FROM THE DEAD.
We have seen how the news of Stanislas McKay's capture by the Russians was communicated to his uncle, Mr. Faulks.
Next day the brief telegram announcing it was published in the morning papers, with many strong comments. Although some blamed the young officer for his rashness, and others held Lord Raglan directly responsible for his loss, all agreed in execrating the vindictive cruelty of the uncompromising foe.
General sympathy was expressed for Mr. McKay; the most august person in the land sent a message of condolence to his mother through Lord Essendine, who added a few kindly words on his own account.
"What curse lies heavy on our line? It seems fatal to come within reach of heirship to the family-honours. Ere long there will be no Wilders left, and the title of Essendine will become extinct," wrote the old peer to Mrs. McKay. "Your boy, a fine, fearless young fellow, whom I neglected too long and who deserved a nobler fate, is the latest victim. Pray Heaven he may yet escape! I will strive hard to help him in his present dire peril."
Lord Essendine was as good as his word. He had great influence, political and diplomatic: great friends in high place at every court in Europe. Among others, the Russian ambassador at Vienna was under personal obligations to him of long standing, and did not hesitate when called upon to acknowledge the debt.
Telegrams came and went from London to Vienna, from Vienna to St. Petersburg, backwards and forwards day after day, yet nothing was effected by Lord Essendine's anxious, energetic advocacy. The Czar himself was appealed to, but the Autocrat of All the Russias would not deign to intervene. He was inexorable. The law military must take its course. Stanislas McKay was a traitor and the son of a traitor; he had been actually taken red-handed in a new and still deeper treachery, and he must suffer for his crime.
At the end of the first fortnight McKay's relations and friends in England had almost abandoned hope. This was what Mr. Faulks told Mrs. Wilders, who called every day two or three times, always in the deepest distress.
"Poor boy! poor boy!" she said, wringing her hands. "To be cut off like this! It is too terrible! And nothing—you are sure nothing can be done to save him?"
"Lord Essendine is making the most strenuous efforts; so are we. Even Sir Humphrey Fothergill has been most kind; and the War Minister has repeatedly telegraphed to Lord Raglan to leave no stone unturned."
"And all without effect? It is most sad!" She would have feigned the same excessive grief with the Essendine lawyers, to whom she also paid several visits, but the senior partner's cold eye and cynical smile checked her heroics.
"You will not be the loser by poor McKay's removal," he said, with brutal frankness, one day when she had rather overdone her part.
"As if I thought of that!" she replied, with supreme indignation.
"It is impossible for you not to think of it, my dear madam. It would not be human nature. Why shouldn't you? Mr. McKay was no relation."
"He was my dear dead husband's devoted friend. Nursed him after his wound—"
"I remember to have heard that, and indeed everything that is good, of Mr. McKay. I feel sure he would have made an excellent Earl of Essendine; more's the pity."
"I trust my son, if he inherits, will worthily maintain the credit of the house."
"So do I, my dear madam," said old Mr. Burt, with a bow that made the speech a less doubtful compliment.
"When will it be settled? Why do they hesitate? Why delay?" she said to herself passionately, as she went homewards to Thistle Grove. Her friend Mr. Hobson was there, waiting for her; and she repeated the question with a fierce anxiety that proved how closely it concerned her.
"How impatient you grow! Like every woman. Everything must be done at once."
"I am not safe yet. I begin to doubt."
"Can't you trust me? I have assured you it will end as you wish. When have I disappointed you, Lady Lydstone?"
She started at the sound of this name, once familiar, but surrounded now by memories at once painful and terrible.
"It is the rule in your English peerage that when a son becomes a great peer, and the mother is only a commoner, to give her one of the titles. Your Queen does it by prerogative."
"I might have been Lady Lydstone by right, if I had waited," she said slowly.
"And you repent it? Bah! it is too late. Be satisfied. You will be rich, a great lady, respected—"
She made a gesture of dissent.
"Yes; respected. Great ladies always are. You can marry again—whom you please; me, for instance—"
Again the gesture: dissent mixed with unmistakable disgust.
"You are not too flattering, Cyprienne. Do not presume on my good-nature, and remember—"
"What, pray?"
"What you owe me. I am entitled to claim my reward. You must repay me some day."
"By marrying you?"
Her voice, as usual, began to tremble when she found herself in antagonism with this man.
"If that be the price I ask. Why not? We ought to be happy together. We have so much in common, so many secrets—"
"Enough of this!" she said shortly, but not bravely.
"And to be Lady Lydstone's husband would give me a certain status—a sufficient income. I could help you to educate the boy, whom, by-the-way, I have never seen. Yes; the notion pleases me. I will be your second—I beg your pardon, your third husband, probably your last."
