Читать книгу The Lonely Bride - Fred M. White - Страница 8

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The letter fluttered from Grace's hand and lay on the mossy turf at her feet. She could only stare helplessly at Rice, who watched her with a smile on his face that contained no suggestion of pity for her. The man seemed to be so absolutely sure of his triumph, so certain that he had won the game, that he did not even show a trace of exultation. The blow was so utterly unexpected that Grace had no words to express her feelings. It came to her mind vaguely that in some way Rice must have been responsible for the outrage on James Holder, or how could he have possibly obtained possession of that damning letter? It had only been written so short a time before, and yet here it was in the possession of the one man who was in a position to do Grace and her father such a deadly mischief. And yet during the time that Cattley had been closeted with Anstey, Rice had been a guest in the latter's house, and had not left the drawing-room for a moment. Grace found words to speak at length. She lifted the letter from the ground.

"I suppose it is no use asking you where you got this from?" she said. "You will not tell me."

"I shall tell you nothing," Rice replied. "It does not matter in the least how the letter came into my possession. It is sufficient to say that it is your father's handwriting, and if it is produced in court will most assuredly mean the conviction of your father. It is for you to say whether I shall use it or not."

Grace's mind went rapidly back to the scene of the night before. She recollected with vivid force the picture of her father as he mounted the stairs with the bloody stains on his shirt. This Rice would never know, but the memory of it filled Grace with a sure and bitter knowledge of her father's danger.

"Destroy it," she whispered. "Give it to me to destroy. Here is a chance to prove to me that you can play a noble part without an eye to sordid advantage."

"I do not play the game like that," Rice sneered. "You want me to trust you, and yet you would not trust me for a moment. I love you, Grace; I love you more than you can possibly imagine. And yet if fortune had not placed that letter in my way you would have slipped through my fingers. Still, it lies in your power to render that letter utterly harmless. On our marriage day I will hand the letter over to you and you can destroy it. If you decline to accept the inevitable, then I will disclose the letter to Baines before the day is out. Now decide for yourself."

Grace stood there white and helpless. It was a long time before she spoke again, though in her inmost heart she knew exactly what the answer must be. It would mean the loss of her own self-respect, the wrecking of her own happiness, the building up of a lifelong misery. She would have to appear false to Max, she would have to incur his anger, but her father's honor must be saved at any cost. She forced her trembling lips to speak.

"You have gone out of your way to make me hate and despise you," she said. "Your very presence fills me with disgust. And yet, because you hold in your hand my father's very existence and the honor of our house, I am forced to sacrifice myself to save them both. I will be false to my promise; I will send away the only man I ever cared for, so that I may become your wife. What Max will think of me I do not know, I hardly dare to think. But that will matter little to you so long as you have your own way. You are going to marry a woman who cannot but hate you from the bottom of her heart; in a year's time from now you will regret the step you have taken and be heartily sorry you ever forced me into this loveless alliance. But I have passed my word, and there is my hand upon it. You do not want me to say more."

Rice grasped eagerly at Grace's cold and lifeless fingers. He would have drawn her to him and kissed her lips, but she repelled him; her iciness quenched his fire.

"Not yet," she said. "That may come later, when you have won the right. Never till I am your wife will I endure a caress of yours. You may come in after dinner, and meanwhile I will tell my father what has happened. Now go, or I may change my mind, and forget everything save my own misery."

Rice hesitated for a moment, then turned away. Despite his victory, he had none of the air of a happy lover about him. For Grace had penetrated the armor of his selfishness, and the wound rankled. He told himself what manner of revenge would be his when once Grace had become his wife. Had the girl only dreamt of the hell of raging passion that filled Rice's heart she would have flung everything to the winds and taken back her promise.

But she had yet to plumb the depths of this man's depraved nature. She walked along now almost without sense or feeling. This terrible trouble and disgrace seemed to have numbed her heart and deprived her of all emotion. All through the day the same icy sensation held her in a merciful grip. As she sat opposite her father at dinner she found herself discoursing on most ordinary topics as if nothing had happened. Anstey appeared to be immersed in his own painful thoughts too deeply to notice the fearful change in Grace's appearance. Coffee had been served at length and the servants had departed before Grace approached the subject of Rice and Max. Anstey looked up as Grace mentioned their names.

"I have been talking to Max this afternoon," said Grace. "It may be disquieting to you to know, that your affairs are being talked about. It was Max Graham who told me and he heard the thing mentioned when he was dining with the Brooks last night."

"So it has got as far as this," Anstey said bitterly. "Well?"

"It explained a good deal to Max," Grace went on. "Naturally he saw at once the reason why you were discouraging his visits here and why you had become so friendly with Stephen Rice. You have been greatly mistaken in Max, who would have been your good friend had you only let him. He is going to London to-morrow, and when he comes back he hopes to provide you with the £20,000 that you so sorely need. It is practically all that Max possesses. Nevertheless, he is prepared to entrust it implicitly in your hands to do as you like with. I hardly think Mr. Stephen Rice would show a nobility of disposition like that."

