Parlous Times: A Novel of Modern Diplomacy

"Pardon me," he interrupted, "but I couldn't think of violating your strict confidence," and he passed by her out of the room.

"That young man," said the Dowager, in summing him up to a friend, "has tact, but lacks reserve."

CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE PRICE OF LOVE

"Have you come to insult me, Mr. Kent-Lauriston?"

Isabelle Fitzgerald stood in a wooded recess of the park, beside a young sapling; the one no more fair and tall and glorious with the joy of living than the other. Kent-Lauriston was beside her, hat in hand, with just the trace of a cynical smile about his parted lips; but serious enough with it all, well realising the gravity of the task he had undertaken, and pitying from his heart the fair girl who stood white and scornful before him, her garden hat hanging from its ribbon, unconsciously held in her hand.

"Have you come to insult me, Mr. Kent-Lauriston?" She said it defiantly, as if it were a gage of battle.

"I have come to apologise to you," he replied quietly.

"You tell me that he has sent you to me. Well, I know what that means. I knew why you came to the Hall, I would have stopped you if I could. You were my enemy, I felt it the moment I saw you. I knew you would have your way then. What chance had an unfortunate girl, whose only hope rested in the love of the man she loved, as against one who has made hundreds of matches, and broken hundreds of hearts? You owe me an apology you think – it is very good of you, I appreciate it deeply," and she made him an obeisance.

"I've not come to apologise to you for any point that I've gained, but for the means I must employ to gain it."

"Really," she said, her eyes blazing. "This is a condescension. Are not any means good enough to cope with an adventuress like myself – a young woman who is deterred by no conventions, and no maidenly reserve; whose every art and wile is strained to lure on to their fate weak and unsuspecting young men. Is it possible that such a person has any rights that need be respected?"

"Really, Miss Fitzgerald," said Kent-Lauriston, placidly, "you surprise me. In addition to the numerous virtues, which I'm confident you possess, I'd added in my own mind that paramount one, of cool clear-headedness. This lady, I had told myself, is at all events perfectly free from hysteria or nervous affections; she can discuss an unpleasant subject, if necessary, in its practical bearings, without flying into a fit of rage, and wandering hopelessly from the point. It appears that I was mistaken."

"No," she replied brusquely, "you are not; You've summed up my character very well, but you must remember that you've nothing to gain or lose in this matter. You're merely playing the game – directing the moves of the pawns. The problem is interesting, amusing, if you like, but whether you win or lose, you've nothing wagered on the result. But the pawn! Its very existence is at stake – a false move is made, and it disappears from the board."

"Quite true! But the pawn has a better chance of life, if the moves are considered calmly, than if played at random; it is then inevitably lost."

"You're right," she said, seating herself on a grassy bank near by: "perfectly right. Let us talk this matter over calmly. I shan't forget myself again."

He seated himself beside her.

"Now frankly," she continued, "before you saw me, or spoke to me, you'd made up your mind to save your friend from my clutches, had you not? I beg your pardon – doubtless, you'd disapprove of such an expression – we'll say, you had determined to prevent him from marrying me."

"Frankly speaking, yes, I had."

"But you knew nothing about me; you could know nothing about me, except on hearsay."

"Pardon me – I knew your late father, and I was at Colonel Belleston's, when you ran off with his heir-apparent, and were not found till half the country-side had been searched, and the dinner quite spoiled."

"But Georgie Belleston was only eight, and I scarcely twelve. We had determined, I remember, to join a circus – no, he wanted to fight Indians; but it was childish nonsense."

"The spirit was there, nevertheless. But in the present case I was considering Mr. Stanley, I must confess, rather than yourself. The world, my dear young lady, is an open market, a prosaic, mercantile world."

"Don't you suppose I know that?"

"I'm willing to believe it if you wish me to do so. It will help us to understand the commonsense proposition that marriageable young men, like cabbages, have a market value, and that a young man like our friend, who has a great deal to offer, should – shall I be perfectly plain, and say – should expect a pretty handsome return for himself."

"And you didn't think that I'd much to offer," she said, laughing. "In other words, that you'd be selling your cabbages very cheap. Eh?"

Kent-Lauriston said nothing, but she saw the impression she had produced, and bit her lips in mortified rage. She wished at least to win this man's respect, and she was showing herself to him in her very worst light.

"I had, as you say," she continued, "nothing to offer Mr. Stanley but my love; but I dare say you don't believe in love, Mr. Kent-Lauriston."

"Not believe in love? My dear young lady, it forms the basis of every possible marriage."

"Does it never form the whole of such a union?"

"Only too often, but these are the impossible marriages, and ninety-nine per cent. of them prove failures, or worse."

"I can't believe you – if one loves, nothing else counts."

"Quite true for the time being, but God help the man or woman who mistakes the passion aroused by a pretty face or form for the real lasting article, and wagers his life on it."

"You've never married; you can, therefore, talk as you please."

"My dear Miss Fitzgerald, if I'd ever married, I should probably not talk at all."

"You don't regard our affair as serious?"

"Not on Mr. Stanley's side?"

"And on mine?"

"That we shall see later on; but my young friend is in his salad days, and he's not responsible, but he is almost too honest."

"I suppose you'll say I tempted him."

"N-o – but you let him fall."

"However, you were at hand to rescue him. I wonder you should have wasted your valuable time in going through the formality of consulting me over so trivial an affair."

"But it's not trivial. I thought it was till this morning, now I've changed my mind. It's very serious. I've a right to save my friend from making a fool of himself, when he only is the real sufferer; but it's a very different question when the rights of another person are involved, especially when that person is a woman."

"So you've come to me?"

"To persuade you, if possible, to relinquish those rights."

"For his sake?"

"No, for your own."

"Really – that's a novel point of view to take of the matter."

"You think so. I only want you to see the affair in its true light, to realise that the game isn't worth the candle."

"I think you'll find it difficult to prove that."

"We shall see. Suppose I state the case. Here are you, a charming young lady of good family, but no means, thrown on your own resources; in a word, with the opportunity of marrying a – shall we say, pliable– young man, of good official standing, and an undoubtedly large income and principal; who is infatuated – thinks he's fallen in love with you, and whom you really love. There, have I stated the case fairly?"