CHAPTERCXXV.THE YOUNG EARL OF ETHALWOOD.The reader will understand that a lapse of years has taken place since we last took a glance at the inmates of Broxbridge Hall, and it will be needless to signify that time is an active agent, and many changes have taken place since our last visit to the hall. The Lady Aveline plunged into the vortex of fashionable life, and as a natural consequence had a number of admirers. It was her grandfather’s wish that she should form an alliance with a member of the aristocracy. She would then be still further removed from the low-born engineer. There were many suitors for her hand, but Aveline herself did not display any willingness to change her condition; and the probability is that she would not have done so had it not been for the importunities of the earl and the vivacious Lady Marylynn.After a good deal of flirtation, hesitation, and irresolution, she consented to become the wife of a baronet of some eight and thirty summers, Sir Gerald Batashall by name.On the day of her marriage the earl settled on her a princely dowry, and all went on as merry as a marriage bell. The Batashalls were an old family in the West of England; they were proud, like the earl, and the match was considered by everyone to be a suitable and proper one.The Lady Aveline bore her husband two children, a boy and a girl.In the meantime, the young heir of Ethalwood was growing up to man’s estate; he had been indulged by his mother and spoiled by his grandfather, who made him his pet, and indeed it might be said, almost his idol.He was sent to college, and when at home had tutors in the house. No expense was spared to make him worthy of the proud position he was to occupy.He was a generous-hearted impetuous youth, but could not brook control, and the servants averred that he had much of the Ethalwood spirit.Before he reached his nineteenth year his grandfather breathed his last in the presence of his grand-daughter and great-grandson.The latter came into the title and estates at too early an age, perhaps, but there was no help for it; the earl was full of years at the time of his decease—between eighty and ninety, which is a respectable old age.After the few months of mourning for his noble ancestor Lord Reginald Ethalwood soon began to have his own views of youth and freedom in the new life which was so suddenly opened to him.The temple of pleasure was before him, and he soon found his way into its innermost penetralia. For a long time the intoxicating and enervating draught of luxurious indulgence was never absent from his lips until at last he had drunk down to the very lees of the cup, and, as a natural consequence, tasted of satiety and disgust.His mother could not give so much heed to him as she wished, as she had her husband and her young children to occupy her thoughts, so that the young earl was left to steer his course as best he could. He becameblasé, discontented, and yearned for a change.Change of scene, change of pursuit, both were open to him as the natural resources of his condition, and without hesitation he turned to them for relief from the ennui and discontent that had overtaken him.Among the possessions that had come to him with the patrimonial estates he had inherited from his great grandfather, was a small chateau or hunting lodge on the borders of Switzerland. In the earlier days of his life, the deceased earl had been accustomed to spend a good deal of his time at this place. The Ethalwoods had always a great predilection for sports, and shooting and hunting had special charms for them when in the pride and full vigour of manhood, and hence it was that the chateau in question had at one time been a favourite resort with the father and his sons.It was built on the side of one of the high spurs of the Jura, in the midst of some of the wildest and most picturesque scenery of that portion of the country which links France with Switzerland.Except to a few visitors in the summer months the profound solitudes of the mountains were almost unknown to strangers—the valleys and mountain sides being inhabited by populations ignorant of everything that passes in the world beyond the bounds of their native forests.Erected some three hundred years before, the chateau was a sombre and imposing building. Above it rose a pine forest, dark and stately; below it lay a deep valley.The whole aspect of the place was one of savage grandeur. Lord Reginald Ethalwood, tired of London fashionable life, made up his mind to seek change in this charming retreat.He was a keen sportsman: could handle a rifle with the best of his fellows, and, much to the surprise and discomfiture of his gay and thoughtless companions, he left England for the far-famed retreat on the borders of France. Once arrived there, he gave himself up, with a constantly-increasing ardour, to the hunting of the fox and the wild boar.He had in a short time grown to like this sort of life; and it might have lasted for many years but for an adventure which cast a shadow over his path—a deep and sinister shadow, which brought with it regret, sorrow, and remorse.In the ardour of the chase he was led over the highest pinnacles of the mountains; a toppling crag gave way, and he was precipitated into the chasm below. The fall was a fearful one, and he lay stunned and motionless, and to all appearance dead. Some peasants discovered him, and placing him on a litter they conveyed him to the nearest habitation, where every attention was paid him by the kindly disposed mistress of the establishment. But for some days he hovered between life and death. Luckily for him, he had fallen into good hands. Madame Trieste, the owner of the chalet into which he had been conveyed, tended on him with maternal solicitude, and by careful nursing, joined to medical skill, he recovered from the terrible injuries he had received.Madame had two valuable assistants in nursing the wounded earl, these being her daughter and a servant, so that the English nobleman had every possible attention.When he recovered he was loth to leave the hospitable establishment. One reason for this was a lurking fondness for Mademoiselle Theresa Trieste—his hostess’s charming daughter, in whose society he found great solace and comfort.Days and weeks had