The Coquette's Victim Part 5

She did as he wished. When she read the second, her proud face flushed, and she drew her figure to its full height.

"What does this mean?" she said, contemptuously. "My son, Mr.

Carruthers, charged with stealing a watch? What does it mean, Mr.

Forster?"

"Lady Carruthers," said the lawyer, "it is true. I was in court when your son, under the name of John Smith, pleaded guilty to the charge of getting in the room belonging to Count Jules St. Croix, and I, myself, heard him sentenced to six months' imprisonment."

She sat for some minutes, silent, mute and motionless. Then in a low voice she asked: "Is he mad?"

"That was my first thought. It is some weeks since I had seen him, and yesterday morning a note was brought to my office, from a gentleman in court, telling me your son was in the dock. I hastened there and found it true. You may imagine how quickly I followed him and implored of him to tell me the mystery, for mystery I feel sure there is. Instead of looking ashamed of himself and miserable, he had a light in his face that puzzled me. I blamed him, told him the consequences--how his life would be useless to him after this, but he only smiled; my words made no impression on him; he evidently derived comfort and support from some source known to himself and no others."

"And is it possible?" asked Lady Carruthers, with ghastly face; "does he lie in prison now?"

"He does indeed, and there he must remain until the six months are ended."

CHAPTER V.

Lady Carruthers.

My lady rose from her seat with an air of almost tragical dignity.

"My son in prison!" she cried; "I cannot believe it. What has come over him? Can you explain the mystery to me, Mr. Forster?"

"I cannot--the only thing that occurs to me is that he has gone to this count's room for some purpose that he will confide to no one, and that he has taken the watch in his hands and was discovered with it. He asked me to tell you that the honor of the Carruthers sealed his lips."

"Did he say that--my Basil, Mr. Forster? If that be the case, rest a.s.sured--although I blush to say it--there is a woman in it. I can imagine Basil capable of suffering anything from a mistaken motive of chivalry. Do you know with whom Mr. Carruthers has chiefly a.s.sociated since he has been in town?"

"I do not. I know that he has been in a very fast and fas.h.i.+onable set; he told me as much; also that he has spent a good deal of money. One check for three thousand pounds vanished in a day, and he gave no account of it."

"Three thousand pounds!" cried Lady Carruthers; "yet he neither drank, betted nor gambled."

"No," said the lawyer; "Mr. Carruthers told me he had never touched a card and never would. I know he did not care for betting."

The proud, anxious mother raised her eyes to the lawyer's face. "How, then, do you think he has got through it?"

"I cannot tell. You must pardon me, my lady, if I remind you that although I am family solicitor, agent and manager of the property, I am not the guardian of your son."

"I know," she said, clasping her hands. "I little thought he would ever need a guardian; he seemed all that was honorable and upright. I cannot imagine what has changed him. I regret so bitterly that I let him go to London alone."

"It is a terrible position," said the lawyer; "the only thing is to clear him as much as we can. The moment I read this I wrote an answer and sent it to the 'Times' to the effect that Mr. Carruthers had gone abroad."

A slight frown came over the delicate face.

"I implored Mr. Carruthers to write an indignant denial, and to let me go to Paris to post it, but he would not hear of such a thing; the very idea seemed offensive to him, I hope, Lady Carruthers, to induce you to write such a letter."

"What kind of a letter?" she asked.

"One to the editor of the 'Times' denying the report, and saying that your son has gone abroad."

"But that would be grossly untrue," she said.

"Yes, yes! I know that, still if we can save him, we should."

"I will try any honorable means you choose to suggest," she replied; "but not even to save my son from death could I consent to write or publish a lie."

"Of course you know best, Lady Carruthers," said the lawyer, with a shrug of the shoulders. "Words are but words, and very few of them might have saved your son from public shame."

"I have never yet believed in the success of a lie," said her ladys.h.i.+p.

"Pardon me," said Mr. Forster, grimly, "then you have forgotten the pages of history. I came down purposely to persuade your ladys.h.i.+p to do this. I am well aware that at first sight it seems contrary to all one's notions of truth and honor, but there is so much at stake. My denial, couched in strong terms, will appear tomorrow. If it were succeeded by a letter from your ladys.h.i.+p, written in the same strain, people would laugh and believe that it was a great mistake. I had so many inquiries this morning before I left London, and I gave the same answer to all, that it was the sorry jest of an evil-disposed person. If your ladys.h.i.+p would but second my efforts, all would be well; we could get him through in safety."

But Lady Carruthers had risen from her seat and stood with her proud figure drawn to its utmost height.

"I will do anything you propose, save tell a lie. If my son can be rescued by no other means, he must bear his punishment."

"Then my journey is in vain," said Mr. Forster. "I may return to London at once."

"No," said Lady Carruthers; "I cannot allow you to return after that long journey--you must stay and dine with us. Pardon me," she said, seeing that he looked hurt and uncomfortable. "I have spoken strongly, but truth has always been far dearer to me than life. I do full justice to your motives. I appreciate your kindness, but in this manner I cannot help you. Stay and take dinner with us; then we can consult as to what is best to be done."

"May I give your ladys.h.i.+p one piece of advice?" said the lawyer. "Have the papers--yesterday's and today's--destroyed, so that no rumor of anything amiss can reach your servants; also say nothing of it--it may possibly die away, as some rumors do. Your visitors and friends will not broach such a subject to you, I am sure."

"I shall not mention it," she replied; "although Marion will be sure to suspect something wrong." At that moment the last dressing-bell rang.

"You will join us in a few minutes," said Lady Carruthers; "never mind your traveling-dress; Miss Hautville and I are quite alone."

No one who saw Lady Carruthers leave the library with stately step and dignified air, would have believed that she had received a blow which laid her life and all her hopes in ruins--as the lightning smites the lofty oak. She went back to her sumptuous bedroom that she had left half an hour ago, so calm and serene, so unconscious of coming evil. Looking in the mirror, she saw her face was deadly pale--there was no trace of color left on it, and deep lines had come on her brow that had been so calm.

"It will not do to look so pale," said Lady Carruthers; and from one of the mysterious little drawers she took a small powder puff that soon remedied the evil.

Then she went to the dining-room. Miss Hautville and Mr. Forster were talking together like old acquaintances, and the three sat down to dinner together.

Mr. Forster was, as he himself often said, a grim old lawyer, without any poetry or romance, but even he could not sit opposite the pale, pure loveliness of Marion Hautville unmoved; there was something about her that reminded one irresistibly of starlight, delicate, graceful, holy veiled loveliness. She was slender and graceful, with a figure that was charming now, but that promised, in years to come, to be superb; the same promise of magnificent womanhood was in the lovely delicate face.

The pure profile, the delicate brows, the s.h.i.+ning hair, braided Madonna fas.h.i.+on, were all beautiful, but looking at her, one realized there was greater beauty to come.

She looked across the table with a smile.

"And now, Mr. Forster, you have told me how London looks; tell me something about my cousin, Mr. Carruthers."

He made some indifferent answer, and as he did so, he thought to himself:

"Can it be possible, that with a chance of winning this lovely girl--one of the richest heiresses in London--that Basil Carruthers has given his heart to some worthless creature, who has spent his money and helped him to prison?"

A question that, if our readers will kindly follow us, we will answer in the succeeding chapters.