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CHAPTER XXXI
FACE TO FACE

All were assembled in the great saloon, or withdrawing-room, of the Marquis's house.

The day had come for that nobleman to acknowledge his kinsman, Lord St. Amande, as his heir before all men.

The Marquis of Amesbury sat at a table near the fireplace, on which lay, amongst other things, the papers that O'Rourke had signed and sworn to, the certificates of Gerald's birth and of his enrolment by Ulster King-of-Arms as the Viscount St. Amande in the peerage of Ireland, several affidavits from nurses and tutors to whom the lad had been put in the country, stating that the child delivered to them was always spoken of by the late lord as his son; and many other documents. At the end of the room were three witnesses who had been brought over from Ireland to testify that, to their certain knowledge and belief, Gerald was the lad they had known as the late lord's son. One of these witnesses was the Protestant clergyman of New Ross, now a very aged man; another was the steward of the estate where Gerald had been born; a third the nurse who had had him in charge from his earliest hours and had identified him by the marks upon his body.

Next to the Marquis, and on his right hand, Gerald was placed, and next to him I sat. On his left was no less a personage than the renowned Sir Robert Walpole, who had now ruled the country for many years, after having triumphed over all his enemies-even those who had had him dismissed from the Parliament and committed to the Tower. He was a man who, had one met him in the street, they would have been disposed to regard more as a jolly, beef-loving squire in London for a week's shopping and sight-seeing, than aught else. There, too, was William, third Duke of Devonshire-a courtly, grave gentleman, who had not yet, or barely, reached the prime of life; Lord Trevor and many others, to all of whom I was presented as the Lady St. Amande and future Marchioness of Amesbury. All greeted me most courteously, asking me many questions as to our colony and especially as to its loyalty, of which I was able to testify proudly, though I know not if I might have said as much of some of the more northern ones. The extremely polite, also, made me many compliments and, in their fashionable jargon, exclaimed that they trusted, now that I had shed the light of my eyes upon the mother country, I should never withdraw it wholly again. But these speeches I regarded only as foolishness and scarce worth answering.

And now the Marquis, addressing them, said:

"My lords and gentlemen and my good friends, you know what we are assembled here for. 'Tis for me to present you to my kinsman and heir. That I have already done individually; later on I shall ask you as a body to testify your willingness to acknowledge him as such. But first, and ere that is done, I wish to expose to you two villains-one of them, alas! also near to me in blood-who have long stood in the path of his lordship, who have endeavoured in every way to thwart his honest endeavours to come by his own, and who, in those endeavours, have assailed the fair fame of his mother, Louise, Dowager Viscountess St. Amande, who sits now behind that organ." And the Marquis pointed to a great organ made by Geisler of Salzburg in 1650, and brought by his father from there when making the grand tour.

'Twas there, indeed, that she had placed herself, being unwilling to be more regarded than was necessary, either by those who knew of her unhappy married days or who had known her in the full pride of her beauty. But as she had taken this place, where she could easily overhear all that passed, she had again reiterated her assertion that, should the two calumniators persist in their falsehoods and vile assertions, she would endeavour so to nerve herself to the task as to drag herself forward and confront them.

"To expose those villains, my lords and gentlemen," went on the Marquis, "this is what I have done. I have summoned Robert St. Amande to this house to-day-it wants but a quarter of an hour to the time when he should arrive," pointing to the great clock over the fireplace, "and I have requested him to come provided with the proofs which he says he can bring forward establishing his claim to be my successor. My lords, he has fallen into the snare, he has notified to me that he will be here at midday with Mr. Considine, his friend and secretary, when he will advance such proofs, as he states, that Lord St. Amande is not entitled to the rank he usurps, and desires in future to usurp, that he, Robert, must be the right and lawful heir."

"Was not this Mr. Wolfe Considine once proscribed?" asked a gentleman sitting near, who was no other than His Majesty's Attorney-General, Sir Philip Yorke. "It appears to me I know his name."

"He was proscribed in 1710 for most treasonable practices and fled to Hamburg, where he was supported by the Jacobites, but, on the accession of His late Majesty, he, with many others, obtained a withdrawal of that proscription on swearing allegiance to the House of Hanover. But, my lords and gentlemen, I will call your attention to the fact that this proscription entirely proves the grossness of the lie he asserts, that he is the father of Lord St. Amande, since he could not have been in England for some long time either before or after his lordship's birth."

