# The Anonymous Letter

Extracted from The Windsor Magazine, Vol 66 1927, pp. 607–619. Accompanying illustrations may be omitted. [#Duchess Laura]
THE ANONYMOUS LETTER
By MRS. BELLOC LOWNDES
ILLUSTRATED BY HENRY COLLER
I.
"The Duchess of St. Andrews, who is noted for her kindness of heart, cannot be aware that there now lives on the Duke's property, and in one of the Duke's houses, The Small Manor, Willeyford, a most cruel stepmother named Mrs. Barcombe. She has a little stepdaughter, aged six years old, to whom she is always actively unkind, not to say cruel. She often shuts up the little girl, whose name is Amy, for hours in a dark cupboard. The S.P.C.C. have been warned, but with no result. Major Barcombe goes in fear of his wife, and is not man enough to interfere and save his child from ill-treatment. The Barcombes are very snobbish, and they are very much annoyed that the Duchess has not called."
THE above anonymous communication was written in block letters on a piece of plain cream-laid note-paper, but the envelope was addressed in what was obviously a disguised handwriting.
Now there is generally something both disturbing and alarming in the receipt of an anonymous letter. But the Duchess had once been rendered a great service through a missive of the kind. As a young married woman she had engaged a housekeeper who was a systematic thief. And then some member of her household—the Duchess never knew who the person was—had written and told her the truth. Thus it was that as she gazed down at the curious-looking missive, she did not feel quite the sensation of recoil and of suspicion which most people feel when reading an anonymous letter.
On the contrary, to her mind those terse sentences showed every sign of having been indited with a feeling of honest indignation and the desire to do good. There was one thing she did not like in the letter. This was the vulgarity, and touch of animosity, apparent in the last sentence. But she told herself that the writer might be a vulgar, while yet a truthful and a brave, woman.
What a horrible story! And how shameful that this Major Barcombe, whoever he might be, did not take the part of his own child against his cruel second wife.
Willeyford was a charming village, on the extreme edge of the Duke's large property, and the Duchess was on terms of old friendship with Mrs. Derbyshire, the rector's wife. But she had not yet met the Barcombes.
The letter had arrived at the Castle by the first post; and the whole of that day the Duchess was haunted by the thought of a poor little child shut up in a dark cupboard. At last she made up her mind to show the letter to the Duke. There were a good many people staying with them just then, and the first moment when she could speak to her husband with comfort, alone, was just before dressing for dinner.
The Duke read through the letter; then he exclaimed:
"It passes my understanding how a woman of your age can pay the slightest attention to an anonymous letter!"
"I don't see what my age has to do with it," she answered a little tartly. "We were both a great deal younger than we are now when we had reason to be very grateful to the writer of an anonymous letter."
"What do you mean?"
And then, before she could answer—"Hold on!" he cried. "You're right, Laura! I do remember all about it now. But this is a very different pair of shoes. It really doesn't concern us——"
And then he felt just a little ashamed of himself, for under his usual cold manner he had a good heart, and he was a most conscientious man. So—— "It seems to me odd that the Society for the Protection of Children won't do anything. Would you like me to drop them a line?"
"No, I don't want you to do anything—yet," said the Duchess, feeling ruffled, "I'll get in touch with Mrs. Derbyshire and find out what she thinks of the Barcombes."
"That's not a bad idea."
Then the Duke thrust his hand under the Duchess's arm. "Be careful, my darling! Don't let your kind heart run away with you. There may be exceptions to prove the rule, but an anonymous letter is almost always the work of a despicable human being. If I were you I should not show that letter, even to Mrs. Derbyshire."
"Very well, I won't."
The Duke went on in a musing tone, "I've received quite a number of anonymous letters in my life."
"James! How exciting, and you've never showed me one!"
"I had a peculiarly unpleasing anonymous letter about your son-in-law, Gerald Armytage, not long before he married Letty," he chuckled.
The Duchess felt very piqued. "I think you ought to have shown me that letter, James."
He became grave. "I can laugh now. But I felt very much disturbed at the time. In fact, I showed it to Sharpe——"
Mr. Sharpe was the Duke's solicitor, and always a very present help in time of trouble.
"But what could anyone say about Gerald?"
"I'll give you a lead! The letter was written by a girl who had wanted to marry Gerald. His mother thought the world of her," and again the Duke chuckled.
The Duchess clapped her hands. "That solemn prig! Was Gerald a flirt in his bachelor days?"
"I don't think the poor chap was to blame at all. But when he became engaged to Letty, his mother's young friend thought she'd put a spoke in his wheel!"
