Part 37 (1/2)

My husband's composure was something wonderful. He laughed and lit a cigar.

”We have got to the crisis,” he said. ”The question of money has driven us into a corner at last. My darling, have you ever heard of such a thing as a promissory note?”

I was not quite so ignorant as he supposed me to be; I said I had heard my father speak of promissory notes.

This seemed to fail in convincing him. ”Your father,” he remarked, ”used to pay his notes when they fell due.”

I betrayed my ignorance, after all. ”Doesn't everybody do the same?” I asked.

He burst out laughing. ”We will send the maid to get a bit of stamped paper,” he said; ”I'll write the message for her, this time.”

Those last words alluded to f.a.n.n.y's ignorance of the French language, which made it necessary to provide her with written instructions, when she was sent on an errand. In our domestic affairs, I was able to do this; but, in the present case, I only handed the message to her. When she returned with a slip of stamped paper, Harry called to me to come to the writing-table.

”Now, my sweet,” he said, ”see how easily money is to be got with a scratch of the pen.”

I looked, over his shoulder. In less than a minute it was done; and he had produced ten thousand francs on paper--in English money (as he told me), four hundred pounds. This seemed to be a large loan; I asked how he proposed to pay it back. He kindly reminded me that he was a newspaper proprietor, and, as such, possessed of the means of inspiring confidence in persons with money to spare. They could afford, it seems, to give him three months in which to arrange for repayment. In that time, as he thought, the profits of the new journal might come pouring in. He knew best, of course.

We took the next train to Paris, and turned our bit of paper into notes and gold. Never was there such a delightful companion as my husband, when he has got money in his pocket. After so much sorrow and anxiety, for weeks past, that memorable afternoon was like a glimpse of Paradise.

On the next morning, there was an end to my short-lived enjoyment of no more than the latter half of a day.

Watching her opportunity, f.a.n.n.y Mere came to me while I was alone, carrying a thick letter in her hand. She held it before me with the address uppermost.

”Please to look at that,” she said.

The letter was directed (in Harry's handwriting) to Mr. Vimpany, at a publis.h.i.+ng office in London. f.a.n.n.y next turned the envelope the other way.

”Look at this side,” she resumed.

The envelope was specially protected by a seal; bearing a device of my husband's own invention; that is to say, the initials of his name (Harry Norland) surmounted by a star--his lucky star, as he paid me the compliment of calling it, on the day when he married me. I was thinking of that day now. f.a.n.n.y saw me looking, with a sad heart, at the impression on the wax. She completely misinterpreted the direction taken by my thoughts.

”Tell me to do it, my lady,” she proceeded; ”and I'll open the letter.”

I looked at her. She showed no confusion. ”I can seal it up again,” she coolly explained, ”with a bit of fresh wax and my thimble. Perhaps Mr.

Vimpany won't be sober enough to notice it.”

”Do you know, f.a.n.n.y, that you are making a dishonourable proposal to me?” I said.

”I know there's nothing I can do to help you that I won't do,” she answered; ”and you know why. I have made a dishonourable proposal--have I? That comes quite naturally to a lost woman like me. Shall I tell you what Honour means? It means sticking at nothing, in your service.

Please tell me to open the letter.”

”How did you come by the letter, f.a.n.n.y?”

”My master gave it to me to put in the post.”

”Then, post it.”

The strange creature, so full of contraries--so sensitive at one time, so impenetrable at another--pointed again to the address.

”When the master writes to that man,” she went on--”a long letter (if you will notice), and a sealed letter--your ladys.h.i.+p ought to see what is inside it. I haven't a doubt myself that there's writing under this seal which bodes trouble to you. The spare bedroom is empty. Do you want to have the doctor for your visitor again? Don't tell me to post the letter, till I've opened it first.”

”I do tell you to post the letter.”