CHAPTER XIII
FAITHFUL TO DEATH
The ladies looked at one another. Even in that awful moment, the becoming, the seemly, the dignified had its claims. The window was narrow: the ladder—Mary Travers had gone to look at it—was steep: a little, curious, excited crowd was gathering below. Deane saw their hesitation. He rushed to the door and cautiously opened it. The thing was there! Across the very entrance—that villainous oblong case! And from below came a shriek—it was Madame’s voice, and a cry of “Quick! quick!”
“This,” said the General firmly (he had been through the Mutiny), “is not a time for punctilio. Excuse me,” and he lifted Lady Deane in his stalwart arms and bore her toward the window.
With a distant reminiscence of the ball-room, Arthur Laing approached Miss Bussey, murmuring “May I have the—” and with a mighty effort swung the good lady from the ground. She clutched his cravat wildly, crying “Save me!”
Mary Travers was calmness itself. With quiet mien and unfaltering voice, she laid her hand on Charlie’s arm and murmured:
“I am ready, Charlie.”
At the same moment John Ashforth, the light of heroism in his eye, whispered to Dora, “You must trust yourself implicitly to me.”
“Quick, quick!” cried Deane, “or it’s all up with you. Quick, Ashforth! Quick, Charlie, quick, man!”
There was one more pause. Mary’s hand pressed a little harder. John’s arm was advancing towards Dora’s waist. Sir Roger looked on with apparent impatience.
“Are you never going?” he called. “Must I”
Suddenly a loud cry rang out. It came from Miss Bellairs.
“Oh, Charlie, save me, save me!” she cried, and then and there flung herself into his arms.
“My darling!” he whispered loudly, and catching her up made for the window. As they disappeared through it, Deane softly and swiftly opened the door and disappeared in his turn. Mary and John were left alone. Then Mary’s composure gave way. Sinking into a chair she cried:
“And I am left! Nobody cares for me. What shall I do?”
In an instant John’s strong arm was round her. “I care for you!” he cried, and raising her almost senseless form, he rushed to the window. The ladder was gone!
“Gone!” he shrieked. “Where is it?”
There was no answer. The little crowd had gone too.
“We are lost,” he said.
Mary opened her eyes.
“Lost!” she echoed.
“Lost! Abandoned—by those who loved—ah, no, no, Mary. In the hour of danger—then we see the truth!”
Mary’s arms clasped him closer.
“Ah, John, John,” she said, “we must die together, dear.”
John stooped and kissed her.
Suddenly the door was opened and Deane entered. He wore a comically apologetic look, and carried an oblong metal vessel in his right hand.
“Excuse me,” he said. “There’s been—er—slight but very natural mistake. It wasn’t—er—exactly dynamite—it’s—er—a preserved-peach tin. That fool Painter”
“Then we’re safe!” cried Mary.
“Yes, thank Heaven,” answered Deane fervently.
“Oh, John!” she cried.
Sir Roger, with a smile, retired and closed the door after him.
Downstairs Lady Deane and Miss Bussey, forgetful of their sufferings, were restoring Madame Painter to her senses; Painter was uncorking a bottle of champagne for Arthur Laing; Sir Roger Deane was talking in a low voice and persuasive tones to an imposing representative of the police. What passed between them is unknown; possibly only words, possibly something else; at any rate, after a time, Deane smiled, the great man smiled responsively, saluted, and disappeared, murmuring something about Anglais, milords, and drôles. The precise purport of his reflections could not be distinctly understood by those in the house, for civility made him inarticulate, but when he was safely outside he looked at a piece of crisp paper in his hand, then, with his thumb pointing over his shoulder, he gave an immense shrug, and exclaimed:
“Mais voilà, un fou!” and to this day he considers Roger Deane the very type of a maniac.
Mary and John descended. As soon as they appeared Dora jumped up from her seat and ran towards John, crying,
“Oh, Mr. Ashforth!”
While Charlie, advancing more timidly to Mary, murmured: “Forgive me, but”
Mary with a slight bow, John with a lift of his hat, both without a halt or a word, passed through the room, arm-in-arm, and vanished from Mr. Painter’s establishment.
Sir Roger had seized on Laing’s champagne and was pouring it out. He stopped now, and looked at Dora. A sudden gleam of intelligence glanced from her eyes. Rushing up to him, she whispered, “You did it all? It was all a hoax?”
He nodded.
“And why?”
“Ask Charlie Ellerton,” he answered.
“Oh, but Mr. Ashforth and Mary Travers are so angry!”
“With one another?”
“No, with us.”
Sir Roger looked her mercilessly full in the face, regardless of her blushes.
“That,” he observed with emphasis, “is exactly what you wanted, Miss Bellairs.”
Then he turned to the company, holding a full glass in his hand. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said he, “some of us have had a narrow escape. Whether we shall be glad of it or sorry hereafter, I don’t know—do you, Charlie? But here’s a health to”
But Dora, glancing apprehensively at the General, whispered, “Not yet!”
“To Dynamite!” said Sir Roger Deane.
POSTSCRIPT
It should be added that a fuller, more graphic, and more sensational account of the outrage in the Palais-Royal than this pen has been capable of inscribing will appear, together with much other curious and enlightening matter, in Lady Deane’s next work. The author also takes occasion in that work—and there is little doubt that the subject was suggested by the experiences of some of her friends—to discuss the nature, quality, and duration of the Passion of Love. She concludes—if it be permissible thus far to anticipate the publication of her book—that all True Love is absolutely permanent and indestructible, untried by circumstance and untouched by time; and this opinion is, she says, indorsed by every woman who has ever been in love. Thus fortified, the conclusion seems beyond cavil. If, therefore, any incidents here recorded appear to conflict with it, we must imitate the discretion of Plato and say, either these persons were not Sons of the Gods—that is, True Lovers—or they did not do such things. Unfortunately, however, Lady Deane’s proof-sheets were accessible too late to allow of the title of this story being changed. So it must stand—“The Wheel of Love;” but if any lady (men are worse than useless) will save the author’s credit by proving that wheels do not go round, he will be very much obliged—and will offer her every facility.