THE SERIOUS SIDE OF MISS FITZGERALD'S NATURE
It may have been contrition for her shortcomings which induced Miss Fitzgerald to offer her services to the Reverend Reginald Lambert to assist in decorating the altar of the little church for the ensuing Sunday, and it may not. At any rate, she did offer them, and they were gratefully accepted.
She was dressed in a garb which would have befitted a postulant for a religious order, and her sweet seriousness, and altogether becoming demeanour, charmed the Reverend Reginald.
The old parson was, it is needless to say, a thorough nonentity, and the skilful attentions of his fair assistant were the more appreciated, because the more rare.
"It's very kind of you, my dear," he said, "to give so much of your time to helping an old man."
"I'm afraid I don't give up half enough. I think we should give ourselves to the serious side of life at least for a little while every week, don't you? We are so apt to devote ourselves to frivolities."
"I'm very glad to hear you say that. Young people are none too serious nowadays; but I'm sure you're too strong a nature to be wholly frivolous."
"I'm afraid not, but I often do things I don't care for, to keep myself from thinking. My life hasn't been all a bed of roses, Mr. Lambert."
"You surprise me," he said, sitting down in the front pew to get a better view of their united arrangement of potted plants. "That's very pretty, my dear. Now come and sit by me, and tell me all about it, and if an old man's advice——"
"Oh, I do so want advice," she said. "You can't realise what the life I lead means to a girl—my parents are both dead, you know."
"Yes, poor child. I remember; Mrs. Roberts told me. How sad!"
"I've no settled home— I knock about. I try my best, I do indeed, Mr. Lambert; but with no one to advise me—no older woman than myself who really cares—it is at times very hard."
"But you've relatives—Mrs. Roberts."
"Yes, of course, they're very kind, and all that; but a young girl needs far more than what she could ask of a remote relative. She needs watchful care, constant protection. You've had a daughter, Mr. Lambert."
"Yes, yes, I know. My dear Mary was a model girl, Miss Fitzgerald; a good child is a great blessing. I see your position."
"I'm sure you do. Try as one may, a young girl has not that experience which comes with age, her best efforts are sometimes misinterpreted— I've suffered keenly myself."
"My poor child," said the old rector, patting her hand in a fatherly manner. "My poor child! You yourself see the need of a guiding hand."
"I do, I do. Having no one to fight life's battle for me, I've become of necessity self-reliant."
"Of course, of course."
"It has been misinterpreted, misunderstood. I've been called—hard; worse— I've been thought——" Her voice broke.
"My dear child," said the old man, "you'll forgive my speaking plainly, but you should be married. You need a husband. Someone who will take the responsibility from you."
Miss Fitzgerald breathed a contented little sigh, and her bowed head leaned, oh, so lightly, against his shoulder!
"I hoped you would say that," she murmured.
"Is there someone—then—someone you love? You rejoice me exceedingly."
Resuming a more erect posture, she said earnestly:
"Tell me, Mr. Lambert, would you ever consent to perform a marriage—quietly—very quietly—say, with the knowledge of only the contracting parties and witnesses?"
"If there were good and sufficient reasons. Of course, if the young lady's parents were living, I should wish to be assured of their consent first."
"Oh!" murmured Miss Fitzgerald.
"But, in your own case, if you really wished it, though it seems unnecessary, I could make some such arrangement as you suggest, because no one would be affected but yourself, though if a large estate or title was involved it would be a very different matter."
His companion thought long and deeply; then, looking up at him, she said:
"Would you, would you, dear Mr. Lambert, accept my word for it that silence is necessary?"
"I—yes. I suppose so. But, Mrs. Roberts?"
"I can assure you that Mrs. Roberts approves of my marrying; but——" and she laid her finger on her lips.
"Well, as you please; but remember the responsibility rests with you; then there would have to be witnesses."
"I could promise that Lady Isabelle McLane would be present, and the best man would be the other."
"Quite so—but—when would you wish the ceremony to take place?"
"Say Sunday."
"But, my dear young lady—there are the fifteen days required by law—unless, of course, you have a special licence."
"Perhaps there is a special licence."
"Of course in that case everything is easy—but do nothing rash. Marriage is a most solemn covenant, and I should strongly advise that you speak to Mrs. Roberts. Indeed, I hardly know if I——"
"I have your word, Mr. Lambert. I'll come to you to-morrow, may I? and you'll talk to me earnestly, very earnestly, about it all. It will be decided then—and if I should wish it before early service Sunday morning, you would help me, I know. But remember, it's a secret, and oh, you're so kind!" And taking his hand, she kissed it.
"But, my dear," stammered the old man, quite flustered by this unexpected mark of affection, "you haven't even told me the gentleman's name."
Bending over, she whispered softly, "Lieutenant Kingsland," and fled out of the church.
In the light of the events of the morning, Miss Fitzgerald was naturally desirous of becoming better acquainted with the appearance of a special licence, and in the seclusion of the billiard-room, Lieutenant Kingsland was able to gratify her curiosity.
"Quite an expensive luxury, I've been given to understand," she said reflectively, regarding the parchment.
"Yes," admitted Kingsland regretfully, "it means a special messenger to the Archbishop, wherever he may happen to be. He never's by any chance at 'Lambeth' when you want him, and fees all along the line."
"A matter of forty pounds, I've been told."
"Well, call it thirty. I know the crowd."
"I shouldn't have suspected you of being ecclesiastical."
"It's a long story, and not to the point. Now, what have you done?"
"Considering that you were thoughtful enough to procure that licence, I've done everything."
"Bravo! When can the ceremony take place?"
"Before early service Sunday morning, say a quarter to eight."
"The sooner the better. I'm a thousand times obliged. You're a little brick, and I shall never forget it."
"I shall ask for a return some day," she said.
"And you shall have it, no matter what. Is there nothing more?"
"Only this. You know Mr. Lambert is somewhat aged, very blind—don't forget that—and a trifle deaf; so, though I assure you I never said so, I'm quite sure he is under the impression that you're going to marry—me."
"But I don't understand."
"Mr. Lambert informed me that in the case of a person of importance, or one whose parents were living, he couldn't perform the ceremony privately—that is, as privately as you would wish; but as regarded myself, an orphan—you see?"
"But the name?"
"Are we not both Isabelles? Besides, he is old, and deaf, and nearly blind, and the bride and I will both be closely veiled, under the circumstances. If we should appear to have signed our names in the wrong places in the registry—why, it's a stupid blunder that any one might make on such a trying occasion."
"But how account for Lady Isabelle's presence?"
"He asked me concerning the witnesses, and I promised that her Ladyship would be there. As for the other?"
"My best man will serve."
"Who is he?"
Kingsland laughed.
"Wait and see," he said. "He's an old friend of yours. Anything else?"
"Yes, two things. Keep a still tongue in your head, and have the bride there to the minute."
"I promise. Belle, you're the best friend a man ever had."
"Not at all. I'm only doing you a service—for a service in return."
"What is that?"
"I don't know, I'm sure; but any woman who lives the life I do is sure, some day, to want a friend who is sufficiently in her debt—to—well, do anything that may be needful. You understand?"
"Done!" he cried, and wrung her hand.
"Oh, by the way," she added, "I've given the Marchioness her tip, and I don't imagine Jimsy's life will be worth living in consequence."
"Couldn't you help to make it a little more bearable—for instance?" insinuated the Lieutenant.
"It takes two to make a bargain of that sort," she returned.
"All right," he said, laughing. "I'll see that Little Diplomacy gets a steer in your direction," and he started to leave the room.
"No; I forbid you to do anything of the sort," she called after him.