CHAPTER XII
HEY! FOR FRANCE
During the time which elapsed between the eventful proceedings of that day and the time when my Lord Fordingbridge-agitated by receiving no news in Cheshire from his wife-returned to London, all those whom this history has principally to deal with met together with considerable frequency.
For, whether the clue was lost to the whereabouts of Elphinston and the Sholtos, or whether the Government was growing sick of the wholesale butchery of Jacobites which was going on in Scotland and England-though it would scarce seem so, since two of the lords in the Tower and some score of other victims were yet to be executed and their remains to be brutally used-at least those three friends were still at large. Archibald Sholto was in hiding at James McGlowrie's lodgings in the Minories, in the neighbourhood of which that honest gentleman was much engaged in the grain and cattle trade between London and Scotland and also Holland and France. Farther east still was Bertie Elphinston, he being close to the spot where the unhappy Lady Balmerino, his kinswoman, was lodged; while in the West End, or rather the west of London, at the Kensington Gravel Pits, and under the roof of no less a person than Sir Charles Ames, Douglas had found a home and hiding place.
As for Kate and her father, they were in Hanover-square, the guests of Lady Belrose, and were to remain as such until the former had had an interview with Fordingbridge. "For," said Kate to her friend who, although a comparatively new one, was proving herself to be very staunch, "then I shall know, then I shall be able to decide; though even now my decision is taken, my mind made up. Who can doubt that it is he who has done this? He and no other. No other!"
"Indeed, dear," replied her hostess, as she bade her black boy-a present from her devoted admirer, Sir Charles-go get the urn filled, for they were drinking tea after dinner, "indeed, dear, no one, I think, from all that you have told me. Yet if you leave him, what is to become of you and Mr. Fane? You have, you say-pardon me for even referring to such a thing-no very good means of subsistence. I," went on her ladyship, speaking emphatically, "should at least take my settlement. I would not, positively I would not, allow the wretch to benefit by keeping that. No, indeed!"
"If," replied Kate, "'tis as I fear-nay, as I know it is, I will not touch one farthing of his. Not one farthing. I will go forth, and he Shall be as though I had never seen or spoken to him."
"But," asked the more practical woman of the world, "what will you do, dear? You cannot live on air, and-which is almost worse-you cannot marry someone who will give you a good home. And you so pretty, too!" she added.
"Marry again!" exclaimed Kate, her eyes glistening as she spoke. "Heaven forbid! Have I not had enough of marriage? One experience should suffice, I think."
"It has indeed been a sad one," answered Lady Belrose, who had herself no intention of continuing her widowhood much longer, and was indeed at that moment privately affianced to Sir Charles Ames. "But, Kate, if your monster were dead you might be happy yet."
"No, no," the other replied, "never. And he is not dead, nor like to die. I am, indeed, far more likely to die than he-since the doctors all say I am far from strong, though I do not perceive it."
"But what will you do?" again asked the practical hostess. "How live? Mr. Fane has, you say, no longer sufficient youth or activity to earn a living for you at the fence school-can you, dear, earn enough for both?"
"I think so," Kate replied, "by returning to Paris. That we must do-there is nothing to be earned here. But, in Paris, Archibald Sholto has much influence in the court circles; he knows even the King and-and-the new favourite, La Pompadour, who has deposed Madame de Chateauroux. Also he is a friend of Cardinal Tencin, who owes much to the exiled Stuarts. It is, he thinks, certain that some place either at the court, or in the prince's household-if he has escaped from Scotland, which God grant! – or in the Chevalier St. George's, at Rome, might be found for me-a place which would enable me to keep my old father from want for the rest of his life."
"Kate, you are a brave woman, and a good one, too, for from what you have told me your father himself has behaved none too well to you, and-"
"I must forget that," the other replied, "and remember only how for years he struggled hard to keep a home for us, to bring me up as a lady. I must put away every thought of his one wrong to me and remember only all that he has done for my good."