After the Duke had left her the Duchess went on thinking of her son-in-law. She was genuinely astounded by that curious little piece of unsuspected news. Hurt, too, that her husband had never spoken to her of the matter, though she had the honesty to admit to herself that it was probably a good thing that he had kept his own counsel. Neither of them had liked their eldest daughter's lover. But now they realised he had very good points. Also that, after all, nothing mattered, so long as he made his young wife happy. And he certainly did that.
Before beginning to dress, the Duchess wrote an affectionate little note to Mrs. Derbyshire, asking herself, if it were quite convenient, over to Willeyford Rectory for tea on the following afternoon.
There are moments in a human life when a man or woman feels as if he or she is gliding into a backwater, and that nothing very interesting, exciting, or what a certain type of modern person calls "thrilling," will ever come his or her way again! This was now happening to the Duchess. And for the first time in her life, she somehow felt depressed. At the time she could have done so, she had taken no trouble to be either a social or a philanthropic leader. Her husband, whom she dearly loved, seemed certain, now, to play no great part in the public life of his country, a fact which secretly filled her with chagrin, for she had a high opinion of his abilities, and now and again she feared he was what is called "a disappointed man."
Consciously she longed for something, anything, to happen! And, being the manner of woman she was, full of a certain kind of high courage, she would have been amazed had anyone reminded her of what old-fashioned folk call "the curse of an answered prayer."
She felt as if she were nearing the end of the Book of Life, and it was a very strange sensation to a woman still instinct with vitality and the joy of life.
So it was that she motored off to Willeyford feeling just a little excited and pleased to be engaged on what she believed would prove a mission of mercy.
It was all very well for the Duke to speak as he had done of anonymous letters! She knew what a great benefit she had once derived from just such a missive as that which she had left locked up at home, for fear she should be tempted to break her promise and show it to Mrs. Derbyshire.
As she entered the village she took up the speaking-tube, "Do you know where The Small Manor is, Hoskin?"
"We are just coming to it, Your Grace."
It was a beautiful, almost perfect dwelling-house, built of grey stone, and set in a lovely garden. And then the Duchess shuddered inwardly. How strange that within those old walls there should be enacted the kind of tragedy which now filled her vivid imagination!
It was with a sense of relief that she threw an affectionate look at the ugly, mid-Victorian rectory, far too big and too expensive for its present occupants, for it had been built at a time when England was the most prosperous country in the world, and as generous to her clergy as she was to all those who served her well and faithfully.
II.
The door of the Rectory was opened by an untidy-looking girl of about fourteen. But it was clear that Her Grace was expected, for the Duchess was shown at once into the large shabby drawing-room, where everything spoke of refinement wedded to poverty.
It was fortunate, so the Duchess told herself, that the Rector's only child, a daughter who, christened Elizabeth, chose to call herself Bettine, had married a wealthy man of business, who had once been tutored, in the long ago, by his present wife's father. Bettine Gunston was pretty, and had become what is now called smart. Even as a girl, she had not been liked in the neighbourhood, and she was seldom at Willeyford.
Illustration: "The Duke read through the letter; then he exclaimed: 'It passes my understanding how a woman of your age can pay the slightest attention to an anonymous letter!'"
Kind, old-fashioned-looking Mrs. Derbyshire came into the room, and before the Duchess had been able to open on the delicate matter which was the real reason for her visit, exclaimed: "Bettine was going away this morning, Duchess. But she has stayed on to see you."
Now the Duchess was not at all anxious to see her hostess's daughter, but she tried to look pleased; and hardly had she said a suitable word in answer, before the door opened again and Bettine came in.
Mrs. Derbyshire's guest rose to her feet. "Horrid, vain, purse-proud girl! How dare she get herself up like this in her parents' house?" she said to herself with indignation, and looking with inward disfavour at the very good-looking young woman now standing before her.
Bettine Gunston was very much made up. Her lips were poppy red, and she was rouged. She wore a velvet dress that showed off her pretty figure to great advantage. The skirt of her frock was edged with costly fur, and round her neck there hung a splendid string of pearls.
The Duchess told herself that the sale of, say, two or three of those pearls would provide enough money to turn this cheerless house into a comfortable dwelling. But such an idea, as well the visitor knew, would never have entered Bettine's charming head.
Soon the three ladies were engaged in the kind of mild gossip common to all country neighbourhoods, and meanwhile the Duchess was asking herself with anxiety what she should do about the letter which was the real cause of her being here. The Duke's words of caution echoed in her ears, and yet in a sense the matter was so urgent! Then Mrs. Derbyshire suddenly seemed to open the way, for she exclaimed: "Duchess, I've got a favour to ask you."
"It's granted, my dear——"
"I wonder if you would have the kindness, on your way back to the Castle, to call on Major and Mrs. Barcombe? Bettine used to know him quite well. He's a keen sportsman," she glanced deprecatingly at her daughter, "and Mrs. Barcombe is a nice, quiet sort of woman."
