IN WHICH DEATH IS A RELIEF
After Stanley had left them, Isabelle Kingsland and Isabelle Fitzgerald sat silent for a while, looking into each other's faces, the brain of each throbbing with a tumult of agitating thoughts. The Englishwoman voicing to herself a subtle suggestion of coming evil, which had been omnipresent since her marriage day, an instinctive presentiment that all was not well: the Irish girl feeling strongly irritated at this last of the many annoying contretemps of the week; and smarting under a sense of injustice that, when she had merely practised a little harmless deception for a friend's sake, that friend should leave the field and the eminently disagreeable explanations to her.
She vented her feelings by a shrug of the shoulders, which broke the tension of the silence.
"Tell me—on your honour, tell me," cried Lady Isabelle, "that he did not speak the truth; that I am married to Lieutenant Kingsland!"
"Of course you're married to Lieutenant Kingsland," replied Miss Fitzgerald, with a little sigh of resignation. "You read your licence, didn't you?"
"Yes. But——"
"But that's quite sufficient—and there's no occasion for a scene."
"It's not sufficient, not nearly sufficient—there's something that's being kept back from me, and I want to know the truth!" and Lady Isabelle rose, becoming quite queenly in her indignant agitation.
"I've been uneasy from the first about my marriage," she continued, "because it was not open as I should have wished. I knew there was some mystery about it. My husband admitted as much to me from the first, and he did not need to tell me that you were the prime mover in the affair. It is my right to know the truth."
"The assertion of people's rights is responsible for most of the wrong done in the world. Did your husband counsel you to insult his best friend?"
"He didn't wish me to speak to you on the subject, but I've determined to take matters into my own hands. In the face of Mr. Stanley's charges, I must know the truth."
"You had better obey your husband."
"I'm responsible to him for that matter, not to you, Miss Fitzgerald. Now tell me, what did Mr. Stanley mean?"
"He meant what he said."
"But how could Mr. Lambert have told him an untruth?"
"Mr. Lambert told him what he believed to be the truth; and that was, that he had not married you and Jack—Lieutenant Kingsland, I mean."
"Was that all he told him?"
"I should think it highly probable that he added that he had married your husband to me."
"My husband to you!"
"I told you we'd better let this matter alone."
In a second Lady Isabelle's hands were on Miss Fitzgerald's shoulders, and her eyes blazed into the eyes of the Irish girl.
"The truth, woman, the truth! Is he my husband?"
"Yes."
"Then why does Mr. Lambert——?"
"Because he believes that I was the bride."
"Did you tell him so?"
"No, but when I went to make the arrangements he blundered into the mistake—and—well, I didn't take the trouble to correct him."
"You dared!"
"Yes," she replied. "I'd do a good deal for Jack—we used to care for each other once."
Her Ladyship's eyes flashed dangerously, and Miss Fitzgerald hastened to add:
"Of course that was all over long ago—I know Jack too well."
"How dared you do it?" asked her accuser again.
"It was risky, but our names were the same, and he's half blind and somewhat deaf, and in his dotage. The chances of escaping detection were good, as the event has proved."
"Of course it wasn't my affair whether Jack told you or not. It was legal and that's the main thing."
"How dared you do it?"
"You needn't be so nasty about it; it was merely to be obliging. If you think it amusing to be a dummy bride——"
"Be silent!"
The two women stood facing each other, breathing hard, as though resting from physical combat; the face of one expressing infinite contempt, of the other infinite anger. At this juncture a servant brought a telegram to Lady Isabelle.
Thankful for the relief from an awkward pause, she tore it open, and her face lit up as she read its message.
"Still in London. Uncle died this morning, leaving me his heir. As preliminaries take some time to arrange, am returning to you to-morrow.
"Jack."
"There!" she said, showing it to her antagonist. "I suppose it's wicked to rejoice in any one's death; but it's a great relief, for it gives me back my husband—and he shall defend me from you!"
"I don't think your husband will be down on me."
"He'll proclaim the truth about our marriage. It should never have been concealed, least of all by dishonourable means."
"You forget yourself, Lady Isabelle."
"I remember what is due my position, and so will Mr. Lambert, when he hears how grossly you've deceived him."
"You mustn't tell him."
"It will not be necessary. I've only to ask him to look at the marriage register. That will bear witness to the truth, I know; for I signed in the proper place for the bride."
Miss Fitzgerald drew a quick, sharp breath. She had trusted to be spared this last confession.
"The register has been changed," she said.
"Who has done this?"
"Mr. Lambert, supposing there had been a mistake."
"Then Mr. Lambert will change it back again, to-morrow morning!"
"You mustn't speak to him of this."
"I'll speak to him to-night."
"No."
"You've no right to interfere. You've no right to do anything, but apologise to me for the great wrong you've done me!"
