Parlous Times: A Novel of Modern Diplomacy

"I imagine you would not find it difficult to prove that, Mr. Lambert; but before we discuss the matter farther, I want first to right myself in your eyes, to assure you earnestly and honestly that I was no party to this deception, that I did not know till this evening, till just now indeed, that you were not perfectly cognisant of all the facts. I was informed at the time that all arrangements had been made with you, and I believed of course that you knew everything. I was also told that I must be heavily veiled as, owing to the proximity of the early service, I might otherwise be seen; the signing in the vestry was hurried over as you know, and it was only when, in response to a statement of Mr. Stanley's, I made inquiries, that I discovered the truth. You believe me, do you not, Mr. Lambert?"

"Of course, my dear. I must believe you since you give me your word for it."

"Then set my mind at rest. Tell me this marriage was not illegal."

"I think you may be easy on that score. The licence and the signatures were regular; all the requirements were complied with; and the principals, or you at least, acted in good faith; but the affair is most unfortunate."

"You will be glad to learn that any objection which my mother might have had to my husband has now been removed."

"I do not know what Lady Port Arthur will think of my part in this deplorable matter, certainly very little consideration or courtesy has been shown me," said the poor old man, to whom the Dowager's wrath was a very terrible thing.

"Have no apprehensions, Mr. Lambert, my mother shall know the truth of this matter, and where the blame rests."

"Then you really think that Miss Fitzgerald – ?"

"I'm sure of it, Mr. Lambert. She has confessed to me, that if she did not actually say to you that she was going to marry Lieutenant Kingsland, she purposely allowed you to believe the same; and then assured my husband, whom I believe to be as innocent in the matter as I am, that your consent had been gained, and all arrangements made."

The old parson sat down on a rustic seat beside an elaborately natural, sheet-iron water-fall, seemingly quite crushed by the blow. But the spirit of the church militant was strong within him, and he was filled with righteous anger at his unmerited treatment; so taking his companion's hand, he rose presently, saying: —

"Come. Let us go to your mother and tell her the truth; we owe it to her and to ourselves."

"To-morrow, Mr. Lambert – pray wait till to-morrow."

The preacher's face hardened; he was in no mood for leniency.

"We have delayed too long already," he said, and took a step forward.

"Believe me," she replied, laying her hand on his arm, "I do not ask it from weakness, but my husband returns to-morrow, and thanks to an inheritance from an uncle who died to-day, comes back a rich man, able to support a wife. When my mother knows this, she will receive our news very differently. See," and she handed him the telegram.

"I will wait till your husband returns to speak to your mother," he replied, "but as for that unhappy girl – if it is not too late to turn her steps to the right path – I will spare no pains to bring her to a realisation of what she has done. For this, no time is like the present – no time too soon."

"I hope you may succeed," said Lady Isabelle, "but I fear you'll find her much worse than you imagine. However, I do not wish to discourage you."

"I'm not easy to discourage in any good work, I trust, Lady Isabelle Kingsland."

She started, as her new name was pronounced, and laying a detaining hand upon him, as he would have left her, said, her voice breaking: —

"Forgive me, Mr. Lambert. Say you forgive me."

"My poor child," he said sadly, placing one hand on her bowed head. "My poor child, you are too much in need of forgiveness from others for me to withhold mine. It is yours freely; but promise me that you'll show your appreciation of it by coming to me in all your troubles."

She seized his other hand in both of hers, and kissing it, burst into tears.

"And now," he said sternly, "I will seek out that miserable girl."

But Miss Fitzgerald, dreading the tempest, had sought the haven of her own room.

She was not a picture of contrite repentance as she stood by the open window, looking out into the night.

"Fools all!" she mused. "So I am to blame – it is all my fault!"

An amused sneer played about her lips.

"Ah me! After all it is our faults that make life interesting to us – or us interesting to others," and she tossed away her half-smoked cigarette with a shrug.

CHAPTER XXX

TWO LETTERS

Precisely as the clock struck ten, Kent-Lauriston entered the smoking-room to find it in sole possession of Stanley, who stood leaning against the mantelpiece, lost in thought – a cigar, long ago gone out, hanging listlessly between his fingers.

