CHAPTERCXXXIV.LORD ETHALWOOD’S RETURN HOME—REGRETS FOR THE PAST—NEWS FROM ABROAD.Lord Reginald Ethalwood returned to England a sadder and in some respects a wiser man. He was no longer the gay and light-hearted nobleman whose merry pranks and jovial manner caused his associates to court his company.A strange alteration in the mode of life and manner of the young earl had taken place. He was grave and thoughtful, and at times melancholy.A shadow seemed to have fallen upon him, and the recollection of the events that had taken place during his sojourn on the Continent seemed to cling to him with terrible tenacity.There were a number of circumstances connected with hisliaisonwith Theresa Trieste which could not fail to cause him great uneasiness, but beyond and above all there was the fact that he had sent to his account a young man, who, whatever his faults might have been, was true, faithful, and self-sacrificing to the object of his love.Indeed, Chanet had displayed an amount of chivalry and devotion which could not fail to command the respect of Lord Ethalwood.Upon returning to his ancestral home Reginald had ample time to consider over past events. He could not but acknowledge to himself that his share in the business did not in any way redound to his credit, and now that he had time and leisure to reflect on the part he had played in the sanguinary drama caused him to upbraid himself for his rash and impetuous course of action.Lord Reginald, upon his arrival in England, hastened at once to the town residence of his mother, to whom he paid his respects.Nothing was said about the tragedy of the Jura mountains.“My dear Reginald,” exclaimed Aveline, embracing her son with maternal fondness, “it is indeed a source of happiness for me to see you again in your native land, and I hope and trust you will not again leave the country—certainly not for some time to come—for, oh, my darling boy, you do not know how anxious I have been about you. Consider, Reginald, the position you hold as the representative of an honoured line—the only representative—and consider also how needful it is for you to uphold the dignity of the house of which you are, I am sure, a worthy representative.”“I have duly considered that, mother,” returned Reginald.“And, therefore, it behoves you to be mindful of yourself. Alas! my son, there are many reasons for you to be especially guarded in your conduct. Remember the untimely end of your predecessors—the earl’s sons—and the end also of my poor mother. I tremble when I think of the untoward events which have taken place; and it is, therefore, with something like a melancholy foreboding that I charge you to take special care of yourself.”“You need not be any way concerned about me,” said Reginald, not very well knowing what his mother was driving at. “I am in good health and spirits. Why, therefore, should you be thus anxious?”“Are you in good health and spirits? It has struck me that you do not look so happy and contented as when you left for this—this hunting expedition.”Lord Ethalwood burst out into a loud laugh.“Why, my dear mother,” said he, “to hear you speak thus one would almost imagine you to be a fatalist.”“Well, assuming you came to that conclusion, what then?”“What! You would not have me come to any such rash conclusion, I should imagine?”“Have you reflected upon past events?” said Aveline. “Have you duly considered the strange vicissitudes of the house of Ethalwood, of which you are now the representative? Have you thought of the untimely deaths of the younger members of that honourable line—of the sad end of your grandmother, and all the events which have led to your being the rightful and acknowledged heir? It behoves you, my son, to be duly impressed with your position, to strive in every possible way to support, to the best of your ability, the dignity of our house.”“I am duly impressed with all this,” said the young earl, “and do not need to be reminded of it.”“Ah, Reginald,” exclaimed Aveline, “pardon me for being thus plain-spoken. In you I behold the sole surviving link, from the present to the past, of a great race.”“I know that, mother. But why this concern and anxiety? I am well, and am heedful of the trust which is imposed upon me.”“Spoken like my own dear son,” said Aveline. “I am sure you will never do aught to compromise or sully the honour of the Ethalwoods.”