The Duchess hesitated, and long after she reminded herself of the wise old proverb, "The woman who hesitates is lost."
"Major Barcombe may be a keen sportsman, but I'm afraid from what I hear that he's not a good father."
"Not a good father?" exclaimed Mrs. Derbyshire in a tone of extreme surprise. "Who can have told you such a thing as that, Duchess? He's not a good-tempered man, but he's devoted to his children."
"I don't feel I can quote my authority. But I have heard, and I'm afraid it's true, that Mrs. Barcombe is a most unkind, indeed cruel, stepmother."
And then, before Mrs. Derbyshire could answer, her daughter took a hand. "I never cared for that woman," cried Bettine Gunston excitedly. "I can't think what Jock Barcombe saw in her. His marriage took all his friends very much by surprise."
And then her mother interposed in a troubled voice, "I'm more surprised than I can say, Duchess. I confess I don't know much of Mrs. Barcombe. She's a reserved woman, and she keeps herself to herself, as the village people say. They're far from well off, and she acts as nurse and governess to the children. Perhaps that tries her temper, but I can't believe that she's a cruel woman!"
"I'm afraid she is," said the Duchess firmly. "I heard——" and then she stopped for a moment, for she was truthful, and she hadn't exactly heard what she was going to say. "I've reason to fear that she sometimes shuts up her little stepdaughter in a dark cupboard, for hours at a time——"
"Mother! I expect that's the famous cupboard under the staircase that some people think was once a priest's hiding-place," exclaimed Mrs. Gunston. "It must be dreadful for Jock Barcombe."
"I blame him quite as much as I do her," said the Duchess in a decided tone. "In fact, I can't conceive anything in the nature of a man standing by and seeing his little child made unhappy."
Mrs. Derbyshire said in a troubled voice, "Will you allow me to tell the Rector this story. Duchess? Something ought to be done about it——"
"Certainly something ought to be done! Indeed, I will be frank with you, my dear old friend; it was so that I could ask you about the Barcombes that I came here this afternoon."
"I've never liked her! I've always thought he was a million times too good for her!" repeated Mrs. Derbyshire's daughter, as if to herself, and there was an undercurrent of triumph in her voice.
The Duchess, for once, felt in sympathy with Bettine Gunston. "When will you be coming here again?" she asked. "Will your husband be with you?"
"We shall both be down for Christmas, and baby too! I do hope you will allow me to bring my husband over to the Castle to tea one day?"
"Perhaps you would both come for the New Year week-end," said the Duchess graciously. "I know the Duke would like to meet your husband. He was so sorry to miss your wedding, my dear, and so was I."
Bettine Gunston got up; she had achieved everything, and more than everything she had hoped to achieve when she had made up her mind to stay on for a few hours in order to see the Duchess.
"Well, mother? I shall have to be off soon now—I promised to go in and see Rose Ingleside for a few minutes on my way to the station."
As the Duchess kissed her good-bye, she murmured, "I need hardly tell you, my dear, that every word I've said this afternoon is absolutely confidential? Your father and I will consult as to what had better be done. I don't suppose Mrs. Barcombe is causing actual bodily harm to her little stepdaughter, and such a case, as I dare say you know, is not easy to tackle."
"I wouldn't think of repeating anything you have told me!" exclaimed Bettine eagerly.
As she closed the door behind her the mother turned to the Duchess. "Doesn't she look well and happy?" she said fondly. "I can't tell you what a good fellow our son-in-law is, and so devoted, too! Though they've been married nearly two years, you might think he was still on his honeymoon."
"And now tell me," said the Duchess, lowering her voice, "what do you really think of Major and Mrs. Barcombe? After all, they're living only a few yards outside your gates."
"I used to dislike Major Barcombe," said Mrs. Derbyshire slowly. And then, when she saw the look of surprise flash across the Duchess's face, she added with a touch of reluctance: "When he was a widower he used to be down here a good deal fishing, and at one time I was afraid that he and Bettine were becoming great friends. I could see he was extremely attracted by her, but he was one of those men who love and ride away. Besides, from all I could hear, he was very poor in those days, and I knew that Bettine would have been miserable as a poor man's wife."
"But if he's poor," said the Duchess, surprised, "how can they live in The Small Manor? In spite of its name it's a good-sized house."
"Mrs. Barcombe has money," said Mrs. Derbyshire quickly. "Bettine found out all about her at the time of the marriage. She has about fifteen hundred a year of her own. But Major Barcombe is an extravagant man, and she has to be careful. Are you quite sure, Duchess, that your information is correct, I mean about Mrs. Barcombe? I know she devotes herself to her step-children; in fact, some time ago she sent their governess away. She's very fond of teaching, I believe."
