The Dowager's Bombshell

She came no farther than the threshold and looked only at her father, though her eyes were shining with the consciousness of some one else's presence in the room—some one whom she had not in the least expected to find there.

"Come, dad," she said. "Don't waste your time here. They're not worth it," and she held out her hand to him.

But Vernon flung himself between them.

"He shall not go," he cried, "until he has heard me. It is all a mistake—I see now where this detestable adventure in diplomacy has led me. My dear sir, if I were what you think me, I should deserve every word you have uttered to me—and more. But I am not married—I have never been married—I had hoped—"

"Wait a minute," interrupted Rushford. "Don't go too fast. Come here,
Susie, and help me to understand."

Could Sue, as she came forward, have seen the gaze which Prince Frederick bent upon her, her heart might have relented a little toward him; but she did not see—she had eyes only for her father.

"Now go ahead," said he, when he had his arm safely around her, "and be careful, sir," he added. "We want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

"That is what you shall have," said Vernon, and passed his hand across his forehead.

"It occurs to me," put in Collins, icily, "that the story is not wholly yours to tell."

"It isn't?" cried Vernon, turning upon him fiercely. "I suppose I'm to permit myself to remain in this damnable position for the sake of a lot of third-rate diplomats in our foreign office! They can go hang, for all I care. I chuck the whole thing! Do you hear? Do you understand? The whole thing!"

Collins turned away with a shrug of despair. The situation had got beyond his control.

"It is an explanation which I owe to the Prince of Markeld as well as to yourself, Mr. Rushford," went on Vernon, more slowly, speaking calmly by a great effort, "and which I was just about to make to him when you came in. I am not Lord Vernon—I am merely his younger brother. I bear a certain resemblance to him, and a lot of paper-diplomats persuaded me to impersonate him here in order to leave him free to carry out the negotiations for the succession to Schloshold-Markheim without being embarrassed by the representations of either side. I recall how half-heartedly he approved of the scheme, which had its origin in the fertile brain of Mr. Collins there. I see the reason now, though I didn't suspect it then. As to the succession, Monsieur le Prince, for all I know, the whole thing may by this time be settled. Collins could probably tell you, if he would—"

"It is not settled,'' muttered Collins.

"So you see," went on Vernon without heeding him, "I have done you an even greater wrong than you imagined."

"Yes," said the Prince, in a hoarse voice, "you have."

"But settled or not," said the other, "I wash my hands of it! I've had enough!"

Rushford held out his hand with a quick gesture.

"I beg your pardon," he said, simply. "I see that I was not mistaken in my first estimate of you, after all—I am very glad."

"I was coming to you this afternoon," added the Englishman, taking the outstretched hand, eagerly, "to tell you that I am merely Viscount Cranford and not Lord Vernon—a very insignificant fellow, not a great one—and to ask for your daughter, Miss Nell. I ask you now. Though first let me make it clear to you that the title is of little importance."

"The only title we Americans care about," responded Rushford, slowly, "is that of gentleman. My daughter's husband need have no other—but he must have that. We don't give our daughters away, sir, as I've already explained to—"

Susie pinched his arm viciously in an agony of alarm. Then she pulled his head down to her, her eyes shining, and whispered a quick sentence in his ear.

"Yes, that's it!" he nodded. "Nell is waiting for us—our apartment is just up the stair. You'd better go tell her the story, young man! Knock at the door, make her admit you, make her listen! Oh, a lover should know how—yes, I see you do! And God bless you!" he added, as Cranford wrung his hand, flung open the door, and disappeared along the hall.

"And we must go too, dad," said Sue, in a low voice. "At once. Come."

"Yes," assented her father. "Yes—yet wait a minute, Susie," and he stopped, his eyes on Markeld. "I'd hate to think I'd done any other man the same injustice I did that young Englishman. Perhaps the Prince of Markeld has also an explanation. If so, I shall be very glad to hear it."

Susie's hand trembled on her father's arm, and she caught her breath with a little gasp; but she kept her eyes steadily on the floor—she had pride enough for that. Oh, she rejoiced that she had pride enough for that!

