"A shiny night,In the season of the year."
"A shiny night,In the season of the year."
It was the third evening after that one recorded in the last chapter; the party at Dene remained the same, though a large reinforcement was expected on the morrow. Only the younger Vavasour was absent; he had gone out to dine and sleep at the house of a country magnate, with whom a Russian friend of Max's was staying. Lady Mildred and her daughter had just left the drawing-room—it was close upon midnight—Wyverne followed them into the hall to provide them with their tapers, and had not yet succeeded in lighting Helen's—there never was such an obstinate piece of wax, or such an awkward [Greek: pyrphoros.] It is possible he would have lingered yet longer over the operation, and some pleasant last words, but he suddenly caught sight of the chief butler standing in the deep doorway that led towards the offices. The emergency must have been very tremendous to induce that model of discretion to intrude himself on any colloquy whatever; he evidently did not intend to do so now; but an extraordinary intelligence and significance on the grave precise face, usually possessed by a polite vacuity, made Alan conclude his "good-nights" rather abruptly; he guessed that he was wanted.
"What is it, Hales?" he said, as soon as he came within speaking distance.
The butler's voice was mysteriously subdued as he replied—
"My master wishes to see you in his study immediately, if you please, Sir Alan. Mr. Somers is with him."
The said Somers was born and bred in Norfolk, but had been head keeper at Dene for fifteen years—a brave, honest, simple-minded man, rather blunt and unceremonious with his superiors, and apt to be surly with his equals and subordinates; but not ill-conditioned or bad heartedau fond; a really sincere and well-meaning Christian, too, though he would swear awfully at times. He had only one aim and object in life—the rearing and preservation of game; we should be lucky, some of us, if we carried out our single idea as thoroughly well.
The Squire was looking rather grave and anxious, as his nephew entered.
"Tell Sir Alan at once what you have been telling me, Somers," he said. "There is no time to lose, if we mean to act."
The keeper's hard, dark face, grew more ominous and threatening, as he muttered—"Acting! I should hope there's no doubt aboutthat: there never was such a chance." And then in his own curt, quaint way, he gave Wyverne the sum of his intelligence.
It appeared that the neighbourhood had been infested lately by a formidable poaching gang, chiefly organized and directed by a certain "Lanky Jem;" their head quarters were at Newmanham, and they had divided their patronage pretty equally, so far, over all the manors in a circle of miles round. They had done a good deal of harm already; for they first appeared in the egging season, and had netted a large number of partridges and hares, even before the first of September, since which day they had been out somewhere every night. Of course it was most important to arrest their depredations before they could get at the pheasants. The gang had been seen more than once at their work; but their numbers were too formidable—they mustered quite a score—for a small party to buckle with; and to track them home was impossible; they had carts always near, artfully concealed, with really good trotters in the shafts; so, when they had secured as much as they could carry, they were able to ensure their retreat, and dispose of their booty. In Newmanham they took the precaution of changing their quarters perpetually, which made it more difficult to catch them "red-handed."
That very day, however, one of the lot, partly from revenge, partly on the certainty of a rich reward, had turned traitor. Somers was in possession of exact information as to time and place: aboutcatchingthe poachers that night there was no doubt whatever—holdingthem was another question; for "Lanky Jem" had made no secret of his intention to show fight if driven into a corner; indeed it was supposed that he would not be averse to having a brush, under favourable circumstances, with his natural enemies, the guardians of the game.
"They terms him Lanky Jem," the head-keeper explained; "'cause he comes from Lankyshire. He's a orkard customer in a row, they say, wery wenturesome and wery wenomous; he's taught his gang what they calls the 'rough-and-tumble game;' all's fair in that style they says, and if they gets you down, you may reckon on having their heel in your mouth before you can holler. I don't think that chap would have split, only he had words with Jem; he knocked two of his teeth out, and roughed him dreadful, by the looks on him. You'll see our man with the rest on 'em to-night, Sir Alan, and don't you go to hit him; he'll have a spotted hankercher half over his face, and won't be blacked like the others, that's how you'll know him. I've taken the liberty already of letting Sir Gilbert's folks know; we shall muster a score or thereabouts, and I don't see no fear about matching 'em. The moon won't be down these two hours, and they won't begin much afore that. They'll come back through Haldon-lane, and I thought of lining it, Sir Alan, and nipping down on 'em there, if it's agreeable to you; the banks are nicely steep, and they won't get out ofthattrap in a hurry."
The Squire could not help smiling at the quiet way in which the old keeper took his nephew's presence and personal aid for granted.
"You have not asked Sir Alan if he means to go out with you," he remarked.
"I should think not," Wyverne interposed. "Somers knows me too well to waste words in that way. What a piece of luck, to be sure! Haldon-lane is the very place for an ambush; if we manage well we ought to bag the whole batch of them. You shall be general, Somers—I see your baton's all ready—I'll do my best as second in command. I think I ought to let the other men know, Uncle Hubert? I shall be ready in ten minutes, and so will they, I'll answer for them. If you've anything to do before we start, you had better see about it at once, Somers. We'll all meet in the servants' hall in a quarter of an hour."