passed over, but the young nobleman still continued an inmate of the house in the occupation of Madame Trieste—he did not feel disposed to leave. He had by this time recovered from his accident, but did not feel inclined to return to his own domicile. Indeed, to say the truth, he had been persuaded to remain by mademoiselle, who had no desire to part with him. Thus matters went on for some time, until a change took place in the aspect of affairs.On the day in question there was a sort of lull; the dinner passed over in a humdrum way. Madame Trieste was the only one of the party whose good spirits were not forced; Theresa scarcely spoke at all; she appeared to be preoccupied—the reason for this was not made manifest.Agatha, the servant girl, was even in a still worse condition; it was evident that she had been weeping, for her eyes were red and swollen.Lord Ethalwood himself felt dispirited, and it was in vain that he strove to assume an air of cheerfulness, and it was impossible for the vivacious Frenchwoman, his hostess, not to observe that there was something the matter with her guest. The woman prudently forebore to make any allusion to his altered demeanour.“I am but a dull and cheerless companion, madame,” observed Lord Ethalwood, when he rose from the table. “The fact is I am not so strong as I supposed, and my long morning’s walk has been a little too much for me.”“It is not to be wondered at, my lord,” returned the lady. “It will be some time, I expect, before you have recovered your strength.”“No doubt some time, but to-morrow I hope and trust I shall be a little better.”“I hope so, I am sure.”He excused himself upon the plea of weakness, and retired to his room. Here he sat ruminating for some time, and upon retiring to bed that night, he could not rest, a vision of two girls sleeping under the same roof with him rose up and floated before him, so that repose was impossible.The next morning he rose earlier than usual, hoping to find health and strength in the fresh mountain breeze.He was away some considerable time, wandering about in a desultory manner he knew not whither.When he returned to Madame Trieste’s house, he was silent and thoughtful, but was, nevertheless, extremely courteous in his manner. This was habitual to him. He found the ladies waiting breakfast for him.Theresa looked pale, and appeared to be in a state of trepidation. Her maid Agatha, however, seemed to be keenly alive to all that was passing, for her eyes wandered about from one to another in an inquiring manner.Madame Trieste was lively and loquacious, and the meal passed over pleasantly enough. When it was concluded, and the party were about to leave the dining-room, a loud barking of dogs in the garden fell upon their ears.“Oh, a visitor,” remarked Madame Trieste.“Do you expect anyone?” inquired Lord Ethalwood.“Well, yes, I do, if the truth must be told,” returned his hostess.Theresa started, and a troubled look sat on her beauteous and expressive features.There was a gentle rap at the door, after which a young man entered the room. He appeared to be about four or five and twenty. He had a well-knit frame, indicating great strength and activity. His features were characteristic of determination and were possessed of a certain amount of manly beauty—albeit, they lacked refinement. His hair was black, and his complexion swarthy.Madame Trieste held out her hand to him, which he raised to his lips with a kind of rough gallantry. He then shook hands with Theresa, who appeared to be greatly disconcerted.Lord Ethalwood returned the young man’s salutation with the greatest possible hauteur.“My dear Gerome,” said Madame Trieste, in an affectionate tone, “this gentleman is Lord Ethalwood, of whom you have heard us so often speak.”The young man nodded.Then, turning towards his lordship, she added—“My dear Lord Ethalwood, allow me to introduce you to one of my neighbours, Gerome Chanet. You are both young, both sportsmen, both good-hearted and intelligent, and I hope and trust you will become excellent friends.”Lord Ethalwood bowed stiffly, and turned on his heel.“My dear Ethelwood,” exclaimed the hostess, “do pray shake hands with my young protégé. You English are so singularly cold and unimpressionable.”“Are we?” returned his lordship. “Well, it is constitutional with us, I suppose,” he added, with a sickly smile.Gerome Chanet held out his hand and Lord Ethalwood took it; but there was an evident reluctance on both their parts. Each of the young men divined that in the other he had a rival, or it might be an enemy.“You intend to spend the whole day with us—do you not, Gerome?” said Madame, assuming an air of cheerfulness.“Ahem! I hardly know,” he returned. “You have a visitor.”“What of that? You ought to be proud to make the acquaintance of so distinguished a gentleman.”“Ahem! Yes, of course.”“Then, why do you hesitate?”Gerome made no reply to this last observation.The little party went out into the garden, and seated themselves in a small bower overgrown with honeysuckle and eglantine. Madame Trieste and her daughter took with them their needlework, and all more or less entered into conversation.It would have been impossible for Lord Ethalwood, without ridiculous affectation and unpardonable bad taste, to refrain from addressing Gerome Chanet.The young man greatly displeased him, it is true; but he had done nothing offensive, and it would have been in very bad taste on the part of the English nobleman to ignore his presence.The conversation, therefore, became general. Gerome recounted several wild and exciting stories of mountaineering life, but sedulously avoided making himself the hero of the adventures. He was as modest as he was brave.During these recitals Lord Ethalwood watched Theresa. She evidently took but little interest in any of the narratives, and her undisguised indifference filled his heart with joy. Now and then, Madame Trieste slightly bent her eyebrows and looked vexed as her eyes rested upon her daughter.Afternoon arrived. Theresa and her mother returned to the house to see to the preparations for the dinner. Lord Ethalwood and Gerome Chanet were thus left together.The masks they had been wearing instantly fell from their faces—it was useless to keep them on any longer, and, from