The Duchess laughed. "I think that's a black mark against her!" she exclaimed. "In any case, it's always a mistake for a mother to play at governess. It never works well." And then as she rose, she observed, "I'm sure you will understand that I would rather not call at The Small Manor just yet? May I go and see the Rector for a few moments?"
But when the two ladies went into the Rector's study, they found a slip of paper on the table saying he had been called out.
"I'll tell him all you have told me, and we will see what he thinks can be done," said Mrs. Derbyshire. "Mrs. Barcombe is going away alone for a change to-morrow, and will be away a fortnight."
"It's a comfort to feel that her step-children will be without her for that time at any rate," observed the Duchess.
"Well, Laura, how about your visit to Willeyford?" asked the Duke that same evening.
"I didn't find out anything. But I gather that Major Barcombe's not a nice man. He used to be in love with Bettine."
"That only shows he has poor taste in women——"
"She was there and I could see she doesn't like Mrs. Barcombe. But she still has a kindness for Major Barcombe."
"I hope you said nothing before Bettine——"
"I couldn't help it, James. She was there the whole time, and she had stayed on to see me. But I didn't mention the anonymous letter."
Even so the Duke looked rather dismayed. "I hope you were careful as to what you did say. However, I don't suppose it will make any odds——"
III.
Three weeks went by, and on a certain afternoon, the Duchess suddenly told herself, with a feeling of dismay, that as Mrs. Barcombe must now be back at Willeyford, it was surely time that she heard from the Rector or Mrs. Derbyshire? And then, while she was saying this to herself, while pouring out tea in the Long Library for several members of her house party, the lady of whom she was thinking was announced.
"My dear," she exclaimed to one of her younger guests, "will you pour out tea for me?" and then she almost ran to meet her visitor. "Isn't it extraordinary?" she exclaimed. "I was thinking of you and of the Rector that very moment!"
"I wonder, Duchess, if I could see you just for a few moments, alone?" murmured Mrs. Derbyshire. She looked very much disturbed and unlike herself.
"Why, of course you can. We'll go into the Red Drawing-room." The Duchess felt full of excitement and curiosity. Mrs. Derbyshire had evidently come to tell her something of a serious nature. And when, a few moments later, she had shown her guest into an empty sitting-room, she exclaimed, "Don't look so worried! Whatever is wrong shall be made right."
"Do you remember, Duchess, that when you came to see me you told us—me and Bettine—of something you'd heard about Mrs. Barcombe?" said her visitor in a quavering voice.
"Why yes, of course I do! Have you found out anything?" The Duchess was all eagerness.
"I wonder," said Mrs. Derbyshire hesitatingly, "whether you've heard anything more about it?"
The other shook her head. "No, we've heard nothing! And I haven't said a word about the matter to anybody. It's just three weeks ago since I went over to Willeyford, so I suppose Mrs. Barcombe is back at The Small Manor?"
"Yes, she came back a few days ago," said Mrs. Derbyshire in a low voice. "But, Duchess?"
The two looked at one another in silence for a moment, and there came over the Duchess just a little feeling of discomfort, of anxiety. "You don't mean," she exclaimed in a tone of horror, "that the little girl is dead?"
Her lively imagination had conjured up a dreadful vision of a child stifled, maybe, for lack of air, in a small dark cupboard.
"Oh no, the child is quite all right," answered Mrs. Derbyshire in a tone of surprise. And then she asked a curious question. "Are you quite sure," she asked, "that you haven't told anyone else what you told us, Duchess? I suppose that you and whoever told you the story have discussed it together?"
Mrs. Derbyshire's hostess grew rather pink. "I have not mentioned the matter to anyone but to you and Bettine. The Duke warned me that to do so would be dangerous." Then she came over to where the older woman was now sitting. "What is the matter?" she exclaimed. "If there's nothing the matter with the little girl, why are you so distressed, dear Mrs. Derbyshire?"
"Because," said the other in a shamed voice, "I'm afraid that Bettine, without of course meaning to do so, did a very wrong thing. Under the seal of secrecy, she told her friend, Mrs. Ingleside, what you had told us, and Mrs. Ingleside seems to have repeated it, right and left. And, and——"
"Yes?" said the Duchess a little sorely.
"—Major Barcombe is most terribly angry, and he's going to bring an action against you, Duchess, for slander!"
The Duchess threw back her head, proudly. "I don't mind that! Even if it will cause me some unpleasantness I shall never regret what I said, if it causes a cruel woman to be shown up for what she is." Vaguely she remembered the old adage, "The greater the truth, the greater the slander."