"And is this Mr. Robert St. Amande's only ground on which to base his claim to both titles-Lord St. Amande's and yours?" asked Sir Robert Walpole.

"It would be of little effect if it were," exclaimed the Attorney-General, "since, even if true, his lordship must have been born in wedlock." And he took up a document to assure himself of the date of the marriage.

"He advances many other statements," continued the Marquis, "all of which he says he is prepared to prove, when called upon to do so, before the House of Lords. Doubtless he will bring forward some of these to-day, but, ere he comes, I desire to tell you that, in so coming, he imagines he will meet no one but myself. When, therefore, he and his precious comrade are admitted, you may be well prepared to see him exhibit many marks of surprise and consternation, in which state we hope to show him in his true colours. And, my lords and gentlemen, it is for this reason that I have ventured to have your carriages and coaches sent to the other side of the Fields until required, so that they, amongst other things, shall not scare the birds away."

There arose a murmur of amusement at these precautions on the part of his lordship, who went on to explain that his footmen had also received their orders for conducting the expected visitors into the presence of those here assembled; and then, as the clock solemnly struck the hour, all sat waiting for the arrival of those two conspirators. And, I think, with the exception of Sir Robert Walpole, who shut his eyes as though about to indulge in a refreshing sleep, and the Duke of Devonshire, who conversed with Gerald and me on the state of the Indians in the colonies and seemed much interested therein, all present were greatly agitated at the impending meeting. Once I saw the sweet, sad face of my mother-in-law glance from behind the organ and smile at Gerald, as though bidding him be of good cheer-as, indeed, he well might be in this fair company, all so well disposed towards him; and several times Sir Philip Yorke muttered "Humph!" and "Ha!" as he turned over carefully the mass of papers before him and occasionally whispered a word to the Marquis.

"That was a precious plot," I heard him say, "of Mr. St. Amande's to get his nephew shipped to the plantations as a bond-servant. Our friend, Mr. Quin, seems to have outwitted him neatly. What did you say became of the other-the one called-humph! Robinson-nay, Roderick?"

"He died a fearful, terrible death," replied the Marquis, "after he left the service of her father," indicating me. Then he went on to tell him the history of that unhappy man while many of us glanced at the clock. They were already fifteen minutes late-'twas fifteen minutes after twelve-could they intend not to come?

My self-questioning was answered a moment later-through the hall there rang a violent peal upon the bell, as though the hand which caused it was a fierce, masterful one; and clearly could we hear a harsh voice exclaim:

"Show the way and announce us. Follow, Considine!"

"My uncle," whispered Gerald to me. "Now prepare to see two of the wickedest rascals unhung."

"The Viscount St. Amande," said the great footman, regarding the company, as I thought, with a bewildered air-doubtless he wondered how there could be two persons bearing the same title-"and Mr. Wolfe Considine," and a moment afterwards the new comers were before us.

The one whom I soon knew to be Robert St. Amande bore nothing in his features that seemed to me remarkable or to indicate a villain, unless it was a terrible scowl and a most fierce, piercing pair of black eyes. He was solemnly clad; indeed, he was in deep mourning for his second wife, who had been carried off but recently by that dreadful scourge the smallpox, so that there was no colour about him. His companion also wore black-I suppose for his master's wife-and was naught else but an ignoble copy of that master. Gazing on him, and observing the insolent leer upon his face, his tawdry attempts at finery even in his mourning, such as his steel-hilted sword inlaid with brass, his imitation lace fal-lal neckerchief, and silver shoe-buckles, I could well believe that here was an adventurer and outcast who might easily be suborned and bribed to swear any lie for a handful of guineas.

"So," exclaimed Robert St. Amande, as he cast his scowling glances round the room, though even as he so scowled 'twas easy enough to see that he was much taken aback by the sight of so many persons assembled, "so, you invite us to meet a great company, my lord Marquis and kinsman. 'Tis well, very well. Your Grace of Devonshire, I salute you," accompanying his words with a deep bow, half mock and half respectful. "And the Premier, as I live! Sir Robert, I am your most obedient, humble servant. Sir Philip, too; though, sir, you are, I think, none too well inclined towards me. Well, it must be endured. And, now, my lord Marquis, in the midst of this gallant company, enriched by the beauty of this fair lady, whom I know not, may I ask what your intentions are? Though, indeed, I can but guess that you have gathered your friends together to witness an act of justice which, though tardy, you intend to do at last."