the moment of the ladies’ departure, not another word was spoken. Lord Ethalwood strolled in the garden, leaving his companion to enjoy his pipe alone in the arbour.Dinner passed over, and at length the day—which had seemed interminable to Lord Ethalwood—was drawing to a close. Night was slowly approaching, and Gerome Chanet took his leave of the ladies.In obedience to the request of madame, the two men once more shook hands in the same cold formal manner as before.Gerome departed along a road leading to the mountains, and every step which increased the distance from the house seemed to lift a portion of a heavy burden that weighed upon the English nobleman’s heart.He seemed to breathe more freely when he felt assured that Gerome was far removed from the house in which he and his rival—for he felt assured he was so—had first met.As soon as the young mountaineer was out of sight, Madame Trieste motioned Theresa to return to the house, and then taking Lord Ethalwood’s arm led him back to the arbour in which a great part of the day had been spent.My dear friend,” said madame, as soon as they were seated, “here we can converse freely, and I have something to tell you.”“Oh, indeed, madame! I am all attention.”“I look upon you as one of our nearest and dearest friends. I am right in that supposition?”“Of course you are—perfectly right.”“And, as a proof, I am going to show you how much confidence I have in you. I have introduced you to Monsieur Gerome Chanet—you have had ample opportunities afforded you to converse together—now tell me, without reserve, what you think of him?”“My dear lady, what reason have you for putting such a question?”“Never mind; answer it.”“Frankly?”“Yes. Do you like him?”“Well, you put a plain question, which, to say the truth, I would rather not answer, but if you insist——”“I do insist, you perverse creature.”“Well, then, my answer is that I do not like him at all.”“I thought as much.”“Then you are not mistaken.”“And your reasons?”“He displeases me. It is wrong to be prejudiced against any person, but, nevertheless, I frankly confess that the moment I set eyes upon him I felt towards him the greatest possible aversion.”“How very singular! He is brave and generous.”“That may be; but he is evidently not my sort. I do not like him. I should perhaps find it difficult to tell you the reason for that dislike. All I know is, that it does exist, and I may add it is likely to exist.”“I am very sorry for it.”“Why, my dear Madame? It cannot be a matter of any moment whether I like or dislike Monsieur Chanet. I have met him to-day for the first time, and possibly we may never meet again.”“You are mistaken.”“In what way?”“This young man,” answered Madame Trieste, “will shortly be my son.”“Your son, madame? Impossible!”“It is a fact, monsieur.”Lord Ethalwood appeared thunderstruck, and he changed colour.Luckily, however, it was nearly dark, and his altered demeanour was not observed by his companion to its fullest extent. She, however, saw that he was moved and greatly disconcerted.“I cannot believe it possible,” he repeated.“He is betrothed to Theresa,” said Madame Trieste. “The marriage will take place three months hence; all has been arranged and definitely settled.”“And, Mademoiselle Theresa,” stammered out his lordship, “does—does she love him?”Through the increasing darkness the young nobleman could see that the French mother shook her head sadly.“Does she love this man, madame?” cried Ethalwood, in a more imperative tone.“No, I do not believe she does,” was the answer to this query. “But she esteems him, and feels for him a strong friendship,” added madame.“Oh, indeed.”“Yes, I hope and trust she does.”“But why do you give her to him?”“Because, though she does not love him now, love may come with marriage. It is often the more solid for coming a little late.”Lord Ethalwood shook his head.“You do not think so?”“No, indeed, I should be blind to facts if I did,” returned he.“I do not think so.”It could not possibly occur to the mind of Madame Trieste that in speaking thus she was wounding the heart of her guest and friend. The idea that her daughter, the fortuneless daughter of a poor lieutenant of gendarmerie, might cast her eyes upon a proud wealthy English nobleman never for a moment occurred to her.“You will understand that what I have told you is strictly confidential,” said Madame Trieste, “and you will not, of course, ever mention the subject to my dear Theresa under any circumstances.”“Certainly not—I should not think of doing so. You may rely upon my discretion in this matter.”“Thanks, my lord, a thousand thanks. It is now getting late, and the night air is cool. Will you come indoors?”“I will rejoin you in a few minutes.”“We shall be waiting for you in the house,” she said, as she turned and left him.It is hardly necessary to describe the nature of the reflections to which he gave himself up on being left alone.The natural repugnance he had for the young mountaineer was now greatly intensified.He hated the very name of the man, and half regretted not having openly insulted him—indeed, had he been acquainted with all the circumstances which had since come to his knowledge, the probability would have been that a violent scene might have taken place.He was at this time greatly concerned and deeply dejected, and his reflections were by no means agreeable ones.He was suddenly aroused by feeling a burning hand pressed upon one of his own, while a breathless voice whispered in his ear—“Leave your door open. I must speak with you to-night.”The speaker was Agatha, and she had disappeared before the sound of her voice had died in Lord Ethalwood’s ear.He strove in vain to fathom the intention of the young girl in thus addressing him.What could she probably have to say of such moment as to impel her to take such a questionable course as that of secretly visiting his room in the dead hour of the night?It was altogether strange and unaccountable, and he was at a loss to account for the girl’s conduct.Upon rejoining Madame Trieste and Theresa in the house, he seemed so abstracted and preoccupied that his hostess regarded him with a look of commiseration, being under the impression at the time that he was indisposed.She asked him if he felt unwell.He answered in the affirmative, being but too glad to avail himself of any excuse to be by himself. He therefore retired to his room.It was by this time a little after ten o’clock, and he might have to wait a long time for the arrival of the maid.He opened the window of his apartment, and gazed out. A panorama of beauty lay before him, which was lighted up by the silver rays of the moon and myriads of stars.Lord Ethalwood surveyed the scene with something like satisfaction, for the temperature was soft and mild, and a light breeze, laden with the perfume of flowers, fanned his cheeks.But as yet Agatha had not made her appearance.Possibly it might be, after all, a mere girlish whim—a caprice forgotten almost as soon as expressed.