you will try and be a little more
interesting, won’t you? You have no idea how prosy you have grown of
late.”
“I am afraid you will think me worse than prosy before I have done,
Pauline; but I cannot compromise with my conscience. You must know the
exact truth----”
“I hate truths,” interrupted Lady Teignmouth petulantly.
“I dare say; nevertheless, you must listen to me. You are my brother’s
wife, and for his sake I will spare you if I can. But you must leave
Bridgton directly; do you hear?”
“Yes, I hear,” replied Pauline obstinately; “but I have no intention of
obeying.”
“Not if your safety depends upon it?”
“I don’t know what you mean. I am quite safe here.”
“Yon know better, Pauline.”
“Indeed I do not. I was never good at guessing riddles.”
“Listen to me! You must and shall go at once. I am no hypocrite,
and, therefore, I do not pretend to care much what becomes of you
personally; but I love my brother with all my heart, and would not have
a shadow of dishonor to fall on his name.”
“He knew perfectly well that I was coming to Bridgton,” answered Lady
Teignmouth, in a sulky, aggrieved tone.
“Possibly; but he did not know whom you had come to meet.”
“One can’t help people following. I don’t suppose you invited Colonel
Dacre to Turoy; but he is there.”
“That is quite a different thing. I am not a married woman, neither
have I given Colonel Dacre secret meetings in the wood. I did not
come here to accuse, but to warn you, Pauline. You must leave the
neighborhood at once, for Mr. Belmont is dead.”
Lady Teignmouth uttered a faint cry, and put out her hand for the
flask mechanically; but Lady Gwendolyn took possession of it, adding
resolutely:
“You shall not stupefy yourself, for you will want all your wits. An
inquest will be held on the body at about two o’clock, and you know
best what may come out. I shall be silent, for my poor brother’s
sake; but others who have not the same motive for shielding you
that I have, may have seen something, and be quite willing to give
all the information they can. You are safe, so far as Colonel Dacre
is concerned; for, though he knows all, you have managed things so
cleverly that he thinks I am the wrong-doer.”
Something very like a smile moved Lady Teignmouth’s pale lips. Even at
this supreme moment she could enjoy the triumph of having hoodwinked
and deceived a man of the world like Colonel Dacre.
If she had injured her sister-in-law at the same time, and destroyed
all her hopes in life, what did it matter so long as she herself
escaped? It was a principle with Pauline never to trouble herself
about other people’s affairs, and to shift her own burden off her own
shoulders to somebody else’s whenever she could.
“If that is the case, I see no reason why I should disturb myself in
any way. The affair is sure to blow over comfortably if we keep quiet;
and, of course, you won’t say anything, for Reggie’s sake.”
The tranquil egotism of this speech roused Lady Gwendolyn at last, and
she turned upon her angrily.
“You are right--it is Reggie, and Reggie only, I consider in this
matter. You have spoiled his life, poor fellow! but you shall not drag
his honor through the mire if I can help it.”
“You rave like a tragedy queen,” observed Lady Teignmouth insolently.
“Dragging your husband’s honor through the mire is only done now on the
stage.”
“I find, to my sorrow, that it is still possible in real life,” replied
Lady Gwendolyn, with a strong effort at self-control.
“Because you are romantic, my dear. When once you get married you will
look at things in a more matter-of-fact light. Reggie and I are tied
to each other, but neither of us has a mind to make our chains too
heavy. He goes his way, and I go mine. I do not call him to account
for anything he may have done during our separation, and claim a like
indulgence from him. I should not in the least object to his having a
little flirtation, if it amused him; and I don’t really believe that he
wishes to deprive me of a similar distraction.”
“And you call that a flirtation?” exclaimed Lady Gwendolyn indignantly.
“Certainly. The moment I found Mr. Belmont was taking me too much _au
sérieux_, I told him I would have nothing more to say to him. Even if
he had not died so suddenly, I should never have spoken to him again.”
“I see; he was becoming a nuisance, and you decided to get rid of him
by fair means or foul.”
“What on earth do you mean? Of course, if I declined his further
acquaintance, he had no alternative but to accept his dismissal.”
