CHAPTER LVII.—ON THE REJECTED ADDRESSES.

THE next day Beatrice went with Norah Innisfail and her mother to their home in Nethershire. Two days afterwards the Legitimate Theatre closed its doors, and Parliament opened its doors. The Queen’s Speech was read, and a member of the Opposition moved the Amendment relating to Siberia. The Debate on the Address began.

On the second night of the debate Edmund Airey called at the historian’s house and, on asking for Miss Avon, learned that she was visiting Lady Innisfail in Nethershire. On the evening of the fourth day of the debate—the Division on the Amendment was to be taken that night—he drove in great haste to the same house, and learned that Miss Avon was still in Nethershire, but that she was expected home on the following day.

He partook of a hasty dinner at his club, and, writing out a telegram, gave it to a hall-porter to send to the nearest telegraph office.

The form was addressed to Miss Avon, in care of Lord Innisfail, Netherford Hall, Netherford, Nethershire, and it contained the following words, “I will do it. Edmund.”

He did it.

He made a brief speech amid the cheers of the Opposition and the howls of the Government party, acknowledging his deep sympathy with the unhappy wretches who were undergoing the unspeakable horrors of a Siberian exile, and thus, he said he felt compelled, on conscientious grounds (ironical cheers from the Government) to vote for the Amendment.

He went into the lobby with the Opposition.

It was an Irish member who yelled out “Judas!”

The Government was defeated by a majority of one vote, and there was a “scene” in the House.

Some time ago an enterprising person took up his abode in the midst of an African jungle, in order to study the methods by which baboons express themselves. He might have spared himself that trouble, if he had been present upon the occasion of a “scene” in the House of Commons. He would, from a commanding position in the Strangers’ Gallery, have learned all that he had set his heart upon acquiring—and more.

It was while the “scene” was being enacted that Edmund Airey had put into his hand the telegraph form written out by himself in his club.

“Telegraph Office at Netherford closes at 6 p.m.,” were the words that the hall-porter had written on the back of the form.

The next day he drove to the historian’s, and inquired if Miss Avon had returned.

She was in the drawing-room, the butler said.

With triumph—a sort of triumph—in his heart, and on his face, he ascended the staircase.

He thought that he had never before seen her look so beautiful. Surely there was triumph on her face as well! It was glowing, and her eyes were more lustrous even than usual. She had plainly just returned, for she had on a travelling dress.

“Beatrice, you saw the newspapers? You saw that I have done it?” he cried, exultantly.

“Done what?” she inquired. “I have seen no newspaper to-day.”

“What? Is it possible that you have not heard that I voted last night for the Amendment?” he cried.

“I heard nothing,” she replied.

“I wrote a telegram last evening, telling you that I meant to do it, but it appears that the office at Netherford closes at six, so it could not be sent. I did not know how much you were to me until yesterday, Beatrice.”

“Stop,” she said. “I was married to Harold Wynne an hour ago.”

He looked at her for some moments, and then dropped into a chair.

“You have made a fool of me,” he said.

“No,” she said. “I could not do that. If I had got your telegram in time last evening I would have replied to it, telling you that, whatever step you took, it would not bring you any nearer to me. Harold Wynne, you see, came to me again. I had promised to marry him when we were together at that seal-hunt, but—well, something came between us.”

“And you revenged yourself upon me? You made a fool of me!”

“If I had tried to do so, would it have been remarkable, Mr. Airey? Supposing that I had been made a fool of by the compact into which you entered with Miss Craven, who would have been to blame? Was there ever a more shameful compact entered into by a clever man and a clever woman to make a victim of a girl who believed that the world was overflowing with sincerity? I was made acquainted with the nature of that compact of yours, Mr. Airey, but I cannot say that I have yet learned what are the terms of your compact—or is it a contract?—with Mrs. Mowbray. Still, I know something. And yet you complain that I have made a fool of you.”

He had completely recovered himself before she had got to the end of her little speech. He had wondered how on earth she had become acquainted with the terms of his compact with Helen. When, however, she referred to Mrs. Mowbray, he felt sure that it was Mrs. Mowbray who had betrayed him.

He was beginning to learn something of women and their motives.

“Nothing is likely to be gained by this sort of recrimination,” said he, rising. “You have ruined my career.”

She laughed, not bitterly but merrily, he knew all along that she had never fully appreciated the gravity of the step which she had compelled him—that was how he put it—to take. She had not even had the interest to glance at a newspaper to see how he had voted. But then she had not read the leading articles in the Government organs which were plentifully besprinkled with his name printed in small capitals. That was his one comforting thought.

She laughed.

“Oh, no, Mr. Airey,” said she. “Your career is not ruined. Clever men are not so easily crushed, and you are a very clever man—so clever as to be able to make me clever, if that were possible.”

“You have crushed me,” he said. “Good-bye.”

“If I wished to crush you I should have married you,” said she. “No woman can crush a man unless she is married to him. Good-bye.”

The butler opened the door. “Is my husband in yet?” she asked of the man.

“His lordship has not yet returned, my lady,” said the butler, who had once lived in the best families—far removed from literature—and who was, consequently, able to roll off the titles with proper effect.

“Then you will not have an opportunity of seeing him, I’m afraid,” she said, turning to Mr. Airey.

“I think I already said good-bye, Lady Fotheringay.”

“I do believe that you did. If I did not, however, I say it now. Good-bye, Mr. Airey.”

He got into a hansom and drove straight to Helen Craven’s house. It was the most dismal drive he had ever had. He could almost fancy that the message boys in the streets were, in their accustomed high spirits, pointing to him with ridicule as the man who had turned his party out of office.

Helen Craven was in her boudoir. She liked receiving people in that apartment. She understood its lights.

He found that she had read the newspapers.

She stared at him as he entered, and gave him a limp hand.

“What on earth did you mean by voting—” she began.

“You may well ask,” said he. “I was a fool. I was made a fool of by that girl. She made me vote against my party.”

“And she refuses to marry you now?”

“She married Harold Wynne an hour ago.”

Helen Craven did not fling herself about when she heard this piece of news. She only sat very rigid on her little sofa.

“Yes,” resumed Edmund. “She is ill-treated by one man, but she marries him, and revenges herself upon another! Isn’t that like a woman? She has ruined my career.”

Then it was that Helen Craven burst into a long, loud, and very unmusical laugh—a laugh that had a suspicion of a shrill shriek about some of its tones. When she recovered, her eyes were full of the tears which that paroxysm of laughter had caused.

“You are a fool, indeed!” said she. “You are a fool if you cannot see that your career is just beginning. People are talking of you to-day as the Conscientious One—the One Man with a Conscience. Isn’t the reputation for a Conscience the beginning of success in England?”

“Helen,” he cried, “will you marry me? With our combined money we can make ourselves necessary to any party. Will you marry me?”

“I will,” she said. “I will marry you with pleasure—now. I will marry anyone—now.”

“Give me your hand, Helen,” he cried. “We understand one another—that is enough to start with. And as for that other—oh, she is nothing but a woman after all!”

He never spoke truer words.

But sometimes when he is alone he thinks that she treated him badly.

Did she?

THE END.