The Prince gazed at her a moment, then, with face ashy gray, he shook his head.

"I have none," he said, in a low voice, and Susie shivered at the words.

"But I have!" cried some one from the door; and, turning, they beheld there on the threshold a handsome old lady, with hair snowy white, figure erect, face imperious—the Dowager Duchess of Markheim. Behind her, in the twilight of the hall, could be dimly seen the mustachios of Monsieur Tellier, with GlÜck's face glaring at him. "I am not so proud," she went on, advancing into the room. "I am quite willing to give my reasons for breaking off the match. Is this the girl?" she asked, abruptly.

Susie looked at her with fiery eyes; their glances crossed; one almost expected to see the sparks fly as of two blades meeting.

"I am not hard-hearted," continued the duchess, after a moment. "But there are certain affairs of state which must always take precedence of any mere personal inclination. Did I marry to please myself?" and her voice shook a little. "By no means—it is no secret. Yet I was faithful to my husband and to my house. I have never regretted it. Now all that I have left to love is that boy yonder, and I intend to see that he makes a match which is worthy of him. Yes, I love him—but he must not degrade his name—not even for his happiness. It was solicitude for him that brought me here—I feared—"

Her voice broke; perhaps she had a vision of that tragedy fifty years ago, when, at her mother's side, she had stared out through the mists of the morning—

"But no matter," she added, hastily.

"May I ask, madame," inquired Rushford, "how marriage with my daughter would degrade your nephew?"

"It is impossible, in the first place," she answered, readily, "that he should marry the daughter of an inn-keeper."

"Of an inn-keeper?" repeated Rushford, in a puzzled tone.

"You are the proprietor of this inn, are you not?" demanded the duchess. "Tellier, here has the papers. Come forward, Tellier."

"Oh, I understand," and Rushford laughed, not pleasantly. "No, I didn't tell you, Susie," he added, catching his daughter's astonished glance. "It was merely an escapade of mine. I was bored, and so I arranged with Pelletan to have a little fun by backing the hotel for a month—Pelletan had reached the end of his resources. He'd have had to shut up shop, and I didn't want to move. I assure you, madame, that at home I am not an inn-keeper. If I was, I shouldn't be in the least ashamed of it, unless I were a bad one. Suppose we pass on to the next count."

There was a movement at the door and Nell came running to her father and threw her arms about him. Cranford followed her and held out his hands.

"Congratulate me," he said, simply, but with shining face.

"I do," said Rushford, and kissed his daughter. "It seems we've got your difficulty happily settled, Nell; but we've another on hand which seems considerably more complicated. Now, madame, if you will proceed with the indictment."

The duchess seemed a little shaken; after all, a man who could play with great hotels demanded some consideration!

"The second reason is even more serious," she said, "at least, my nephew seemed to so consider it. He laughed at the first one; he is still young; he still believes in the nonsense of the romancers."

"Does he?" commented Rushford. "That's one point in his favour, certainly. So he would have married my daughter, would he, even though I did keep a hotel! That was kind of him! What's the next count, madame?"

"It is that your daughter, while pretending to be his advocate, was really in the plot against him—a double traitor to him because posing as his friend."

"In the plot?" cried Cranford. "But that's absurd! She was not in the plot!"

"Is it the head of the plot who is addressing me?" inquired the duchess, icily. "No doubt my nephew has already told you—"

The Prince stopped her.

"The Viscount Cranford answers to me," he said, briefly.

The duchess paled as she looked at him.

"Not that, Fritz!" she cried. "Not that!"

"Too late, madame," he said. "My honour demands it."

The duchess shivered, and her face seemed suddenly to shrink and age. Then she stood proudly upright. What honour demanded she would be the last to evade.

"Perhaps monsieur will deny," she said, looking at Cranford, coldly, "that he wrote this note to her and her sister the very first day of his sojourn here?" and she held out to him the slip of paper.

Cranford took it and read it at a glance, while Nell stared at it with starting eyes.

"No," he said, "I don't deny that I wrote it; but—"

"And perhaps mademoiselle herself will deny that she asserted to Monsieur Tellier that she did not know her rescuer? Here are her words," and she produced a second note.

