A Butterfly on the Wheel Part 38

"Peggy!" he cried, going up to her and taking one of her hands in both of his. "Buck up, little woman! It'll be all right--we'll pull you through!"

Then he began to hesitate and stammer, while his cheeks flushed and he showed every possible sign of embarra.s.sment.

"Yes," he continued, "we'll pull you through. Won't we, Colling?"

He hesitated, at a loss for words; and then his eye fell upon the table.

"Ah!" he said. "My hat--yes--good-bye. Buck up, little woman! And, Colling, don't forget eight o'clock to-night."

Red and shy as a schoolgirl, Lord Ellerdine somehow got himself out of the room.

"Poor, dear old d.i.c.ky!" Peggy said with a sigh, more to herself than to her companion; and then, turning, "Colling, why have you come?"

Collingwood held out both his hands. "Peggy--dear little Peggy!" he said. "My heart bleeds for you!"

Peggy stepped back. "Don't let's talk about that," she said swiftly.

"But, Peggy----"

"It is rather late," the girl returned in the same cold voice; "the time for sympathy is long past. Why did you ask to see me?"

There was a deep note of pa.s.sion in Collingwood's voice as he answered.

"I could not let you think what I could see you were thinking," he said.

Peggy did not appear moved in any way. "You promised," she said, "neither to come nor to ask to see me."

"I could not stay away any longer," he answered; and if ever a man had tears in his voice, Collingwood had then.

"Have you come to tell me that the man Stevens is telling a lie, and that our trip to Paris was only accident?"

"No," the man replied. "Peggy dear, can you ever----"

"Colling! Colling! why did you do it?" she wailed.

His body went back suddenly as if he had received an actual blow in the chest.

"Oh, Peggy--for G.o.d's sake!..."

"You have thought neither of G.o.d nor me," she answered bitterly.

"Of you," he cried--"always of you, Peggy!"

She shook her head. "No," she said. "Thought of me would have made you think of all I have had to suffer. Did you think of _me_ when you planned to go to Paris? When did you ever think of me--my being--my life--my soul? What excuse can you offer?"

His arms fell to his side, his face was pale and pa.s.sionate. "Only my love," he answered--"my fierce, burning love. The mad desire to have you for my own. I have thought of nothing else since I met you."

She bent forward and threw out her arm. The little ivory-white hand was palm upwards, and it shook in dreadful accusation.

"Thought of me?" she cried. "Was it thought of me that drove me under the lash of that man's scourge to-day? Was it thought of me that placed me like a criminal in that court to-day? How could you have thought of me and not foreseen the shame, the misery, and the torture to which I have been subjected? Where was your love for me when you were conscious of the ma.s.s of evidence these creatures were piling up against me? Did your love of me foresee newsboys rus.h.i.+ng about the streets with placards blazing out like letters of fire, 'MRS. ADMASTON ON THE RACK'? Rack, Colling!"

He shook his head with a terrible gesture of sadness.

"No. I did not foresee it," he said, "because you made me believe that you were in earnest--that you loved me. If you had loved me you wouldn't have cared."

"I liked you, Colling, I liked you," she said; and now all the fire had gone from her voice.

"Liked me! Was it mere liking that made you take all those risks? You knew my intention. I told you again and again I wanted him to divorce you."

"I never realised----" the girl said hopelessly.

His voice as he answered her was very soft and tender.

"No, dear; you played with me. I am not blaming you, but don't be too harsh in judging me. I know the torture you are suffering now, Peggy, and I would give my right hand to save you from it. But don't you ever think of the torture you have given me? All the pain, the longing of months and months--is it all to be forgotten? Oh, I know it is no excuse to the others; but you, dear, will know in your heart that I did it because I loved you, thinking to make you happy."

"I think I understand, Colling," Peggy said; "but the letter----"

Collingwood appeared dazed. "The letter!" he murmured.

"Oh, Colling," she answered, "I'll forgive you anything you have done because you loved me; but the letter--you will own up, Colling?"

"Own up?"

"Yes, dear," Peggy said; "my life depends on it. You are a man. You can begin again. Don't see me go under. There is no hope for a woman. Don't stand there and watch me struggle while there is a chance to save me.

I'll forgive everything--yes, everything--but the letter."

Collingwood seemed genuinely surprised. His face, which at first appeared perplexed, now showed nothing but astonishment as he realised what she meant. "Peggy--little Peggy," he said, "surely you don't judge me as harshly as that, do you? No, dear; I have done much that I am sorry for--that I shall never be able to forgive myself for as long as I live, but not that. The letter is the work of some one else. I never wrote it."

"Oh, Colling," she replied, "I am so glad--so very glad! But the letter--the letter is everything after all. It means everything to me.

Then, if you didn't write it--there is only one other person who could possibly have done so."

"Exactly," Collingwood answered. "Lady Attwill and I were the only two people who knew anything about the Paris trip, who could know anything about it. But the question is, how on earth are we going to prove that she wrote that letter? I do not see any possible way in which it can be done, and I am sure you don't."

"If we prove it," Peggy answered, "do you think it will satisfy George, Colling?"

"Satisfy?" Collingwood replied, seating himself on the edge of the writing-table. "I should think so--he is satisfied already. But still, you know, Peggy, the letter sticks. Why, even Lady Attwill knew that there was nothing between us. It was only the appearance of guilt which she schemed for, and that letter gives it."

"And if we can't prove it, and the worst happens, she hopes to marry George," Peggy said despairingly.

The bitterness of the thought was terrible. It seemed as she sat there that such treachery and black-heartedness were almost incredible. Could the woman who had been her constant friend, who had stayed with her for months at a time, on whom she had lavished innumerable favours, be so base and despicable of soul as this?

Collingwood saw what was pa.s.sing in her mind, and nodded.

"That is her game without a doubt, Peggy," he said earnestly.

"Then why has she stood by me all these months? Why? Why? That is what I want to know," Peggy said.

Collingwood smiled bitterly. "Why, don't you see?" he said. "Because her devotion to you will touch George, who still loves you."

Peggy's face changed in a moment. "Oh, Colling!" she said, and her voice was inexpressibly pathetic--"oh, Colling, do you think George does love me still?"