"I'm afraid I'm late," said his genial adviser, glancing at the clock, "but I was just finishing a game of cribbage with Mr. Riddle."

"I don't envy you his society," growled the Secretary, whose temper was not improved by recent experiences.

"You misjudge him," replied Kent-Lauriston. "He's a very good fellow, in more senses of the word than one – he's just given Mr. Lambert a thumping big cheque, for the restoration of his little church."

"And made you the recipient of the fact of his generosity?"

"Far from it; our gossiping little parson did that, in direct violation of a pledge of secrecy; for Riddle never wishes his good works to be known – he's not that kind."

"I consider him a hypocrite," replied Stanley shortly.

"Then you do him a great injustice, my dear boy; and allow me to say, you'll never make a good diplomat till you've arrived at a better knowledge of human nature; it's the keystone of the profession. But, to change the subject, how have you been spending the evening?"

"Oh, making a fool of myself, as usual."

"So I suppose. What particular method did you adopt this time?"

"First, I chivied our amiable parson from pillar to post, in this very room, till I'd forced the admission of an important fact from him, and the practical admission of another."

"And then," continued Kent-Lauriston, "you went and tried the effect of your statements on the young ladies."

"I believe you're equipped with X-rays instead of eyes, Kent-Lauriston, for you were smoking down here and couldn't have seen me!"

"No, but I saw the ladies – afterwards."

"To speak to?"

"Oh, no. One of them at least has a rooted aversion to me. I know too much."

"What were they doing?"

"Pulling each other's hair out, I should judge, or its equivalent in polite society. What did you learn from the parson?"

"That he had not married Kingsland to Lady Isabelle; that Kingsland had been married to somebody; and a refusal to say that that somebody was Miss Fitzgerald, which was tantamount to an admission of the fact."

"Exactly, and what did you say to the young ladies?"

"I asked Miss Fitzgerald if she was Lieutenant Kingsland's wife?"

"And she denied it?"

"Absolutely."

"What else?"

"I charged Lady Isabelle with not having married Kingsland."

"And what was her answer?"

"I didn't wait to receive it."

"Had you done so, she would have denied it likewise."

"You think so?"

"I am certain of it, and, if it's any satisfaction to you, I can tell you that by your action you ensured Miss Fitzgerald one of the worst quarters of an hour at her Ladyship's hands that she is likely to experience for a very long time."

"But Mr. Lambert assured me solemnly, that he did not perform the ceremony between Lady Isabelle and the Lieutenant."

"He was quite right in doing so."

"But they can't all be right!"

"My dear fellow," said Kent-Lauriston, "it is very seldom, in this complex age, that anyone is wholly right or wholly wrong. All these people, except Miss Fitzgerald, know a part of the truth, and have spoken honestly according to their lights. She alone knows it all, and, believe me, she is much too clever to tell a lie on so important a point. If she told you she was not married to Lieutenant Kingsland, you may implicitly believe her."

"Do you know that it is the truth?"

"Yes, because I telegraphed to the man who has charge of the issue of special licences, and have received a line from him, to the effect that one has been issued in the last few days, for Lieutenant Kingsland and Lady Isabelle McLane."

"Then you convict Mr. Lambert of deception?"

"Not at all. If he told you he had not married Lady Isabelle to the Lieutenant, he told you what he believed to be the truth."

"But is it possible that he could have married them without knowing it?"

"It seems that it was possible."

"How could he make such a mistake?"

"A man who never makes a mistake makes little or nothing in this world."

"And Miss Fitzgerald signed in the place of the bride, to divert suspicion?"

"It seems impossible to suppose that she would commit herself in that way," said Kent-Lauriston.

"But the register proves that she did," reported Stanley.

"Ye-es. It rather savours of the paradox. Perhaps we'd better content ourselves with the facts that Lady Isabelle did marry Kingsland, and Miss Fitzgerald did not. How it was accomplished does not immediately concern us, and, as I fear no very creditable means were used, we'd better not try to find out what they were, especially as we've more serious matters to consider."

"You mean – "

"I mean the charge unconsciously made by Madame Darcy."

"I feared you were going to speak of that."