These swaggering speeches were well enough made and with a surprising air of confidence-indeed, my lord hath often since said that neither Wilkes nor Booth, the play-actors, could have surpassed him-yet they had no effect. The Duke and the great Minister took no notice of his salutations, while the Attorney-General but shrugged his shoulders contemptuously at his remarks, and then the Marquis spake, saying:

"Robert St. Amande, your guess is indeed most accurate. It is to do an act of justice at last that I have requested your presence here."

"'Tis well," the other replied, while he threw himself into a chair, an act in which he was imitated by his follower. "'Tis well. Proceed, my lord Marquis."

Yet as he spake with such assurance, it seemed to me as though he blanched and turned white.

"It is, indeed, to do an act of justice at last!" the Marquis repeated. "Robert St. Amande, it is to present my heir, the future Marquis of Amesbury, to my political friends that I have summoned them to-day. My lords and gentlemen and friends," and as he said the words he laid his hand on Gerald's shoulder and motioned him to rise, "this is my heir; this is the rightful Lord St. Amande and future possessor of my rank."

There was a murmur of applause from all assembled, as well as of greeting, while Robert St. Amande sprang to his feet, exclaiming:

"Him-you present him? That fellow! Why, 'tis none but the self-styled Gerald St. Amande." And he burst into a contemptuous laugh. "A pretty heir, that! A child born during a long separation of his father and mother, ay! a separation of years-if they were ever married at all-"

"Have a care!" exclaimed Gerald, also springing up from the seat he had resumed. "Have a care! or even this house shall not protect you now."

"I speak what I know. If they were ever married produce the proofs-and, even though you can do that, you must also prove that they were not separated for long before your birth. And on that score I, too, have my witness," and he glanced significantly at Wolfe Considine.

"Be tranquil, Gerald," exclaimed the Marquis to my husband, who made as though he would fly at the other's throat, as, indeed, I think he would have done had it not been for those who interposed between them. "Calm yourself. There is proof enough here to confound every statement of his," and he motioned, as he spoke, to the old clergyman from New Ross, who came forward at his bidding.

"Sir," exclaimed the Attorney-General, looking up from his papers at this venerable man, "I have here a certificate of the christening, signed by you and duly witnessed by the others, of Gerald St. Clair Nugent St. Amande, son of Viscount St. Amande, of New Ross. Do you recognise it?"

"I do," the old clergyman answered.

"'Tis the marriage certificate we desire to see," exclaimed Robert St. Amande. "The birth is not in dispute. What we do dispute is, first the marriage, then the paternity of the child, and, lastly, the identity of the person calling himself Gerald St. Amande with the real Gerald St. Amande, presuming the real Gerald St. Amande to have been lawfully born."

"We will endeavour to answer all your demands," Sir Philip Yorke said, glancing up at him. "Listen."

Then in a cold, clear voice, such as I think must have caused many an unhappy criminal to tremble for fear, he went on:

"The marriage between the late Viscount St. Amande, bearing himself the names of Gerald St. Clair Nugent St. Amande, with Louise Honoria Sheffield, was celebrated on the first of March, in the year of our Lord seventeen hundred and eight, at the Church of St. Olave's, at York. The certificate is here. You may see it for yourself."

Robert St. Amande waved his hand, exclaiming, "Since the Attorney-General testifies to it, who shall dispute it? It proves, however, nothing against our contention. Proceed, sir."

"Next we have the testimony of this reverend gentleman as to the birth and christening. That you cannot dispute with any hope of success. Here, too, is the woman who took charge of the infant at its birth. Norah Mackay, of New Ross, come forward."

With much fear and nervousness, this elderly woman-she who had first held my darling in her arms-came up the room, and, dropping many curtseys, stood before the great lawyer.

"Norah Mackay," he said, "you state that you remember the marks upon the neck and left arm of the child christened at New Ross as the infant son of Viscount and Viscountess St. Amande, in the year seventeen hundred and eleven?"

"I do, your honour's worship."

"And you have examined the neck and left arm of his lordship here," indicating Gerald, "and find thereon precisely and exactly the same marks?"