"I deny nothing," said Susie, proudly, and she looked the duchess unflinchingly in the face.

Cranford walked straight over to the Prince of Markeld.

"Wasn't it Miss Rushford who told you?" he asked.

"No, it was the note," answered the Prince, fiercely.

"Which Tellier stole from Miss Rushford's desk," added Cranford, sternly, "leaving this tracing in its stead," and he took from his pocketbook a slip of paper. "Such methods are doubtless characteristic of the Paris police, but they seem to me almost as unworthy as those employed by us."

"You are right," agreed the Prince, his face livid. "That dog shall pay for it!"

"My nephew had nothing whatever to do with it," broke in the duchess, sharply. "It was I who secured the note, who persuaded him to—"

But the Prince stopped her with a gesture.

"Miss Rushford was not in the plot," continued Cranford, earnestly. "I hope you will believe me. That it should have come so near wrecking my own life was bad enough; that it should wreck another's—an innocent person's—that would be frightful! She warned me explicitly that she would no longer be a party to the deception, that she was going to tell you—I thought she had told you. I remember well how warmly she spoke of your cause; how she detested the course I was pursuing—how she made me ashamed of myself—ashamed to look at her. I suppose some mistaken notion of honour held her back from telling, since it was in her service and her sister's that I had disclosed myself—"

"A message for His Lordship," said Pelletan from the door.

Cranford took it.

"You will pardon me," he said. "It is marked urgent," and he tore it open. His face brightened as he read it. "Monsieur le Prince," he said, warmly, turning to Markeld, "I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart!" and he handed him the message.

Markeld took the paper and glanced at it, then, with beaming eyes, held out his hand. And the duchess, looking on, grew suddenly young again!

"What is it?" she demanded. "Don't you see we are all waiting?"

"'Prince George, of Schloshold, has just died of an apoplexy,'" the Prince read. "'You will inform the Prince of Markeld that we will support his house to the limit of our power. Vernon,'"

"God be praised!" cried the duchess. "God be praised," and she caught at the door to keep herself from falling. "He was a bad man," she added in another tone. "Therefore he needs our prayers!"

"I give Monsieur le Prince the congratulations of France," said an oily voice, and Monsieur Tellier bowed low.

"Oh!" cried Nell, and shrank away from him.

"Is that the scoundrel?" demanded Cranford. And he started across the room.

"One moment," interposed the Prince, "don't soil your hands on him.
GlÜck!" he called, raising his voice.

And GlÜck appeared on the instant.

His master indicated Tellier with the motion of a finger.

It was wonderful to see how GlÜck's face brightened—almost into a smile—as he laid his hand on Tellier's shoulder.

"Canaille!" hissed the latter, and shook the hand away. "Do not touch me—do not defile me with those dirty fingers. Oh, I will go! I have my task accomplished! And you are fools, imbeciles—all—all—from that fat Dutchman, who thinks his wife still living—"

But GlÜck was again upon him, this time not to be shaken off, and an instant later he and his victim disappeared together into the shadows of the hall.

"Just the same," shrieked Tellier's voice hoarsely from the distance, "it was I who was right! In every detail! A veritable triumph! A success of—"

The voice sank into a gurgle and was still.

Pelletan, his face livid, clutching blindly at the wall for support, stumbled forth into the hall, along the corridor, down the stair, until at last he found Tellier, his face purple, rearranging his cravat before a mirror in the hotel office.

"Iss she not lifing?" he asked, huskily.

"Living!" echoed Tellier, whirling upon him fiercely. "No, pig-head, she has been dead these three years! But you are no more a pig-head than those others. Oh, they shall answer, they shall repay, they shall atone! I will have my revenge—"

But Pelletan did not stop to listen. He groped his way across the room, his eyes shining, his lips trembling, repeating over and over a single word—

"Paris! Paris! Paris!"

Behind the desk he stumbled, through the little door, and dropped to his knees before Saint Genevieve, the protector of the city which he loved.

"You haf done eet!" he murmured, looking up at her with limpid eyes.
"You haf seen how I suffered, unt you haf taken pity. Gott sie dank!
Gott sie dank!"