The keeper indulged in a short, grim laugh of satisfaction and approval.
"I like to hear you talk, Sir Alan," he said; "you always comes to the point and means business. Everything's ready when you are; but we needn't start for a good half hour yet. My men are stanch enough, I reckon; but it's no good keeping 'em too long, sitting in the cold."
The Squire laid his hand kindly on his nephew's shoulder, and stood for a second or two looking into his face, with a hearty affection and pride.
"I can't tell you how glad I am you are here, Alan. Even if Max had been at home, I think I would have asked you to go out to-night. I am too old for this sort of thing now; but somebody must be there that I can trust thoroughly. There will be wild work before morning, I fear, and coolness may be needed as much as courage. There has been no bloodshed, for the game, in my time, that the village-doctor could not stanch; and it would grieve me bitterly—youcan guess why—if any one were dangerously hurt now. We have had no fray so serious as this promises to be. You will take care, Alan, will you not? I am very anxious about it; I half wish I were going out myself."
"I'll take every care, Uncle Hubert," the other answered, cheerily. "But I don't the least apprehend any grave accident; it isn't likely they will have guns with them, as they are out netting, and don't dream of being waylaid. I must go and tell the others, and get ready. I shall see you before we start, and when we come back, perhaps, with our prisoners."
It was very characteristic of those two, that Vavasour never hesitated to expose his nephew to peril, nor of excusing himself for not going out to share it; while Wyverne accepted the position perfectly, simply, and naturally. It was evidently a plain question of expediency; the idea that it was possible to shrink from mere personal danger never crossed either of their minds.
Lord Clydesdale and Bertie Grenvil decided at once on joining the expedition; though it must be confessed that the alacrity displayed by the former hardly amounted to enthusiasm: it had rather the appearance of making the best of a disagreeable necessity.
Alan had nearly finished his brief preparations when there came a low knock at his door; when he opened it Lady Mildred's maid was on the threshold. "'My lady' wished to speak to him particularly: she was in her boudoir, and would not detain him a moment."
There Wyverne found her. It struck him that her cheek was a shade paler than usual, but the effect of contrast, produced by herpeignoirof deep purple and her dark hair braided close round her small head, may have helped to deceive him. There was an accent of annoyance in her voice as she said—
"Alan, what is this I hear about your going out with the keepers? How can you be so rash? What on earth are those people paid for if it is not to take poachers? Surely they know their own business best, and can do it alone."
"Not on an occasion like this, Aunt Mildred: heads as well as hands are useful sometimes. Even as Venice used to send out a pacific civilian to watch the conduct of their generals, so am I deputed to-night to control the ardour of the faithful Somers and his merry-men all. I hope to do myself credit as a moderator."
"I wish you would be serious for once. Even ifyoumust go out, which I am certain there is no necessity for, there can be no reason for those other two accompanying you. Of course, I don't suppose there is danger of life; but it is quite dreadful to think of that poor delicate Bertieaux priseswith some drunken ruffian; and if Lord Clydesdale were to meet even with a slight hurt or disfigurement, I am sure he would detest Dene for ever and ever. Alan, do try what you can do to stop it."
He laughed within himself as he muttered, under his breath, "Enfin, je te vois arriver;" but his manner was quite easy and unsuspicious as he answered her—
"I'm not much afraid for the Cherub; he can take good care of himself anywhere. You all pet him so much that you do injustice to his pluck. You never seem to remember that he is a soldier. He may have to guard his head in sharp earnest one of these days. But you are quite right about Clydesdale. I had much rather he stayed behind; but I fear it would be useless to try to dissuade him now. Aunt Mildred, you don't quite understand these things. Hemustgo. But you may sleep in peace. Not a hair of that august head shall be harmed if I can help it. You have read yourMaid of Perth? Well, your unworthy nephew and other retainers of the house will do duty as a body-guard, like Torquil and his eight sons. The word for the night is,Bas air son Eachin. I only hope the parallel won't quite be carried out. All the nine fell, you remember, and then—the young chief ran away. I must not stay another second. Dear Aunt Mildred, give us your good wishes. You may be easy, if you will only trust to me."
He kissed her hand before she was aware, and was gone before she could reply. When Alan came into the servants' hall, he found the whole party mustered, with the exception of the Earl, who joined them almost immediately. The latter had evidently bestowed some pains on his equipment. He wore rather an elaborate cap, with a black cock's feather in the band, white breeches, and boots coming above the knee; but the most remarkable feature was a broad belt of untanned leather, girding the shooting-coat of black velvet. From this was suspended a formidable revolver, balanced by a veritablecouteau-de-chasse.
Wyverne scanned him from head to foot with a cool critical eye, and then took Clydesdale aside a little from the rest.
"It's a picturesque 'get up,'" he said; "a little too much in the style of the bold smuggler, but that's a matter of taste. May I ask what you intend to do with these?"
He touched the weapons with the point of his finger.
"Do with them? Use them, of course," the earl replied, flushing angrily. "I made my fellow load the revolver afresh, while I was dressing. There's no fear of its missing fire."
The other laughed outright.
