Lord Carse and Janet coming downstairs, and begged them to stay awhile, dreading, perhaps, a street encounter. But Lord Carse was bent on being gone immediately—and had not another moment to spare.
Chapter Three.
The Wrong Journey.
Lady Carse and her maid Bessie—an elderly woman who had served her from her youth up, bearing with her temper for the sake of that family attachment which exists so strongly in Scotland—were busy packing trunks this afternoon, when they were told that a gentleman must speak with Lady Carse below stairs.
“There will be no peace till we are off,” observed the lady to her maid. In answer to which Bessie only sighed deeply.
“I want you to attend me downstairs,” observed the lady. “But this provoking nonsense of yours, this crying about going a journey, has made you not fit to be seen. If any friend of my lord’s saw your red eyes, he would go and say that my own maid was on my lord’s side. I must go down alone.”
“Pray, madam, let me attend you. The gentleman will not think of looking at me: and I will stand with my back to the light, and the room is dark.”
“No; your very voice is full of tears. Stay where you are.”
Lady Carse sailed into the room very grandly, not knowing whom she was to see. Nor was she any wiser when she did see him. He was muffled up, and wore a shawl tied over his mouth, and kept his hat on; so that little space was left between hat, periwig, and comforter. He apologised for wearing his hat, and for keeping the lady standing—his business was short:—in the first place to show her Lord Carse’s ring, which she would immediately recognise.
She glanced at the ring, and knew it at once.
“On the warrant of this ring,” continued the gentleman, “I come from your husband to require from you what you cannot refuse—either as a wife, or consistent with your safety. You hold a document—a letter from your husband, written to you in conjugal confidence five years ago, from London—a letter—”
“You need not describe it further,” said the lady. “It is my chief treasure, and not likely to escape my recollection. It is a letter from Lord Carse, containing treasonable expressions relating to the royal family.”
“About the treason we might differ, madam; but my business is, not to argue that, but to require of you to deliver up that paper to me, on this warrant,” again producing the ring.
The lady laughed, and asked whether the gentleman was a fool or took her to be one, that he asked her to give up what she had just told him was the greatest treasure she had in the world—her sure means of revenge upon her enemies.
“You will not?” asked the gentleman.
“I will not.”
“Then hear what you have to expect, madam. Hear it, and then take time to consider once more.”
“I have no time to spare,” she replied. “I start for London early in the morning; and my preparations are not complete.”
“You must hear me, however,” said the gentleman. “If you do not yield your husband will immediately and irrevocably put you to open shame.”
“He cannot,” she replied. “I have no shame. I have the advantage of him there.”
“You have, however, personal liberty at present. You have that to lose—and life, madam. You have that to lose.”
Lady Carse caught at the table, and leaned on it to support herself. It was not from fear about her liberty or life; but because there was a cruel tone in the utterance of the last words, which told her that it was Lord Lovat who was threatening her; and she was afraid of him.
“I have shaken you now,” said he. “Come: give me the letter.”
“It is not fear that shakes me,” she replied. “It is disgust. The disgust that some feel at reptiles I feel at you, my Lord Lovat.”
She quickly turned and left the room. When he followed she had her foot on the stairs. He said aloud, “You will repent, madam. You will repent.”
“That is my own affair.”
“True, madam, most true. I charge you to remember that you have yourself said that it is your own affair if you find you have cause to repent.”
Lady Carse stood on the stairs till her visitor had closed the house door behind him, struggled up to her chamber, and fainted on the threshold.
“This journey will never do, madam,” said Bessie, as her mistress revived.
“It is the very thing for me,” protested the lady. “In twelve hours more we shall have left this town and my enemies behind us; and then I shall be happy.”
Bessie sighed. Her mistress often talked of being happy; but nobody had ever yet seen her so.
“This fainting is nothing,” said Lady Carse, rising from the bed. “It is only that my soul sickens when Lord Lovat comes near; and the visitor below was Lord Lovat.”
“Mercy on us!” exclaimed Bessie. “What next?”
“Why, that we must get this lock turned,” said her lady, kneeling on the lid of a trunk. “Now, try again. There it is! Give me the key. Get me a cup of tea, and then to bed with you! I have a letter to write. Call me at four, to a minute. Have you ordered two chairs, to save all risk?”
“Yes, madam; and the landlord will see your things to the coach office to-night.”
Lady Carse had sealed her letter, and was winding up her watch with her eyes fixed on the decaying fire, when she was startled by a knock at the house door. Everybody else was in bed. In a vague fear she hastened to her chamber, and held the door in her hand and listened while the landlord went down. There were two voices besides his; and there was a noise as of something heavy brought into the hall. When this was done, and the bolts and bars were again fastened, she went to the stair-head and saw the landlord coming up with a letter in his hand. The letter was for her. It was heavy. Her trunks had come back from the coach office. The London coach was gone.
The letter contained the money paid for the fare of Lady Carse and her maid to London, and explained that a person of importance having occasion to go to London with attendants, and it being necessary to use haste, the coach was compelled to start six hours earlier than usual; and Lady Carse would have the first choice of places next time;—that is in a fortnight.
Bessie had never seen her mistress in such a rage as now: and poor Bessie was never to see it again. At the first news, she was off her guard, and thanked Heaven that this dangerous journey was put off for a fortnight; and much might happen in that time. Her mistress turned round upon her, said it was not put off—she would go on horseback alone—she would go on foot—she would crawl on her knees, sooner than give up. Bessie was silent,