"I forbid you to apprise Mr. Lambert of the true state of affairs till your husband returns to-morrow!"
"I've told you I shall see him to-night."
"I forbid you, in your husband's interests."
"You are insolent."
"I'm in a position to be anything I choose."
"Because I have your husband in my power."
"I do not believe it!"
"If I choose to make public," she said, laughing insolently, "the manner in which your husband is spending his time in London, I could have him cashiered from the navy."
Lady Isabelle drew herself up, and gave her adversary a look of unutterable scorn and contempt, saying:—
"You will probably circulate any falsehood about my husband that you please; it will simply prove to others, as it proves to me, that you still do love him, and that when he knew your true character he left you," and turning from her astonished and indignant rival, she quietly crossed the length of the drawing-room, to where the Dowager and the parson were seated.
"Mother," she said, "would you think me very rude if I asked for Mr. Lambert's company for a few moments? I want to have a serious talk with him."
"Not at all, my dear. Just take my place. I promised to show Mrs. Roberts a new embroidery stitch," replied the Dowager, acquiescing joyfully in the proposal.
Satisfactory on the whole as her child's training had been, on the point of her religious convictions, the Marchioness had occasionally felt some disturbing suspicions. I do not mean that Lady Isabelle was not firmly grounded in her belief of the thirty-nine articles; indeed, she was, if anything, a trifle too orthodox for her day and generation; but the Dowager knew to her cost that missions were a tabooed subject. Her daughter had even refused to slum with the Viscountess Thistledown, and worse than all, charity bazaars, though patronised by Royalty, were her pet aversions. To the Marchioness, who no longer "sold well," and whose ambition was to see Lady Isabelle tethered in the next stall to a Princess, such heresies were naturally repugnant. Mr. Lambert was very strong on all these points, and had just been suggesting to her a scheme of his own, to raise money for a worthy object, conceived on principles that would have put the authorities of Monte Carlo to the blush. So she patted her daughter's hand, established her in her own place, and murmuring that she was glad Isabelle felt the need of advice, and that she might safely rely on "dear Mr. Lambert's wisdom and—er—commonsense," betook herself to Kensington stitch and a remote corner.
But her daughter's confidences admitted of no publicity.
"Suppose we go to the conservatory, Mr. Lambert," she suggested, "we're quite sure of finding it unoccupied at this hour, and I've a confession to make."
"Certainly, my dear, certainly," he replied, following her in the direction she suggested. "Though I'm sure," he added, "that Lady Isabelle would have done nothing which she would not be willing that anybody should know, if need were."
"I hope not," she answered, and a moment later they were alone.
"Come now," he said, "what is this terrible confession; not so great a sin, I'm sure, that we cannot easily find a way for pardon or reformation."
"There's no sin to discuss," she replied, "at least, none that I've committed, unless unconscious participation is a crime. I want to speak to you about my marriage."
"Ah, yes; with Mr. Stanley—a most desirable arrangement, I've been given to understand."
"No—not with Mr. Stanley—I'm speaking of my marriage with Lieutenant Kingsland."
"But, my dear young lady, that's impossible. Lieutenant Kingsland is already married."
"Yes, he's married to me."
"To you? What? How can he be?"
"Because you married him to me two days ago.
"Nothing of the sort," cried the old man in irritated bewilderment. "I married him to Miss Fitzgerald."
"You married him to me, Mr. Lambert."
"But I ought to know best whom I married, and to whom, Lady Isabelle."
"You ought certainly; but, in this case, it seems you do not."
"But Miss Fitzgerald said——"
"Ah, that's just the point. What did Miss Fitzgerald say?"
"Really, I can't remember the conversation, word for word; she came to make the arrangements, and I inferred——"
"Did she say that she was going to marry Lieutenant Kingsland?"
"She certainly gave me the impression that such was the case."
"But did she actually say so?"
The old man was lost in thought for a moment, striving to recall some direct admission, but at length shook his head sadly, saying:—
"No. I can't remember that she did, in so many words; but she led me to suppose——"
"You've inferred; you've been given the impression; you've been led to suppose, Mr. Lambert, what did not exist. I have, however, held in my hand and carefully examined the special licence under which you performed the ceremony, and which was drawn for a marriage between Lieutenant Kingsland and myself. I was the bride whom you married; it was I who repeated the vows which you gave me; my name is Isabelle, also, remember, and it was I who signed that name as 'bride' in your register, where it should be now, if you had not changed it."
"Bless my soul! This is most bewildering! You say I married you to Lieutenant Kingsland?"
"Yes, Mr. Lambert, you did, and Miss Fitzgerald and Colonel Darcy were the witnesses."
"But this is a serious matter, a very serious matter, Lady Isabelle. This wedding seems to have been performed under false pretences."
"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.