Meanwhile Kate's determination to part from her husband-if, as no one doubted, he it was who had endeavoured to betray the others to the Government-was well known to her three friends; and therefore, with them as with her and her father, preparations were being hurried on by which they also might return to France. For them there was, as there had been before the invasion of Scotland and England, the means whereby to exist; Douglas and Bertie had not sacrificed their commissions in the French regiments to which they belonged, and Archibald was employed by the Stuart cause as an agent, was also a member of the College of St. Omer, and was a priest of St. Eustache. That Bertie Elphinston would ever have left London while his kinsman and the head of his house, Arthur, Lord Balmerino, lay in the Tower awaiting his trial and certain death was not to be supposed, had not a message come from that unhappy nobleman ordering him to go. Also, he bade him waste no time in remaining where he was hourly in danger and could, at the same time, be of no earthly good.
"He bids me tell you, Bertie," said Lady Balmerino, in a meeting which she contrived to have with the young man on one of those evenings when both were lodged in the Eastend, and while she wept piteously as she spoke, "he bids me tell you that it is his last commandment to you, as still the head of your house and the name you bear, to flee from England. The rank and title of Balmerino must die with him, but he lays upon you the task of bearing and, he hopes, perpetuating the name of Elphinston honourably. Also he sends you his blessing as from a dying old man to a young one, bids you trust in God and also serve the House of Stuart while there is any member of it left. And if more be needed to make you fly, he orders you to do it for your mother's sake."
After that Elphinston knew where his duty lay-knew that he must return to France. It was hard, he swore, to leave England and also, thereby, to leave the scoundrel Fordingbridge behind and alive, still he felt that it must be so. Fordingbridge merited death-yet he must escape it!
But he had one consolation, too. Ere long Kate would be back in Paris-it was not possible that her husband could be innocent-therefore he would sometimes see her. A poor consolation, indeed, he told himself, to simply be able to see the woman who was to have been his wife yet was now another man's-no power on earth, no determination on her part to sever her existence from Fordingbridge could alter that! – yet it was something. Consequently, he with the others set about the plans for their departure.
Now, to so arrange and manage for this departure, they looked to James McGlowrie, who had both the will and the power to help them.
An old acquaintance of his in Scotland, when both were boys who had not then gone forth into the world, McGlowrie had kept up an occasional correspondence with Archibald Sholto until the present time, and thereby had been able to afford him assistance and had proved himself invaluable when Fordingbridge informed against them. Indeed, had McGlowrie not known where Archibald Sholto was living when in London, Geordie McNab's information derived from the Scotch Secretary's Office could never have been utilized, and Archibald Sholto must at least have been taken. And now he was to be even more practically useful than before-it was in his cattle-trading boats that all were, one by one, to be conveyed to the continent. "Though," said Jemmy, as he arranged plans with them one night in a little inn at Limehouse where they were in the habit of meeting, and where there was little danger of their being discovered, "I can give none of ye any certain guarantee, so to speak as it were, of ye getting over in safety. Infernal sloops o' war and bomb-ketches, and the devil knows what else, are prowling about the waters looking for rebels, and as like as not may light upon the one or other of you."
"We must risk that," said Bertie. "Great heavens! what have we not risked far worse?"
"Vary weel," replied McGlowrie; "then let one of you begin the risk to-morrow night. And you it had best be, Mr. Elphinston. My little barky drops down the river then, and once you're round the North Foreland you will be safe, or nearly so, to reach Calais. Be ready by seven to-morrow night."
"Why do you select me to go first, Mr. McGlowrie? I have quite as many, if not more, interests in England than either Douglas or Archie."
"Um!" muttered honest Jemmy, who did not care to say that he thought a man who was philandering about after a married woman was best got out of the way as soon as possible, though such was, indeed, his opinion, he being a strict moralist. "Um! I thought the noble lord had laid his commands on ye to be off and awa' at anst. The head of the family must be obeyed."
"Also," said Archibald Sholto, "you have your mother to think of. We have no mother. Bertie, you had best go to-morrow night."
"And you have seen Kate," whispered gentle Douglas Sholto, who took, perhaps, a more romantic view of things-for he had known of their love from the first and, from almost envying them at its commencement, had now come to pity them, "have made your farewells. If you get safe to France you must of a surety meet again-for Fordingbridge is a villain, and she will keep her word and part from him-is it not best you go at once?"
