CHAPTER XXI.

TEMPLE Meredith in New York--like “our army in Flanders”--swore terribly.

Miss St. Pierre’s long-lost letter still lay, among the invitations to parties and weddings and other delicate and flimsy missives, in the darkness of his father’s desk in Marston, to which the old gentleman’s mistake had consigned it.

As Meredith received from time to time his mail, which was forwarded to him, he would eagerly scan the superscription of the envelopes, then, in deep disappointment, thrust the letters into his pocket, unread for hours. He had his own reasons for attaching a peculiar significance to her long-continued silence. The last letter he had written to her, which had apparently failed to elicit a reply, was one that could in no degree be considered in the same category with their previous correspondence as counsel and client. To be sure, it had some slight preliminary sentences, relative to matters of business, as a pretext, but then it meandered off into a strictly personal vein, and it filled four large and closely-written pages. Not a love-letter, by any manner of means; it merely breathed a respectful friendship, which, however, held a subtle but unmistakable suggestion of a latent faculty for vast expansion. Now this wily young lawyer had intended this as a tentative proceeding--in his own jargon, as a “fishing bill.” He had felt, for the first time in his life, self-distrustful, and that he needed encouragement. Their intercourse had hitherto been on the basis of counsel and client,--peculiarly informal, professionally speaking, peculiarly formal in a social point of view. He had been altogether unable to decide in what esteem she held him, apart from his position as her adviser, apart from that vast legal lore on which she relied so implicitly. But if she should respond to his attempt to awaken a personal interest, he would take heart of grace.

So the fishing bill was carefully prepared and duly filed--and it caught nothing. He had hardly realized how fully he had expected an answer, how strong were his hopes, until days and weeks sped by and brought him only grievous disappointment. There was an extreme mortification in all this. And thus it was that Temple Meredith, smarting with wounded pride, blasphemed, and said in his wrath that he was the only damned fool (_sic_) in America who could contrive to get into the position of being rejected before he had offered himself. She refused even his friendship; no doubt she infinitely scorned those delicate intimations of a still deeper feeling which the young lawyer had carefully and craftily incorporated into the instrument. He remembered them all. He remembered them with a rush of blood to his face and a plunging heart. He remembered the foolish hopefulness with which he had drawn it up. He had thought it a masterly performance at the time. He had wished to avoid “rushing things” and speaking prematurely. And now she would not give him an opportunity of speaking at all. If he had not put his fate to the touch so soon--so fatally soon; if he could only have waited for a time! But no! and it was that evil thing, a lawyer’s busy pen, which had brought all this woe upon him, and thrown him out of Cupid’s court. And so he swore terribly.

The thermometer in New York was the wonder of the country during Temple Meredith’s sojourn in that city.

He grew callous as to how long that sojourn should continue. At one time he contemplated writing to her to explain that he was prevented by business from keeping his promise to be in Chattalla on the 28th of June. But why should he write? what did she care how he came or went? That day was a long day in New York as well as in Tennessee.

When he returned home he received after a short interval a letter which had been forwarded to New York, arriving there after his departure, and following him to Marston. As he caught sight of the delicate chirography he seized it with eager hands, tore the envelope open, and while he read, dismay overspread his face. The fair writer curtly and coldly begged to call his attention once more to the matters contained in her previous communication.

“There is some terrible mistake here,” he exclaimed. “A letter has gone wrong, and it has played the very deuce, I’m afraid. Did nothing come for me except the mail you forwarded?”

“No,” replied his father decisively; “everything was sent on.” After a moment’s reflection he repeated, “Everything was sent on--except, I believe, some wedding-cards and such like.”

“Where are they? By some chance the letter may be among them.”

When at last the package was drawn from the pigeonhole where it had been so methodically lost, Temple Meredith had no time for the somewhat unfilial criminations that had risen to his tongue. After anxious perusal of the inclosed letter from Fortescue’s lawyers, he caught up the newspaper, glanced at the time-table of the Marston and Chattalla road, hastily made his preparations for the journey, and on the afternoon of the same day his card was brought to Antoinette. She had lapsed into despair. It had seemed impossible that she could ever hear from him again. The slow torture of the past few weeks had been sharpened with a keen sense of perpetuity. Now she felt stunned with surprised relief, and tried in vain to brace her nerves for what she must say to him and what he would say to her. Through the open door of the library he caught a glimpse, as she came across the empty drawing-rooms opposite, of her black-robed figure; a stray sunbeam gilded her blonde hair; her face was flushed, and he noted that expression of pathetic appeal which it had acquired in place of the sweet immobility it was wont to wear. Somehow that gave him a more adequate idea than anything else could have done of all she had suffered; it roused within him an unjust self-reproach. He could hardly endure to meet her as he rose hastily and advanced. She suddenly lost her self-control when she had entered the room. She leaned back against the door as if for support. She cast one glance upon him, and burst into tears.

