THE morning after Bendibow’s death, Merton Fillmore sent word to the Marquise Desmoines that he would call upon her that evening, if she found it convenient to receive him. She returned answer that she would expect him.

Ever since her parting with Philip Lancaster, the Marquise had kept herself secluded. After such an experience, even she needed time to draw her breath and look about her. It was more like defeat than anything else that had ever happened to her. It was defeat in fact, if not altogether in form. She had, whether consciously or unconsciously, shaped all her course and purpose to the end of being loved by Philip; and he did not love her. Nothing could disguise that truth: and it was additionally embittered by the discovery, almost unexpected to herself, that she not only preferred him to other men, but that she loved him, and that he was the only man she ever had loved. She had allowed him to perceive this, and the perception had failed to kindle in him a response. No doubt, she had assumed on the instant the semblance of cool indifference; she had divined her failure almost before she had made it; she had listened to his reply with a smile, and had dismissed him with defiance; but, after all, she knew in her inmost heart that she had been worsted; and whether Philip were as intimately conscious of it, or were conscious of it at all, made little difference. She had offered him more than any woman can offer with impunity, and he had professed himself unable to accept it.

After he left her, she was for a time supported by the ardor of defiant anger, which made her feel as if she had never been conquered,—had scarcely begun to fight, indeed: and had illimitable reserves of strength still to draw upon. But when this mood had flamed itself out, she began to realize how little her strength and resources could avail her. She had no longer any object to contend for. She had lost the day, and, no matter what her vigor and courage might be, the day in which she might redeem herself would never dawn. Philip was, to all intents and purposes, exanimate; and she might as hopefully strive, by dint of her beauty and brilliance, to restore life to a corpse from the hospital, as to stimulate Philip to feel even so much emotion toward her as would make him care whether she loved him or hated him. The shock of Marion’s loss, and the self-revelation it had wrought in him, had put him above or below the reach of other feelings. He had collapsed; and it was this collapse which had rendered him indomitable even by the Marquise Desmoines.

What was left to her? The injury was too deep not to demand requital. But how could she avenge herself on Philip? What could she make him suffer that he was not already suffering? His life was broken up: he had lost his wife and his place in the world,—for she knew Philip well enough to be aware that it would be a long while (if ever) before a man of his organization would be able to renew his relations with society. Surely hatred itself could not pursue him further. There was nothing to be done.

And yet to do nothing was intolerable to Perdita: she could have borne anything else better. Inaction gnawed her heart and made her existence bitter. But what could she do? Should she kill him? No: life could hardly be so dear to him as to make that worth while. Should she kill herself? That, indeed, was as likely as anything else to put an end to her unrest: but should she allow Philip to imagine that she had died for love of him? She laughed, and shook her head. It was while she was in this mood that Fillmore’s letter came, mentioning Bendibow’s death. The news interested her, for she fancied it might in some way bear upon the subject that possessed her thoughts. She awaited his arrival with impatience.

He came punctually, as usual; but his face and demeanor, as he entered the room, were singularly reserve and sombre. The Marquise, if she noticed this at all (and it would be hard to say what a woman like her does not notice), laid it to the account of the death-scene at which he had been present. As for herself, she felt no regret, and was not in the vein to express what she did not feel. She greeted the lawyer coolly and briefly, and went at once to the subject.

“Sir Francis has died in good time, and with good taste. I had not given him credit for so much consideration.”

“Yes, madame,” replied Fillmore, bowing. “He has solved many difficulties. Possibly it was only the struggle against misfortune that kept him in life so long. The death of his son was his death-blow. His ruin was a relief to him.”

“Fortune and misfortune are in our feeling, not in our circumstances: that is an old story,” observed Perdita. “Well, did he die repentant?”

“He was unconscious for several hours before his death, and I was not present when his last words were spoken.”

“’Tis a pity he should have been alone. He might have said something worth hearing. A good many secrets have died with him.”

“He was not alone, madame.”

“Who was with him?”

“Mrs. Lancaster.”

Perdita was dumb for a moment. “Did you say Mrs. Philip Lancaster?” she then asked, bending forward curiously.

Fillmore bowed in assent.

“I did not know she was in London,” said the Marquise, after another short pause. “Her husband certainly was not aware.... How did this happen?”

“It was the baronet’s wish,” replied Fillmore. “Her name had been often mentioned by him since his catastrophe: her kind behavior to him at Vauxhall—”

“What had she to do with him at Vauxhall?” interrupted Perdita, making herself erect in her chair.