“What could she have to tell? No matter,” murmered the English nobleman, “I will wait patiently. It may be something of moment, or it may be a mere trifle—any way I will wait. I am far removed from friends and home, and my mother in her last letter begs of me to return to London with all convenient speed. Perhaps she suspects that there are attractions in this district, and to say the truth she is not far out——”His soliloquy was suddenly brought to a termination by a gentle rap at the door, which was afterwards slowly swung back on its hinges, and Agatha, the pretty French waiting maid, presented herself.“So you have kept your word, my pretty little tormentor,” cried his lordship. “It is almost more than I expected.”“You have never known me to break my word,” returned the girl, “but we will not dispute on that point. I am here, as you see.”“As I see.”“And I am here for a purpose.”“I do not doubt it, Agatha.”The girl seemed to be in a sort of a tremour; possibly she half repented of her rash and imprudent act, for Lord Ethalwood, upon her entering the room, had carefully and almost noiselessly closed the door. This done, he led her to a seat.“Ah,” sighed Agatha, “it is perhaps wrong of me to visit you thus, but I do not see any other way, and, so, pardon me, monsieur.”“I have nothing to pardon,” returned his lordship. “On the contrary, I have reason to be grateful for your disinterested kindness, for I am sure you are prompted by nothing but the best and most unselfish motives in thus presenting yourself.”The girl’s face became suffused with blushes as she listened to this complimentary speech.“Monsieur—my lord!” she ejaculated, “what I have to tell you is serious—nay, it may be terrible.”“Indeed!”“Yes. You are in danger—imminent danger.”“Pray don’t frighten me, Agatha,” he said, with a smile.“Oh, my lord,” she returned, “you cannot deceive me. You love Mademoiselle Theresa. Don’t shake your head. I say you are enamoured of my young mistress.”“Hush! Do not make such rash assertions. I swear to you,” he cried.“Do not swear, monsieur,” she answered, interrupting him. “It is useless your attempting to deny it. You might as well attempt to prove to me that I am the Queen of France, as to that you do not love my mistress.”“Well, for argument’s sake—mind, only for the sake of argument—assume, if you like, that I do love Mademoiselle Theresa. What then?”“Well, then—a young man came here to-day.”“Certainly. What of that?”“You do not like him. That is in no way surprising; and he hates you!”“There is not much love lost between us, I dare say. But how do you know he hates me?”“I have seen the evil looks he cast upon you. I tell you his hate is of a most deadly and venomous character. Ah! monsieur—my lord, have a care, be warned in time. This young man—this Gerome Chanet—loves my mistress to distraction—he doats upon her. Full well I know this. He would gladly and cheerfully lay down his life for her.”“Upon my word, Agatha, he is a most chivalrous, self-sacrificing knight errant—that is, assuming your theory to be a correct one.”“I am not mistaken,” said the girl, with renewed emphasis and force.“Monsieur Gerome Chanet idolises Mademoiselle Theresa, and madame has promised that she shall become his wife.”“This may be the case.”“It is so.”“Well it is, then, if you will have it so.”“It is not I would have it, because I do not like him; neither does Theresa.”“Then she is a fool if she has a man she does not like.”“But then he will be revenged, take a deadly vengeance on the man whom he deems his rival.”“And who may that be?”“None other than yourself. Oh, my lord, how can you ask such a question?”“Upon my word, Agatha, you are a most extraordinary girl.”“You do not know the man you are dealing with, but I do,” exclaimed Agatha. “He is brave and impetuous, his passions are like a mountain torrent; his father is rich, but his grandfather was a smuggler, who thought as little of killing a fellow-creature as you think of plucking a flower. Gerome takes after his grandfather. Oh, monsieur, be warned in time. If he supposes you supplant him in the affections of my mistress, which you do, he will strike you down in one of the mountain passes without pity or remorse.”“You are drawing a most terrible picture, my dear Agatha.”“Not more terrible than true, my lord.”“What would you advise me to do then?” he inquired.“You must leave this house at once—you must quit this country, return to your native land, and await the issue of events. I don’t believe that Mademoiselle Theresa will give her hand to the young mountaineer after all that has passed.”“You don’t think she will. And why not, I pray?”“Because she has another attachment.”Lord Ethalwood gave a prolonged “oh,” but forbore from pressing the question further.“You can guess who the object of that attachment is,” murmured his companion.“I think you are a wise counsellor, Agatha, and I will think over all you have said and act in accordance with the dictates of my judgment, but to leave this country, to part with you, my charmer, would be, indeed, a terrible punishment.”He caught the French maiden round the waist, pressed her form, and covered her face with kisses.“Oh, moussu—Oh, pray don’t!” she cried, as a deep blush suffused her face and neck. “Pray release me.”“You are my protectress, my adviser, my sweet pet,” cried he.She struggled to release herself from his grasp, and when she had succeeded she opened the door and fled precipitately.“Ah!” ejaculated Lord Ethalwood, “what a charming creature! So piquant!—so unsophisticated—so loveable!”