"True, it is an unpleasant business; but you must remember that you owe it to Miss Fitzgerald to ask her for a definite answer, or to give her some explanation for declining to do so."

"You think there's no escape from it?"

"None that a gentleman can take."

"What do you advise me to do?"

"Find out where you stand in the first place."

"How I stand?"

"Yes. At least one serious charge has been made against the woman whom you propose to make your wife. If true – for your own sake, for your father's sake, you must surrender her. If false, you are equally bound, by honour and chivalry, to disprove it."

"How can I do this?"

"The charge to which I refer is based on the direct evidence of certain letters. See them, and judge for yourself."

"That is easier said than done."

"Here they are," replied Kent-Lauriston, handing him a little packet.

"You have seen Madame Darcy?"

"Yes."

"And she has given you these letters, knowing they would be shown to me?"

"Yes, on my representation, that if they substantiated her charges, she would be doing you the greatest kindness in her power."

Stanley bowed, and opened the little packet. For a few moments there was silence in the room, broken only by the occasional crackle of paper, as he turned a page. Most of the dozen or so documents he read through quickly, and laid upon the table at his side. A couple he re-read several times. Finally he looked up, saying simply: —

"You've read these letters?"

"Yes. I was given permission to do so."

"What do you think of them?"

"Two of them are suggestive."

"The two most recent?"

"Yes, they bear dates, you will observe, within the last three days."

"And the others – ?"

"The others merely show the existence of some relationship between Colonel Darcy and Miss Fitzgerald, which they wished kept secret. I don't remember the exact wording. There's a letter which she writes from London to him at his home, begging him to come to town and 'leave his tiresome wife,' as they have 'matters of more importance' to attend to; and again she writes that she cannot meet him at 5 p. m., 'because she must account for her time to her "dragon,"' – alluding, I infer, to her aunt – but that he must manage to 'meet her accidentally and take her down to supper' at a party she is attending that night, 'so as not to arouse suspicion.'"

"All this proves nothing."

"Perhaps not – but the extracts are significant. Now take the two most recent."

"They were written from here. How were they obtained?"

"That doesn't concern us if they are genuine."

"One is certainly in Miss Fitzgerald's hand."

"The other was evidently torn from Darcy's letter-book. Read it."

Stanley did so, with evident effort.

"Dearest Belle:

"I did not know, till after I had seen you the other night – "

"The night you proposed," interjected Kent-Lauriston.

The Secretary nodded, and resumed his reading.

" – the other night, how cleverly you got my letter out of the Secretary's clutches. It quite retrieves your losing it at the Hyde Park Club, and now I have lost it under the secret door in the Hall, as you will probably have heard. If A. R. cannot get a duplicate, which is doubtful, the door must be opened.

"I have entrusted you with all I hold most dear. You know what that is. If my plans go well, it will mean a happy future for us both.

"Your affectionate old"Bob."

"Now read the other," commanded Kent-Lauriston; and, sick at heart, the Secretary complied:

"You old Stupid:

"Is the report really true that you have lost that letter under the secret door? There is no time to duplicate it, so it must be recovered. Why didn't you write and tell me you had lost it? – "

"But he did," commented the reader.

"Both letters were intercepted before delivery, I imagine," said Kent-Lauriston, "but finish the note."

" – Do not try to see me again," read Stanley; "it might arouse suspicion, and you know how necessary it is for me to play the rôle of the innocent. I am more afraid of Inez than anyone else. I am sure she suspects there is something between us. There is no danger in Little Diplomacy; he is young enough to believe he knows everything, and that is a great safeguard. I have found a trusty messenger for our affairs in Jack Kingsland.

"As ever,"Belle."

The Secretary stopped reading; his throat was very dry. He took a glass of Apollinaris, and then said: —

"These letters are not incriminating – in the way you mean."

"No, perhaps not in so many words; but you must ask yourself two questions concerning them. Are they letters that an honourable or refined woman would write to or receive from a married man, at any time, and particularly when she herself was practically engaged?"

"May I ask to what you imagine Darcy's expression, 'all I hold most dear,' refers?"

"Oh, his heart, or his love, or some such sentimental rubbish."

"So I supposed; it hasn't occurred to you to take it in a more literal sense?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, say that all he holds most dear refers to the five chests of sovereigns."