"You and I have always gone together, Douglas, hand in hand in all things," his friend replied; "I like not parting from you now."
"Still let it be so, I beg you. Remember, once we are back in Paris all will be as happy as it has been before, or nearly so, and there will be no Fordingbridge there. He, at least, will not be by us to set the blood tingling in our veins with the desire to slay him."
"So be it," said Bertie, "I will go."
This being therefore decided, McGlowrie gave his counsel as to what was to be done. The "little barky" of which he had spoken was in the habit of taking over to Calais good black cattle in exchange for French wines (what did it matter if sometimes the bottles were stuffed full of lace instead of Bordeaux?), silks, and ribbons, and it was as a drover he proposed Elphinston should go. The duties would be nothing, and the assumption of them would be a sufficient explanation of his being on board.
"And then," said he, "when once you set your foot on Calais sands you can again become Captain Elphinston of the regiment of Picardy, and defy King Geo-hoot! what treason am I talking?"
It was the truth that he had seen Kate again since the night of the conflict at Vauxhall, and then, stung to madness by the renewed villainy and treachery of her husband, he had pleaded to her to let him seek out Fordingbridge and slay him with his own hands. But, bitterly as she despised and hated the man who had brought them such grief and sorrow, she refused to even listen to so much as a suggestion of his doing this.
"No, no, no!" she exclaimed, shuddering at the very idea of such a tragedy. "No, no. What benefit would it be to you or to me to have the stain of his blood on our hands?"
"It would remove for ever the obstacle between us," he said; "would set you free; would place us where we were before."
"Never, never," she replied. "I have been his wife-though such by fraud and trickery-and if he were dead, God knows I could not mourn him; yet I will not be his murderess, his executioner, as I shall be if I let you slay him. If he fell by your hand, I could never look upon your face again. Moreover, even were I hardened enough to do so-which I am not-do you not know that the French law permits no man to become the husband of a woman whose first husband he has slain? We should be as far apart then as ever-nay, farther, with his death between us always."
"I know, I know," he said, recognising, however, as he did so that there was no possibility of his taking vengeance on Fordingbridge, since by doing so he would thus place such a barrier between them. "Yet there are other lands where one may live besides France and England. There is Sweden, where every soldier is welcome; there is-"
"Cease, I beseech you, cease! It can never be. If in God's good time He sees fit to punish him, he will do so. If not, I must bear the lot that has fallen to me. Meanwhile be assured that once I find he has done this act of treachery, I shall never return to him."
"And we shall meet in Paris-that is, if ever I can get back there?"
"Yes," she answered. "We shall meet in Paris; for it is there I must go. There, at least, I must find a means of existence; though, since now we understand, since we have forgiven each other-is it not so? – 'twould perhaps be best that we should not meet again."
"No, no," he protested. "No, no. For even though this snake has crept in between us-so that never more can we be to each other what-what-my God! – what we once were; so that there must be no love, no passing of our days, our lives, together side by side-yet, Kate, we can at least know that the other is well if not happy; we can meet sometimes. Can we not? answer me."
"Oh, go!" she exclaimed, breaking down at his words and weeping piteously, as she sank into a chair and buried her head in her hands. "Go! In mercy, go! I cannot bear your words; they break my heart. Leave me, I beseech you!"
So-because he, too, could bear the interview no longer, and could not endure to see her misery-he left her, taking her hand and kissing it ere he departed, and whispering in her ear that soon they would meet again.
CHAPTER XIII
MAN AND WIFE
The hackney coach drew up at Lady Belrose's house in Hanover-square a couple of hours after it had left Kensington-square, and Lord Fordingbridge, descending from it, rang a loud peal upon the bell.
For some reason-the whereof was perhaps not known to him, or could not have been explained by even his peculiarly constituted mind-he had attired himself for the two interviews with great care. His black velvet suit, trimmed with silver lace-for he wore mourning for the late viscount-was of the richest; his thick hair was now confined beneath a handsome tye-wig, and his ruffles and breast lace were the finest in his possession. Yet he, knowing himself to be the unutterable scoundrel he was, could scarcely suppose that this sumptuousness of attire was likely to have much effect upon the woman who had deserted him for a cause which he had not the slightest difficulty in imagining. Perhaps, however, it was assumed for the benefit of the Duke of Newcastle, with whom he had had a satisfactory interview.