The reader will understand that a lapse of years has taken place since we last took a glance at the inmates of Broxbridge Hall, and it will be needless to signify that time is an active agent, and many changes have taken place since our last visit to the hall. The Lady Aveline plunged into the vortex of fashionable life, and as a natural consequence had a number of admirers. It was her grandfather’s wish that she should form an alliance with a member of the aristocracy. She would then be still further removed from the low-born engineer. There were many suitors for her hand, but Aveline herself did not display any willingness to change her condition; and the probability is that she would not have done so had it not been for the importunities of the earl and the vivacious Lady Marylynn.
After a good deal of flirtation, hesitation, and irresolution, she consented to become the wife of a baronet of some eight and thirty summers, Sir Gerald Batashall by name.
On the day of her marriage the earl settled on her a princely dowry, and all went on as merry as a marriage bell. The Batashalls were an old family in the West of England; they were proud, like the earl, and the match was considered by everyone to be a suitable and proper one.
The Lady Aveline bore her husband two children, a boy and a girl.
In the meantime, the young heir of Ethalwood was growing up to man’s estate; he had been indulged by his mother and spoiled by his grandfather, who made him his pet, and indeed it might be said, almost his idol.
He was sent to college, and when at home had tutors in the house. No expense was spared to make him worthy of the proud position he was to occupy.
He was a generous-hearted impetuous youth, but could not brook control, and the servants averred that he had much of the Ethalwood spirit.
Before he reached his nineteenth year his grandfather breathed his last in the presence of his grand-daughter and great-grandson.
The latter came into the title and estates at too early an age, perhaps, but there was no help for it; the earl was full of years at the time of his decease—between eighty and ninety, which is a respectable old age.
After the few months of mourning for his noble ancestor Lord Reginald Ethalwood soon began to have his own views of youth and freedom in the new life which was so suddenly opened to him.
The temple of pleasure was before him, and he soon found his way into its innermost penetralia. For a long time the intoxicating and enervating draught of luxurious indulgence was never absent from his lips until at last he had drunk down to the very lees of the cup, and, as a natural consequence, tasted of satiety and disgust.
His mother could not give so much heed to him as she wished, as she had her husband and her young children to occupy her thoughts, so that the young earl was left to steer his course as best he could. He becameblasé, discontented, and yearned for a change.
Change of scene, change of pursuit, both were open to him as the natural resources of his condition, and without hesitation he turned to them for relief from the ennui and discontent that had overtaken him.
Among the possessions that had come to him with the patrimonial estates he had inherited from his great grandfather, was a small chateau or hunting lodge on the borders of Switzerland. In the earlier days of his life, the deceased earl had been accustomed to spend a good deal of his time at this place. The Ethalwoods had always a great predilection for sports, and shooting and hunting had special charms for them when in the pride and full vigour of manhood, and hence it was that the chateau in question had at one time been a favourite resort with the father and his sons.
It was built on the side of one of the high spurs of the Jura, in the midst of some of the wildest and most picturesque scenery of that portion of the country which links France with Switzerland.
Except to a few visitors in the summer months the profound solitudes of the mountains were almost unknown to strangers—the valleys and mountain sides being inhabited by populations ignorant of everything that passes in the world beyond the bounds of their native forests.
Erected some three hundred years before, the chateau was a sombre and imposing building. Above it rose a pine forest, dark and stately; below it lay a deep valley.
The whole aspect of the place was one of savage grandeur. Lord Reginald Ethalwood, tired of London fashionable life, made up his mind to seek change in this charming retreat.
He was a keen sportsman: could handle a rifle with the best of his fellows, and, much to the surprise and discomfiture of his gay and thoughtless companions, he left England for the far-famed retreat on the borders of France. Once arrived there, he gave himself up, with a constantly-increasing ardour, to the hunting of the fox and the wild boar.
He had in a short time grown to like this sort of life; and it might have lasted for many years but for an adventure which cast a shadow over his path—a deep and sinister shadow, which brought with it regret, sorrow, and remorse.
In the ardour of the chase he was led over the highest pinnacles of the mountains; a toppling crag gave way, and he was precipitated into the chasm below. The fall was a fearful one, and he lay stunned and motionless, and to all appearance dead. Some peasants discovered him, and placing him on a litter they conveyed him to the nearest habitation, where every attention was paid him by the kindly disposed mistress of the establishment. But for some days he hovered between life and death. Luckily for him, he had fallen into good hands. Madame Trieste, the owner of the chalet into which he had been conveyed, tended on him with maternal solicitude, and by careful nursing, joined to medical skill, he recovered from the terrible injuries he had received.
Madame had two valuable assistants in nursing the wounded earl, these being her daughter and a servant, so that the English nobleman had every possible attention.
When he recovered he was loth to leave the hospitable establishment. One reason for this was a lurking fondness for Mademoiselle Theresa Trieste—his hostess’s charming daughter, in whose society he found great solace and comfort.
Days and weeks had passed over, but the young nobleman still continued an inmate of the house in the occupation of Madame Trieste—he did not feel disposed to leave. He had by this time recovered from his accident, but did not feel inclined to return to his own domicile. Indeed, to say the truth, he had been persuaded to remain by mademoiselle, who had no desire to part with him. Thus matters went on for some time, until a change took place in the aspect of affairs.
On the day in question there was a sort of lull; the dinner passed over in a humdrum way. Madame Trieste was the only one of the party whose good spirits were not forced; Theresa scarcely spoke at all; she appeared to be preoccupied—the reason for this was not made manifest.