"But Mrs. Barcombe isn't cruel!" exclaimed Mrs. Derbyshire in an hysterical tone. "Major Barcombe is sometimes cross to the children, but she always takes their part! I felt that I couldn't believe the story your friend had told you, and I was right. Mrs. Barcombe is a most good-natured, amiable woman. When Major Barcombe came to see my husband about the gossip which is causing them such distress, he insisted on the Rector seeing everyone in The Small Manor separately, and alone. Believe me, whoever told you that story has got hold of the most extraordinary mare's-nest."
"Then do you mean," said the Duchess slowly, "that there's not a word of truth in what I heard? That Mrs. Barcombe has always been kind to her little step-daughter?"
"Yes, I do mean that! When they had a governess who was rather severe with the little girl, it was Mrs. Barcombe who insisted on sending her away, though Major Barcombe was all for keeping her! I myself saw the parlourmaid, in fact the woman asked to see me. She came yesterday, and she told me she'd never known a lady more kind than Mrs. Barcombe."
The Duchess muttered, "What an extraordinary thing. What terrible lies someone has told."
"My husband wanted to see the Duke, in order to tell him of Major Barcombe's threat of bringing an action. But I thought it far better that I should come and tell you, all the more so that I'm very much afraid that the spreading of the slander, which makes it so very serious a matter, is really owing to my daughter. I can't think," she said helplessly, "what could have possessed Bettine to have done such a thing."
It was on the tip of the Duchess's tongue to say, "It was the more foolish and dishonourable, as Bettine gave me her word that she would treat my confidences as absolutely secret." But she was far too generous and too kind a woman to utter those true words aloud.
"I'm afraid," said Mrs. Derbyshire, in a lugubrious voice, "that you'll get a letter from Major Barcombe's lawyers to-morrow."
"It was very kind of you to come to-day," said the Duchess. "And if what you have told me is true—if I really maligned Mrs. Barcombe that day I came to tea with you—I will of course write her a letter of full apology which she can show to anyone she likes."
"That won't satisfy Major Barcombe!" exclaimed Mrs. Derbyshire. "He is determined to bring the matter into court. He declares that in no other way will his wife's character be cleared."
The Duchess began to feel angry. "I confess," she said rather sharply, "that the whole thing seems to me a storm in a tea-cup! I've spoken of the matter to no one but you and Bettine, and I'm willing to apologise to Mrs. Barcombe."
"I wonder, Duchess, if you would mind telling me who it was that told you that extraordinary story?"
As the Duchess remained silent, Mrs. Derbyshire went on, a little quickly, "My husband feels that Major Barcombe has a right to know who it was that so maligned his wife to you."
And then, for once, the Duchess behaved with prudence. "I don't think," she said slowly, "that I ought to say anything till I have consulted the Duke. If it's really true that Major Barcombe intends to bring the matter into a court of law, then I'm sure you will agree that I ought to be very, very careful as to what I say, even to you, my dear old friend."
"I think you're right," said Mrs. Derbyshire at once, "and I want to tell you that the Rector did his very best to make Major Barcombe understand that you had spoken to me from the highest motives. But he would listen to no reason, in fact he is beside himself with anger."
"I suppose you are quite, quite sure that there is absolutely no truth at all in the story?" asked the Duchess.
Somehow it seemed to her quite impossible that any human being should have written the anonymous letter she had received without something having occurred to justify its contents.
"Yes," said Mrs. Derbyshire firmly. "I am sure that nothing has ever happened to justify the telling of such a story. I assure you I should have been relieved if we had found out that Mrs. Barcombe was even—well, you know, Duchess?—old-fashioned in her methods as to her stepchildren! But she is, if anything, too kind. By the way, perhaps I ought to tell you that she is much more sensible about the whole thing than is Major Barcombe. But of course the poor woman is a good deal distressed. She cried bitterly when she talked to me about it, and her one object is to find out who could have said such a cruel thing about her!"
"What can I do but offer to apologise, and to take everything back I said?"
"I suspect," said Mrs. Derbyshire uncomfortably, "that Major Barcombe thinks they have a right to some kind of monetary compensation. He went up to London the day before yesterday and saw his lawyer. Good solicitors always try to stop any kind of lawsuit, but his lawyer, so my husband says, evidently egged him on, and made him think he could get very heavy damages."
The colour rushed into the Duchess's face. "Oh! Is that why he is going to take proceedings? Well, if our lawyer says something ought to be paid, of course I shall be ready to pay whatever is regarded as fair and just."
Mrs. Derbyshire shook her. head. "I oughtn't to have said that. Though Major Barcombe is very fond of money, he is genuinely angry, indeed furious!" She got up. "May I slip away without going through the Long Library?"
"Why, yes, of course you can!"
When the Duchess took leave of her old friend, "Don't look so unhappy, dear Mrs. Derbyshire," she exclaimed. "I evidently made a fool of myself. But I can't do more than admit that I did, can I?"
