Karine's Engagement Ring
In the first hour of my anguish after hearing that Karine was lost to
me, I had come very near to registering a vow that voluntarily I would
not see her again. Now, however, since our memorable chance meeting in
the hotel, my resolve was different. I determined, on the contrary, that
I would see her as often as possible.
Even if I had to follow the Tressidys into the country on a pretence of
hunting, or some other flimsy pretext of the sort, I would be near her.
I had luckily kept my head sufficiently to breathe no word of love to
Karine. I had even dwelt with some emphasis upon my "friendship," as
though to assure her that she need fear no more, need dread no
persecution at my hands. I believed that she did not suspect my real
feeling for her, and certainly Sir Walter and Lady Tressidy had no
reason to fancy anything of the kind.
Wildred had suspicions, I was sure, but they could only have been born
of quick and jealous intuitions. He could make no charge against me, and
it was not likely, I thought, that he would choose deliberately to put
such an idea into his _fiancee's_ head, unless I were far less
cautious in my behaviour than I meant to be.
I could not conceal from myself that the talk I had had with the fellow
at the Wayfarers' had somewhat discouraged me as to the ultimate success
of my efforts to expose him, and as days went on I found it impossible
entirely to shake off the impression made by his words.
His personality was disagreeably magnetic to me. I had to acknowledge
its power, and in spite of myself there were moments when I felt daunted
by his defiance.
Had he not been very sure of himself he would not have dared to say what
he had said. I believed, as firmly as ever, that there was a black spot
in his past, upon which I could put my finger if only I could place him
in my mental gallery of photographs, in which his portrait had been so
mysteriously blurred or changed. But he and Karine Cunningham would in
all probability be man and wife at the end of six weeks; and six weeks
was, after all, but a short space in which to tear the mask from so
preternaturally clever a scoundrel.
I thought then (and even yet, I trust) that my resolution to save Karine
from this man, if I were able to do so, was not all selfishness.
Knowing nothing, yet suspecting much with haunting vagueness, it seemed
a horrible desecration to me that the beautiful, gentle girl should be
given up to Wildred. I had little enough hope for myself with her,
whatever might betide, for even had it been possible, under happier
circumstances, that she could have learned to care for me, she and her
friends would be sure to misunderstand and condemn my motives in working
against the man she had promised to marry.
Should I have the good fortune to show him to her and those in authority
over her, as the villain I believed him to be, I could not imagine
myself ever attempting to take selfish advantage of his downfall.
What I might do, or try to do, I told myself, must be without any hope
of future reward.
I had persuaded myself that the oftener I could see Karine, and impress
upon her the strength and disinterestedness of my friendship, silently
assuring her of my unforgotten resolve to help, the better it would be
for her. She had said once that she had "many acquaintances but no
friends," and she had seemed glad to welcome my friendship; so that now
I wanted her to see I did not mean to fail her--that, after all, it
might not be as she had thought, _too late_. At least, I succeeded
in convincing myself that these were my only motives in calling again
within the week on Lady Tressidy.
It was Thursday, and the family was to flit away to the country on the
following afternoon. I was informed of this by the footman, whose duty
it was to tell me that his mistress was superintending her packing at
the moment, but would be down almost immediately. Meanwhile, Miss
Cunningham was in Lady Tressidy's boudoir, and would see me.
I could scarcely believe in my good luck, and in her courage--or good
nature.
She had been writing at a little davenport by the window, but rose to
receive me, and extended her hand. To the other--the left--she had
transferred the pen, with the ink still wet, and so it was that as she
greeted me my eyes fell upon a ring which had not before adorned her
finger.
It was the third of the left hand, and to my amazement I recognised the
magnificent diamond--still in the old setting--worn for so many years by
Harvey Farnham.