"Did you mean to let all those barrels off, and then go in and finish the wounded with that terrible hanger? I give you credit for the idea; but, my dear Clydesdale, we are not in Russia or the Tyrol, unluckily. A man's life is held of some account here, you know, and there's a d—l of a row if you massacre even a poacher. You must be content with the primeval club. See, there's a dozen to choose from. The Squire allows no other weapons. Ask him, if you like. Here he comes."
Vavasour, when appealed to, spoke so decisively on the subject, that the Earl had no option but to yield. He did so, chafing savagely, for he was unused to the faintest contradiction, and registered in his sullen heart another grievance against Alan Wyverne. After a few words of caution and encouragement, addressed by the Squire to the whole party, they started. He griped his nephew's hand hard as the latter went out, and whispered one word—"Remember."
When they had gone a few hundred yards from the house, Wyverne fell back to the rear of the column and took Grenvil by the arm.
"Look here, Bertie," he said, gravely. "I'm rather sorry I didn't go out alone on this business. We shall meet a roughish lot in an hour's time. Now, don't be rash and run your head against danger unnecessarily. I shall not be able to look after you; I've got a bigger baby in charge to-night. I should hate myself for ever if your beauty was spoiled."
The Cherub laughed carelessly and confidently. The burliest Paladin that ever wore a beard was not more utterly fearless than he. He could use those little hands of his (he was in the habit of exchanging gloves with his favourite partners) as neatly and as prettily as he did everything else, and in sooth was no contemptible antagonist for a lightweight.
"Don't bother yourself about me, Alan," he answered. "I'll look after my face, you may rely on it. I've been very diligent in my practice lately, and if I get hold of an extraordinarily small poacher, perhaps I may astonish him with what the Pet calls—the 'London Particular.'"
They met Sir Gilbert Nevil's men by the way, and when they reached the place of ambush, numbered twenty-two stalwart fighting men. The spot was admirably adapted for the purpose; a narrow deep lane passed just there through the crest of a small hill, and the brushwood on the steep banks was sufficient to hide a larger party. The rest nestled down there as comfortably as they could, while Alan and the head-keeper climbed the ridge to look out over the champaign lying beneath them. They had not long to wait before two lights appeared on the plain below, moving quickly within a foot or so of the ground, and every now and then becoming stationary. They were lanterns fastened round the necks of the steady pointers quartering the stubbles.
The keeper gave vent to a suppressed groan, ending in a growl.
"There they are, d—n 'em," he muttered. "The very beat I meant you to take to-morrow, Sir Alan. They won't be long in filling that ere blasted bag of theirs. I see five coveys on that forty-acre bit this arternoon. We'll take our change out of 'em before we sleep, or my name ain't Ben Somers."
Wyverne shook his head warningly.
"Your blood's hotter than mine, I do believe," he said, "though you are old enough to be my father. But mind, there is to be no unnecessary violence to-night. I've passed my word to the Squire, and you ought to help me to keep it. If they show fight, it's another matter, and they may take the consequences."
"I'll pound it, they fight," the other grumbled; "it comes more nateral to Jem than running, 'specially as he'll find hisself in a middlin' tight trap. We may get back to cover, sir; they'll not be long now; I reckon they'll finish in that stubble close agin' the lane."
So they rejoined their companions. The ambush was thus disposed. Eight men, including Somers, Wyverne, and Lord Clydesdale, took post, four on either bank, at a certain spot; six others, similarly divided, were left about forty yards in the rear—Bertie Grenvil was with this lot—the others concealed themselves at short intervals along the vacant space; the signal was not to be given till the poachers had got well into the space between the two main bodies; that in advance was rather the strongest, as it was expected the marauders would try to force their way into the high road, where carts were sure to be awaiting them. So, without a movement of tongue or finger, they were to bide their time.
Unless one is gifted with exceptional nerves, that time of suspense before action is very trying. To compare great things with small, I heard one of the best and bravest of all who went up to the Redan, confess, the other day, that he never felt so uncomfortable as during those long minutes when the men stood in their ranks waiting for the last orders, and that it was an unspeakable relief when the word was given for the stormers to advance.
Lord Clydesdale evidently liked his position less and less every moment. "Cursedly cold, isn't it?" he muttered, at last, and in truth his teeth were chattering audibly.
"Pocket-pistols are not interdicted, if other fire-arms are," Wyverne whispered, good-humouredly. "Take a pull at mine, and wrap my plaid round you; I really don't want it, I'm better clothed for this work than you are, I fancy; I've been at it before."
The Earl took the plaid, and half drained the flask without a word of thanks; he was still brooding sulkily over the rebuff he fancied he had met with before starting; besides this, the world had spoilt him so long, that self-sacrifice on the part of his fellow-men for the convenience of Lord Clydesdale, seemed to him the most natural condition of things imaginable; he accepted such tributes affably or morosely, according to his humour, but invariably as his proper due.
Alan interpreted his companion's feelings pretty correctly, and smiled contemptuously to himself in the darkness.
"You amiable aristocrat!" he muttered between his teeth; "if it were not for vexing Aunt Mildred, and for my promise to her, would Inotlet you look out for yourself this cold morning? I wonder if a thoroughly good thrashing would improve your temper; it were a good deed to allow the experiment to be tried. I do believe the most inveterate ruffian we shall meet, has more natural courtesy than has fallen to your share."