Agatha, the servant girl, was even in a still worse condition; it was evident that she had been weeping, for her eyes were red and swollen.
Lord Ethalwood himself felt dispirited, and it was in vain that he strove to assume an air of cheerfulness, and it was impossible for the vivacious Frenchwoman, his hostess, not to observe that there was something the matter with her guest. The woman prudently forebore to make any allusion to his altered demeanour.
“I am but a dull and cheerless companion, madame,” observed Lord Ethalwood, when he rose from the table. “The fact is I am not so strong as I supposed, and my long morning’s walk has been a little too much for me.”
“It is not to be wondered at, my lord,” returned the lady. “It will be some time, I expect, before you have recovered your strength.”
“No doubt some time, but to-morrow I hope and trust I shall be a little better.”
“I hope so, I am sure.”
He excused himself upon the plea of weakness, and retired to his room. Here he sat ruminating for some time, and upon retiring to bed that night, he could not rest, a vision of two girls sleeping under the same roof with him rose up and floated before him, so that repose was impossible.
The next morning he rose earlier than usual, hoping to find health and strength in the fresh mountain breeze.
He was away some considerable time, wandering about in a desultory manner he knew not whither.
When he returned to Madame Trieste’s house, he was silent and thoughtful, but was, nevertheless, extremely courteous in his manner. This was habitual to him. He found the ladies waiting breakfast for him.
Theresa looked pale, and appeared to be in a state of trepidation. Her maid Agatha, however, seemed to be keenly alive to all that was passing, for her eyes wandered about from one to another in an inquiring manner.
Madame Trieste was lively and loquacious, and the meal passed over pleasantly enough. When it was concluded, and the party were about to leave the dining-room, a loud barking of dogs in the garden fell upon their ears.
“Oh, a visitor,” remarked Madame Trieste.
“Do you expect anyone?” inquired Lord Ethalwood.
“Well, yes, I do, if the truth must be told,” returned his hostess.
Theresa started, and a troubled look sat on her beauteous and expressive features.
There was a gentle rap at the door, after which a young man entered the room. He appeared to be about four or five and twenty. He had a well-knit frame, indicating great strength and activity. His features were characteristic of determination and were possessed of a certain amount of manly beauty—albeit, they lacked refinement. His hair was black, and his complexion swarthy.
Madame Trieste held out her hand to him, which he raised to his lips with a kind of rough gallantry. He then shook hands with Theresa, who appeared to be greatly disconcerted.
Lord Ethalwood returned the young man’s salutation with the greatest possible hauteur.
“My dear Gerome,” said Madame Trieste, in an affectionate tone, “this gentleman is Lord Ethalwood, of whom you have heard us so often speak.”
The young man nodded.
Then, turning towards his lordship, she added—“My dear Lord Ethalwood, allow me to introduce you to one of my neighbours, Gerome Chanet. You are both young, both sportsmen, both good-hearted and intelligent, and I hope and trust you will become excellent friends.”
Lord Ethalwood bowed stiffly, and turned on his heel.
“My dear Ethelwood,” exclaimed the hostess, “do pray shake hands with my young protégé. You English are so singularly cold and unimpressionable.”
“Are we?” returned his lordship. “Well, it is constitutional with us, I suppose,” he added, with a sickly smile.
Gerome Chanet held out his hand and Lord Ethalwood took it; but there was an evident reluctance on both their parts. Each of the young men divined that in the other he had a rival, or it might be an enemy.
“You intend to spend the whole day with us—do you not, Gerome?” said Madame, assuming an air of cheerfulness.
“Ahem! I hardly know,” he returned. “You have a visitor.”
“What of that? You ought to be proud to make the acquaintance of so distinguished a gentleman.”
“Ahem! Yes, of course.”
“Then, why do you hesitate?”
Gerome made no reply to this last observation.
The little party went out into the garden, and seated themselves in a small bower overgrown with honeysuckle and eglantine. Madame Trieste and her daughter took with them their needlework, and all more or less entered into conversation.
It would have been impossible for Lord Ethalwood, without ridiculous affectation and unpardonable bad taste, to refrain from addressing Gerome Chanet.
The young man greatly displeased him, it is true; but he had done nothing offensive, and it would have been in very bad taste on the part of the English nobleman to ignore his presence.
The conversation, therefore, became general. Gerome recounted several wild and exciting stories of mountaineering life, but sedulously avoided making himself the hero of the adventures. He was as modest as he was brave.
During these recitals Lord Ethalwood watched Theresa. She evidently took but little interest in any of the narratives, and her undisguised indifference filled his heart with joy. Now and then, Madame Trieste slightly bent her eyebrows and looked vexed as her eyes rested upon her daughter.
Afternoon arrived. Theresa and her mother returned to the house to see to the preparations for the dinner. Lord Ethalwood and Gerome Chanet were thus left together.
The masks they had been wearing instantly fell from their faces—it was useless to keep them on any longer, and, from the moment of the ladies’ departure, not another word was spoken. Lord Ethalwood strolled in the garden, leaving his companion to enjoy his pipe alone in the arbour.
Dinner passed over, and at length the day—which had seemed interminable to Lord Ethalwood—was drawing to a close. Night was slowly approaching, and Gerome Chanet took his leave of the ladies.
In obedience to the request of madame, the two men once more shook hands in the same cold formal manner as before.
