MAN PROPOSES
As he dressed for dinner that evening, Stanley was still smarting with irritation at the undeserved attack which had just been made upon him by the Marchioness, and which through no fault of his own placed him in an exceedingly unpleasant and awkward position towards her daughter. The sooner he proposed to Miss Fitzgerald, and their engagement was announced, the better for all parties concerned. So seeking to justify himself by force of circumstances, he threw prudence to the winds and determined to speak that very night.
If, however, his private affairs had progressed rapidly to a crisis, the official interests which, he assured himself, were the real cause of his presence here, had not progressed at all, and he seemed no nearer the solution of the mystery, and the apprehension of the conspirators, than when he arrived.
True, Lady Isabelle's confession concerning Kingsland only served to strengthen his own conviction that the Lieutenant was Darcy's confederate; but Darcy himself, the prime mover of the plot, had not as yet put in an appearance, and till he arrived there was nothing to be done but to watch and wait.
Five minutes later the Secretary had joined the party in the drawing-room just as dinner was announced, and to his utter consternation his hostess whispered to him:
"I am sending you down with Lady Isabelle. I hear you and she are great chums."
"Great chums!" Stanley was tempted to plead sudden indisposition, and have his dinner in his room. Then a remembrance of his recent interview caused a wave of adverse feeling to sweep over him. Yes, he would take down Lady Isabelle. Was he to be badgered out of his dinner because a designing old woman could not leave well enough alone?
He could not indeed resist casting a look of amused triumph at the Dowager as he passed her with her daughter on his arm, but his conscience pricked him nevertheless, for he felt that his presence must be distasteful to his fair companion. That she really cared for him at all he could not bring himself to believe in the light of their conversation on the walk. Still, her frankness might have been assumed through pique at unreturned affection, and with a desire born of pride, to blind him to the true state of her feelings. The more he thought of this the more uneasy he became, and he could not help noticing that she was much more pale than he had as yet seen her, and seemed singularly abstracted. Moreover, he was certain that she was incurring her mother's displeasure, which would be to her a grave matter. He tried to make such atonement as lay in his power to make her feel at ease and to divert her mind. He told her his best stories, gave her his most brilliant conversation, but in vain. His endeavours fell hopelessly flat, and at last, after a dreadful pause, they spoke that which was in their hearts.
"Do you think it was nice of you to take me in to dinner?" she asked in that quiet conversational tone with which so many secrets have been told at dinners without arresting the attention of others.
"Really," he said, "I'd no option. Our hostess——"
"You managed to avoid it last night."
Stanley flushed.
"Do you mind so much?" he asked.
"Oh, no; but mamma."
"She didn't show me much consideration the last time we met."
"I was very sorry for you," she replied, "but as it had to come I thought I was better out of the way."
"Do you mean to say that you deliberately left me to my fate?"
"You mustn't be too hard on mamma. She wouldn't have thought she was doing right if she had not spoken."
"But," he continued relentlessly, "you——"
"Oh! I——?"
"Yes, supposing I had—succumbed."
She paused a minute, and then looked shyly up at him.
"In that case," she began, when Mrs. Roberts rose, and gave the signal for the ladies to retire.
Stanley cursed the convention, yet perhaps it was fortunate, as the Dowager had been growing dangerously red and puffy in the face, owing to the fact that the two young people had, unconsciously, drawn closer together in the excitement of those unfinished words.
The cigars seemed interminable; but at last they were over, and the gentlemen were at liberty to seek the drawing-room.
There is generally a moment of indecision when the men come up from dinner. The ladies have appropriated the most comfortable and naturally the most isolated chairs, and their lords and masters huddle like sheep in the doorway, uncertain where to flee for refuge and the most desirable companion. The Secretary had studied this peculiarity of his sex, and had learned to choose his goal beforehand. One glance showed him that Lady Isabelle was absent; either she had retired, her mother was quite capable of ordering her off to bed to keep her out of harm's way, or else she was in the conservatory. He trusted that this last supposition was correct, and disappeared among the palms, when the Marchioness' attention was directed elsewhere.
"And in that case?" he said, as he stood beside her, recalling her last words at the table. "In that case?"
"In that case," she replied, flushing slightly, "I should probably have said something I might have regretted, had not Mrs. Roberts come to my rescue."
"And now?"
"Don't be stupid, Mr. Stanley. Surely you know that any well-brought-up girl would always obey her mother—and—and you ought to see that this conversation is impossible."
"It's certainly unique."
"Don't you think we had better change the subject?"
"By all means, if you wish it, after I've asked you one more question. I trust you won't think me rude to persist, but—do you care for me, Lady Isabelle?"
"As a friend, yes."
"But in no other way?"
"In no other way."
"You're quite sure?"
"Quite, and I'm very sorry you asked me the question. I tried hard to prevent you."
"You've succeeded admirably," he said, laughing. "I was afraid you did care."
He held out his hand, and she took it, saying with a little constraint in her manner:
"You're certainly frank."
He was pleased to see that she was only piqued; the speech had been unfortunate; but Lady Isabelle had plenty of common sense, and she realised that his naïve confession had cleared the atmosphere, and made social intercourse possible.
He made another attempt to interest her in general conversation, this time succeeding admirably. And so an hour slipped by unnoticed, until the stern voice of the Dowager recalled them to the realities of life.