“I hope not,” he added, with something like melancholy foreboding in his tone, for he remembered at the time the sad events which had so recently taken place.It was evident enough from his mother’s manner that she had some inkling of the part he had been playing in the dark drama on the continent—albeit she wisely forbore from alluding directly to it.She was concerned and troubled about something—what this was Lord Ethalwood could only surmise.After paying his respects to his father-in-law he returned to Broxbridge Hall, which has been the stage upon which so many scenes of our drama have been enacted.At Broxbridge he was, in a great measure, secluded from a host of acquaintances who, at that particular time, he was not anxious to meet.Mr. Jakyl, full of years and servitude, was still the majordomo of the establishment; he appeared to be as devoted to his young master as he was to the late earl.Jakyl was at this time a very old man; he had the same soft, respectful, unobtrusive manner as of yore; indeed, these qualities were even more apparent in his declining years—if this were possible.The slightest hint given by Lord Ethalwood was considered law by his faithful and venerable servitor, and it afforded the old domestic a considerable amount of pleasure and satisfaction at beholding the earl return to his ancestral home.Mr. Jakyl was not at all demonstrative—was never gushing, but those who knew him best were at no loss to comprehend when he was pleased or otherwise.Lord Reginald, after his return to Broxbridge, remained for a considerable time secluded.He did not court the company of his quondam companions, and his retainers could not fail to observe that he had come back a sadder and more thoughtful man.It is true he received a few visitors, with his accustomed good fellowship and courtesy, but there was no longer that sportive mad-cap merriment which had marked his course of life before leaving for the Continent.No one was quite able to account for the altered demeanour of the gay and merry young earl.Very shortly after his return he received a letter from abroad which seemed to deepen the shadow which had so suddenly fallen upon him.The epistle in question came from Theresa Trieste. It was couched in the most affectionate language. In almost every passage the writer gave expression to deep and unfailing love, but at the same time the tone of it was melancholy and sorrowful to the last degree. In fact it appeared that Theresa was plunged into the depths of despair.Her mother had been suddenly and unexpectedly struck down with a fit of apoplexy, and after lingering for a few hours, she expired. This was a sad blow to the earl. Theresa was left with little or no provision, and in addition to this she expected very shortly to become a mother.Lord Ethalwood was greatly concerned upon learning this. He naturally enough upbraided himself for the part he had been playing, but it was now not possible to retract. The death of Madame Trieste was an event he had not counted on, and it, of course, added to the complication of circumstances with which he had become surrounded by his own imprudence.But he was in an exalted position, was wealthy, and under all the circumstances felt bound to make some provision for the woman whom he had so deeply wronged.This was an easy matter enough, but Theresa did not view the matter in a mercenary light. She would have been content to share poverty with her seducer so long as she was near him and was assured of his love.Lord Reginald did not know what to do under the circumstances. He was still greatly attached to Theresa, and he, therefore, wrote a most affectionate letter to her in reply to the one he had received.He enclosed a draft for a considerable sum with the letter, and bade her consider him in the light of both a friend and a lover.The position was both a difficult and a delicate one, and he was therefore specially cautious in wording his letter, not that he had the faintest notion that the unhappy Theresa would take any advantage of any incautious expression, but still he deemed it just as well to be on the safe side.He also dispatched a missive to the Chevalier de Monpres, bidding him wait upon Theresa and comfort her as he best could.He also entrusted the arrangements of the funeral of Madame Trieste to his friend, De Monpres.He begged, as a special favour of the old Frenchman, his attention to these matters, and wound up by an earnest request that he, De Monpres, would pay a visit to Broxbridge.In a week or two after this the earl was both surprised and delighted when one of his servants announced that a gentleman—a stranger to Broxbridge—was waiting in one of the reception rooms.Upon looking at the card handed to him by the domestic, the earl saw it was none other than his late second, who desired to speak with him.The chevalier was at once conducted into the presence of the earl.