Her wretched state was not improved by the visit of a veiled young woman later in the day. The visitor was undoubtedly a lady, but the story she poured into the unwilling ears was so astounding that Dorothy dismissed her indignantly before it was finished. The low-voiced, intense stranger, young and evidently beautiful, told her that Quentin's injuries were not inflicted by thieves, but by the hired agents of one who had cause to fear him. Before Miss Garrison could remonstrate, the stranger went into the details of a plot so cowardly that she was horrified—horrified all the more because, in a large measure, it sustained the charges made against her lover by Philip Quentin. When at last she could no longer endure the villifying recital she bade the woman to leave the house, hotly refusing to give countenance to the lies she was telling. The stranger desisted only after her abject pleading had drawn from the other a bitter threat to have her ejected by the servants.
“You will not hear me to the end, but you must give me the privilege of saying that I do not come here to do him or you an injury,” said the visitor, tremulously. “It is to save you from him and to save him for myself. Mademoiselle, I love him. He would marry me were it not for you. You think jealousy, then, inspired this visit? I admit that jealousy is the foundation, but it does not follow that I am compelled to lie. Everything I have said and would say is true. Perhaps he loves you, but he loved me first. A week ago he told me that he loved me still. It was I who warned the American gentleman against him, and my reason is plain. I want him to win. It would mean death to me if it were known that I came to you with this story. Do you bid me go, or will you hear me to the end?”
“You must go. I cannot listen to the infamous things you say about—about—him,” said Dorothy, her voice choking toward the end. A horrible fear seized upon her heart. Was this woman mad or had Quentin told the truth? A new thought came to her and she grasped the woman's hand with convulsive fingers. “You have been sent here by Mr. Quentin! O, how plain it is! Why did I not see through it at once? Go back to your employer and tell him that—” She was crying hysterically when the woman snatched away her hand, and drawing herself to full height interrupted haughtily:
“I have humbled myself that I might do you the greatest service in the world. You drive me from your presence and you call me a liar. All of that I must endure, but I will not suffer you to accuse this innocent man while I have voice to offer up in his defense. I may be some one's slave, but I am not the servant of any man. I do not know this American; he does not know me. I am my own agent and not his tool. What I have tried to tell you is true and I confess my actions have been inspired by selfish motives. Mademoiselle, the man you are to marry promised to make me his wife long before he knew you.”
“To make you his wife? Absurd! Men of his station do not marry, nor promise to marry, the grisettes or the—”
“'Madam! It is not a grisette to whom you are speaking. The blood in my veins is as noble as that which flows in his, the name I bear—and perhaps disgrace, God help me!—is as proud as any in all France. But I have not millions, as you have. My face, my person may win and hold the heart, but I have not the gold with which to buy the soul. You will pardon my intrusion and you will forgive me for any pang I have caused. He would not harken to the appeals from my breaking heart, he would not give me all his love. There was left but one course to preserve what rightfully belongs to me, and I have followed it as a last resort Were you to tell him that a woman came to you with this story, he would deny everything, and he would be lost to me, even though you cast him off in the end. It is not in my power to command you to protect the woman who is trying to help you. You do not believe what I have told to you, therefore I cannot hope for pity at your hands. You will tell him that I have been here, and I shall pay the penalty for being the fool, the mad woman. I am not asking for pity. If I have lied to you I deserve nothing but the hardest punishment. You have one way to punish me for the wounds I inflict, but it is the same to me, no matter how it ends. If you marry him, I am lost; if you cast him off and yet tell him that it was I who first sowed the seed of distrust in your heart, I am lost. It will be the same—all the same! If he cannot wed you, he will come to me and I will forgive. Madam, he is not good enough for you, but he is all the world to me. He would wed you, but you are not the one he loves. You are all the world to one whose love is pure and honest. If you would save him, become his wife. O, Mademoiselle, it grieves me so to see the tears in those good eyes of yours! Farewell, and God bless and keep you.”
XVIII. ARRIVALS FROM LONDON
Lady Saxondale and the young person with the stored-up wrath were met at the Gare du Nord by Mr. Savage, all smiles and good spirits. Quentin was rounding-to nicely, and there was little danger from complications. This fact coupled with the joy of seeing the girl who had been able to make him feel that life was not a shallow dream, sent him up to the two ladies with outstretched hands, a dancing heart and a greeting that brought smiles to the faces of crusty fellow-creatures who had not smiled in weeks.
With a deference due to premeditated gallantry, he shook hands first with Lady Frances. His ebullition almost swept him to the point of greeting the two maids who stood respectfully near their mistresses. Then he turned his beaming face upon the Arctic individual with the pink parasol and the palm-leaf fan.