"You believe this?"

"I know it to be so – and have known it all along – the fact that I tell you confidentially, that I'm acting under secret instructions in this matter, will, I'm sure, suffice not only to seal your lips, but to make you understand that, for the present, you must be contented not to know more."

Kent-Lauriston nodded.

"You'll see, then," continued the Secretary, "that what you supposed was an intrigue turns out to be – shall we say – a commercial transaction."

Kent-Lauriston shrugged his shoulders, remarking: —

"I'd better return the letters to Madame Darcy at once then?"

"No, leave that to me, I shall ask her to let me keep them, if she will; they may be useful – as evidence."

"But, surely, any woman who could connect herself with so dishonourable an affair, as I imagine this to be, is no fit wife for you. Give me your word you'll break with her once and for all."

"I've sources of information about Darcy which, as I have said before, I'm not at liberty to reveal, but forty-eight hours may loose my tongue. If I could tell Miss Fitzgerald what I know, she might throw him over even now, for I still hope she's only his dupe. Give me two days to prove her innocent; if I fail – I'll do what you please."

Kent-Lauriston reluctantly acquiesced, and Stanley, putting the incriminating letters carefully in an inside pocket, bade him good-night, and left the smoking-room. In the hall he met Lady Isabelle.

"I don't know what you'll think of me for coming to you, Mr. Stanley," she said, "after what has passed this evening."

"I think myself an infernal ass, for I've found out the truth of the matter since I left you, and I think you're very good to overlook it, and very condescending to speak to me at all."

"Do not let us talk of that," she said.

"Agreed," he replied. "Only permit me to say, I'd the parson's solemn assurance that he'd not married you, and, however unadvisedly I may have spoken, I spoke in good faith."

"I quite understand," she returned. "But now you know the truth."

"I do, and I'm very much ashamed of myself."

She smiled, a trifle sadly, and changed the subject abruptly, saying: —

"I've come to ask you a great favour. In the face of the past I almost hesitate to do so, but there's no one else to whom I can turn – and so – "

"Anything I can do – " he began.

"I only want to ask you a question."

"Only a question!"

"Yet, I hesitate to ask even that – because it concerns a lady in whom you're interested."

"Miss Fitzgerald?"

"Yes."

"You need have no hesitation," he said coldly.

"I'm sure you will not misunderstand me," she continued.

He bowed silently.

"After you left us, I questioned Miss Fitzgerald about the part she'd played in my marriage."

Stanley nodded.

"You can understand that I was very angry. Whose feelings would not have been outraged at discovering that they'd been so played upon? I'm sure that my husband was as innocent of the deception as I."

She paused a second, but the Secretary did not speak, and she continued, afraid, perhaps, that he might say something to overthrow her theory.

"I dare say I forgot myself – in fact I'm sure I did – and said things that I now regret; but in the heat of the argument she taunted me with the fact that she had it in her power to have my husband cashiered from the navy, if she chose to tell what she knew. Is this true?"

"Did she specify what he'd done?" asked Stanley, the horrid suspicion that Belle was not innocent once more reasserting itself with increased force.

"No, but she said it was something he'd done in London, during his present absence."

"My God!" murmured the Secretary, as the full force and meaning of this avowal became apparent to him, and he saw that Belle must be fully cognisant of the plot.

"Don't tell me it's true!" cried Lady Isabelle.

"I'm afraid it is," he replied.

"But that my husband could be guilty of – "

"I didn't say that," he interjected. "He may be merely an innocent instrument; but he might have difficulty in proving it, if the charges were made."

"But what are the charges?"

"Ah! That you must not ask me."

"You know?"

"Perhaps, but you must be content to be sure that, had I the right to tell you, I would do so."

"But what is to be done?"

"Nothing. The threat is an empty one. Miss Fitzgerald will make no charges against your husband; I will guarantee that, and it may transpire that the Lieutenant has done nothing worse than deliver some cases, of the contents of which he was ignorant, to oblige a friend."

"But if she could prove that he did deliver them, he might be charged with complicity?"

"Exactly."

"Can I not warn him?"