"I must beg of you, Hippolyte, to be careful; I hear some one coming."
It was the Swiss butler, who entered rather timidly to say a gentleman had called on important business.
"What business? Surely you have not admitted him? If so, you shall leave my service. You know it is contrary to my express orders."
"He said you would see him, madam; that he came on the part of a friend, a very ancient friend, whose name I had but to tell you—"
"What name? Go on, François."
"The name—it is difficult. Ru—" he spoke very slowly, struggling with the strangeness of the sounds. "Ru—pert—Gas—"
"Who can this be?" Mrs. Wilders had turned very white and now beckoned Hobson to step out into the garden. "Is it a message from beyond the grave?"
"Coward!" cried her companion contemptuously. "The Seine seldom surrenders its prey. Rupert Gascoigne is dead—drowned, as you know, fourteen years ago."
"But this visitor knew him—he knows of my connection with him. Else why come in his name? Oh, Hippolyte, I tremble! Help me. Support me in my interview with this strange man."
"No; it would not be safe. If he knew Rupert Gascoigne, he may, too, have known Ledantec. I will not meet him."
"Who is the coward now?"
"I do not choose to run unnecessary risks. But I will help you—to this extent. See the man, if you must see him, in the double drawing-room. I will be within call."
"And earshot? I understand."
"Well, what can I overhear—about you, at least—that I do not know already? In any case I could help you."
It was so arranged. Mrs. Wilders bade her servant introduce the stranger, and presently joined him in the adjoining room.
"Mr. Hyde," she began, composedly and very stiffly, "may I inquire the meaning of this intrusion? You are a perfect stranger—"
"Look well at me, Cyprienne Vergette. Have years so changed me—?"
"Rupert? Impossible!" she half-shrieked. "Rupert is dead. He died—was drowned—when—"
"You deserted him, and left him, you and your vile partner, falsely accused of a foul crime."
"I cannot—will not believe it. You are an impostor; you have assumed a dead man's name."
"My identity is easily proved, Cyprienne Vergette, and the relation in which I stand to you."
"What brings you here to vex me, after all these years? I always hated you. I left you—Why cannot you leave me in peace?"
"God knows I had no wish to see or speak to you again. The world was wide enough for us both. We should have remained for ever apart, but for your latest and foulest crime."
"What false, lying charge is this you would trump up against me?"
"The murder of my dearest friend and comrade. Murder twice attempted. The first failed; the second, I fear, will prove fatal. If so, look to yourself, madam."
"What can you do?" she said, impudently, having regained much of her old effrontery.
"Prevent you from reaping the fruits of your iniquity. You know you were never General Wilders's wife; you were always mine. Worse luck!"
"You cannot prove it. You are dead. You dare not reappear."
"Wait and see," he replied, very coolly.
"You have no proofs, I say, of the marriage."
"They are safe at the Mairie, in Paris. French archives are carefully kept. I have only to ask for a certificate; it's easy enough."
"For any one who could go there. But how will you dare to show yourself in Paris? You are proscribed; a price is set on your head. Your life would be forfeited."
"I will risk all that, and more, to ruin your wicked game."
"Do so at your peril."
"You threaten me, vile wretch? Be careful. The measure of your iniquity is nearly full. Punishment must soon overtake you; your misdeeds are well known; your complicity with—"
Why should he tell her? Why warn her of the net that was closing round her, and thus help her to escape from the toils?
But she had caught at his words.
"Complicity?" she repeated, anxiously. "With whom?"
"No matter. Only look to yourself. It is war, war to the knife, unquenchable war between us, remember that."
And with these words he left the house.
Although she had shown a bold front, Mrs. Wilders, as we shall still call her, was greatly agitated by this stormy scene, and it was with a blanched cheek and faltering step that she sought her confederate in the next room.
Mr. Hobson was gone.
"Coward! he has easily taken alarm. To desert me at the moment that I most need advice and help!"
But she did her friend injustice, as a letter that came from him in the course of a few hours fully proved.
"I heard enough," wrote Mr. Hobson, "to satisfy me that the devil is unchained and means mischief. I never thought to see R. G. again. We must watch him now closely, and know all his movements. If he goes to Paris, as I heard him threaten, he will give himself into our hands. I shall follow, in spite of the risks I run. One word of warning to the Prefecture will put the police on his track. Arrest, removal to Mazas, Cayenne, or by the guillotine—what matter which?—will be his inevitable fate. The French law is implacable. His dossier (criminal biography) is in the hands of the authorities, and will be easily produced. There must be numbers of people still living in Paris who could identify him at once, in spite of his beard and bronzed face. I can, if need be, although I would rather not make myself too prominent just now. Be tranquil; he will not be able to injure us. It is his own doom that he is preparing."