When she came back to her guests the Duchess felt seriously perplexed. But though she was anxious and worried, she was yet, such being her nature, truly glad that she had been wrong with regard to Mrs. Barcombe and that lady's stepchildren.
She had had, in a sense, such a happy and such a sheltered life. All those who knew her loved her, and many who did not know her had a very kind feeling for her. No doubt she had acted with foolish impulsiveness, but she told herself that, in spite of Mrs. Derbyshire's woebegone look, an ample apology would surely meet, and more than meet, the case.
As the afternoon and evening wore on, she made up her mind to say nothing yet to the Duke. She had reason to think that his mind was full of some question or problem—she suspected connected with public affairs; and she remembered the wise saying, "Do not trouble trouble till trouble troubles you."
Illustration: "Bettine Gunston got up; she had achieved everything, and more than everything she had hoped to achieve."
Even so, it was with a feeling of great relief that, when looking over her letters the next morning, she saw that there was no lawyer's letter among them. But alas! her joy was short-lived, for when the Duke joined her, she saw at once that he was disturbed, though he said lightly enough, "Laura? Do you remember that anonymous letter which arrived about a month ago—something to do with some people called Barcombe?" And then, without waiting for an answer, "Did you speak to anyone of the matter?"
"Only to Mrs. Derbyshire and to her daughter, Bettine Gunston."
"Then one, or probably both of them, have blabbed," he said shortly.
Slowly, reluctantly, she said: "Mrs. Derbyshire came over here yesterday, to tell me there's no truth in the statements in that anonymous letter. She confessed that Bettine repeated what I told them, and she says Major Barcombe is very angry——"
"I've had a letter from his lawyers this morning, and from what I can make out an apology won't satisfy him."
"I suppose," said the Duchess, "that they have a right to compensation, if, as the Derbyshires declare, the anonymous letter was false from beginning to end."
"I am afraid, my dear, that though in a sense they are out for compensation, they want the case to go to a jury. However," and he slightly raised his voice, "you did what any decent woman would have done in your place on receiving such a letter." And when he said that, the Duchess realised that he must, indeed, think the matter very grave not to be what, to herself, she called "cross."
"May I see the letter?" she asked in a low tone.
He came up and put his arm round her shoulders. "I'd rather you didn't see the letter, my darling. I want you to leave the whole thing to me."
"After all," she objected, "it's been my mistake! It's nothing to do with you, James. In fact, I think it was very impertinent of them to write to you about it at all!"
"Do you?" And then he smiled, a wry little smile. "You're evidently unaware that I'm responsible for your actions. Did you never hear of a tort?"
"A tort?" she repeated. "No, never. What does a tort mean?"
"Rub up your French, dearest! If you commit a tort—in other words, if you slander some innocent lady, as I fear you did this time, your husband is held equally responsible with you."
The Duchess looked at him, and horror and dismay were in her face. "Is that really true?" she said. "Do you mean that you must be dragged into this affair?"
"Yes, of course I shall be dragged into it. Surely you don't think it would have made me feel particularly happy if you had to fight a case of that sort alone? It's far better it should be 'The Duke and the Duchess' than 'The Duchess' alone."
"Oh dear!" That was all she said; and yet she felt terribly distressed, more distressed perhaps, in a sense, than she'd ever felt about anything that concerned only herself.
The Duke saw how unhappy she was, and suddenly he exclaimed, "Don't look so miserable! You and I will go up to Town together to-day. Sharpe is a pillar of strength, as I've often had occasion to find, and as you'll find the moment you see him. I should think Major Barcombe is not at all a nice chap, judging from the tone of the letter that he's allowed his lawyers to write."
But, alas! though Mr. Sharpe was, in a sense, a tower of strength, he was not able to say much that was consoling to his noble clients. And, as the days went on, and the usual interminable interchange of letters began to take place between Major Barcombe's lawyers and the Duke's lawyers, it became very clear that Major Barcombe, as the Duke tersely put it, was out for blood. It was not an apology he was seeking, it was not even a considerable sum of money. What he was apparently determined to do was to hold up the Duchess to public execration as a great lady who, with no foundation to go on, had maligned a neighbour whose one wish in life was to be not only good, but super-affectionate to her husband's children!
Acting on Mr. Sharpe's advice, the Duchess did not reveal the source of her information. "We will keep that," said the solicitor, "till the very last moment open to us. If the case ever really comes into Court, which I still hope," he concluded with kind eyes looking at Her Grace, "may be avoided, then we will produce the letter."