"I do, your honour's worship."

"You swear to that?"

"I swear to it."

"So be it."

"Ay," exclaimed Robert St. Amande, "she may swear to it fifty times an' she will. Doubtless fifty guineas would produce as many oaths. But such evidence establishes no claim, nor does it prove even then that my brother begot the brat. And this man here," pointing a lean and shaking finger at my husband, whose self-control was most marvellous, "is not that babe, I swear. The babe who was born at New Ross was drowned in the Liffey in the year 'twenty-seven."

"Then," asked Sir Philip Yorke, "if such was the case to your knowledge, why, in the winter of that year, go out of your way to have this man whom you deemed an impostor shipped to the colonies to be sold as a slave in the plantations there? For that you did so endeavour we have, you know, O'Rourke's sworn testimony; and his accomplice, as you thought Mr. Quin to be, is in this house to produce your acquittance to him for so doing."

And he fixed his severe eyes on the other as he spoke.

CHAPTER XXXII
NEMESIS

Certainly Robert St. Amande looked now like a villain unmasked! All eyes were fixed upon him as he rolled his own round upon the assembled company; there was one pair, however, he did not see; the eyes of Louise, Lady St. Amande, who from behind the great pipes of the organ, had never ceased to gaze upon him and that other craven villain since they entered; and that he stood before them most thoroughly exposed he must have known well. Yet was his bravado such that he still endeavoured to brazen it all out; he still attempted to assert his wicked cause. Alas! I cannot think, even now, but that he would have desisted and have withdrawn ere it was too late could he have foreseen the dreadful tragedy that his conduct was to produce.

After a few seconds he again found his tongue; once more he nerved himself to address all in that saloon, defiant still and reckless in the blackness Of his heart.

"He was to have been shipped to the plantations," he said, "not because I deemed him the rightful Gerald St. Amande, but because I knew him, even granting him to be the boy born at New Ross, to be smirched in his birth; because I knew my brother was not his father. 'Twas for the honour of the family; of my family, of yours, my lord Marquis, that no such child should ever sit in the place of honour. And wherein did I sin? Your house, my lord, the house in which I hope some day to sit as Marquis of Amesbury, has ere now refused the right of peerage to those born in wedlock when 'twas well known that, in spite of such birth, they had not been lawfully begotten. And that I knew of him; I know it and proclaim now." As he spoke he glared even more fiercely than before, so that his looks were terrible to see. Then he continued, "You, Sir Philip Yorke, you have produced your proofs to-day and have deemed them overwhelming. Now is the time, now the hour, for me to produce mine. I do so. You challenge me to bring forth evidence of the child's paternity other than that of my late brother. Behold it, then. Here sits the man who is the father of that other sitting there. 'Tis he, Wolfe Considine, the discarded admirer of Louise Sheffield before her marriage, the accepted lover of Louise St. Amande after her marriage, the father of Gerald St. Amande, the man who has been wrongfully installed as Lord St. Amande in the Irish peerage."

"God!" exclaimed my husband. "This can be borne no longer." And, as he spoke, he endeavoured to tear his sword from its sheath. Yet, between us, the Marquis and I did manage to appease him for the time, while the former whispered in his ear, "Tush, tush, be calm! Remember your mother hears all. Ere long we will bring her forth to confute them. Peace, I say."

Then, clearly and distinctly upon all ears, there fell the crisp tones of the Attorney-General addressing Robert St. Amande's accomplice. "You have heard, sir," he said, "that which Mr. St. Amande hath advanced. Do you confirm his words?"

A swift glance passed between them-'twas plain to be observed; the other hesitated a moment, and then, oh! unutterable villain, slowly he bowed his head and said, "I do confirm them."

I glanced at the organ as he spoke, I wondered how she behind it could sit there so calm and unmoved if the last of her strength was not yet gone; and then again Sir Philip Yorke was speaking: "Yet, Mr. Wolfe Considine, your confirmation is somewhat strange. You were, if I mistake not, proscribed as a rebel in the reign of Her late Majesty, Queen Anne. I have a full description of you here, handed to me by the Marquis. I will read it: – Wolfe Considine, late an officer in the First Royal Scots Regiment, from which he deserted before Oudenarde. Irishman, a spy in Scotland and traitor. Proscribed in seventeen hundred and ten and fled to Hamburg. Now, sir, since you were absent from England from that year until after the accession of the late King in seventeen hundred and fourteen, will you tell us how you could possibly be what you state you are, the father of Lord St. Amande!"