But the momentary bitterness soon passed away. Alan—as is the wont of his kind—never felt so benevolent towards mankind in general as when the moment of danger approached, which was to bring him into conflict with certain units of the species. Surely that perfect physical fearlessness is an enviable, if not a very ennobling qualification; it enables you to charge a big fence or a big adversary, with comparative comfort to yourself; in neither case, unfortunately, will it ensure you against a bad fall; but unless quite disabled, you rise up and go on again, as cheerfully as Antæus, and are at all events spared any pains of anticipation. An interval of silence which seemed very long, ensued. Suddenly Wyverne laid a firm, steady grasp on Lord Clydesdale's arm.
"Take off that plaid," he said, in the lowest and quietest of whispers; "you'll be warm enough in five minutes. They are in the next stubble now."
The ear of the practised deer-stalker, accustomed to listen for the rattle of a hoof far up the corries, had already caught certain faint sounds imperceptible to his companions. Somers heard them, though, nearly as soon; they could just see him through the black darkness, stretching his brawny limbs, and twisting round his wrist the thong of his bludgeon.
The fall of footsteps came nearer and nearer, more and more distinct, as the poachers crossed the low fence one by one, and got on to the harder ground; they were evidently very numerous. They did not come on in detached straggling parties, but appeared to wait till all were in the lane, and then advanced in something like a regular column, in the centre of which four men carried, in two nets made for the purpose, the night's spoil; as this entirely consisted of birds, the weight was overwhelming, though the result had been extraordinarily successful.
"Get on, two of ye, as soon as we top the hill," a deep, hoarse voice said, from the midst of the poachers; "and mind you see all clear."
The slightest touch of Wyverne's arm, and the discreetest chuckle, testified to Somers' intense appreciation of the impending "sell." The gang advanced with their habitually stealthy tread, but evidently quite unsuspiciously, till they were hemmed in by the divisions of the ambush. Then a whistle sounded shrill and ominous as Black Roderick's signal, and a dozen port-fires blazed out at once, casting a weird, lurid glare over the crowd of rugged blackened faces, working with various emotions of wonder, rage, and fear.
In the pause that ensued, while the assailed were still under the influence of the first surprise, and the assailants were waiting for orders, Wyverne's voice was heard, not raised by one inflection above its usual tone, and yet the most distant ear caught every syllable.
"Will you surrender at once? It is the best thing you can do."
The same voice answered which had spoken before—hoarse and thick with passion.
"Surrender be d—d! Here's the chance we've been wanting ever so long. Stick together, lads, and be smart with those bludgeons: there's enow of us to cut the —— keepers to rags."
Alan spoke again; and the curt, stern, incisive accents clove the still night-air like points of steel.
"Stand fast in the front: close up there in the rear. It is our own fault if a man gets through: we'll have all—or none."
He had only time for a hurried whisper—"Somers, whatever happens, look after Lord Clydesdale;" for Bertie and his men came on with a rush and a cheer. The port-fires were cast down and trampled out instantly, and so—darkly and sullenly—themeléebegan. It was likely to be an equal one; the poachers had the disadvantage of the surprise and the attack being against them, but they were slightly superior in numbers, and their bludgeons were of a more murderous character than those carried by the keepers, shod with iron for the most part, and heavily leaded. For a minute or two the struggle went on in silence, only broken by the dull sound of heavy blows, by hard, quick breathings, and by an occasional curse or groan. Lord Clydesdale had drawn slightly aside, and so, avoiding the first rush of the poachers, remained for awhile inactive. Suddenly, as ill-luck would have it, he found himself face to face with the most formidable of all the gang. "Lanky Jem" had forced his way to the front, partly because safety lay in that direction, partly because he fancied that there fought "the foemen worthiest of his steel;" he had his wits perfectly about him, and was viciously determined to do as much damage as possible, whether he escaped or no. He saw the figure standing apart from the rest, taking no part in the conflict, and instantly guessed that he had to do with a personage of some condition and importance: keepers are rarely contemplative or non-combatants at such a moment.
"Here's one of them —— swells!" he growled. "Come on, d—n ye! I'll haveyourblood, if I swing for it."
Clydesdale was not exactly a coward; if any ordinarysocialdanger had presented itself, he would scarcely have quailed before it. For instance, I believe he would have faced a pistol at fifteen paces with average composure. But it so happened (he had not been at a public school) that in all his life he had never seen a blow stricken in anger. The aspect of his present adversary fairly appalled him. Independently of the poacher's huge proportions and evidently great strength, there was a cool, concentrated cruelty about the bull-dog face—the white range of grinded teeth showing in relief against the blackness of his sooty disguise—which made him a really terrible foe. The Earl looked helplessly round, as though seeking for succour; but all his party seemed to have already as much as they could do. He saw the grim giant preparing for a spring, and all presence of mind utterly deserted him; he drew hastily back without lifting his hands to defend himself; his heel caught in a projecting root, and he fell supine, with a loud, piteous cry. "Lanky Jem" was actually disconcerted by such absolute non-resistance; but the brutal instinct soon reasserted itself, and he was rushing in to maim and mangle the fallen man, after his own savage fashion, when a fresh adversary stood in his path, bestriding Clydesdale where he lay.
