The Wedding Gift

"A sweet chit," he flung in.

"I have talked with her," said her ladyship, a thought more sternly.

"Have you so?" said he, beginning at last to take her meaning. "Odds my life!"

"And she tells me that you are to be wed — you and she."

He clucked impatiently.

"The little fool!" Then he checked her anger, and laughed. "Faith! It cannot be that the Lady Mary Ormington is jealous?"

"Jealous!"

She hurled the word at him as though it were a missile. Then a smile of scorn twisted her lovely mouth. "Could I be jealous seeing that this morning I discovered you to be a stranger to me — a man whose acquaintance I had never made? For that Stephen Vallancey to whom I was betrothed was surely not the gentleman who stands before me. He never had life save in my fancy, and with that fancy he perished in this room a little while ago."

Consternation overspread his face.

"Stay, Mary — stay! You go too fast. You do not know."

"I know how you have beguiled the weariness of your sojourn here. I have it all from Lucy, who trusted me, believing me your good friend and cousin, as you had falsely told her.

Still he sought to carry it with a high hand.

"Pshaw! Listen, Mary. Am I to blame in that the little fool should come to rash conclusions?"

"It is quite as I supposed," said she.

But he swept on.

"What harm has come to her? She is a sweet child, a sweet playmate. But no more, believe me, Mary. I may have wandered with her by the stream, and talked of love and moonshine, and haply snatched a kiss or two. But, on my soul, 'twas all in play."

"I nothing doubt it, sir. And you would break her heart, and that would be in play; and your fine gentleman's conscience would have nought wherewith to reproach you. But break her heart you shall not. It is my good fortune to prevent it."

He stared, crestfallen. She explained.

"The King's Dragoon are at St. Mary Ottery, seeking, ferreting, inquiring. Within the hour they will be here. Depend on't. They will find you, and it will be best so. Better for her — less anguishing a thousand times that she should mourn you dead than mourn you faithless. You'll leastways leave a fragrant memory behind you."

His face had paled under its healthy tan.

"God!" he gasped. "Did ye not send me word that I no longer stand in danger?"

She looked him straight between the eyes, her face merciless.

"I was mistook," said she. "Ye stand in imminent danger. Yet if you love your life it shall be yours so that you swear to use it for that child's happiness, and fulfil the promise you have made her."

"I have made her none, " he thundered, angry now.

"Not in words, perhaps — though even that I doubt. But you have made her believe that you love her and that you are sincere."

"And so I do, faith! But if all love is to lead to marriage a man would—"

She cut him short.

"Your philosophy needs no expounding, sir. I know its shamelessness. You stand 'twixt life and death, Stephen. I await your choice."

For the first time in his shallow, amiably irresponsible existence he was conscious of guilt, stung by the shame of detection; and he stood sullenly silent a moment. Then with a shrug that was boyish in its petulance he turned aside and moved towards the window. Then he faced her again, his countenance in shadow.

"Are you bidding me to marry her?" he asked, his voice charged with incredulity.

"I am bidding you do no more than fulfil your undertaking."

"But it is monstrous!" he protested.

"It is," she agreed.

"Besides, are we not betrothed, Mary, you and I?"

"I thought I had made it clear that you are free of that."

"But I do not want my freedom. Mary," he cried petulantly, "I love you. You are the wife for me. I have never ceased to love you. As for this little rustic child. Oh, sink me! Can't you understand?" he ended impatiently.

"I think I can," said she, her voice ice-cold.

"But consider," he begged her. "How could I marry her? How could I? Why, you must see 'twere midsummer madness."

And half-sullenly he turned his shoulder upon her and stared through the window across the bridge and up the long dusty road. Then he rapped out an oath. He swung around, and his face had undergone a woeful change. It reflected abject fear.

"They are coming, Mary. They are coming — the soldiers!" he cried, and halted, dismayed, angered, speechless before her icy calm that even his imminent peril could not conquer.

"You have the less time in which to determine," she informed him.

He looked at her, breathing hard; realized that she was immovable, and clenched his hands despairingly.

"Tell me where I stand," he asked, his voice thickening.

Briefly she announced the terms of the pardon she had obtained for him.

"You depart for Ireland with your bride," she ended, "or I suppress the pardon and you hang."

"You cannot do it!" he cried. "You cannot!"

"I can and will," said she; and as he looked deep into her stern eyes, he doubted no longer.