Perhaps it was well for Temple Meredith that he was a lawyer, and expert by habit in marshalling together effective points and swiftly exploiting an argument. So well did he plead his cause that he had made the whole position of affairs, from the loss of the letter to the state of his feelings, perfectly plain to her in the few moments that they stood together by the door. And all the time he held her hand in his, and she did not attempt to withdraw it.

“What did you think of me?” he exclaimed at last, in retrospective dismay.

“I knew it was some strange accident,” she faltered; “I couldn’t believe you had forgotten me.”

“Forgotten you!”

Then she turned away, and once more fell to sobbing. He looked at her in great anxiety. He began to understand that something was involved in all this of far deeper significance than those merely monetary interests. Something had happened during his absence to grieve her greatly.

He sat down beside her and once more took her hand.

“What is it?” he said, gently. “Tell me what it is that troubles you?”

She made no reply.

“I don’t wonder that you hesitate to trust me, after all this,” he continued. “I only wish I knew, so that I might say something to comfort you.”

“Nothing can ever comfort me,” she declared, in a burst of tears. “And yet I know it is false, whatever it may be. It’s not that I believe it, but other people may. That’s the reason I can’t tell you. But I’ve intended to tell you. I’ve waited for you because I can’t trust any one but you.”

“Then tell me,” he urged.

She was unobservant of the effect of her words as she sobbed through her pathetic little account of the scene with Brennett on the moonlit portico, and explained the interpretation she had placed upon his mysterious hints and his motive in hazarding them. She was hardly conscious that Meredith’s hand, which still clasped hers, was trembling, and that there was a change in his voice intimating a tense repression of feeling. He did not interrupt her. He spoke only after she had finished her story.

“Where did you meet the man?”

“Here. That’s the strangest of all. He seems to be a thorough gentleman as far as appearance and association go. They are all completely deceived as to his real character.”

“Where is he now?”

“At Mrs. Percy’s. He is making her son a long visit.”

She looked up--an extreme surprise mingled with the tears in her eyes. Meredith in ominous silence had risen, and was glancing hastily about for his hat. His face was stern and hard. She divined his intention from its expression.

“I thought I might trust you,” she exclaimed. “This is the reason I didn’t tell General Vayne. He would have been rash. He would have taken my position into consideration only as his daughter’s guest, who had been threatened and intimidated in his house. He would have felt that his own dignity was involved. But you! I thought _you_ would care only for my interest. And now for the luxury of calling that man to account you will have a great sensation, and it will bring out the whole story,--the wicked fabrication that will seem the truth,--and it will drag my name into the newspapers. It will all seem worse than it is. You will have the satisfaction of horsewhipping or pistolling the man, because _you_ are angry, and _I_ shall have to take the consequences and the publicity.”

Meredith paused. He could not overlook these considerations. He felt the weight of her argument. He stood, his hat in his hand and his intention vacillating.

“You must not see him at all,” she persisted. “Promise me that you will not. You are angry on my account. You think you are fighting my battles. But you are taking the course of all others I most deprecate. Ah, it is hard,--hard that there is nobody who will think for me, and whom I can trust!”

He came back, and again sat down beside her. “Don’t tell me that,” he entreated. “It is the pride of my life that you have said to-day you could trust no one but me. I will do whatever you wish.”

“And what I wish you to do,” she exclaimed in increasing agitation, “is to see Fortescue’s lawyers and make terms with them. Offer them whatever they will take. Get the compromise through. Get it through at once, and have it over.”

He looked at her in surprise. “Don’t you think you are very precipitate?” he said. “This affair is a most transparent device. The man is merely trying to frighten you into a compromise, so that he can collect his debt on Fortescue.”

“I’ve thought of that. But can I risk it? Suppose we are mistaken. Fortescue knew my people before I was born. My father, my mother, they have been dead for twenty years. I never knew them. How could I disprove any lie he might tell? How do I know what innocent circumstance he may contort into such shape as to serve his wicked purposes. It’s so vague; that makes it all the more terrible. That lie must touch them or it would be impossible to make it useful in coercing me into a compromise. The attempt proves that. Do you think I can keep the property at such a price,--the price of their good name? You see I have no choice.”

“There is no secret,--not even a lie,” said Meredith. “That rascal threw out the idea merely as a chance suggestion. If you would allow me to go to him I could wring from him a retraction of every word he spoke to you--”

“I will not,--I will not,” she interrupted. “I have told you how disastrous that would be to me.”

“I only want to convince you that the whole thing is only a most audacious attempt to extort money. I dare say Fortescue has never heard of this move. It is that incomparable villain’s own device.”

“But do you _know_ it? Shall I risk everything on a surmise? Will you take the responsibility of advising me to defy the man? It was such a bold thing. He couldn’t have known that I wouldn’t ask questions. He was ready to tell the lie, and he was prepared to support it.”