"Lady Fordingbridge is living here," he said quietly, but with a sternness he considered fitting to the occasion, to the grave elderly man who opened the door to him-a man whose appearance, Lady Belrose frequently observed, would have added respectability to the household of a bishop-"show me to her."
The footman looked inquiringly at him for a moment; he was not accustomed to such imperious orders from any of her ladyship's visitors, however handsome an appearance they might present. Then he said:
"Lady Belrose lives here. Lady Fordingbridge is her guest. And if you wish to see her, sir, I must know whose name to announce."
"I am her husband, Lord Fordingbridge. Be good enough to announce that, and at once."
The staid manservant gave him a swift glance-it was not to be doubted that many a gossip had been held below stairs as to the reason why Lady Fordingbridge had quitted and caused to be shut up her own house, only to come and dwell at his mistress's-then he invited his lordship to follow him into the morning room on the right of the door.
"I will tell her ladyship," he said, and so left him.
When he was alone, Lord Fordingbridge, after a hasty glance round the room, and a sneer at the portraits of a vast number of simpering young men which hung on the walls-her admirers, he considered, no doubt-took a seat upon the couch and pondered over the coming interview with his wife.
"It is time," he thought, "that things should draw to a conclusion. For," he said, as though addressing Kate herself, "I have had enough of you, my lady. You have long ceased to be a wife to me-never were one, indeed, but for a month, and then but a very indifferent spouse, a cold-hearted, cold-blooded jade; now it is time you should cease to be so much in even name. So, so. You shall be stripped of your borrowed plumage; we will see then how you like the position of affairs. I myself am heartily sick of them."
He had no premonition of what Kate might be about to say to him when she should enter the room in which he now sat; yet he had a very strong suspicion that her remarks would consist of accusations against him of having betrayed the Sholtos and Elphinston.
"Well, well," he said, – "let her accuse. I have the last card. It is a strong one. It should win the trick."
Yet at the same time, strong as any card might be which he held in his hand, he would have given a good deal to have known where at the present moment those three men might be harbouring whom he had endeavoured so strongly to give to the hangman's hands. And once, as a sudden thought came to his mind-a thought that almost made the perspiration burst out upon him-a thought that they might all be in this very house and appear suddenly to take vengeance on him for his treachery! – he nearly rose from his seat as though to fly while there was yet time. But, coward though he was, both physically and morally, he had strength to master his impulse, and, in spite of his fears that at any moment Elphinston, whom he had wronged the worst of all, might enter the room, to remain seated where he was.
Still his eyes sought ever the hands of the clock as moment after moment went by and his wife failed to come, until at last he was wrought to so high a pitch of nervousness that he started at any sound inside and outside of the house. A man bawling the news in the street or blowing the horn, which at that time the newsboys carried to proclaim their approach, set his nerves and fibres tingling; the laughter of some of the domestics in the kitchens below him had an equally jarring effect, and when aloud knock came at the street door he quivered as though the avenging Elphinston was indeed there. Then, at last, the door opened suddenly, and his wife stood before him.
He saw in one swift glance that she was very pale-she, whose complexion had once been as the rose-blush-and this he could understand. It was not strange she should be so. What he could not understand was the habit in which she appeared, the manner in which she was attired. Ever since she had become his wife he had caused her to be arrayed in the richest, most costly dresses he could afford; had desired, nay, had commanded, that in all outward things she should carry out the character of Lady Fordingbridge; that her gowns, her laces, her wigs, should all be suitable to his position.
Yet now she appeared shorn of all those adornments which his common, pitiful mind regarded as part and parcel of his dignity. The dress she wore was a simple black one, made of a material which the humblest lady in the land might have had on, without lace or trimmings or any adornment whatsoever. Also on her head there was no towering wig, nor powder, nor false curls; instead, her own sweet golden hair was neatly brushed back into a great knot behind. Nor on her hands, nor on her neck, was any jewellery, save only the one ring which, from the day he had put it on her finger, she had ever regarded as a badge of slavery.
