"What do your letters say to ye, Kitty, this morning?" asked Doyle Fane, who, after more than forty years' absence from his native land, still retained some of its rich raciness of tone and accent. "Ye've a big post there before ye, me child."
"Very little of any importance," she replied. "The night coach through St. Albans brings me a letter from his lordship trusting I shall be happy during his enforced absence. Faugh! Also there is one by the French packet from Kathleen Muskerry. Her uncle, the priest at Marly, is removed to St. Roch. Lady Belrose, whose acquaintance I made a month ago at Leicester House, writes desiring me to accompany her to the masquerade at Vauxhall."
"Good, me child, good. And what for not? 'Twill do ye good to see some life, to-"
"To see some life!" she repeated, "see some life! In the midst of death all around us!"
"Death!" the old man repeated. "Death! Faith, I did not know it. What death is there around us?"
"Father!" she exclaimed, looking at him, "is there not death all around-threatening those whom we love-whom we loved once? Do you not know that London is at the present moment full of followers of the unhappy prince, who, if they are caught, must be doomed? Do you not know that the Tower, Newgate, the New Gaol over the water in Southwark, is crowded with such men, all of whom have soon to stand their trial for high treason-men of whom we have known many, some of whom were your pupils? Father, this is no time for masquerades."
For a moment the old man gazed at her with solemn eyes, as though endeavouring to penetrate her mind, to discover if behind her words there lay any hidden meaning; then he asked:
"Are there any-any whom-we know particularly well among these threatened men? You may tell me, Kitty. You may trust me-now."
"Is not Father Sholto in jeopardy?" she asked, while her eyes also rested on him much as his had dwelt on her. Perhaps she, too, was wondering if he guessed to whom, more than all others, her remarks applied. "If he were discovered would he not share the gaol, if not the scaffold? He told us yesterday that there was a newly-made law against any Jesuit priests from France who should be found in England."[Note B]
"Are there any-any others?" he almost whispered. But still her clear blue eyes regarded him, and she spoke no word.
"Well, well," he said a moment after. "Perhaps it may be, even after so many years, that I do not deserve your confidence. Yet, Kitty, I was nigh as much deceived in some things as you were. Child," he said, leaning across the table as he spoke, "I swear to you I thought that man who came to us was, in truth, the priest, the curé of Moret. How could I know he was a paid creature of Larpent's, a vile cheat, instead of the man who, as I supposed, had tied the hands of Bertie El-?"
"Stop," said his daughter, "stop! Don't mention that again. Let it be done with, forgotten; dead and buried. It is past! Over! I-I-am Lord Fordingbridge's wife."
"Yet I must ask. I must know. Nay, I do know. Fordingbridge hinted as much to me ere he set out. Kitty," and now his voice sank to a whisper that none but she could have heard, even though in the room, "is he in London?"
"Yes," she whispered also, softly as a woman's whisper ever is. "Yes. He is here. Oh, father! for the love of God, betray us-him-no more. For if you do, it will not end this time with broken hearts, but with death."
"Betray you," he said, "betray you again! Why will you not believe me once more? See, Kitty, see here," and as he spoke he rose from his chair and stood before her. "I swear to you that I am true in spite-in spite of what I once did, partly in ignorance-unwittingly. I myself loved Elphinston and always despised Larpent. And I did-honestly, I did-believe that he had married Mademoiselle Baufremont."
"Well," she said, "well, he had not. Enough of that. And, since you ask me to trust you once again as I trusted you before, I answer you-remember his life, as well as Douglas Sholto's, are in your hands-he is in London. Both are here."
"'Tis madness," he murmured, "madness. For, Kitty, as sure as he is here he will be betrayed. Fordingbridge will denounce him."
"Alas!" she replied, almost wringing her hands, "alas! I fear as much myself. Yet Father Sholto says not-that it is impossible. For, he declares, should harm come to either of them through him, he will cause him also to be denounced. He knows some secret as to Fordingbridge's doings that, he says, would bring him to the block for a surety, which secret, if he turns traitor, he will use most remorselessly. And, do what he may, at least he is harmless now. He will be in Cheshire for a month. By that time I pray that both the others may be beyond the seas."
"Have you seen him?" he asked, still in a low voice.
He knew that in London at this time walls almost had ears, and that every footman or waiting-maid might be a spy of the Government-especially in a house but recently re-opened after many years of disuse, and, consequently, possessing a staff of servants new to their employers and taking neither interest nor sympathy in their affairs. Also he knew that, in the garb of servants, many a Government agent was carefully watching every action of his or her temporary employers. London especially had but recently recovered from too great a fright to cease as yet to fear for its safety, and saw a bugbear in many harmless strangers now in its midst; the house of a nobleman returned recently from France-the birthplace of the late invasion-and known to be a Catholic, would, therefore, be a particularly likely object to be subjected to supervision, quiet yet effectual.
"No," she replied; "no, I have not seen him. God forbid I should. And if I did, the only words I could, I think, find heart to utter would be to beseech him to fly at once. Oh! father, father, I dread some awful calamity, though I know not in what form or shape it may come."
As she spoke, a tap was heard at the door, and, a second afterwards, Father Sholto entered the room, while so much had her ladyship's fears and tremors overcome her and her father that both exclaimed at once, in the same words, "Is all well?"
"In so far as I know," he replied, after having exchanged morning greetings with them. "As well as all will ever be. Why do you ask? Have you reason to dread aught?"
"No, no," Kitty replied. "Still, I know not why, I am strangely uneasy, strangely nervous to-day. Some feeling of impending ills seems to hang over me."
"Yet," said Sholto, "if omens are to be supposed to have any power, no such feeling should trouble you to-day. Kitty, I bear good news-"
"Good news!" she exclaimed. "From-"
"From an acquaintance of mine-one who is in the office of the Scotch Secretary of State. Nay," he went on, seeing the look of disappointment on her face, and knowing she had expected matter of a different kind, "'tis worth hearing. Among the names of those now in London for whom diligent search is being made-the names of those who, if found, are doomed-three do not appear-three in whom we are concerned."
"Thank God!" exclaimed Lady Fordingbridge and her father together. "They are-"
"Our two friends across the river and-and-myself."
"Therefore you may escape at once?" she asked. "All of you? There is nothing to keep you here in England-the Cause is broken, it can never be regained now-you can all depart in peace?"
"Yes," he said, "we can." But letting his eye fall on Fane, he took her a little apart and said:
"Kitty, we have the chance of getting across the water; at least, we are safe at present. I, you know, can go at any moment; there is nothing to detain me. The glorious work, the accomplishment of which I crossed over to see, will never be done now-I may as well go. But-shall the others go