“My dear good friend!” exclaimed the latter, “this is, indeed, kind and considerate of you. I know not how to thank you sufficiently for your kindness and attention.”“Well, the fact is, Ethalwood,” said De Monpres, “I could not remain away any longer. I felt, naturally enough, that you needed advice and consolation; besides, it was essential for me to communicate with you personally.”“I am overjoyed to see you. Sit down and make this place your home, for some time to come, at all events.”“Ah, but I intend to do that,” cried the chevalier, with a shrug and a grimace. “Eh, but you’ve got a fine old palatial mansion, a grand old place, which I should imagine has stood for centuries—that is, if one is to judge from appearances.”“It is very old—almost as old as our genealogical tree.”“I should suppose so. Well, my young friend, I intend to enjoy myself while I am here, so you mustn’t think of assuming a serious or dejected aspect, for I tell you frankly I will not permit it. You are under my care now—do you understand?—and are to be as merry and jocund as possible.”“I will endeavour to be so,” returned Reginald. “That is as far as circumstances will admit.”“Bah! circumstances! What have you to complain of? Nothing—positively nothing!”“Very well, it shall be as you say. I will not repine.”“I hope not, indeed. I am not an envious man, my dear Ethalwood. If I were I should long to be in your position. You have youth, health, wealth, and bear an honoured name second to none within these realms. What more do you need?”“A clear conscience,” returned the earl.“Mon dieu, don’t be so weak and silly. You had better have some champagne, and we can talk this matter over at our leisure.”“I won’t say no. Let us have some sparkling then, if you have no objection.”“None in the least.”“Ah, I see you are not so bad as I thought,” cried De Monpres, raising the glass and pledging his friend with the same.“Is that better?” said he.“You received my note, of course,” observed Ethalwood, when the first civilities were over.The Frenchman nodded.“And—ahem—the funeral, how did that pass over?”“I carried out your instructions to the very letter.”“I was sure you would do that. A thousand thanks. And poor Theresa?”“Ah,mon ami, she was sadly borne down, poor girl. I thought she would have gone into hysterics, but she is better now—much better. Ah, she will be all right again in the due course of time. These things are always sad, and in her case there was every reason for deep and poignant sorrow. I am thankful for having been of service to her.”“You did your best to cheer her up, I have no doubt.”“My very best.”“Umph, it is altogether a most unfortunate affair, De Monpres, and I need not tell you that it has been a source of trouble to me, which, despite all the philosophy I can bring to bear upon it, still hangs heavily on my conscience.”“Conscience—bah! You have nothing to charge yourself with—have acted in every way as becomes an honourable gentleman.”“Oh, no—no!” interrupted the earl, with sudden warmth.“That is my view of the matter,” observed the Frenchman, “and I am a much older man than you are, and ought to be a competent judge of what is wrong and what is right. Why, my dear young friend, in my young days these things were as common occurrences as possible. Nobody even thought anything of them. You became enamoured of a young and fascinating female, and she was attached to you; well, the end we both know. What do you propose doing?”“That is precisely why I have been so anxious to see you.”“To seek my advice—eh?”“Yes.”“You cannot do otherwise than make a provision for her.”“Of course not; but that will not satisfy her.”“No, it will not,” said the old Frenchman, as he swallowed another glass of wine. “She seems to me to be what one might call madly infatuated; but, dear me, women are such strange creatures, that one hardly knows what to say to them. She wants to come to this country.”“Yes—so she gave me to understand.”“To be near you—that is her only reason, I believe. Ah, she is infatuated! But you mustn’t compromise yourself merely for the sake of a love-sick woman.”“What would you advise me to do, then?”“Ah, that is a question one finds it difficult to answer upon the spur of the moment.”“But you have thought the matter over, I suppose.”“I have certainly given it due consideration, but then I am not Lord Ethalwood—I am only an old military officer. My view of the case and yours may be diametrically opposite; don’t you see that?”“Yes, I quite understand what you mean, but take another glass.”“Thank you. It is unfortunate for us—and especially so for her—that her mother died at this juncture, but it could not be helped, and it is not, therefore, any use dwelling upon it.”