"Madam," he said, rising and advancing towards her, while as he did so she retreated back towards the door, "Madam, I have come here to desire an explanation from you as to why I find you gone from my house and living under the shelter of another person's roof. And also, I have to ask," he continued, letting his eye fall upon the plainness of her attire, "why you present yourself before me in such a garb as you now wear? I must crave an immediate answer, madam."
"I am here to give it," she replied. "And since I do not doubt that it is the last time you and I will ever exchange words again in the world, that answer shall be full and complete. But, first, do you answer me this, Lord Fordingbridge. Was it by your craft that Mr. Elphinston and Douglas and Archibald Sholto were denounced?"
She spoke very calmly; in her voice there was no tremor; also he could see that her hands, in one of which she held a small packet, did not quiver.
"Madam," he replied, endeavouring to also assume a similar calmness, but not succeeding particularly well, while at the same time one of those strong waves of passion rose in his breast which he had hitherto always mastered when engaged in discussion with her, "madam, by what right do you ask me such a question as this? What does it concern you if I choose to denounce Jacobite plotters to the Government? Nothing! And again I ask why you have left my roof for that of the worldling with whom you have taken refuge, and why you appear before me in a garb more befitting a mercer's apprentice than my wife?"
"Your equivocation condemns you. Simeon Larpent, it was you who played the spy, you who were the denouncer of those three men. I knew that there could be no doubt on that score."
"And again I say, what if I did? What then? What does it concern you? What have you to do with it?"
"I have this to do," she replied; "but that which is to be done shall be done before witnesses," and stepping to the bell rope, she pulled it strongly, so that the peal rang through the house.
"Witnesses!" he exclaimed. "Witnesses! None are required. Yet, be careful; I warn you ere it is too late. If you summon witnesses to this interview, they may chance to hear that which, to prevent their hearing, you would rather have died. Be careful what you do, madam."
As he finished, the footman opened the door, and, without hesitating one moment, she said to the man:
"Ask the two gentlemen to step this way."
"Two gentlemen!" he repeated; "two gentlemen! So, this is a trap! Who are the two gentlemen, pray?" and as he spoke he drew his sword. "If, as I suspect, they are the two bullies-your lover, whom you meet at masquerades, whom you give assignations to, and his friend-they shall at least find that I can defend myself."
In truth, bold as he seemed, he was now in great fear. He expected nothing else but that, when the door again opened, Sholto and Elphinston would appear before him, and he began to quake and to think his last hour was come. His treachery was, he feared, soon to be repaid.
She made no answer to his vile taunt about her lover, nor did she take any heed of the drawn sword that shook in his hand; had she been a statue she could not have stood more still as she regarded him with contempt and scorn.
Then the door did open, and Sir Charles Ames and Douglas Sholto entered the room. The first he did not know; had, indeed, never seen him before; but at the sight of the other he grasped his weapon more firmly, expecting that ere another moment had passed the hands of the young Highlander would be at his throat, and that he would have to defend his life against him. To his intense surprise Sholto treated him with as much indifference as if he too had been a statue; after one glance-which, if disdain could have the power to slay, would have withered him as he stood-he took no further heed of him. As for Sir Charles Ames, he, observing the drawn weapon in the other's hand, smiled contemptuously, shrugged his shoulders, and then took his place behind Lady Fordingbridge and by the side of Douglas.
"Sir Charles and you, Douglas," she said, "forgive me for asking you to be present at this interview, yet I do so because I desire that in after days there shall be one or two men, at least, to testify to that which I now do." Then, turning towards her husband, who still stood where he had risen on her entrance, she said:
"Simeon Larpent, since first I met you-to my eternal unhappiness-your life has been one long lie, one base deceit. The first proposals ever made to me by you were degrading to an honest woman, were infamy to listen to. Next, you obtained me for your wife by more lies, by more duplicity, by more deceit. Also, from the time I have been your wife, you, yourself a follower of the unhappy house of Stuart by birth and bringing up, have endeavoured in every way to encompass the death of three followers of the same cause, because one of those men was to have been my husband had not you foully wronged him to me; because the other two were his and my friends."