"No, Lady Isabelle, you owe it to me to keep silence, at least for the next few days. In telling you this, to relieve your anxiety, I have exceeded my instructions, and placed my honour in your hands."

"It shall be held sacred; but who is to warn my husband?"

"I'll do so, if you wish."

"I can never be sufficiently grateful, if you will."

"Then we'll consider that settled," he said.

"You've been a true friend to me," she replied, taking his hand, "and I've ill repaid you for your kindness."

"Don't think of that," he said, and turned away, heavy-hearted; for now he fancied he knew the worst.

CHAPTER XXXI

MISS FITZGERALD BURNS HER BOATS

"My dear," said the Secretary, as he shook hands with Madame Darcy over the little wicket gate entwined with roses, which gave admittance to her rustic abode, "I want to thank you for those letters."

"To thank me?"

"Yes. Why not?"

"Why not? Why, I was almost ashamed to meet you face to face."

"But why should you be?"

"That I should have spoken of them at all, and to you."

"But surely you cannot blame yourself for that. You thought they related to quite a different person."

"Now who would have supposed a man would have given me credit. But why do I stand talking at the gate – come in, you've not perhaps had your breakfast yet this morning?"

"Yes, thanks, and a hearty one. Do you think I come to eat you out of house and home?"

"I think you come only to the gate."

"Unfortunately, beggars must not be choosers – and I've just time for a word. It's my busy day, as they say in the city."

She was piqued, and showed it.

"Do you not think I would willingly spend all day with you, if – "

"I think," she replied, "that you're engaged to a certain young lady – and you've told me that you're busy."

"It's about her I wished to speak," he said, abruptly changing the subject. "These letters have misled you."

"You mean – "

"I mean that they refer to the plot in which your husband and this young lady are engaged."

She looked at him searchingly.

"You are speaking the truth to me. You know this to be so?"

"On my honour. I am not trying to deceive you. I only ask you to believe that your original suspicions were incorrect."

"But you substitute something quite as bad."

"Well, no – hardly that. In fact it may benefit you greatly."

"How so?"

"That I'm not at liberty to tell you just now; I hope I can in a day or two. Meantime, may I ask you to keep silence about what I've said, and trust your affairs to me – they shall not suffer in my hands."

"Have I not trusted you, my friend?"

"You have indeed, and I've appreciated it; but that you'll understand better a little later – when I've been able to help you more."

"You have done all for me; you have saved me, and I can never forget it."

"Nonsense, I've done nothing as yet."

"You have given me your sympathy. Is not that something? You have been a true friend to me."

"For old friendship's sake – could I do less?"

She flushed and said hurriedly.

"My father will know how to thank you properly. When I see him – " and she unburdened her heart to the Secretary, who gave her a willing ear. Together they discussed her plans for the future, her return home, her welcome; in short, a thousand and one pleasant anticipations, till Stanley declared, regretfully, that he must go.

"But you have stood already an hour," she murmured, "surely you will come in and rest."

"An hour!" he exclaimed, looking at his watch. "Impossible!"

"No," she said. "Not impossible, I also have stood."

He was overcome at his thoughtlessness, but she silenced his excuses by throwing open the gate and saying:

"Come." And he entered.

Miss Fitzgerald was seated at her ease in a West Indian chair on the lawn. A white parasol shielded her from the sun, and a novel lay unopened in her lap. As she leaned back looking up into the earnest face of a man, with a supercilious smile and a veiled fire in her blue eyes, she seemed to be at peace with herself and with the world. In reality, she was enduring the last of three most disagreeable encounters.

Her first had been with her aunt, Mrs. Roberts, who, quite justly, ascribed the occurrences which had interrupted the harmony of her house-party to the machinations of her niece.

"I invited you here at your own request," she had said, in a private interview before breakfast, in the course of which much righteous wrath was vented. "You assured me that Mr. Stanley was on the point of asking your hand in marriage, and only needed an opportunity of doing so; which I was the more willing to give, because I saw the extreme advisability of such a step. His actions have belied your words, and moreover, have made you the subject of unpleasant comment in my house, which has greatly annoyed me. I do not wish to be unkind, but you must understand that matters, for the rest of the time we are together, must run more smoothly, or I shall be obliged to suggest your returning to London."