“I am not acquainted with the details of the matter,” said Fillmore, “but it seems that she wished to consult him on a subject of importance, and, owing to the mysterious habits he had adopted of late, she was obliged to seek him at Vauxhall. He was taken with a fit—indeed, I believe it was the disturbance which this occasioned that first discovered him to her—”

“This is a strange story!” Perdita broke out. “I had heard that Mrs. Lancaster was at Vauxhall, but the name of the gentleman with her was not Francis Bendibow.”

“You yourself saw her there, did you not?” inquired Fillmore, with a steady look.

“Are you a detective as well as a solicitor, Mr. Fillmore?” demanded the Marquise, smiling ironically; “I did see her there, on the arm of Mr. Tom Moore.”

“I do but repeat what is known and spoken of by others,” said Fillmore: “but it seems to be generally conceded that her meeting with Moore was accidental,—he assisted her in getting a carriage to take the baronet away. She was guilty of great imprudence, but, it seems, in a cause which she thought urgent enough to justify it. As I was saying, Sir Francis never lost the recollection of her kindness, and toward the last he expressed a strong desire to speak with her. I went to her house in search of her; but was informed that she had been absent since the preceding day, and it was not known where she was.”

“We must admit her conduct to be singular,” remarked Perdita with a slight laugh. “No doubt, as you say, it was justifiable! Where did you find her?”

“Quite accidentally, I met Lady Flanders, and, in the course of conversation, was informed by her ladyship that Mrs. Lancaster was at her house.”

“Ah! Lady Flanders.... But—well, go on!”

“Lady Flanders said,” continued Fillmore, fixing his eyes in a marked way on Perdita, “that Mrs. Lancaster had felt herself grossly injured by ... a person from whom she had every right to expect different treatment, and that, in her distress and defenselessness, she had accepted Lady Flanders’ proposal to make her ladyship’s house her home for a few days.”

“Really, Mr. Fillmore, a less charitable man than you might say that Lady Flanders had assisted Mrs. Lancaster to run away from her husband.”

“Supposing Mrs. Lancaster to have had that intention,” replied Fillmore coldly, “the general opinion seems to be that her husband had spared her the necessity.”

“How do you wish me to understand that?”

“That Philip Lancaster had planned an elopement on his own account.”

“Positively, you amuse me!” exclaimed Perdita, gazing at him intently. “Are you going to add the inspiration of a prophet to your two other professions? Tell me, with whom has Mr. Philip Lancaster planned to elope?”

“If you need to be told that,” replied Fillmore, after a considerable pause, “there is nothing to tell.”

The Marquise smiled. “Ah, Mr. Fillmore,” said she, “you are not so clever a man as I thought! Mr. Lancaster came to me two nights ago; he was very tired and hungry, poor fellow; he had been hunting his wife over London, and seemed to think she might have taken refuge with me. I consoled him as well as I could, and sent him away. I have not seen or heard of him since then. Unfortunately, I was not in a position to give him the comforting information I have just heard from you. I am surprised that Lady Flanders, who seems to be such a friend of homeless wanderers, had not given him his wife’s new address. He told me that he had spoken with her ladyship that very afternoon.”

“I know nothing about that,” said Fillmore, whose sombre aspect had lightened somewhat during this speech; “but I found Mrs. Lancaster at Lady Flanders’ house: she went with me to see Bendibow, and afterwards I accompanied her back to Lady Flanders’. She seemed to be in a very low and anxious frame of mind; and there can be no doubt that she has been with Lady Flanders ever since she left her own house. As to the suggestion about Mr. Moore, I have the honor of that gentleman’s acquaintance, and I could easily convince Mr. Philip Lancaster that he has no cause for misgiving on that score.”

“The fact still remains that Mr. Lancaster did not know where his wife was. However, we can let that pass. Has it occurred to you, sir, that you owe me an apology?”

“I cannot find words in which to apologize for so great a wrong,” said Fillmore, in a husky voice. “I cannot express, either, the joy I feel that it was a wrong. Oh, madame.... Perdita! how can I think about you or judge you dispassionately! You cannot punish me so much as the anguish I have endured has already punished me! I thought I could not bear not to have you love me: but now, that seems a delight in comparison with the misery of thinking that you had given yourself to him.”

“Well, there seems to have been a contagion of error,” said Perdita, with a queer smile. “Now that so much has been corrected, perhaps you may even come to your senses with regard to me! You are certainly a persistent man: ’tis a pity I am not a yielding woman.”

“I can never give you up!” Fillmore said again.

“What! Had you not given me up an hour ago?”