She paused a moment as though to gather fresh energy for her denunciation of him; and he, craven as he was, stood there before her, white to the very lips, and with his eyes wandering from one to the other of the two listeners. Then she continued:
"For all this, Simeon Larpent, but especially for that which you have last done, for this your last piece of cruel, wicked treachery, for this your last bitter, tigerish endeavour to destroy three men who had otherwise been safe, I renounce and deny you for ever."
All started as she uttered these words, but without heeding them she continued:
"For ever. I disavow you, I forswear you as my husband. I have long ceased to be aught to you but a wife in name; henceforth I will not be so much as that. I have quitted your house. I quit now and part with for so long as I shall live your name, the share in the rank that you smirch and befoul. From to-day I will never willingly set eyes on you again, never speak one word to you, though you lay dying at my feet, never answer to the name of Fordingbridge. I return to what I was; I become once more Katherine Fane."
He, standing before her, moistened his lips as though about to speak, but again she went on, taking now from off her finger the one ring that alone she wore. Placing it on the table, she continued:
"Thus I discard you, thus I sever to all eternity the bond that binds me to you; a bond that no priest, no Church, shall ever persuade or force me into again recognising." And with these words she placed also on the table the package she had brought into the room with her.
"There," she said, "is every trinket you have given me, except the jewellery of your family, which you have possession of. At your own house is every dress and robe, every garment I own that has been bought with your money. So the severance is made. Again I say that I renounce you and deny you. From to-day, Lord Fordingbridge, your existence ceases for me."
It seemed that she had spoken her last word. With an inclination of her head towards those two witnesses whom she had summoned to hear her denunciation, she moved towards the door, while they, after casting one glance at him, the Denounced, standing there-Sir Charles Ames, conveying in his looks all the ineffable disdain which a polished gentleman of the world might be supposed to feel towards another who had fallen so low, and Douglas regarding him as a man regards some savage, ignoble beast-prepared to follow her.
Then, at last, he found his voice-a harsh and raucous one, as though emotion, or hate, or rage were stifling its natural tones-and exclaimed ere they could quit the room:
"Stay. The last word is not yet said. You, Katherine Fane, as you elect, wisely, to call yourself henceforth, and you, her witnesses, listen to what I have now to say. This parley, this conference, call it what you will, may justly be completed."
She paused and looked at him-disdainfully, and careless as to what he might have to say in this her final interview with him-and they, doing as she did, paused also.
Then he continued, still speaking hoarsely but clearly enough:
"You have said, madam, that you renounce and deny me for ever; that you are resolved never more to share my rank or title, nor again to bear my name. Are you so certain that 'tis yours to so refuse or so renounce at your good will and pleasure?"
"What, sir, do you mean by such questions?" asked Sir Charles Ames, speaking now for the first time. But Lord Fordingbridge, heeding him not, continued to address her, and now, as he spoke, he raised his hand and pointed his finger at her.
"You have been very scornful, very cold and disdainful since first we came together, madam, treating me ever to your most bitter dislike, while all the time every thought and idea of yours was given to another man-all the time, I say, while you continued to bear the title of the Viscountess Fordingbridge. Once more, I ask, are you so sure that this title was yours to fling away, the husband yours to renounce and deny in your own good pleasure?"
And his eyes glared at her now as he spoke, and she knew that the devil which dwelt in him had got possession.
"Be more explicit," she said, "or cease to speak at all. If I could think, if I could awake as from an evil dream and learn that I had never been your wife, never plighted troth with you, I would upon my knees thank God for such a mercy."
"Those thanks may be more due than you dream of. How if I were to tell you-?"
"What?" fell from the lips of all, while Douglas took a step nearer to him, and Sir Charles felt sure that in another moment they would be told of some earlier marriage. "What?"
For answer he went on, one finger raised and pointing at her as though to emphasize his remarks:
"You have taunted me often with the Jesuit education I received at St. Omer-at Lisbon. Well, it was true: such an education I did receive at both places. Only, madam-my Lady Fordingbridge! – Miss Fane! – have you never heard that one so educated may, at such places, receive other things? may become acolytes, priests? What if I became such? what would you then be-a priest-?"