To say that the Duchess was rendered unhappy by all that was happening is a poor way of describing the anguish, the remorse, and the shame that assailed her. The only thing that gave her a slight measure of consolation was the loving-kindness of the Duke, and the wholehearted sympathy of her children. But in one thing the Duke differed entirely from his lawyer, for he would have produced at once the anonymous letter which had caused all the trouble. He even went so far as to say one day to Mr. Sharpe, much to that gentleman's surprise, "To my mind that vile letter was written by someone who knew Major Barcombe before he married his second wife, and it is, I think, the work of a jealous woman. I strongly advise that we make inquiries concerning Major Barcombe's life as a widower."
Mr. Sharpe shook his head. He could not but remember that the Duke had consulted him about a former anonymous letter, one which had certainly been written by a jealous woman, and he made up his mind that in this matter his client was simply going by what had happened before. And he was surprised that so shrewd a man should be so influenced. But reluctantly, for his firm was not the sort of firm who ever had occasion to deal with private inquiry agents, Mr. Sharpe did set afoot certain inquiries.
Meanwhile the Duchess grew more and more miserable, more and more anxious, more and more unlike herself. It seemed to her such a terrible thing that she should bring disgrace, for that was how she looked at it, on her husband's name! Also, she was a very feminine woman, and the thought of having to appear in the witness-box terrified her. Many a time the Duke told himself what a pity it was that the matter could not be fought out in the good old way, that is, with pistols for two, and breakfast for one, between himself and Major Barcombe!
IV.
"Everything is quite all right." Such was the astonishing message sent from London by telephone to Her Grace from His Grace. And, in the most mysterious manner, within about half an hour of the receipt by the Duchess of that message, not only the whole of the Castle, but it may almost be said the whole of the town which nestles at the foot of the Castle, and creeps up towards the Castle, had become acquainted with the tenour of that reassuring sentence.
It is strange, and sad to see, how even a very few weeks can alter a human being! Many of those to whom she had been kind—always kind, boundlessly kind, for nigh on thirty years—had noticed sorrowfully that the Duchess really did look, at last, as if she were no longer a young woman; though even now no one would have taken her for a grandmother.
"Everything all right?" The Duchess had burst into tears when her old butler had handed her the Duke's message with such a look of pleasure on his usually stolid face. "Oh dear!" she had exclaimed, "I wonder if everything really is all right?"
"His Grace came himself to the telephone, Your Grace. He was sadly put about when he heard that you were out."
Well, that certainly did look as if "everything was all right," for the Duke had an intense dislike of the telephone. In fact, since it had been installed in his London house he had used it only four times, and the Duchess remembered, now, that three of the four times had been concerned in some urgent way with one of his sons. If only he had said a little more! If only he had given her an idea of how everything had fallen out! She felt so ashamed, so mortified, and even now so miserable, to think of all the trouble she had caused, and to so many people.
Even now, great as was the relief, the Duchess still felt quite unlike herself while waiting for the Duke, and never had time seemed so long. The minutes were like quarters of an hour, the quarters of an hour were like hours, and the hours seemed like days.
At half-past eight she had her dinner brought up to her boudoir, and then after she had forced herself to eat something she sent a message to know if Mrs. Parsleep could see her for a few moments. And when the Duchess went into her old nurse's sitting-room, Mrs. Parsleep did not wait, as she always did wait, for Her Grace to make the first advance. Instead, she tottered forward, and threw her arms round her mistress. "So it's all come right, dearie? Always I will say that you were splendid over it all, even if you did make a little mistake. I heard the other day one of those impudent under-housemaids say I was like a witch, and I said to myself, 'I wish I was a witch, for then I could cast an evil spell on that there major!'—He's no officer, let alone no gentleman, but he'll come to a bad end—never you fear—that sort of grab-all generally do."
"Don't say that, Parsey. Major Barcombe had a right to feel very angry," said the Duchess in a low voice, "though I think he might have been content with a public apology. I have tried, now and again, to remind myself what I should have felt if someone had accused His Grace of being cruel to his children! Or, worse still, of allowing someone else to be cruel to them."
"I always knew it would be all right in the end," said Mrs. Parsleep firmly. "God isn't One to let the wicked prosper, for all that talk about the green bay tree."
And when the Duchess slipped away, back to her boudoir, to wait for the Duke, she felt happier than she had done for weeks.
At last she heard his firm footsteps in the corridor. Then, as he opened the door, she stood up, and there was a strained, almost a wild, look on her face.
"Well, Laura? All's well that ends well, my dear! And now I hope you'll never give the matter another thought——"
He came up to where she was standing, he took her face between his two hands, and then very solemnly he kissed her.
And then the Duke did what was for him a rather odd thing to do. He began, that is, to what she called to herself, fiddle about with her soft hair.
"James!—Don't! What are you doing?"
"I saw a white hair on your head the other day," he observed. "I'm looking for it. There it is—another one, too. Come, come, Laura, that will never do! I can't have a white-haired wife."