Wyverne had been engaged with a big foundry-man, who chanced to come across him first; but even in the fierce grapple, where pluck and activity could scarcely hold their own against weight and brute strength, he had found time to glance repeatedly over his shoulder. He saw the Earl fall, and extricating himself from his opponent's gripe with an effort that sent the latter reeling back, he sprang lightly aside, just in time to intercept the Lancashire man from his prey. But the odds were fearfully against him now; for his original adversary had recovered himself, and made in quickly to help his comrade. Both struck at Alan savagely at the same instant. He caught one blow on his club, but was obliged to parry the other with his left arm: the head was saved, but the limb dropped to his side powerless. He ground his teeth hard, and threw all the strength that was left him into one bitter blow; it lighted on the temple of the man who had disabled him, and dropped him like a log in his tracks. But, before Wyverne could recover himself, the terrible Lancashire bludgeon came home on his brows, crushing in the low, stiff crown of his hat like paper, and beating him down, sick and dizzy, to his knee. He lifted his club mechanically, but it hardly broke the full sway of another murderous stroke, which stretched him on his face senseless. It looked as if he had remembered his promise to the last; for he fell right over Clydesdale, effectually shielding the latter with his own body.
Alan's life and this story had well nigh ended there and then. Such an abrupt termination might possibly have been tohisadvantage as well as to yours, reader of mine. But it was not so to be. Just as Jem was bracing his great muscles for one cool, finishing stroke on the back of Wyverne's unprotected skull, a lithe active form lighted on his shoulders, and slender, nervous fingers clutched his throat till they seemed to bury themselves in the flesh; and as he fell backward, gasping and half-strangled, a voice, suppressed and vicious as a serpent's hiss, muttered in his ear three words in an unknown tongue—"Basta, basta, carissimo!"
The poacher's vast strength, however, soon enabled him to shake off his last assailant, and he was rising to his feet, more dangerous than ever, when a tremendous blow descended right across his face, gashing the forehead and crushing the bones of the nose in one fearful wound. The miserable wretch sank down—all his limbs collapsing—without a groan or a struggle, and lay there half drowned in blood.
The old head keeper stooped for a moment to examine his ghastly handiwork, and then, lifting his head, remarked with a low fierce laugh—
"I gives you credit for that move, Master Bertie, it wur wery neatly done."
The poachers had been getting the worst of it all through; they were so hemmed in in the narrow way that their numbers helped them but little; indeed, some in the centre of the crowd never struck a blow. Their leader's fall decided the fray at once; some voice cried out—"Don't hit us any more; we gives in;" and they threw down their bludgeons, as though by preconcerted signal.
So ended the most successful raid that had been heard of in that country for years; they talk of it still. Out of twenty-six men, only three escaped, and one of these was the informer. Neither was any one mortally or even dangerously hurt, though there were some hideous wounds on both sides; but, if you bar gunpowder, it takes a good deal to kill outright a real tough "shires-man." Even "Lanky Jem" recovered after a while from Somers' swashing blow, though they were obliged to carry him back to Dene. The permanent disfigurement which ensued, made his repulsive countenance rather more picturesque in its ugliness, so that it was an improvement after all. He quitted those parts, though, as soon as he got out of gaol, and never returned.
Of all the wounded, perhaps Wyverne was the most seriously hurt; but, though his senses came back slowly, he was able to stagger home, leaning heavily on Bertie Grenvil's shoulder. You must imagine the satisfaction with which the Squire welcomed the conquerors and their captives.
Unwounded from the dreadful close,But breathless all, the Earl arose.
Unwounded from the dreadful close,But breathless all, the Earl arose.
Even his overweening self-esteem could not prevent Clydesdale's feeling nervous and uncomfortable. He was conscious of having betrayed a very discreditable pusillanimity; and he could not guess how many might be in the secret of his discomfiture. There was nothing in the mere fact of his coming out of the fray scathless, for Grenvil had not a scratch or a bruise; but it struck him as rather odd, that nobody asked "if he were hurt in any way." He was so perturbed in spirit, as hardly to be able to display a decent amount of solicitude about Wyverne's injuries, or to sympathize, with a good grace, in the triumph of the rest of the party. There was one man, at all events, that he could never look in the face again, without an unpleasant feeling of inferiority and obligation. Poor Alan! He meant well; but he did not make a very good night's work of it, after all. He got one or two hard blows, and changed Clydesdale's previous dislike into a permanent and inveterate hate. Virtue is always its own reward, you know.
Perhaps the Earl'slargesseto every one concerned in the capture would not have been so extravagantly liberal, if he had guessed how thoroughly the old keeper appreciated the real state of affairs. When Somers alluded to the subject—which he did once a month for the rest of his natural life—he generally concluded in these words:
"It wur the prettiest managed thing ever I see; but we wery near got muddled at one time, all along of that there helpless Lord."