Gerome departed along a road leading to the mountains, and every step which increased the distance from the house seemed to lift a portion of a heavy burden that weighed upon the English nobleman’s heart.
He seemed to breathe more freely when he felt assured that Gerome was far removed from the house in which he and his rival—for he felt assured he was so—had first met.
As soon as the young mountaineer was out of sight, Madame Trieste motioned Theresa to return to the house, and then taking Lord Ethalwood’s arm led him back to the arbour in which a great part of the day had been spent.
My dear friend,” said madame, as soon as they were seated, “here we can converse freely, and I have something to tell you.”
“Oh, indeed, madame! I am all attention.”
“I look upon you as one of our nearest and dearest friends. I am right in that supposition?”
“Of course you are—perfectly right.”
“And, as a proof, I am going to show you how much confidence I have in you. I have introduced you to Monsieur Gerome Chanet—you have had ample opportunities afforded you to converse together—now tell me, without reserve, what you think of him?”
“My dear lady, what reason have you for putting such a question?”
“Never mind; answer it.”
“Frankly?”
“Yes. Do you like him?”
“Well, you put a plain question, which, to say the truth, I would rather not answer, but if you insist——”
“I do insist, you perverse creature.”
“Well, then, my answer is that I do not like him at all.”
“I thought as much.”
“Then you are not mistaken.”
“And your reasons?”
“He displeases me. It is wrong to be prejudiced against any person, but, nevertheless, I frankly confess that the moment I set eyes upon him I felt towards him the greatest possible aversion.”
“How very singular! He is brave and generous.”
“That may be; but he is evidently not my sort. I do not like him. I should perhaps find it difficult to tell you the reason for that dislike. All I know is, that it does exist, and I may add it is likely to exist.”
“I am very sorry for it.”
“Why, my dear Madame? It cannot be a matter of any moment whether I like or dislike Monsieur Chanet. I have met him to-day for the first time, and possibly we may never meet again.”
“You are mistaken.”
“In what way?”
“This young man,” answered Madame Trieste, “will shortly be my son.”
“Your son, madame? Impossible!”
“It is a fact, monsieur.”
Lord Ethalwood appeared thunderstruck, and he changed colour.
Luckily, however, it was nearly dark, and his altered demeanour was not observed by his companion to its fullest extent. She, however, saw that he was moved and greatly disconcerted.
“I cannot believe it possible,” he repeated.
“He is betrothed to Theresa,” said Madame Trieste. “The marriage will take place three months hence; all has been arranged and definitely settled.”
“And, Mademoiselle Theresa,” stammered out his lordship, “does—does she love him?”
Through the increasing darkness the young nobleman could see that the French mother shook her head sadly.
“Does she love this man, madame?” cried Ethalwood, in a more imperative tone.
“No, I do not believe she does,” was the answer to this query. “But she esteems him, and feels for him a strong friendship,” added madame.
“Oh, indeed.”
“Yes, I hope and trust she does.”
“But why do you give her to him?”
“Because, though she does not love him now, love may come with marriage. It is often the more solid for coming a little late.”
Lord Ethalwood shook his head.
“You do not think so?”
“No, indeed, I should be blind to facts if I did,” returned he.
“I do not think so.”
It could not possibly occur to the mind of Madame Trieste that in speaking thus she was wounding the heart of her guest and friend. The idea that her daughter, the fortuneless daughter of a poor lieutenant of gendarmerie, might cast her eyes upon a proud wealthy English nobleman never for a moment occurred to her.
“You will understand that what I have told you is strictly confidential,” said Madame Trieste, “and you will not, of course, ever mention the subject to my dear Theresa under any circumstances.”
“Certainly not—I should not think of doing so. You may rely upon my discretion in this matter.”
“Thanks, my lord, a thousand thanks. It is now getting late, and the night air is cool. Will you come indoors?”
“I will rejoin you in a few minutes.”
“We shall be waiting for you in the house,” she said, as she turned and left him.
It is hardly necessary to describe the nature of the reflections to which he gave himself up on being left alone.
The natural repugnance he had for the young mountaineer was now greatly intensified.
He hated the very name of the man, and half regretted not having openly insulted him—indeed, had he been acquainted with all the circumstances which had since come to his knowledge, the probability would have been that a violent scene might have taken place.
He was at this time greatly concerned and deeply dejected, and his reflections were by no means agreeable ones.
He was suddenly aroused by feeling a burning hand pressed upon one of his own, while a breathless voice whispered in his ear—
“Leave your door open. I must speak with you to-night.”
The speaker was Agatha, and she had disappeared before the sound of her voice had died in Lord Ethalwood’s ear.
He strove in vain to fathom the intention of the young girl in thus addressing him.
What could she probably have to say of such moment as to impel her to take such a questionable course as that of secretly visiting his room in the dead hour of the night?
It was altogether strange and unaccountable, and he was at a loss to account for the girl’s conduct.
Upon rejoining Madame Trieste and Theresa in the house, he seemed so abstracted and preoccupied that his hostess regarded him with a look of commiseration, being under the impression at the time that he was indisposed.
She asked him if he felt unwell.
He answered in the affirmative, being but too glad to avail himself of any excuse to be by himself. He therefore retired to his room.
It was by this time a little after ten o’clock, and he might have to wait a long time for the arrival of the maid.
He opened the window of his apartment, and gazed out. A panorama of beauty lay before him, which was lighted up by the silver rays of the moon and myriads of stars.