“But a compromise would give you no immunity. They would presently renew their demands and threats in the hope of extorting more money still.”

He looked at her with earnest eyes. All the lawyer within him revolted at the idea of thus tamely submitting to blackmail. It seemed hardly less wicked than weak.

“Then they could take the whole property,--every cent.”

“And still they might tell it.”

“Then, you know, I couldn’t help it. It would be like a stroke of lightning. It would be my hard fate. But my duty would have been done. I should have stood between the dead and calumny as long as I could. I should not have chosen money rather than their good repute. I can’t keep the property now. I can’t haggle and barter over their graves. Oh, no; I can’t do that.”

Her soft lips were quivering; her eyes had filled again.

“Oh, don’t distress yourself,” he cried. “Don’t talk about it any more.”

“I can’t think of anything else,” she faltered.

“But don’t cry. See here. I want you to tell me all that that man said about Fortescue’s case. It may be useful. Tell me what he said.”

It was not difficult for Antoinette to recall all the details of the conversation. She had gone over it often in the deep stillness of the perfumed summer midnight, as she lay awake and could not sleep because of her unquiet thoughts. She became more calm as she rehearsed it, and he grew graver still. A pretty strong showing he considered it, for he believed that Fortescue’s visit to the United States during the suspension of the statute of limitations would not be held to operate as a removal of the disability. In his opinion the statute began to run against Fortescue only when he landed in New York early in the spring of ’71. He resolved to observe special caution in his advice to Miss St. Pierre. If he should counsel her to refuse the compromise, it might chance that Fortescue would be able to sustain his claim to her whole estate, and the story of which he seemed disposed to make such unscrupulous use might prove, when spread abroad, as disastrous as if it were true. Thus she would lose heavily both in pecuniary considerations and in the more important matter of feeling. Meredith appreciated his weighty responsibility in view of this possibility.

“What is your opinion?” she asked at last.

He made an effort to shake off his anxiety for the present.

“That it will bear a good deal of tough cogitation,” he said, with his imperturbable aspect. “Suppose we agree upon this: to postpone deciding upon the compromise for a week. That will give me an opportunity to look into the affair. I’ll come again to Chattalla next Tuesday. Then we’ll talk it all over again and determine on our best course.”

She assented, and for a few moments sat gravely silent. Meredith noted her downcast eyes and troubled face. With an effort to conjure into it something of its wonted impassive brightness, he said, remembering her former ambition to explain things “like a man,”--

“How well you stated those points just now--positively like a lawyer.”

She looked at him and smiled faintly.

“I couldn’t have got them more distinctly from some ‘big wig’ arguing in court.”

She laughed at this as at a jest. Still she was visibly flattered.

Her pride in her capacity for business suggested to him the recollection that it was a hollow assumption, for she was still unconscious that she owed him any money for his professional services. He thought of his father and the “golden rule of practice” in inward and unfilial merriment, and he offered himself a glorious bet that he was the only lawyer in America who had ever taken as a retainer his client’s heart.

When he was gone at last it seemed to Antoinette, with her rigid sense of propriety, that it was incumbent upon her to confide to Mrs. Kirby, as her chaperon _pro tempore_, the circumstance of this very recent engagement to Temple Meredith.

“Now this is very nice--very nice indeed,” said the old lady, beaming with gratification. “I don’t know Mr. Meredith, but I have no doubt he is _all_ a young man should be, for his grandmother was Leonora Archer--nice people, the Archers! And his mother was Louise Lapice--and they are a good family too--and I feel confident that you will be very happy.”

It never occurred to Mrs. Kirby that a nice grandmother might, in the perverse course of events, have a grandson who was not at all nice. The grandmother she considered important in the premises, and thus she deftly argued. One pang of pity for Maurice Brennett’s blighted affections--he was so talented! But then, she thought, brightening with reassurance, no doubt Temple Meredith was talented too, for was not his grandmother Leonora Archer!

And this was Mrs. Kirby’s moan for Maurice Brennett.

She had no intention of betraying Antoinette’s confidence. She fancied that a secret told to her was as safe as if it were locked in the bosom of the earth. She piqued herself on her trustworthiness. Thus she was prone to error through lack of precaution, for she set no guard upon her tongue, believing that member to be the most discreet organ of its kind.

It chanced that she spent the following day with Mrs. Ridgeway; the dust of her departing wheels was hardly laid upon the pike before her hostess was on the way to town in that swift and commodious fashion, known as “riding in the barouche.” And in three hours all Chattalla was aware that the pretty Miss St. Pierre, who had made Miss Vayne such a long visit, was just engaged to a stranger--a friend of Horace Percy’s--whom she had first met at Mrs. Percy’s house.

And, singularly enough, this disclosure evoked a train of sequences fraught with disproportionate importance.