“It is very unfortunate.”“And you know, Ethalwood, I am really sorry for the girl. Perhaps you won’t believe me when I say so, but I am, indeed.”“I have no reason to disbelieve you, monsieur—far from it.”“Because, you see, she is placed in a false position.”“Yes, that is quite true.”“But you mustn’t compromise yourself. You mustn’t do that, come what may.”“I should be base, indeed, if I deserted her, after all that has passed.”“Oh, dear me, no one could think of advising you to do that. Certainly no one who had any respect for you.”“By the way, this is a splendid glass of wine. A little sweet, perhaps, but it’s none the worse for that. It is of the finest vintage.”“I am glad it meets with your approval, as I know you are an excellent judge.”“Well, as I was about to observe,” said the chevalier, carelessly. “Theresa thinks only of you. You are the father of the child, which is soon to see the light, and I am in some doubt as to what course I ought to advise you to take. I should not like to be instrumental in bringing an encumbrance on you—still, at the same time, I cannot conceal from myself that to leave her to take her chance in those cursed mountains all alone, and without any other companion than her maid, who, to say the truth, is a giddy, flirting little puss, is not altogether desirable.”“I am delighted to hear you say so,” cried the earl, “and for this reason, that it coincides with my own view of the question. I am now determined I will have her over here—take a villa for her in one of the London suburbs.”“Or apartments for her in the metropolis.”“Yes, or apartments. Perhaps that would be better.”“Much better. Villas are all very well in their way, but she would be much more cheerful and contented with apartments.”“I think you are right; but that is a question which we can determine upon her arrival. I will write at once and tell her to come over to this country without any delay. What say you?”The chevalier answered with a shrug.“I think I am in duty bound to do this—eh?”“Well, perhaps you are. One thing has been made manifest to me plainly enough.”“What is that?”“She won’t be contented where she is—that’s quite certain; and—bah!—after all you can well afford to keep a mistress, or half a dozen or so for the matter of that; and you are quite justified in doing so. They are at times troublesome to a man, but one can’t have any pleasure in this world without its alloy. Send for her. Let her come over at once, Ethalwood, before I leave. Possibly I may be of service to you.”“My dear De Monpres, you are as good as a father to me. I don’t know what I should have done without you.”“Oh, you would have done well enough, I dare say,” observed the chevalier.“I don’t think so.”“Well, we won’t dispute upon that subject. I am here enjoying your society and hospitality, and I don’t intend to leave you for the present. Certainly not, till I see you out of this little difficulty.”“And how about the mountaineers? Did you see or hear anything of them after I took my departure?”“I heard a good deal,” cried De Monpres, in a serious tone; “heard enough to fully comprehend that they intended to polish you off if a chance had been afforded them.Sacre, I shudder when I think of the bloodthirsty miscreants.”“Ah, they meant mischief then?”“Mon dieuyes.”“But how did you know this?”“From the young fellow who was Chanet’s second. He has behaved in a way which meets with my unqualified approval.”“Has he?”“Yes, he is an honourable and upright young man and evinced the greatest possible solicitude for your safety. He knew the danger of the situation—knew that a band of mountaineers were in league together to—well—bah—murder you at their earliest convenience, and made me acquainted with the whole of their proceedings. I had three or four of the rascals arrested, but as there was no direct evidence against them they were discharged with a caution. This is all I could possibly do, and I believe that to a certain extent it had a salutary effect. They were intimidated. They knew the eyes of the officers of justice were on them, and they returned to their fastnesses like a set of curs as they are. Still, my friend, despite all these precautions, we cannot conceal from ourselves that your life was not worth a few hours’ purchase while you were in the neighbourhood of those treacherous mountains. Neither would it be now if you were imprudent enough to return.”“I am not likely to do that,” said Lord Reginald; “not at all likely, for very many reasons.”“I should suppose not.”“Oh, dear me, no; but the day is still young, what say you to a stroll in the grounds?”“Nothing would please me better, but before proceeding thither will you just let me have a look at your picture gallery?”