"I-I-I was frequently back in England-in Ireland-at that time," he stammered, "disguised and unknown to the Government. 'Twas there, then, that I met Louise St. Amande."

A terrible cry rang down the room as he spoke; a cry betwixt a scream and a gasp, one that caused all our eyes to be turned to the spot whence it came. And there we saw that which was enough to appal us; which caused Gerald to spring to his feet and rush forward and made me tremble and desire to weep.

For, erect and strong, as though she had never known an illness; her eyes fixed with an awful glare upon the unhappy wretch; her hands twitching and closing and opening spasmodically, we saw advancing down the room towards us the woman so foully calumniated. Back from her she motioned her son, as though commanding him not to bar her passage; slowly but unhaltingly she came on until, at last, she stood full face in front of the coward-hearted scoundrel before her. "Liar," she hissed forth, "liar! Deny it! Deny it! Retract! Retract!"

He stood shivering before her, his ashen lips muttering and trembling, though no sound came from them; he seemed, indeed, as though stricken dumb.

"Liar," again she said, still with the dreadful stare in her eyes as though she gazed on some horror unspeakable, "liar! Retract! You sat once at his board and ate of his dish; when you were beggared he gave you money and clothed you; yet now you would steal his wife's honour from him; the honour from his child. Retract! Retract, ere it is too late!"

He was dumb. Dumb with fear and dismay! He could frame no words in answer to the spectre that had arisen before him; he could not meet the glance of the poor paralysed woman whose strength had come back to her so that she might confront him. Still she went on:

"Retract, I say." And with those eyes piercing his soul, she continued, "Was my early acquaintance with you-unsought by me and never desired-fit justification for hurling the name of wanton at me all these years? Was my poor unhappy husband's charity to you fit justification for branding his child so vilely? See, here he stands before you. See," and she struck Gerald, who remained by her side, so fiercely on the breast as she indicated him that he bore the bruise for some days. "See! Is he that thing you state? Answer, vile traducer. Answer me."

"For the love of God! be calm, mother. Heed him not," my husband cried.

But, instead, she heeded not her son and again continued, though as she spoke she wiped her lips with her handkerchief, and all saw that it had blood upon it when she had done so.

"Retract, I say! Retract, I say! What! Shall a woman cherish above all other things her honour only to have it fouled and maligned by any crawling villain who chooses to speak the word? Am I-are all women-at the mercy of such base things as you?"

She gazed at him a moment and again she reiterated:

"Retract! Retract! Retract, I say!"

Still his lips quivered but uttered no sound; once he gazed round the room as though seeking to escape; the perspiration stood in beads upon his brow; his knees shook under him. And then, unhappy wretch! he whispered: "I-I cannot; I dare not."

They were the last he ever uttered. Swift as lightning darting from the clouds, the right arm that had been so long paralysed was thrust forth; in an instant her hand had seized the sword that hung by his side and had torn it from its sheath; in another it had passed through his body, the hilt striking against his breast. There was a piercing scream from him, a thud as the body fell to the floor a moment after; a clang of steel as she, after drawing forth the weapon from him, let it fall from her now nerveless hand and, with a gasp, sunk into her son's arms.

"Oh, my dear, my dear!" she moaned, while from her lips there oozed a thin red stream! "Oh, my dear one, at last I have repaid his attempt upon our honour and now 'tis finished. My sweet, this is the end. I have not five minutes' life left to me. Farewell."

Once, as Gerald held her in his arms, she tried to put her own around his neck, he helping her to do so, and then, opening her eyes wide, she whispered, "Thrust a sword through a man's body, Gerald; through a man's body," and so passed away.

How shall I write further, how continue an account of that which I no longer witnessed? The room swam before my eyes; I heard a terrible cry escape from the white lips of Robert St. Amande; in a mist I saw the horror-stricken faces of the assembled guests and of the Marquis. I knew that Sir Robert Walpole called loudly for a physician and a chirurgeon to be fetched; I saw the dead man lying at my feet, the dead woman in her son's arms, and then I swooned and knew no more.