Helen Vavasour came of a race whose women, if tradition speaks truth, could always look, at need, on battle or broil without blenching; but it is probable she would hardly have slept so soundly that night, had she guessed at what was going on under the stars. She heard nothing of the preparations; the bustle was confined to those remote regions where a Servile War might have been carried on without the patricians wotting of it; the furlongs of passage and corridor in the vast old manoir swallowed up all ordinary sounds. Pauline would of course have enlightened her mistress, but Wyverne chanced to "head" her before she could "make her point." The quick-witted Parisian saw that he meant what he said, when he begged her not to open her lips on the subject, and kept silence through the night, though it was pain and grief to her. That sentimentalsoubrettekept for Alan the largest share of a simple hero-worship, and she lay awake for hours listening and quaking, and interceding perpetually with her favourite Saint for the safeguard of her favourite Paladin. Judge if she indemnified herself for her reticence, when she woke Miss Vavasour on the following morning! She had got a perfect Romance of the Forest ready, wherein Wyverne's exploits transcended those of Sir Bevis, and the physical proportions of his foes cast those of Colbrand or Ascapart into the shade.
Making all allowances for her handmaiden's vivid imagination, Helen came down to breakfast in a great turmoil of curiosity and anxiety. She had to wait for authentic particulars, till she got fevered with impatience. The Squire, quite determined on doinghisshare of the business thoroughly, had followed the prisoners, already, to the neighbouring town, where they were to answer their misdeeds before himself and other magistrates. Helen had no reason to believe that her mother was better informed than herself, and "my lady's" morning meditations were not likely to be disturbed; no one else had shown any sign of life so far. At last, Bertie Grenvil lounged into the breakfast-room. His appearance was somewhat reassuring; there was not a trace of conflict or even of weariness on the fair face; indeed, the Cherub was so used to turn night into day, that late hours and sleeplessness were rather his normal state. His answers to Helen's string of eager questions were rather unsatisfactory; much in the style of old Caspar's reminiscences about Blenheim:
"Why that I cannot tell," quoth he:"But 'twas a famous victory."
"Why that I cannot tell," quoth he:"But 'twas a famous victory."
Perhaps there was no real reserve or affectation about it; one's waking recollections of a midnight fray are apt to be strangely distorted and vague.
"I've seen Alan, this morning," Bertie remarked at length casually. "He's wonderfully well, all things considered, and means to show at luncheon; but I fear they've spoiled his shooting for some time; he won't be able to use that left arm for a fortnight."
Miss Vavasour's cheek lost its colour instantly, and her hand shook so that it could hardly set down the cup it held.
"You don't mean that Alan is seriously hurt?" she said. "And they never told me. I have never even sent to ask after him. It is too cruel." She rose quickly, and rang the bell, before Grenvil could anticipate her.
"What an idiot I am!" Bertie interjected, actually flushing with a real self-reproach. "I thought you had heard that Alan had met with two or three hard blows, or I would not have mentioned it so abruptly. Don't be frightened; on my honour, they are nothing worse than bruises; he will tell you so himself in an hour's time."
Helen forced a smile, and recovered her composure immediately. But she did not seem comfortable till she had sent Pauline to bring a report of her cousin's state from his own lips. Thesoubrettehad been kept in equal ignorance with her mistress as to Wyverne's hurts, and when she came back to repeat his cheerful message, her voice was trembling, and her bright dark eyes were dim with tears.
The whole party—with the exception of the Squire—met at luncheon; for Max Vavasour returned in the course of the morning. The latter congratulated everybody very pleasantly on the success of the night's expedition; and, it is possible, congratulated himself quite as sincerely on having been out of the way; at all events, he affected no regret at having missed his share of peril and glory. Alan Wyverne came in the last. With the aid of a scientific valet, he had contrived to dissemble very successfully the traces of the fray; the dark thick hair swept lower than usual over his brows, and almost concealed the spot where the first blow had fallen; the second had left no visible mark. He seemed in the best possible spirits, and his gay, pleasant laugh came as readily as ever, without an appearance of being forced or constrained; but his face was very pale, and his left arm hung helplessly in its sling.
The worst of Lord Clydesdale's enemies—already he had made not a few—might have been satisfied at the state of the Earl's feelings, as he sat there, brooding sullenly over the recollection of his own discomfiture, and watching theempressmentwhich everybody seemed determined to manifest towards his unconscious rival. Miss Vavasour, as we have before said, was never "gushing" or demonstrative; but she considered it the most natural thing in the world that her cousin should be petted and tended under the circumstances. So she sat by his side, anticipating and ministering to his wants with the tact and tenderness that only a woman—and a loving one—can display, utterly ignoring the savage blue eyes that kept glaring at her from beneath their bushy brows. Clydesdale muttered curse after curse under his breath, and drained glass after glass of the strong brown sherry that stood close to his hand; the rich liquor seemed to be absorbed with no better effect than a genial rain produces falling on a quicksand.