"Is this really a fact?" Anstey cried. His whole manner had changed, he had become quite another man. "What a fool I have been—why did I not think of this before? Grace, we are saved. We can send Rice about his business and then you and your lover——"

"Max Graham is no longer a lover of mine," Grace said. "It was cruel, perhaps, to test you like this, but I wanted to know your real feelings before I went any further. You little know Stephen Rice, you little dream of the power that he holds over you. For your sake I have this afternoon consented to be his wife."

"In the face of what Max has promised to do?" Anstey protested. "The girl is absolutely mad."

"The madness of despair," Grace said. "We know that last night a letter was written to poor Mr. Holder asking him to visit the bank. That letter by some strange means had fallen into the hands of Stephen Rice, who showed it me this very afternoon. I read the letter—do you want me to say whose handwriting it was?"

A deep groan broke from Anstey; he buried his face in his hands, and Grace could see that his whole frame was shaking with uncontrollable emotion. She went on in the same dull, even tone.

"I am going to ask you nothing," she said. "I do not seek to pry into your secrets. But you know as well as I do that I am making this hateful marriage for your sake, and for the sake of the good name we bear. When I am Stephen Rice's wife——"

"When you are Stephen Rice's wife?" A startled voice came from behind Grace's shoulder. "My dearest girl, what do you mean?"

Grace turned suddenly to find that Max's eyes were bent upon her reproachfully. Evidently Max had stolen in whilst father and daughter were discussing the matter too earnestly to notice him. He held a telegram in his hand and this he dropped carelessly on the table as if it were now of no further importance. Grace rose from her chair, a white, frozen figure of misery and despair.

"I am glad you have heard that," she murmured, "because it saves me painful explanations. When I left you this afternoon I was the happiest girl in England, and now my misery is almost more than I can bear. Max, as you love me, and as you are strong, be merciful to me and force me to no explanation. The happiness of a lifetime can be wrecked in a few moments, as I know from bitter experience. A few words have wrecked mine—it is no longer possible for me to be your wife. I am going to marry Stephen Rice."

"This is no doing of your own," Max cried. "Besides, did I not tell you that the source of trouble was removed. I presume you mentioned the matter of our conversation to your father. I have just had this telegram from my trustees, and the money will be available at any moment."

"Too late," Grace said in the same dull, passionate tones. "If you don't believe me, ask my father."

Anstey looked up and echoed Grace's words feebly. He struck Max with painful force as being utterly changed and broken down during the last few hours. There was a furtive, pleading sort of look in his eyes, so different to the clear, commanding gaze that most men associated with Mark Anstey.

"There is something here that I cannot understand," Max said. "Are you not going to give me an explanation, Grace?"

"I cannot," Grace cried passionately. "It concern the honor of our house; it is no matter of mere money. I love you still; I shall love you so long as life remains to me; I hate and despise the man to whom I have given my promise, but that promise must be fulfilled if I die for it. I want you to take back your ring, Max; I want you to try and forget me, forgive me, and think as kindly of me as you can. If you have the slightest pity in your heart for the miserable girl who stands before you, no angry word——"

"Not one," Max said. "You are too good and pure to cause me pain unless there was some dreadful reason for it. I love you too well to reproach you; I can almost find it in my mind to honor you for the terrible sacrifice that you are making. But there are other ways of preventing a hateful marriage like this than by the use of force and violence. I was going on from here to-night to spend an hour or so with the Brooks, who asked me to take a hand at bridge. I know that Rice is dining there, and I shall have an opportunity of speaking to him afterwards. And if he does not come to you to-morrow and give you back your freedom I shall be greatly mistaken. And as to you Mr. Anstey——"

Anstey raised his hand as if to ward off a blow. It seemed an extraordinary thing that a man so strong and self-reliant should have fallen so low in so short a time.

"Don't blame me," he said, hoarsely. "Circumstances have been too strong for me; my misfortunes have deprived me of my strength. If you only knew everything, you would pity rather than despise me."

Hot words rose to Max's lips, but he restrained them in time. He took up his hat and moved towards the door, Grace followed him. Once alone in the hall he placed his hands upon her shoulders and looked down into her eyes. There was a tender smile upon his face and no signs of anger to be detected there.

"You love me still?" he said. "We love each other, and always shall. What the meaning of this cruel misfortune is I shall not ask. But I feel sure of one thing—you are making this tremendous sacrifice to save a man who is proving himself to be utterly unworthy of your devotion. If the worst comes to the worst I shall know how to act. But you will never be Mrs. Stephen Rice."

Max stooped and kissed the quivering lips of his companion—a gentle kiss, full of love and pity. For the first time since the full weight of the blow had fallen upon Grace the tears rushed into her eyes. She clung to Max for a moment.

"How good and kind you are," she said. "And yet how you make it harder to lose you. Oh, Max, if I could only speak, if I could only tell you everything. And yet——"

With a sudden impulse, Grace freed herself from the strong arms of her lover and vanished up the stairs in the direction of her room. Then very quietly, Max let himself out of the house, and walked slowly down the drive into the darkness.

"Poor little girl," he murmured to himself. "And to think that she is prepared to make this sacrifice for one so unworthy. Well, we shall see. It is you or I, Stephen Rice."