He was pulling them out, and she counted. One, two, three, four, five——
"I'm afraid it's cost you a very great deal of money, James," she whispered sadly.
"It would have been cheap at ten times the price. Besides, as a matter of fact it's only cost about the price of a diamond ornament Harrington brought to show me the other day, and which I thought of for you. You are always giving people things—and no one ever gives you anything!"
"I know I've given you a great deal of trouble," and she began to cry.
"Wouldn't you like to know what made the gallant Major give in?"
"I should indeed!" and she looked at him eagerly.
"We found out, the day before yesterday, who wrote that anonymous letter. The writing on the envelope gave the writer away. It was a lady we both knew——"
"Never! As dear Parsey would say——"
"Yes. And what's more, I forced her to confess the fact to Major Barcombe. Of course she wouldn't have done so if we, Sharpe and I, hadn't made it very clear to her that her villainy would come out in Court."
"Who was it? "
"Can't you guess? I guessed fairly soon." And then he said quietly, "Bettine Gunston."
"Bettine Gunston? But how astounding! What made her do it?" And then she added, "I do hope the dear, kind old Rector and her mother will never know——"
"As things have fallen out, they won't. As to what made her do it? She and Major Barcombe had been secretly engaged in the days when he was a gay widower, and she a very lovely girl. So she hated the inoffensive woman he actually did marry. Being what she is, she did not realise that you would try and rescue the child. She thought the letter would only 'put you off' the Barcombes."
"Wasn't Major Barcombe very angry with her?"
The Duke waited a moment. "In a way, yes. But I think he was also touched, and a little flattered. She almost went on her knees to him. We've got her to thank for the settlement out of Court." Then in a very different tone he exclaimed, "Let's forget all those horrible people——"
He walked across to the door and locked it—"Taking a leaf out of your book, eh?"
Then he came back to where she was still standing, and taking her hand, he sat him down in a deep easy chair, and pulling her down he cradled her in his arms. "I've something else to tell you!" he murmured. "Something that's got to do with me, for once—and which has also come all right."
She nestled down in his arms. It was years since she had sat on his knee, and that though they were a very affectionate pair. "What do you mean, James?"
"There's something," he answered quietly, "that I've always longed for—longed for so much, Laura, that I've never even spoken to you of it."
"Something you've longed for, my love?"
There came a queer jealous dart through her generous heart. She hadn't known that the Duke had ever had a secret from her, and it hurt her to know, now, that he had.
As he said nothing, she repeated, "What is it you've always longed for, my dearest?"
"You'll know when I tell you what it is that I've got. And the funny part of it is, Laura—that I really owe it to you!"
"To me? Then I'm afraid it can't be worth having," and she really meant what she said.
"The P.M. sent for me yesterday to ask if I'd take on a certain job—a big job. He began by saying that it was the sort of—well, post which couldn't be offered to a bachelor, as the woman's part, in these days, was very important, too. And then——"
"And then?" she echoed, looking up into his face. "What happened then, James?"
"He said that there was only one woman he could think of who would fill the part to perfection, and that that was the Duchess of St. Andrews. Not only was she a miracle of tact and kindness, without a single enemy in the world, but she always 'got on' with everybody, and was equally popular with Jew, Gentile and infidel."
"Do stop!" she exclaimed. "I'm sure he never said all that——"
"He really did," said the Duke gravely. And then there came a most peculiar look over his face, as he observed in a detached tone, "Mr. C. has offered me India."
"India!" She gazed at him in wonder. "Do you mean that all your life you've been longing for India?"
"Well, yes. I think I may say it has always been the one thing I thought I'd like. But I never- thought I'd have the chance. But now—well, they're going into the highways and byways, looking, we must hope, for the right men——"
"Did you think this might be coming your way?" she asked suddenly.
"I have had a suspicion of late that something of the kind might come my way."
"It wouldn't have done," she said slowly, "if that horrible case had ever gone into Court—would it?"
"I never did believe it would ever come into Court," he said stoutly, if irrelevantly.
"Thank God you didn't tell me anything about it," she exclaimed. And again she began to cry. "The suspense would have turned all my hair white——"
She slipped off his knee, and ran and unlocked the door. "I must tell Parsey!" she exclaimed.
"Parsey, always Parsey! " he said in a cross tone. Then, "I must be the first to kiss the Vicereine—though I believe there's no such person——"
A few moments later she exclaimed, "D'you remember how shocked Gerald was when I quoted that dear old Yorkshire saying, 'A kiss without a squeeze is like an apple without cheese'?"
And the Duke knew by that remark that the Duchess was herself again.
Copyright, 1927, by Paul Reynolds, in the United States of America.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1947, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 76 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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