It was rather remarkable that no one seemed disposed to questionhimmuch about last night's adventure. Possibly, Lady Mildred knew something of the truth—though not all—and had taken Max into confidence; for her maid might have been seen in close colloquy with one of the keepers, early in the morning; and it is probable that model of austere and dignified propriety would not so far have derogated without good cause. However this might be, her manner towards Alan Wyverne was kind and affectionate to a degree; when she spoke to Lord Clydesdale, a very close observer might have detected a certain coldness in the perfect courtesy. "My lady" was only a woman, after all; and the instincts of her sex, though tamed and trained, would assert themselves sometimes. She looked at the Earl as he sat there swelling with sulky self-importance; ruddy, certainly—perhaps unpleasantly so—but not "of a cheerful countenance;" then she looked across at Wyverne, just as a bright, grateful smile lighted up all his wan face, and thanked Helen for some trifling act of kindness. The contrast was too much for Lady Mildred; for once, the cold diplomatist yielded to a real frank impulse and forgot her cunning. When she rose with the others, she crossed over to where Alan sat, and leant over him, on pretence of settling his sling, till her lips touched his hair. Even Helen, who was so near, did not catch the whisper—
"Ah, so many thanks! Who can help loving you—always braver and better than your word?"
Neither ever alluded to the events of that night again, but they understood each other perfectly; and to the end of his days, Wyverne considered his services over-paid. In truth, it was no mean triumph to have made "my lady," for more than a hundred seconds, thoroughly honest and sincere.
That day brought a large influx of fresh guests to Dene; but only four deserve special mention, and perhaps these might be reduced to three.
Grace Beauclerc was Alan's only sister. There was a strong likeness between them, not only in features, but in character. She had the same quiet thoroughbred face, that no one ever called beautiful, but every one felt was intensely loveable; the same slender, graceful proportions; the same soft, winning manner; the same power of attraction and retaining the affection of men and women. The resemblance extended still further—to their fortunes. Grace had not ruined herself, certainly—with the exception of a few fair speculators of whose daring The Corner and Capel Court are conscious, they generally leave that luxury tous—but she had gone as near the wind as possible, by contracting the most imprudent of alliances. How the Beauclercs lived, was a mystery to their nearest and dearest friends. The crash had not come at Wyverne Abbey when the marriage took place, and Alan had then settled £400 a year on his sister; but this, added to the interest of her own small fortune, and the pay of a clerk of nine years' standing in the Foreign Office, hardly carried their income beyond the hundreds. A cipher had represented Algernon Beauclerc's own personal assets long before he married. Yet they lived apparently in great comfort, went out everywhere, gave occasionally the nicest entertainments, at home, on a very tiny scale, that you can conceive; and, it was said, were wonderfully little in debt. It was a great social problem, in its way, and one of those that it is not worth while puzzling oneself to solve. But though Grace's husband had been very extravagant, and was still far from self-denying, he was weak neither in mind nor principle; he loved his wife and his children, after his fashion, far too well to involve himself in any serious scrape; and contrived to utilize his amusements to a remarkable degree. He was passionately fond of whist, and had attained an exceptional intelligence in that fascinating game. His plan was to set aside a certain sum each year to risk on its chances: the profits went to the account ofmenus plaisirs, in which Grace had more than her share; if the card-purse was emptied, nothing would induce him to play again till the time arrived for replenishing it. Algy Beauclerc hardly knew how to be angry, even with an incorrigibly careless or stupid partner, and the world in general found it impossible to quarrel with him. In appearance, he was a curious contrast to his wife—broad and burly, with a bluff, jovial face, half shrouded in a forest of blonde beard, and large, light, laughing eyes. Prince Percinet and Graciosa never got on better together than did that apparently ill-matched couple. The set in which they lived, though neither vicious nor reckless, was decidedly fast; looking at Grace's quiet, rather pensive face, one could not help fancying that she must have felt sometimes uncomfortably out of her element; but she had a singular power of adapting herself to circumstances, without being deteriorated thereby. Presiding over one of those post-operaticréunions, where cigars, and even cigarettes, were not interdicted—or playing with her children, as she would do for hours of a morning—she always seemed perfectly and placidly happy.
Of a very different stamp were the other pair that remain to be noticed. Not only her intimate friends, and the men with whom she had flirted more or less seriously—they would have made a fair second-battalion to any regiment—but the whole of London opened wondering eyes when handsome, daring Maud Dacres married Mr. Brabazon, a pillar of the Stock Exchange, five-and-twenty years her senior, after an acquaintance of seven weeks, begun at Boulogne, where—for reasons cogent, though temporary—her father was then residing. It was not that she was more unlikely than another to make a money-match; but every one was surprised at her selecting that particular millionaire.
Richard Brabazon was not only glaringly under-bred in form, feature, mind, and manner, but he was popularly considered one of the most "aggravating" men alive. He had a knack of hitting upon the topic most disagreeable to his interlocutor or to the company in general, and of introducing the same at the most inappropriate moment, always in a smooth, plausible way, which made it more irritating. Even when he wished to be extraordinary civil, there was an evident affability and condescension about him that very few could stand. His slow, measured, mincing way of speaking—pronouncinga'slikee's—affected one's ear like the hum of a mosquito; and his plump, smug, smooth-shaven face was intensely provocative, inspiring people, otherwise calm and pacific, with a rabid desire to leap up and smite him on the cheek. This laudable and very general propensity had never yet been gratified; for Richard Brabazon was far too cunning ever to give a chance away. Many men would have given large monies for an opportunity of taking overt offence, but they waited still in vain.
