Читать книгу The Two Carnations - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 5

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Steven Wedderburn came home with Sir Harry and Ursula and instead of leaving them, as usual, at the door of their fashionable house, he asked the young baronet for a few minutes' conversation. Sir Harry, weary as he was, made an effort to be affable, and asked him up into the great withdrawing-room. Ursula gave them both the barest goodnight and swept upstairs to her room; she was thinking of one thing only, the fact that the Marquis de Champlain had, for the first time since she had known him, left without a personal farewell to her. She associated his silent disappearance from the ball-room with his message and his flowers, and the terrible conviction that he was slighting her was gaining greater mastery over her heart.

Mr. Wedderburn, hat in hand, watched her up the stairs, then followed her brother into the magnificent room that looked chill and forbidding in the blue light of dawn that poured through the unshuttered windows on the gilt furniture, the circular mirrors, the brocade and velvet hangings.

The baronet, a fair and handsome man whose aristocratic countenance was marred by a look of dissipation and indifference, flung himself along a sofa drawn up near the bare empty hearth, and, with difficulty repressing a yawn, said:

"What is your business at this hour, Wedderburn?" And he glanced at the ormolu clock on the chimney-piece that was pointing to near four.

Mr. Wedderburn, composed, alert and with the air of one sure not only of himself but of the man with whom he was dealing, answered quietly:

"You have a letter, Sir Harry, from the Marquis de Champlain given to you before you left the Assembly Rooms."

The baronet put his white hand into the gold-braided pocket of his claret-coloured cloak.

"Yes," he said indifferently, "I think it is a demand for Ursula's hand—I have been expecting it for some time. But it was a strange moment to choose."

He drew out the letter and began leisurely breaking the seal.

"I have the fellow to that epistle here," remarked Mr. Wedderburn, and he laid on the velvet arm of the sofa the note that he had found among the roses.

Sir Harry sat up, and some of the indifference left his face. "How did you get that?" he asked.

Mr. Wedderburn told him, briefly.

"By the la!" cried the baronet softly. He took the two letters, spread them out on his knee and read them both through carefully.

That addressed to him was a formal and rather haughty request for the hand of Miss Brent; he read this over twice, then intently re-read that intended for his sister.

"What are we going to do?" he asked rather helplessly.

Mr. Wedderburn, still standing, still serene and leisurely, told him of the incident of the carnation.

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Sir Harry. "You have gone monstrous far, Wedderburn."

That gentleman gave him a glance that was partly contempt, partly amusement.

"This match"—he pointed to the papers on the other's knee—"is not desirable for Miss Brent?"

"You know that."

"You would never permit it?"

"No. Who is the fellow? A foreigner, an adventurer for all I know."

Steven Wedderburn interrupted with a sudden fire.

"No need for these pretences with me, Sir Harry!" he cried. "The Marquis is well enough and a good match, but it does not suit you or me that he should marry your sister, and we are resolved to prevent it."

Sir Harry laughed sullenly.

"It would be easy enough," he said with a touch of malice, "if she did not favour him."

"I am well aware that she favours him," was the stern answer, "but that is not the question. She is going to be my wife, either by the ways of honour or dishonour, faith or unfaith. And you are pledged to help me."

The last words, though quietly uttered, were like a threat, and the baronet coloured faintly.

"You can be sure of me," he said, lowering his gaze.

"I hope so," returned Mr. Wedderburn, fixing his powerful eyes on the younger man. "I have waited long enough and now I must speak plainly," he continued. "Our acquaintanceship has been in the nature of a bargain"—his lip curled—"and you must forgive me if I use tradesmen's terms, Sir Harry, or if I put things crudely. Briefly, I mean to marry your sister or—"

"Ruin me?" finished the baronet, and his face showed somewhat ghastly in the increasing light of the spring day.

"Yes," said Mr. Wedderburn calmly. "You can never repay, I think, what you owe me?"

"No."

"You cannot without my help continue living in the fashionable world. Am I right?"

"Yes."

"If I withdraw my support, your debts would overwhelm you, and you would have nothing before you but suicide or the Fleet—am I right?"

"Yes."

"Therefore you will help me by every means in your power?"