"Isabelle," she said coldly, "you are surely forgetting your duty to our hostess, and to me also, it seems."
"I'm coming, mamma," she replied, and left him with a quiet "Good-night."
Stanley felt immensely relieved. That was over; Lady Isabelle and he understood each other now, and his path was clear for—was it to be matrimony after all? He told himself he was a weak fool—that Miss Fitzgerald cared nothing for him; would not take him after last night; that he was under no real obligation and that he was a sentimental idiot—yet, he must see her—for his own sake—to justify himself—to—— He resolutely shut his eyes to the future, and went in search of the lady in question.
Ten minutes later, Belle and he were alone in the most favourable place in the house for a tête-à-tête, a curious old corner, the two sides of which were converted into a capacious seat to which there was but one approach, screened by a heavy curtain on one side and a suit of armour on the other—safe from all observers.
"What a quaint old house this is!" he said. "We might almost suppose we were back in the sixteenth century."
"Yes," she replied dreamily. "We're out of place in these surroundings."
She was in a strange mood this evening, sad and thoughtful, yet lacking the repose which should have accompanied reverie. It was the only time that the Secretary had ever seen her nervous or distraite.
"What have you been doing all day?" he asked, hoping to lead the conversation to some more cheerful subject.
"Trying to forget myself," she replied.
"Surely it would be a pleasure to remember yourself, I should think."
"Should you? I fear not."
"Your ears must have burned this afternoon," he continued, unheeding her comment. "Pleasant things were being said about you."
"Did you say them?"
"Of course I said them, I always do; but I was referring to someone else—to Lady Isabelle."
"People only patronise me, when they think me unworthy of reproof."
"How can you say that!" he exclaimed. "I——" but she silenced him with a gesture.
"You've said it. That's why. I've never had one friend with whom there did not come a day, that he or she threw me over and cast my failings in my face. I'd believed it was different with you, I believed you trusted me; that you'd have trusted me through good and evil report—but no, you're like the rest. Society points its finger at me, and you accept its verdict, and you're right. You, secure in your social position, powerful, influential, you shall determine what is right and what is wrong, and I,—I must accept it without a murmur—I'm only a woman without a friend."
"No! no! no!" he cried vehemently. "You wrong me, you do not understand. No one can respect a woman more than I respect you. It's of some of your friends that I disapprove."
"A man is known by the company he keeps—how much more a woman. I'm like my friends—and you—you"—and for the moment she forgot to be meek and suffering, and her eyes blazed with passion—"you are the Pharisee of the nineteenth century, the hem of whose robe we outcasts are unworthy to touch!"
"How can you!" he cried, springing to his feet. "How can you do me so much wrong? It's not that you're like your friends. It is the fear that you may become so that moves me to speak as I do. But since you've seen fit to suspect me, you must allow me to justify myself. I know the affairs of this Colonel Darcy; know them as few others could, by virtue of my diplomatic position, and I assure you he has wronged and brutally treated one of the most beautiful and sweet-natured women I have ever seen. Treated her so badly that she was forced to flee to our Legation for assistance and protection. Imagine my feelings when you tell me that this man is your friend—when I hear your name coupled with his in the idle gossip of the smoking-room."
"I only know that Colonel Darcy was kind to me once upon a time," she replied, interrupting the flow of his eloquence.
"But what's that to do with this?"
"A man who can be kind to a woman in distress cannot be wholly bad."
"Why do you defend him?"
"Never mind why. Don't let us talk any more about it," she said wearily. "You cannot deny that you think worse of me for defending him; you can't take back your words of last night. I've been thinking it over carefully, and I've make up my mind. I'm of no use to anyone. I make my friends ashamed of me— I'm misunderstood and misjudged. It's the way of the world, but it's hard. My spirit's broken. I no longer have the wish to continue the battle. I'm going away."
"Going away! When?" he cried, in amazement.
"At once."
"And where?'
"I don't know; somewhere where I'm not known, where I've no friends to be annoyed at having to claim me as an acquaintance. Somewhere where people will take me for what I am, not for what I have been, for whom I know, for what I have done or left undone. Oh, I'm so tired, so sick of it all," and she bowed her head and wept.
The effect of all this on Stanley can hardly be over-stated. He supported her, he soothed her, he told her all that was in his heart, or all he thought was there. She should not go away alone; he would go with her; he had shockingly misjudged her; it should be his life task to make her forget that, to proclaim to all the world how great a heritage he had received in her love. They would triumph over all obstacles. He would show the world what a true, noble woman she really was; he would prove it in the best way possible by marrying her, if she would have him, if she would so far honour him. His heart was at her feet. She would be quite right in spurning it, but he besought her to be merciful, to give him his answer, and let that answer be consent.
And the lady, who, under these ministrations and protestations, had gradually recovered her self-control, ceased her passionate sobbing, rested her head contentedly on his shoulder, and allowed him, with but feeble resistance, to encircle her waist with a protecting arm—in short, everything seemed prepared for her success, when the curtain was pushed aside and there stood before them the figure of a man, which caused them both to spring to their feet, in time, as they fondly hoped, to escape detection; the Secretary with a smothered exclamation of rage; the lady, as she recognised the intruder, with a startled cry of: