Part 74 (1/2)
”You are very good!” responded Beau gravely.
Either his tone, which was one chill indifference, or some thing in his look, irritated her suddenly--for a rash of hot color crimsoned her face, and she bit her lips vexedly as she descended the office-stairs.
”He's one of your high-and-mighty sort,” she thought disdainfully, as she entered her cosy brougham and was driven away. ”Quite too awfully moral!” She pulled a large, elaborately cut gla.s.s scent-bottle out of the pocket of her cloak, and, uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the gold top, applied it, not to her nose but her mouth. It contained neat Cognac--and she drank a goodly gulp of it with evident relish, swallowing a scented bon-bon immediately afterwards to take away the suspicious odor. ”Yes--quite too awfully moral!” she repeated with a grin. ”Not in my line at all! Lord!
It's lucky there are not many such fellows about, or what would become of _me_? A precious poor business I should make of it!”
Meanwhile, Lovelace, left alone again with Mr. Grubbs, reiterated his demand for an apology. Grubbs made a rush for the door, as soon as Miss Vere had gone, with the full intention of summoning the police, but Beau coolly placed his back against it with resolute firmness, and flourished his whip defiantly.
”Come, sir, none of this nonsense!” he said sternly. ”I don't mean to leave this spot till I have satisfaction. If Sir Francis Lennox wrote that scandalous paragraph the greater rascal he,--and the more shame to you for inserting it.--You, who make it your business to know all the dirty alleys and dark corners of life, must have known _his_ character pretty thoroughly. There's not the slightest excuse for you. Will you apologize?--and retract every word of that paragraph, in your next issue?”
Grubbs, breathless with rage and fear, glared at him, but made no answer.
”If you refuse to comply,” went on Beau deliberately, balancing the horsewhip lightly on his hand, ”I'll just tell you what the consequences will be. I've thrashed you once--and I'll thrash you again. I have only to give the cue to several worthy fellows of my acquaintance, who don't care how much they pay for their fun, and each of them in turn will thrash you. As for an action for libel, don't expect it--but I swear there shan't be a safe corner in London for you. If, however, you publish next week a full retraction of your printed lie--why, then I--shall be only too happy to forget that such an individual as yourself burdens this planet. There are the two alternatives--choose!”
Grubbs hesitated, but coward fear made him quail the prospect of unlimited thras.h.i.+ngs.
”Very well,” he said sullenly. ”Write what you want put in--I'll attend to it--I don't mind obliging Miss Vere. But all the same, I'll have _you_ arrested!”
Beau laughed. ”Do so by all means!” he said gaily. ”I'll leave my address with you!” He wrote rapidly a few lines on a piece of paper to the following effect--
”We have to entirely contradict a statement we made last week respecting a supposed forthcoming divorce case in which Sir Philip Bruce-Errington was seriously implicated. There was no truth whatever in the statement, and we herewith apologize most humbly and heartily for having inadvertently given credence to a rumor which is now proved to be utterly false and without the slightest shadow of a foundation.”
He handed this to Grubbs.
”Insert that word for word, at the head of your paragraphs,” he said, ”and you'll hear no more of me, unless you give me fresh provocation.
And I advise you to think twice before you have me arrested--for I'll defend my own case, and--ruin you! I'm rather a dangerous customer to have much to do with! However, you've got my card--you know where to find me if you want me. Only you'd better send after me to-night if you do--to-morrow I may be absent.”
He smiled, and drew on his gloves leisurely, eyeing meanwhile the discomfited editor, who was furtively rubbing his shoulder where the lash had stung it somewhat severely.
”I'm exceedingly glad I've hurt you, Mr. Grubbs,” he said blandly. ”And the next time you want to call me your brother in literature, pray reflect on the manner in which my fraternal affection displayed itself!
_good_ morning!”
And he took his departure with a quiet step and serene manner, leaving Snawley-Grubbs to his own meditations, which were far from agreeable. He was not ignorant of the influence Beau Lovelace possessed, both on the press and in society--he was a general favorite,--a man whose opinions were quoted, and whose authority was accepted everywhere. If he appeared to answer a charge of a.s.sault against Grubbs, and defended his own case, he certainly would have the best of it. He might--he would have to pay a fine, but what did he care for that? He would hold up the _Snake_ and its proprietor to the utmost ridicule and opprobrium--his brilliant satire and humor would carry all before it--and he, Snawley-Grubbs, would be still more utterly routed and humiliated. Weighing all these considerations carefully in his mind, the shrinking editor decided to sit down under his horsewhipping in silence and resignation.
It was not a very lofty mode of action--still, it was the safest. Of course Violet Vere would spread the story all through _her_ particular ”set”--it made him furious to think of this yet there was no help for it. He would play the martyr, he thought--the martyr to the cause of truth,--the injured innocent entrapped by false information--he might possibly gain new supporters and sympathizers in this way if he played his cards carefully. He turned to the daily paper, and saw there chronicled the death of Sir Francis Lennox. It was true, then. Well! he was not at all affected by it--he merely committed the dead man in the briefest and strongest language to the very lowest of those low and sulphurous regions over which Satan is supposed to have full sway. Not a soul regretted Sir Francis--not even the Vere, whom he had kept and surrounded with every luxury for five years. Only one person, a fair, weary faced woman away in Germany shed a few tears over the lawyer's black-bordered letter that announced his death to her--and this was the deserted wife,--who had once loved him. Lady Winsleigh had heard the news,--she shuddered and turned very pale when her husband gently and almost pityingly told her of the sudden and unprepared end that had overtaken her quondam admirer--but she said nothing. She was presiding at the breakfast-table for the first time in many years--she looked somewhat sad and listless, yet lovelier so than in all the usual pride and a.s.sertive arrogance of her beauty. Lord Winsleigh read aloud the brief account of the accident in the paper--she listened dreamily, still mute. He watched her with yearning eyes.
”An awful death for such a man, Clara!” he said at last in a low tone.
She dared not look up--she was trembling nervously. How dreadful it was, she thought, to be thankful that a man was dead!--to feel a relief at his being no longer in this world! Presently her husband spoke again more reservedly. ”No doubt you are greatly shocked and grieved,” he said. ”I should not have told you so suddenly--pardon me!”
”I am not grieved,” she murmured unsteadily. ”It sounds horrible to say so--but I--I am afraid I am _glad_!”
”Clara!”
She rose and came tremblingly towards him. She knelt at his feet, though he strove to prevent her,--she raised her large, dark eyes, full of dull agony, to his.
”I've been a wicked woman, Harry,” she said, with a strange, imploring thrill of pa.s.sion in her voice, ”I am down--down in the dust before you!