"Yes." The word came heavily. Harry Brent did not gild the situation. He did not pretend to himself that he was settling a match for his sister that would make her the most envied woman in London. He saw that, for his own care and security, he was selling Ursula to a man she did not love.

He looked down helplessly at the two letters.

"What am I to do?"

"Answer the Marquis's letter—say the lady is already promised."

"And this?" He took up the note stolen from the roses.

"That she must never see. She must think he did not care. Champlain is leaving England in a few days, and Ursula's favour will very soon turn to hatred, and she will be glad to cover her mortification by the match you will propose to her."

Sir Harry rose.

"I have no final authority over her," he said. "Remember that, Wedderburn; she has as much courage, as much spirit, as much daring as either of us."

"I know," smiled Mr. Wedderburn. "I know."

"And if she dislikes you, as I fear she does, not all our tricks can persuade her to marry you."

"She can be conquered," said Steven Wedderburn; "and I can conquer her."

Sir Harry moved restlessly to the window.

"You do not know her as well as I," he said, staring out at the empty street; "and I fear that we make a compact that will recoil on our own heads."

"Leave that to me," said Mr. Wedderburn. "You at least shall not suffer—if I marry her under these terms I take the risks. Give me those letters."

The baronet handed them, and Steven put them carefully inside the inner pocket of his coat.

"Now write to the Marquis," he added.

Sir Harry came slowly from the window and seated himself before a heavy desk of ormolu and tulip wood that stood in one corner; the room was now light from end to end, and the first sparkles of sunlight were glittering in the gilt appointments of the chamber. Sir Harry glanced round the gorgeous apartment—everything unpaid for or paid for with Wedderburn's money!

"What shall I write?" he asked wearily, drawing a sheet of gilt-edged paper towards him.

Steven crossed over to him, and stood leaning against the wall looking down at him.

"I will tell you," he said.

The baronet headed the paper—"To the Most Noble the Marquis de Champlain"—and waited.

"Write this," dictated Mr. Wedderburn. "'Monseigneur,—I am honoured by your request for my sister's hand in marriage. I have also read the note conveyed to Miss Brent at the ball to-night, and at her request I am penning this reply to both.' Have you got that?"

The baronet wrote reluctantly.

"'When I tell you that the lady is already promised in marriage, and that the match will be shortly announced, you will understand that your letters were painful to me and to her, and will, I am sure, Monseigneur, excuse the lady from replying personally. I trust you will believe that we are duly sensible of the honour your lordship offers us and that we shall always be your lordship's sincere well-wishers...Monseigneur, your obedient servant.'"

Sir Harry wrote silently, then paused when it came to the signature.

"On my honour!" he cried, "I cannot send this—lie!"

"Sign," said Mr. Wedderburn curtly.

The younger man rose before the desk and flung down the quill; his face was haggard beneath the powder and the patches, and his pomaded curls hung dishevelled on his shoulders.

"I will go no further," he muttered; "I wish that I had not gone so far."

"Oh, weakness!" mocked Mr. Wedderburn. "What will this cowardice gain you now?"

"Cowardice!" repeated Sir Harry wildly; "nay, not cowardice, but honour holds me back!"

"Honour bids you pay your debts to me and complete the bargain we have struck—for the other kind of honour it is too late, Sir Harry, unless you disclose your position to the world and spend to-morrow night in a sponging-house."

Sir Harry gazed into the passionate, masterful face of the speaker and his own quivered.

"Aye," he answered hoarsely, "perhaps it would be better if I did—then Ursula could marry this man who loves her, and whom she cares for; but I cannot. You are right—I am a coward."

He took up the quill in a trembling hand and signed his name to the still wet letter.

"I think Ursula hates you," he said wearily; "how are you going to overcome that?"

For the first time that evening the dark face of Steven Wedderburn faltered in its haughty calm.

"Does she—hate me?" he asked, and his voice shook a little.

"I think she does."

"She has no cause."

"You stand between her and the man she—loves—aye, I truly think loves. That is enough. And if she knew of this night's work—oh, heavens, she would have cause enough to hate you!"

"She must never know."

"I am not likely to tell her of my disgrace," was the bitter answer.