“It is no use talking to me in this way. I know all,” answered Lady
Gwendolyn gloomily. “Mr. Belmont confessed the truth with almost his
last breath.”
“What truth? I wish you would not be so enigmatical, Gwen. When I can’t
understand people directly they always bore me.”
“Very well, since you will have it, he said he had been poisoned.”
“Poisoned!” echoed Lady Teignmouth, in a tone of incredulity that was
unmistakably genuine. “I don’t believe it! He was with me for nearly an
hour, and though he threatened all sorts of foolish things--as men do
under those circumstances--I am sure he never dreamed of carrying them
out.”
“Pauline!” cried her sister-in-law, “will you swear that you had no
hand in Mr. Belmont’s death?”
“I? Why, really, Gwen, you must be mad!” And Lady Teignmouth looked at
her anxiously. “How could I possibly have had anything to do with it?”
“He was in your way,” said Lady Gwendolyn, so much impressed by the
other’s manner, that she actually began to believe in her innocence.
“Not at all. I never allow any one to be in my way. If he and I had
both lived to be a hundred years old, I should not have spoken to him
again.”
“But he might have spoken to you.”
“I don’t think he would, for, with all his faults, he was a gentleman.
You may depend upon it,” she added argumentatively, “that he died of
heart-disease. Those strong-looking men often have some secret malady
that carries them off suddenly.”
“But I told you that he said he had been poisoned--and a dying man does
not lie.”
“Really, I hardly know how to believe it.” And Lady Teignmouth looked
her companion steadily in the eyes.
There was a minute’s silence, and then she added quietly:
“Do you think that Colonel Dacre killed him?”
“What motive could he have for even wishing him dead?” inquired Lady
Gwendolyn, flushing.
“According to your own showing he took him for a rival.”
“I never said that.”
“Well, he fancied it was you who had met him in the wood; and that
would naturally anger him, since he loves you himself.”
“Has he told you so, pray?”
“Not in so many words; but I have been aware of the fact for over a
year now.”
“And, therefore, you gave him my address at Turoy?”
Lady Teignmouth colored.
“Why not?” she asked evasively. “Colonel Dacre would be an excellent
match. He is heir presumptive to a baronetcy; and has now a fine place
and ten thousand a year. You might go farther and fare worse.”
“Still, there might have been drawbacks of which you knew nothing. Even
if I had been engaged to Mr. Belmont, Colonel Dacre would have had no
right to resent it.”
“You had refused him, then?” inquired the other curiously.
“Certainly not; he had never asked me.”
“Then it was your own fault.”
Lady Gwendolyn was silent. Lady Teignmouth was the last person in the
world of whom she would have made a confidante.
Pauline peered into her face for a minute as if she would read her
thoughts. But finding no enlightenment in the impassible face before
her, she added:
“Anyhow, you will never persuade me that you might not have
married Colonel Dacre had you chosen. Upon one point I claim to be
infallible--I always know when a man is in love.”
“Do you, indeed? You must have studied the subject very carefully,”
replied her sister-in-law.
“I don’t see how one is to help it, if one is tolerably good-looking.
Men are so troublesome, you know.”
“Do you think so? I never knew one yet who would not take a ‘No.’”
“Really!” And the countess smiled deceitfully. “I suppose I wasn’t
sufficiently firm; for no man ever took my ‘No.’ I refused Reggie four
times.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Gwendolyn indignantly. “My brother was not the
kind of man to repeat an offer, if it had been once refused. However,”
she added, cooling down suddenly, “I did not come to discuss such
questions with you. Mr. Belmont has not died a natural death, I am
afraid; and at the inquest everything must come out. Forewarned is
forearmed, and you can do as you think proper now.”
“And I think proper to stay quietly where I am,” returned Pauline
coolly. “No one can do me any harm, excepting you; and though I am
quite aware that you would not spare me for my own sake, I hardly
think you will try to break your brother’s heart. With all my faults,
he is foolish enough to care for me a little still; but he cares for
his honor still more; and if the least shadow were cast upon that, the
consequences would be terrible.”
