SCENE XXV

As the carriage rolled homewards on the Bath Road, Lady Standish, both hands folded over the mysterious letter, sat staring out of the window with unseeing eyes. The dawn had begun to break upon a cloudless sky; the air was chill and brisk; mists wreathed white scarves over the fields. She felt conscious in every fibre of her being that Sir Jasper was eagerly contemplating her in the cold grey light. Heart and brain were in a turmoil; the anguish, the violent emotions, the successive scenes of the last forty-eight hours passed again before her mind like a phantasmagoria. Partly because of Mistress Bellairs's advice and partly because of a certain womanly resentment, which, gentle as she was, still reared itself within her, she did not even cast a look upon her husband, but sat mutely, gazing at the land. Presently she became aware that he had slid an arm behind her waist. She trembled a little, but did not turn to him.

"Julia," said he, in a muffled uncertain tone, "Julia, I—I have done you injustice." Then, for jealousy is as ill to extinguish as a fire that smoulders, a flame of the evil passion leaped up again with him. "But you must admit," said he, "that I had cause. Your own words, I may say your own confession——"

Lady Standish turned her head, lifted heavy lids and for a moment fixed upon him the most beautiful eyes in the world.

"Nay," said she, "I made no confession." Her tongue trembled upon other protestations, yet Kitty's warning carried the day.

"Tell me," said he, and bent to her, "tell me was it Lord Verney after all?"

Lady Standish again raised her eyes to his face, and could such a thing have been possible in a creature whose very being was all tenderness, he would have sworn that in her gaze there was contempt.

"Sir Jasper," said she, "it never was Lord Verney!" And then she added: "Has there not been enough of this?"

As she spoke she moved her hands and involuntarily looked down at the letter she held. Then she sat as if turned to stone. The letter was in Sir Jasper's writing and addressed to Mistress Bellairs!

"What have you there?" cried he.

"Nay," said she, "I know not, for 'tis not my letter. But you will know." And she held it up to him, and her hand did not tremble, yet was a cold fear upon her. "You wrote it," she said. He stared and his countenance changed, utter discomposure fell upon him.

"Julia," cried he, "Julia, upon my honour! I swear 'twas nothing, less than nothing, a mere idle bit of gallantry—a jest!" As he spoke he fell upon one knee in the chaise, at her feet.

"Then I may read it?" said she.

"Ah, Julia!" cried he, and encircled her with his arms. She felt the straining eagerness of his grasp, she felt his heart beat stormily. With a sudden warmth she knew that after all his love was hers.

Then she had an inspiration, one worthy of a cleverer woman: but love has his own geniuses. She disengaged herself from his embrace and put the letter into his hand.

"Take it," said she.

"Julia," he cried, and shook from head to foot, and the tears sprang to his eyes, "I never gave her a serious thought. I vow I hate the woman."

"Then tear it up," said Lady Standish, with a superhuman magnanimity that almost turned her faint.

He rose and tore the letter in shreds (quickly, lest she should repent) and flung them out of the window. She watched the floating pieces flutter and vanish. In her secret soul she said to herself:

"Mistress Bellairs and I shall be very good friends at a distance!"

Her husband was kneeling at her feet again. "Angel," cried he pleadingly, and once more she was in his arms; and yet his jealous heart kept growling within him, like a surly dog that will not be silenced. "Julia," said he in her ear, "but one word, one word, my love! Julia, is there anyone, anything between us?"

"Oh, that," she said, and smiled archly, "that, sir, you must discover for yourself." Her head sank on his shoulder as she spoke.

"You torture me!" he murmured. But she knew that he had never kissed her with such passion in all his life before.

*****

As her chaise followed on the road, some hundred yards or so behind Sir Jasper's, Mistress Bellairs, sitting beside Lady Maria (who snored the whole way with rhythmic steadiness) gazed across the livid fields towards the low horizon where the slow fires of dawn were pulsing into brightness. She was in deeply reflective mood.

In her excited, busy brain she revolved many important questions and weighed the gains and losses in her game of "Love and Hazard" with all the seriousness of the gambler homeward bound after a heavy night.

"At least," she thought, with a little sigh, but with some complacency, "I did a vastly good turn to my Lady Standish. But the woman is a fool, if a sweet one, and fools are past permanent mending. I did well," thought she, "to condemn the Calf—there is no doubt of that." She glanced at Lady Maria's withered countenance, unlovely and undignified in her stupor—— "The menagerie would have been the death of me, promptly.... But, my poor O'Hara! How could I ever have called him a cucumber? There was love for the taking, now—yet no! Worshipper, vastly well; but husband? not for me, not for me! Bless me," she cried to herself testily; "is a woman to have no choice between mid-winter, green spring, or the dog days? If I ever allow myself to be abducted again, 'twill be with your Man of the World—one with palate enough to relish me without wanting to swallow me at a gulp."

She paused in her train of thought to laugh at the recollection of Mr. Stafford's parting speech. "There is an easy heart for you!" she murmured. "A gallant gentleman, with as pretty a wit as O'Hara himself, and every whit as good a leg. Perhaps," thought Mistress Kitty, yawned and grew sleepy; nodded her delicate head; dreamed then a little dream and saw a silver Beau in the moonlight, and woke up with a smile. The spires of Bath Cathedral pierced silver grey through a golden mist; far beneath her gaze, as the chaise began to tip the crest of the great hill, like a silver ribbon ran the river. "Perhaps.... We shall see," said the widow.

The End