"She must never know," repeated Mr. Wedderburn, "and it will be the Marquis, not me, whom she will hate."

Sir Harry folded up the letter.

"We do her and this young man a great wrong," he said.

"Who knows?" answered Steven. "He is a shallow young rake of a slender fortune; can he give her what I can? Can he care for her as I can? Give me the letter, I will deliver it at his lodgings on my way back to my own."

"You are sure that he is leaving England?" asked Sir Harry. "What if they should chance to meet and speak and uncover this plot?"

"I am sure that he is leaving England; I inquired at his Embassy and found that he was under orders to attend the Court. Besides, they have no chance to speak, nor will they wish to; both will be too utterly ruled by pride."

"God forgive us," said Sir Harry unsteadily as he sealed and directed the letter. "I hope that this may be for her ultimate happiness—before Heaven I do—for she is very dear to me."

Mr. Wedderburn took the letter from him.

"Do you think," he demanded with controlled passion, "that I would stoop to this if I did not think that I could make her happy—happier than she could be with this Frenchman?"

"You rely on your wealth," answered the young baronet; "you intend to buy her as you have bought me."

"Not entirely."

"But it is the money that makes you confident, that gives you the assurance of victory—the cursed money—and Heaven knows you may be right! She is fond of luxury, of all wealth can bring, and that is why you feel so sure of her."

"I think I can make her happy," repeated Mr. Wedderburn. "I believe that I can make her forget this young gallant. I know that I can satisfy her every need, and in this fashion I justify what I do now."

Sir Harry looked at him straightly. "You think that you can make her love you?" he asked.

A spasm passed over Steven's handsome features, and his eyes flashed brightly.

"I think I can," he replied.

"On this foundation?"

"On this foundation; have I not said that I can justify myself?"

"If you win—in the end—her heart as well as her hand, then you will have indeed justified yourself; but how shall I make my honour clean again?"

Mr. Wedderburn smiled.

"Your honour is not in my keeping, Sir Harry; I play with high stakes to gain my prize, your sister. From the first I told you my object and the means I proposed to gain it. I told you the price I was prepared to pay for your help and you accepted it; if you have any qualms now, it is not for me to soothe them."

"You put the brutal truth—brutally," smiled Sir Harry, pale to his disarranged side curls.

Mr. Wedderburn picked up his fawn-coloured roquelaure, his beaver, and his long white doeskin gloves from the chair where he had flung them.

"I warned you that I should use no polished terms," he remarked. "You must forgive my City breeding, Sir Harry."

The baronet laughed.

"You are a strange creature!" he exclaimed. "Why do you love her so? You must have had your choice of women as fair, as good, as accomplished, have you not? Come, Mr. Wedderburn, why do you love her so?"

Mr. Wedderburn fastened his roquelaure.

"That is not for discussion here," he said; his magnificent grey eyes had a flash in them and there was a kind of flash too in his voice. "It is my own affair," he added haughtily and fiercely.

"You hardly know her," persisted Sir Harry languidly and curiously. "She might be a shrew or a fool for all you can tell. How can a woman be judged at routs and parties, at Vauxhall or Bath, simpering behind the tea-table or stitching roses into a useless sampler? You do not know my sister; have you thought of that, Mr. Wedderburn? Perhaps the prize is not so wonderful!"

Mr. Wedderburn looked at him with a kind of fiery coldness.

"Why do you decry the wares you have to sell?" he asked.

The baronet's hands flew to his sword.

"By heaven," he began, flushing scarlet.

"Do not be a fool," interrupted Mr. Wedderburn, putting on his hat. "I have not insulted you, you insulted me by speaking so. What devil of perversity possesses you?"

Sir Harry sank on to the chair before the desk.

"You speak as if you despised me for what I have done," he said hoarsely.

"Perhaps I do."

Mr. Wedderburn was drawing on his gloves and gazing at the bright sunlight in the street.

"We will meet later in the day," he added pleasantly. "Au revoir."

Sir Harry made no answer, nor did he look up.

Mr. Wedderburn left the house quietly and turned his steps to Monsieur de Champlain's lodgings, where he roused the servants and left Sir Harry's letter.