It was a marvel how his wife—high-spirited and quick-tempered to a fault—contrived to live with him, without occasionally betraying annoyance or aversion. It is probable that several bitter duels had in fact taken place; but the antagonists kept their own secret; and it was a perfect neutrality now, though an armed one. The principle of non-interference was thoroughly established, and the contiguous powers did not even take the trouble to watch each other's frontier. Sometimes the spirit of aggravation would tempt Brabazon to launch a taunt or a sarcasm in the direction of his wife or her friends; but it was generally met by an imperial and absolute indifference—at rare intervals, by a retort, not the less biting because it was so very quietly put in. Hewoulddo it, though he knew he should get the worst of it, just as Thersites could not refrain from his gibe, though his shoulders were shaking already in anticipation of the practical retort of Ajax or Odysseus.
Lady Mildred was good-natured enough never to cross the plans or pleasures of her friends unless they interfered with hers; indeed, she would further them as far as was consistent with her own credit and convenience; but even in her benevolence some malice was mingled. She was rather glad to give Grenvil an opportunity of following out his love-dream, especially as she felt certain no harm would come of it; but, in mentioning to him the expected guests, she had purposely omitted the Brabazons.
Bertie had been indulging in an ante-prandial siesta, and only came down the great staircase as the others were filing past in to dinner; he was in time to see Maud Brabazon sweep by, more insolently beautiful, he thought, than ever. She just deigned to acknowledge his presence with the slightest bend of her delicate neck, and the sauciest of smiles. That wily Cherub could feign innocence right well when it served his wicked ends; but only one visible signreallyremained to testify that he had once been guileless—perhaps it was a mere accident of complexion—he had not forgotten how to change colour. Lady Mildred watched the meeting. She saw Bertie's cheek flush—brightly as a girl's might do who hears the first love-whisper—and then grow pale almost to the lips. "My lady" laughed under her breath, in calm appreciative approbation, just as some scientific patron of the Arena may have laughed, when the net of the Retiarius glided over the shoulders of the doomed Secutor.
Any one interested in such psychological studies—and, to some people, a really well-managed flirtation is a very interesting and instructive spectacle—would have been much amused that evening watching the "passages" of Bertie's love. It was rather a one-sided affair, after all; for the Cherub was so hard hit as to forget his cunning of fence, and timidity for once was not in the least assumed. The lady was thoroughly at her ease, as women ever are who play that perilous game with their head instead of their heart.
Maud Brabazon was just on the shady side of thirty; but such a pleasant shade it was! The sunniest year in the lives of her many rivals looked dull and tame by comparison. She was rather below the middle height, and rather fuller in her proportions than was consistent with perfection of form; but no one was ever heard to hint that her figure could have been improved upon. Large bright brown eyes were matched by soft abundant hair of a darker shade; a slightly aquiline nose, a delicately chiselledmutinemouth, and the ripest of peach-complexions, made up a picture that every one found fascinating, many fatally so.
She was a very queen of coquetry, understanding and practising every one of its refinements. You always saw the most attractive elements of any company converging to the spot where she sat, like straws drawn in by an eddy. Where was the secret of her power? Men who had been led captive at her chariot-wheels asked themselves that question in after days, when freedom was partially regained, and got puzzled over it, as one does over the incidents of a very vivid dream. It was a fair face, certainly, but there were others more brilliant in their beauty, more winning in their loveliness. Her frank boldness of speech dazzled you at first with its natural, carelessverve—she kept for special occasions the tender confidential tones that lingered in your ears through many sleepless night-watches—but several of her beaten rivals had really thrice her wit and cleverness, and, as conversationalists, could have distanced her easily. Maud Brabazon seemed to diffuse round her an atmosphere of temptation. Cold-blooded men, of austere morals and rigid propriety, felt irresistibly impelled to make love to her on the shortest acquaintance, not wildly or passionately, but in an airy, light-minded fashion, which left no remorse, hardly a regret, behind. It was strange that she had never yet got entangled in any of the toils she wove so deftly, for the bitterest of friends or foes had never dared to impute to her any darker crime than consummate coquetry. One who knew her well when the subject was being discussed, thus expressed himself in the figurative language of the turf, of which he was a stanch supporter:
"Yes, she can win, when she's in front all the way. Wait till you see her collared;they've never made her gallop yet."
Thereby intimating his opinion that the Subduer was still in the future, by whom Maud's peace of mind was to be imperilled.
All things considered, it seemed likely that poetical justice was going to assert itself in the shape of merited retaliation impending over the Cherub's graceless head; a state of things so perfectly satisfactory that we may as well leave them there for the present.
Pressing affairs called Lord Clydesdale away from Dene on the following day. He had probably reasons of his own for cutting his visit short rather abruptly. He thought that whatever interests he might have at stake would be advanced fully as well in his absence, for the present. Somehow or another, before he went, Max Vavasour was made aware of the wager with Harding Knowles. On the occasion of a great robbery—