“And do you suppose nobody witnessed your meetings with Mr. Belmont?”
“I naturally took care about that.”
“In fact, you made use of the Grange, and of my servants, in order to
cover your faults, counting upon the very mistake that Colonel Dacre
made.”
“Exactly. Why not? Nothing of this sort could harm you, as you were not
a married woman; and, so far as your servants were concerned, I merely
told them that you would arrive home so tired you would not care to see
any one; and they immediately inferred from this that your visitor was
in some way objectionable. I told Hannah to say ‘Not at home,’ which
would have simplified the matter, and saved a good deal of breath; but
she assured me neither she nor her husband would tell a lie, and they
should know what to say quite well if I left them alone.”
“But I was not in the house, surely, when Colonel Dacre called?”
“The first time----”
“Then he came twice?” interrupted her sister-in-law.
“Or even three times; he was so very determined to see you, and so
fully persuaded that you were deceiving him.”
Lady Gwendolyn lowered her head thoughtfully. All these complications
harassed her. She began to wonder if Colonel Dacre had carried his
determined spirit so far as to rid himself of a supposed rival. And yet
his horror and indignation when he accused her had seemed so natural
she hardly knew how to distrust him. Anyhow, better it should be him
than Pauline--since Pauline’s destinies were bound up in those of her
brother--and she loved Reggie so dearly.
She looked up presently and said:
“I am sorry I did not see him, it might have been better for us all.
But it is no use talking of ‘might have beens!’--my chief concern
is the present. I wish you would leave Bridgton, Pauline. You know
perfectly well that if you are identified as the lady Mr. Belmont met
in the wood, Reggie will never forgive you.”
“I wish you would give me credit for a little common sense, Gwendolyn.
I don’t mean to be identified as any lady in particular. Not a soul
knew that I was at Turoy excepting Hannah and her husband, and I have
bought their silence. Moreover, they are fully convinced that I left
Turoy exactly two hours before I really did. You see, you may always
trust me to guard poor Teignmouth’s honor. I was obliged to see Mr.
Belmont; but I took care to manage the affair in a way that would
compromise me as little as possible.”
“I think you might have told me what use you were going to make of my
house, Pauline.”
“That would have been very wise, wouldn’t it? since you would have
taken good care that our meeting did not come off.”
“All the better.”
“Allow me to tell you, Gwen, that with all your cleverness, there are
some things you do not at all understand.”
“You are perfectly right, and I have reason to be thankful that it is
so,” retorted Lady Gwendolyn, as she finished her coffee and rose to
her feet. “Anyhow, you know the truth now, Pauline; and let me tell you
this much before I go: I will hide your faults and follies this once,
at any sacrifice, for my brother’s sake; but the next time such a thing
happens you must take your chance. It is enough that I have lost the
respect of a man whose good opinion is worth having, for you. I will
not aid you further. If you have not profited by the terrible lesson
you have received, the sooner you and Reggie separate the better for
him; and I shall do nothing to hinder it.”
“You cross, disagreeable child!” exclaimed her ladyship cheerfully.
“You don’t suppose I shall get into another scrape in a hurry, do you?”
“I don’t know. You have such terrible vanity, Pauline----”
“Did you ever know a woman yet who had not? I really like Reggie
immensely, but he has entirely got out of the way of paying
compliments, and making himself agreeable; and, really, it is quite
necessary to go into the world to hear that one is pretty. Before I
have been shut up three days with my husband at Teignmouth I feel like
an unmitigated fright.”
“Would you have him always flattering you?”
“Well, no, not exactly, because I should want a little sleep. Still, it
is the sort of thing one cannot easily have too much of.”
Lady Gwendolyn looked at her with ill-concealed contempt; and, feeling
that she might lose her temper and say more than she ought to say if
she remained any longer, she wished her a curt good morning, and left
the room.
She went down-stairs as softly as she could, being anxious, above all
things, to escape the attention of Lady Lenox and her guests; but, as
luck would have it, just as she reached the bottom of the stairs, the
door of the breakfast-room suddenly opened, and she found herself face
to face with the gay Irish widow, Mrs. O’Hara.