“No: less than ever. I would have followed you—anywhere!”

“It would have been in vain,” said Perdita, shaking her head. “I have too much regard for you to let you pick me out of the mud, Mr. Fillmore: and too little regard for myself to submit to be saved on those terms. When I am driven to extremity, there is another bridegroom who is waiting for me even more patiently than you are, and who, unlike you, is certain to have me at last.”

“Do not smile so, and talk of death!” exclaimed Fillmore passionately. “There is more life in the thought of you than in the flesh and blood of any other woman!”

“You are welcome to the thought of me, if you will forego the rest!” returned Perdita with a sigh. “But really, sir, that is a finer compliment than I should have expected to hear from a man so reserved as you. No—let us speak of something else. If all that you tell me be true, we may expect a reconciliation between Mr. and Mrs. Lancaster. It will only be a question of time.”

Fillmore moved his head, but said nothing.

“You have no sentiment,” pursued the Marquise laughingly. “It will be an affecting scene, if you think of it! Lovers’ reconciliations are worth the quarrel it costs to have them. Our friend Philip will be happier than ever, and he will give us a beautiful poem, inspired by his new experience; something that will make ‘Iduna’ seem crude and cold! There will be no drawback to his contentment!”

Something ironical in Perdita’s tone struck Fillmore’s ear, but he did not understand it, and remained silent.

“Too much happiness is dangerous,” she went on: “it would be the part of friendship to abate a little of it. What do you think?”

“I am no friend of Mr. Lancaster’s,” said Fillmore, shortly.

“You are very dull, sir!” exclaimed the Marquise, giving him a sparkling glance. “If you are no friend of his, think how much reason I have to be his friend! When he was a youth, whom no one knew, he formed the acquaintance of the Marquis, and came to our house, and read me his first little poems, which I praised, and encouraged him to write more, so that his first book, the ‘Sunshine of Revolt,’ was my godchild, and at that time I was its only reader. I saw that he had intellect; but his nature was timid, suspicious, self-conscious, and cold; he dissected himself and mistrusted others. He had the poetic gift, but wanted the courage and vigor of the heart to use it: his fear of ridicule made him prefer criticism to creation: he could imagine himself to be so much that he was content to become nothing. His ambition made him vain, and his vanity made him indolent. He needed a stronger and more active spirit,—something to make him plunge into difficulties and struggles, and not to care if fools shrugged their shoulders. I thought I could supply what he lacked,—that I could give him the blood and the warmth to render his great faculties practical. He ought to have understood the value of such companionship as I offered him!” said Perdita, speaking with more intensity. “But what he says is not like what he is; he is a man who has fears and hesitations,—the kind of man that I despise! What right had he to marry? Was not I better than marriage? But really, Mr. Fillmore, these poets are great fools: they promise a great deal, and some of them write very charmingly; but a lawyer is more of a man!”

Fillmore’s face indicated that he was beginning to recover from his dullness. Still, he dared not hope too soon; it might be that Perdita’s words, as well as Philip’s, could imply more than she meant. He waited to hear more. But she recommenced at an unexpected point.

“I have read those papers,” she said, rising and going to a secretary, from a drawer of which she took Grantley’s packet. “Sir Francis knew when to die: here is what would have made it impossible for him to live. He was false, cowardly and selfish beyond belief! And my father—Charles Grantley—was as noble as the other was base: too noble! I have no sympathy with such generosity. Let a man be as true as steel, but as hard and deadly, too, when there is need! But he was my father: I know that now, and I’m going to act upon it!”

“In what way?” asked Fillmore.

“To have my rights,” answered Perdita, lifting her head.

“Who has deprived you of them?”

She laughed. “That is no more than I expected. I have been yielding and complaisant so long that people—even you—have forgotten I have any rights to claim. But I am tired ... that does not amuse me any longer. I am going to take what my father gave me.”

“What did he give you?”

“Twenty thousand pounds.”

“Of course you are not in earnest,” said Fillmore with a smile.

“Mr. Lancaster will not agree with you.”

The lawyer looked at her, and became grave. “It is too late. You passed it on to him.”

“No!” said Perdita, planting her white hand on the papers upon the table. “Philip Lancaster appropriated a legacy which I did not know belonged to me. There was at that time no proof that the author of the will was my father. There was only a presumption, which, for reasons that I gave you, I refused to adopt. The death of Sir Francis, and the opening of this packet, have changed the whole matter. The proof is here, and the reasons that might influence me to disregard it no longer exist. I shall claim my right: I shall take what is mine: let him prevent me who can!”

