A Fatal Dose. Fred M. White

      VIII. — BETWEEN TWO FIRES

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      IT was impossible that Cleave should fail to notice the fleeting suggestion of terror in the eyes of his companion. She stood there pale and trembling, like a child detected in some fault. She was waiting apparently for him to speak, to say something to break the tension of the moment. And yet there was nothing in the aspect of the man to suggest the blackmailer. It was easy enough for Cleave to guess what was passing in the girl’s mind. She had gone back to the time when, as a mere child, a romantic girl, there had been love passages between them—pure and innocent enough on her side, and possibly on his.

      But Lena had seen much of the world since then; her ears had not been altogether deaf to the disgraceful stories which had been told of Cleave’s downfall. She recollected the horror with which these recitals had inspired her, and the thankfulness she felt at her narrow escape from a life of absolute misery. What would Philip Hardy say if he knew of those episodes, for Lena had never told him? Indeed, she had long since forgotten all about them. It came back to her now, vividly enough, that certain letters of hers might still be in Cleave’s possession. There was nothing wrong in those letters; they were merely the outpourings of a simple loving nature, though doubtless romantic enough in flavour, such as a young girl, in the days of her calf-love, might have written.

      And Philip Hardy was so immaculate, so far above human weaknesses of this kind. He would have expected his wife to come to him, pure and unsullied, and with the flavour of no other man’s kisses on her lips, wholly honourable though they might be.

      But it was useless to stand there, panting and frightened like a timid deer. It behoved Lena to recover her self-possession, to show this man that she was not afraid of him, and that she was able to guard her own interests. But perhaps she was exaggerating; perhaps Jasper Cleave had turned his back on the old evil life and had by degrees re-established himself in the eyes of the world.

      “I did not expect to see you here like this,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips. “I understood that you had left England altogether; that, in fact, you—”

      She paused in some confusion. Cleave laughed a little bitterly. He was feeling quite at home now, quite ready to carry out his programme to the letter.

      “I can quite understand what you mean,” he said. “You thought that I had left my country for my country’s good; and yet, knowing me as you did in the old days, you will be disposed to admit that I was more sinned against than sinning. I fell into bad hands, amongst men who took advantage of my generosity and stripped me of all I had. Then when I discovered the extent of my folly, I became the pigeon which has turned a hawk. But any man has a right to a chance of recovery if he proves himself worthy of it. The fact that I am here to-night shows you that I have taken my chance.”

      Lena made no reply for a moment; she was casting around for a means to get rid of this man; she wanted to be alone and think. A little way off stood her lover in conversation with one of the leaders of his party, but Lena could see that he was paying but scant attention to the great man’s utterances. There was a puzzled frown on his face, as if he were struggling to remember the name of Lena’s acquaintance. Then there was a sudden lurid flash in his eyes and a sudden hardening of his lips. Lena did not need anyone to tell her that Philip knew. He made one stride forward, then recovered his self-possession. His back was turned to the others. Lena flashed an uneasy glance at Cleave’s face. She could see at once that the little comedy had not passed over his head.

      “I have heard about that,” he said. “I have been in England long enough to know that Philip Hardy has so far honoured you as to offer his hand and what he calls his heart to you. He is going to be a great man, I understand, but he must not be too impulsive. And, after all, what business is it of his to question my presence in this house?”

      “I did not know such was his intention,” Lena said coldly. “You will excuse me, I am sure; please do not let me detain you any longer. There is much I have to do.”

      A sudden anger flamed up in Cleave’s heart; he had no intention of being dismissed in this cold contemptuous way.

      Softly, softly,” he said between his teeth. “What a wonderful change in a woman in the course of three short years! When I left England there was no more timid or more affectionate creature than yourself. Now you are so hard and cold to me. Why?”

      “Why should you question my feelings at all?” Lena retorted. “They cannot concern you.”

      “Oh, yes, they can,” Cleave sneered. “Do not tell me you have forgotten those pleasant old days when we were together in the heart of the country. Do you recollect the night—”

      Lena’s face flushed crimson. She felt as if some cold hands had been laid about her heart. A subtle instinct told her that this man was here for no good; she flashed round upon him with a challenge in her eyes.

      “What is it?” she demanded. “Why do you come here like this and force yourself upon me? Let me grant at once that all you say is true, that we were at one time more than friends. I was young and innocent of the world—I loved you. But I was merely a child and knew no better. The love that I felt for you in those days I know now was no more than a passing fancy. I know now that I had given my heart to a scoundrel, who would surely have broken it had not Providence been kind. If you are the man you say you are, if you have done your best to redeem your disgraceful past, you would have shrunk from me, you would have avoided my presence. But you are here to-night for some purpose inimical to my happiness. If you think you can damage me in any way you are mistaken. There is nothing you can do.”

      “You are flattering,” Cleave said bitterly. “Upon my word, you tempt me to take up your challenge. You are marrying a man who is as different to myself as light from darkness, but Philip Hardy is not the man to forgive or forget. Suppose I go to him and tell him all I know?”

      “He will not believe you,” Lena said proudly.

      “No, he may not believe my spoken word,” Cleave said significantly. “Being a born politician and a statesman, he would ask for evidence. He would want to see the written document. Now just cast your mind back for a few years, and don’t reply in a hurry. If he asked for the documents, don’t you think I should be in a position to give them to him?”

      Lena started. Her face lost a little of its natural colour.

      “The letters,” she whispered. “I had forgotten all about them. Surely you would not be so cruel, you would not so far forget—”

      “The past,” Cleave sneered. “Sounds like a scene from some melodrama. Had not you better smile at me as if we were discussing some pleasant problem? There is a fat old woman opposite who is regarding us in