Lord Ethalwood surveyed the scene with something like satisfaction, for the temperature was soft and mild, and a light breeze, laden with the perfume of flowers, fanned his cheeks.
But as yet Agatha had not made her appearance.
Possibly it might be, after all, a mere girlish whim—a caprice forgotten almost as soon as expressed.
“What could she have to tell? No matter,” murmered the English nobleman, “I will wait patiently. It may be something of moment, or it may be a mere trifle—any way I will wait. I am far removed from friends and home, and my mother in her last letter begs of me to return to London with all convenient speed. Perhaps she suspects that there are attractions in this district, and to say the truth she is not far out——”
His soliloquy was suddenly brought to a termination by a gentle rap at the door, which was afterwards slowly swung back on its hinges, and Agatha, the pretty French waiting maid, presented herself.
“So you have kept your word, my pretty little tormentor,” cried his lordship. “It is almost more than I expected.”
“You have never known me to break my word,” returned the girl, “but we will not dispute on that point. I am here, as you see.”
“As I see.”
“And I am here for a purpose.”
“I do not doubt it, Agatha.”
The girl seemed to be in a sort of a tremour; possibly she half repented of her rash and imprudent act, for Lord Ethalwood, upon her entering the room, had carefully and almost noiselessly closed the door. This done, he led her to a seat.
“Ah,” sighed Agatha, “it is perhaps wrong of me to visit you thus, but I do not see any other way, and, so, pardon me, monsieur.”
“I have nothing to pardon,” returned his lordship. “On the contrary, I have reason to be grateful for your disinterested kindness, for I am sure you are prompted by nothing but the best and most unselfish motives in thus presenting yourself.”
The girl’s face became suffused with blushes as she listened to this complimentary speech.
“Monsieur—my lord!” she ejaculated, “what I have to tell you is serious—nay, it may be terrible.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes. You are in danger—imminent danger.”
“Pray don’t frighten me, Agatha,” he said, with a smile.
“Oh, my lord,” she returned, “you cannot deceive me. You love Mademoiselle Theresa. Don’t shake your head. I say you are enamoured of my young mistress.”
“Hush! Do not make such rash assertions. I swear to you,” he cried.
“Do not swear, monsieur,” she answered, interrupting him. “It is useless your attempting to deny it. You might as well attempt to prove to me that I am the Queen of France, as to that you do not love my mistress.”
“Well, for argument’s sake—mind, only for the sake of argument—assume, if you like, that I do love Mademoiselle Theresa. What then?”
“Well, then—a young man came here to-day.”
“Certainly. What of that?”
“You do not like him. That is in no way surprising; and he hates you!”
“There is not much love lost between us, I dare say. But how do you know he hates me?”
“I have seen the evil looks he cast upon you. I tell you his hate is of a most deadly and venomous character. Ah! monsieur—my lord, have a care, be warned in time. This young man—this Gerome Chanet—loves my mistress to distraction—he doats upon her. Full well I know this. He would gladly and cheerfully lay down his life for her.”
“Upon my word, Agatha, he is a most chivalrous, self-sacrificing knight errant—that is, assuming your theory to be a correct one.”
“I am not mistaken,” said the girl, with renewed emphasis and force.
“Monsieur Gerome Chanet idolises Mademoiselle Theresa, and madame has promised that she shall become his wife.”
“This may be the case.”
“It is so.”
“Well it is, then, if you will have it so.”
“It is not I would have it, because I do not like him; neither does Theresa.”
“Then she is a fool if she has a man she does not like.”
“But then he will be revenged, take a deadly vengeance on the man whom he deems his rival.”
“And who may that be?”
“None other than yourself. Oh, my lord, how can you ask such a question?”
“Upon my word, Agatha, you are a most extraordinary girl.”
“You do not know the man you are dealing with, but I do,” exclaimed Agatha. “He is brave and impetuous, his passions are like a mountain torrent; his father is rich, but his grandfather was a smuggler, who thought as little of killing a fellow-creature as you think of plucking a flower. Gerome takes after his grandfather. Oh, monsieur, be warned in time. If he supposes you supplant him in the affections of my mistress, which you do, he will strike you down in one of the mountain passes without pity or remorse.”
“You are drawing a most terrible picture, my dear Agatha.”
“Not more terrible than true, my lord.”
“What would you advise me to do then?” he inquired.
“You must leave this house at once—you must quit this country, return to your native land, and await the issue of events. I don’t believe that Mademoiselle Theresa will give her hand to the young mountaineer after all that has passed.”
“You don’t think she will. And why not, I pray?”
“Because she has another attachment.”
Lord Ethalwood gave a prolonged “oh,” but forbore from pressing the question further.
“You can guess who the object of that attachment is,” murmured his companion.
“I think you are a wise counsellor, Agatha, and I will think over all you have said and act in accordance with the dictates of my judgment, but to leave this country, to part with you, my charmer, would be, indeed, a terrible punishment.”
He caught the French maiden round the waist, pressed her form, and covered her face with kisses.
“Oh, moussu—Oh, pray don’t!” she cried, as a deep blush suffused her face and neck. “Pray release me.”
“You are my protectress, my adviser, my sweet pet,” cried he.
She struggled to release herself from his grasp, and when she had succeeded she opened the door and fled precipitately.
“Ah!” ejaculated Lord Ethalwood, “what a charming creature! So piquant!—so unsophisticated—so loveable!”