“The possession by the other party makes against you,” said Fillmore. “Your surrender of the property would be an obstacle to your claiming it now. It is not easy to play fast and loose with twenty thousand pounds. You should have stated your objections earlier.”

“Tell me, sir, what proof was there, until now, that Mr. Grant was my father?”

“There was probability; and an understanding that proof could be produced if necessary.”

“But it was not produced! And in the absence of it, how could Philip Lancaster, any more than I, lay claim to the legacy? His belief goes for nothing; a man would believe anything for the sake of twenty thousand pounds. The will directs that he is to possess the legacy only in case that I reject it. It is only within these two days that I have known it was mine to reject. But I shall not reject it; I shall keep it:—do you mean to tell me that he has had the audacity to lay hands upon it?”

“I scarcely know even now whether you are in earnest,” said Fillmore, who was certainly perplexed. “There may have been technical delays in the way of his actually touching the money, but there can be no doubt that he has been regarded as the owner of it, and has acted accordingly. He has incurred expenses, in the furnishing of his house, and other matters, which he never could have afforded otherwise. For you to insist upon your claim now, would inevitably be his ruin.”

“I have nothing to do with that,” said the Marquise, smiling, “though I may be sorry that he has been so precipitate.”

“This can only be caprice in you,” said Fillmore, gravely. “The legacy is nothing to you. You have property to ten times that amount.”

“I must be allowed to understand my own requirements, sir.”

“You must have other reasons than those you state. It is not to benefit yourself but to injure him that you do this.”

The Marquise shrugged her shoulders. “Say, if you like, that to injure him benefits me.”

“How should it benefit you?”

“How should it not? Does it not benefit me to injure my enemy?—the man I hate! Has he not injured me? Is it no injury to have such things said of me as you repeated a while ago? Could they have been said if he had not authorized them? Do you pretend you love me, and do you let me be insulted by a man who gives it to be believed that I agreed to elope with him? Oh, if I were a man ... no! A woman is better!—except when she is fool enough to love!”

Fillmore stood up, his face reddening. “No man shall insult you without giving an account to me,” he said, speaking with a certain stiffness of utterance. “My love for you gives me that right, whether you admit it or not. I should be slow to believe that Mr. Lancaster can be capable of doing what you suspect; but if he did, he shall answer for it.”

“In what way?”

“In the way customary between gentlemen,” replied Fillmore haughtily.

“That will not suit me,” said the Marquise, shaking her head. “I am neither old enough nor young enough to care to be the subject of a duel, especially on such grounds. I must fight my battles in my own way; but you shall be my weapon, if you will.”

“Your weapon?”

“Yes: my legal thunderbolt! You shall conduct my case against him.”

“I cannot do that!” said Fillmore after a pause.

“Can you not? Then there can be nothing more between you and me. I will never see you again.”

“It would not be honorable,” exclaimed Fillmore, bending forward and grasping the edges of the table with his hands. “I was employed to draw up the will, and I have acted in Mrs. Lancaster’s interests, and in those of her husband. I could not retain my standing and integrity as a lawyer, and do what you ask. I could not justify it to myself as a man. My profession has brought me to a knowledge of all the crime and weakness and rascality in human nature; and I have always tried to do right and justice, and I have never, for any cause, been a rascal myself. If I were to do this, it would be the last act of my professional life.” Fillmore was extraordinarily moved; his voice faltered, and he stopped.

“In other words,” said Perdita, with the quiet mercilessness that sometimes showed itself in her character, “you think our acquaintance has gone far enough. I agree with you, sir. I will not detain you any longer.”

“No: I cannot give you up,” returned Fillmore, after a short silence. He sighed heavily. In the struggle of opposing wills, he felt that the woman had the advantage. “If I refuse,” he said, “you threaten me with a punishment greater than I can bear. But if I consent ...” he stepped forward and put his hands strongly upon her shoulders, and looked with power into her eyes. It was the first time he had ever touched her, save to take her hand in greeting or farewell. She could feel the emotion that made his arms vibrate. It gave her a new impression of him.

“What do you wish?” she asked in a gentle tone.

“What will you give me in return for what I give you?”

Perdita looked down, and hesitated.

“What will satisfy you?” she asked at length.

“You will satisfy me! Nothing else. Will you give me yourself?”

“For that, you will do all I ask?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, let it be so!” she said, looking up with a momentary smile.

Fillmore stooped and kissed her. A strange, reckless sort of happiness filled his heart. He was no longer the man he had been; but Perdita was his reward.