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It rests with you to say."

      "With me," she said, looking up at him; "with me? Why, how should I prevent them going? Oh Archibald, if I could see them I would beg them on my knees to go while there is yet time."

      "One will not leave England without the other; Douglas would never go without Bertie. And, Kitty, Elphinston will not go yet."

      "Not yet! Why not? What does he tarry for? Is it to take vengeance on my husband, to-to-"

      "To see you."

      "To see me," she said, clasping her hands convulsively together, while from her soft blue eyes there shone so bright a light that Father Sholto knew how deeply the love still dwelt in her heart for the poor wanderer and outcast; "to see me. Oh! say, does he forgive-has he sent me one word of pardon, of pity?"

      "Ay, child, he forgives, if he has aught to forgive. Those are his words. Yet, he bids me say, he must see you, speak with you; then-then he will go away for ever. Now," Sholto went on, "'tis for you to decide. If you see him, there is naught to prevent his going; only-I must tell you, it is my duty as a priest, though you need but little caution from me-remember this man loves you now as much as he ever loved you, and-you are another man's wife."

      Fane had left the room when the others drew apart-perhaps he guessed that Sholto had some message for his daughter-so that now they could speak at ease. For a moment Lady Fordingbridge seemed lost in thought-as though struggling between conflicting desires, the one to see again the man she loved, the other to know that he was safe, a third to remember that, however hateful to her Lord Fordingbridge was, she was still his wife. Then suddenly she said:

      "You are right. 'Tis best we should not meet. Yet-yet-you say he will not quit England without our doing so."

      "I fear not. And time is precious. Remember, though the names are not in the list, they may be at any moment. Or he, or both of them, may be denounced. Many of Cumberland's and Cope's regiments are back in London; they may be recognised by some against whom they fought, and, if that were the case, their chance of existence would be small. Kitty, if you are strong enough, as you should be, 'tis almost best that you should see him. Then he can go in peace."

      "I am strong enough," she replied. "Have no fear of me; I have none of myself. Yet, how can it be? He cannot come here-I cannot go to him. But oh! to hear from his own lips that he forgave me, that he would think of me sometimes without bitterness."

      "What answer shall I give him, then?"

      "Does he await one?"

      "Eagerly. If you bade him meet you in George's Throne-room he would contrive to be there."

      "When do you see him again?" she asked.

      "To-night, after dark."

      "So be it. To-night you shall bear him a message from me. Now, leave me a little while. At dinner we will meet again. Then, then, I will ask you to carry a note to him."

      When she was alone she went to the standish and, taking pens and paper, wrote two notes. The first was easily despatched; it simply told Lady Belrose she would accompany her and her party to Vauxhall on the following night. The next took longer, caused her much deliberation.

      She pined to see the man whom in her own heart she accused herself of having deceived; yet she dreaded the hour when she should stand face to face with him. Alas! how could she look into his eyes-eyes that she feared would look back but sternly upon her-and plead for forgiveness, remembering that, had she but trusted and believed in him, they who now met as strangers would by this time have been man and wife a twelvemonth. Yet, it was not only to gratify her own desire to once more touch his hand and hear his voice, even though that voice should reproach her, that she desired to see him. It was also to save him, since he would leave the country, he had said, after they had once met.

      So, at last, she decided it should be so. She would see him once, would take his pardon from his own lips-Sholto had said that he forgave her-and then she would bid him go and consult nothing but his own safety and that of his true and tried friend.

      She took the pen in her hand again and drew the paper towards her, but, at first, she knew not what to say. In the previous letter she had sent him the words and ideas had come easily enough, for then she was writing a straightforward narrative with, in it, a sad plea for forgiveness. But now it was different. She was making an assignation with a man she had once loved-once! – she was deceiving her husband.

      "Bah!" she said, as this thought rose to her mind. "If 'tis deception let it be so. Out of his deceit to me is borne mine to him."

      Whereon once more she pondered a moment on what she should say, and then wrote:

      "Lady Fordingbridge will be at the masquerade at Vauxhall to-morrow night. May she hope she will hear none but gentle words there?"

      That was all.

      CHAPTER VII

      "THE BIRD THAT DANCED THE RIGADOON."

      The rejoicings into which London broke out when, at last, the Scottish rebellion was decisively crushed caused Ranelagh and Vauxhall Gardens to be, perhaps, more frequented in the warm spring and summer of 1746 than they had ever been previously. Indeed, after the fright which had fallen upon the capital when the news came that the Highland troops were at Derby and within four days' march of London, it was not very astonishing that the inhabitants should, on the removal of that terror, give themselves up to wholesale amusement. Six months before, imminent ruin stared them in the face; the Bank of England, by that time regarded as being almost as stable an institution as it is now considered, had only escaped closing its doors by the oft-quoted artifice of paying the demands made on it in sixpences. Regiments engaged in foreign campaigns-Ligonier's Horse and Hawley's and Rich's Dragoons-had been hurried home from Williamstadt; Admiral Vernon and Commodores Boscawen and Smith were each at sea with a squadron looking for ships carrying the invaders; while fifty merchantmen, styled "armed cruisers," were patrolling the Channels round our shores. Also, as an outcome of the panic, the inhabitants of London had purchased for the army about to take the field against the Pretender, 12,000 pairs of breeches and the same number of pairs of woollen gloves, 12,000 shirts, 10,000 woollen caps and pairs of stockings, and 9,000 pairs of woollen spatterdashes; while, not to be outdone by the other citizens, the managers of the then existing London theatres offered to form the members of their various companies into volunteers attached to the City regiment.

      But, ere the springtime had come, the invasion was over, the danger past. The young Duke of Cumberland, fresh from his triumphs in Flanders, had not only destroyed the rebel army, but had taken terrible and bloody vengeance upon all who had opposed him.[Note C] Therefore London-indeed, all England-slept again in safety at night, and with the arrival of summer had plunged with greater fervour than ever into all its usual enjoyments. Amongst the enjoyments of the former none were more popular than those of Ranelagh and Vauxhall Gardens, the latter being more generally known and spoken of at that period as the Spring Gardens. Here, on the warm evenings which May brought with it, until the fashionable world departed for its country seats, or for Bath, Epsom, or Tunbridge, went on one continual round of pleasures and festivities-one night a masquerade, another a concert, vocal and instrumental, where, among others, the mysterious Tenducci-whose sex was always matter of discussion-sang and warbled, sometimes in a man's voice, sometimes in a woman's; illuminations took place every evening, and, as they died out and the company departed, the nightingales might be heard singing in the neighbouring fields and groves.

      It was on one of these warm May nights that the wherry which brought Lady Belrose's party from Pimlico Fields to the Spring Gardens arrived at the latter place, while, as the boat touched the shore, from the gardens might already be heard the orchestra playing. In the wherry sat, of course, Lady Belrose herself, a still young and still good-looking woman, who, being a widow, thought herself entitled to always have in attendance upon her some beau or other, and who, to-night, had brought two, one a young lad from Oxford, the other almost as young a man, Sir Charles Ames. By her side sat Lady Fordingbridge, whose plain evening frock contrasted somewhat strongly with that of her friend, who was arrayed in a gorgeous brocade silk, while one of her cavaliers carried over his arm a green velvet mantle laced with gold, in case the evening turned cold and she

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