“By all means—with the greatest pleasure.”Lord Reginald Ethalwood conducted the chevalier to the gallery in which the late earl so loved to linger, and here it was that Charles Peace, in an earlier day, succeeded in making such a wonderful restoration of one of the portraits which now looked as fresh and bright as when it was first painted.As the old Frenchman passed through he came to a sudden halt, and stood for some time gazing upon the portrait of the late earl.“How lifelike!” he ejaculated. “What an admirable representation of my late friend! I should have known it anywhere, and under any circumstances. I never saw a better portrait.”“It is wonderfully well done, monsieur. The artist has caught the habitual expression of his features, which, to say the truth, were generally tinged with a shade of melancholy.”“Say, rather, thoughtfulness,” quietly remarked the chevalier. “The late earl was thoughtful and meditative by nature. There were many reasons for this, which it would be needless to dwell upon now.”“You are quite right—such was the case,” returned Lord Reginald.After passing through the gallery, the two friends rambled over the grounds and in the woods on the Broxbridge estate, returning to the hall to dinner.De Monpres’ visit proved to be a great source of comfort to the young earl.The chevalier had been so mixed up in recent events that he was specially welcome, and was made much of by the master of the hall.The days passed pleasantly enough. The chevalier had a whole fund of anecdotes at his command, and although advanced in years, he was brimful of jocularity, sparkling repartee, and lively discourse upon present and past events.The visitors to the hall were quite charmed with him, and Reginald looked forward to his departure with something like sorrow and regret.But De Monpres was too well satisfied with his present quarters to dream of leaving them at present. He had passed his word to remain in England till the arrival of Theresa Trieste, who had written a reply to the earl’s letter, intimating that she would be with him as soon as she possibly could. Theresa lost no time in carrying out her promise.She had become an object of mark in her mountain home, and the mountaineers regarded her with malevolent looks, in which aversion, not to say hatred, formed the chief ingredient.They did not attempt to molest her, or offer any positive insult, but she was duly impressed with the fact that there was a general feeling of discontent and animosity towards her in consequence of the part she had played in the sanguinary drama.No.72.Illustration: “HILLOA THERE.“HILLOA THERE, I’VE COTCHED HIM,” CRIED MR. ASHBROOK TO THE DETECTIVE.Theresa Trieste had lost her parent, and she was left alone in the world, with no other protector than Lord Ethalwood.To remain any longer in the chateau at the foot of the Jura mountains was therefore quite out of the question.She therefore gladly acceded to the request of Lord Reginald, and made preparations to take a speedy departure from the home which had now no longer any charms for her.She believed, as many other women have done under similar circumstances, in the honour and integrity of her seducer. Any way she had no other alternative than to trust to his good faith and consideration.She hastened at once to England, and upon her arrival at Dover she dispatched a letter to Broxbridge, making him acquainted with the fact.The Chevalier de Monpres had been commissioned to engage apartments for the lady.Strange to say, he took a suite of rooms in the house occupied by Mrs. Bourne.The last-named had long before this furnished her house in Somerset-street in the best possible style, and, as it was a much larger one than she required, she had deputed an agent to procure her a lodger.The courteous old Frenchman applied to the aforesaid agent who recommended Mrs. Bourne.De Monpres waited upon the doctor’s widow, with whom he was greatly pleased, and at once engaged the suite of rooms on the first floor.He was at no loss to divine that Mrs. Bourne was precisely the sort of person Theresa Trieste would, in all probability, get on with; consequently he struck a bargain and engaged the rooms for the young French lady, who was about to arrive from the Continent.The earl and chevalier met Theresa at the London station, and accompanied her to the widow’s house in Somerset-street.She was greatly pleased with her new quarters, and her countenance became irradiated with a smile as she gazed on the handsome features of her lover.She hoped for the best, and had not at this time any misgivings for the future, for the earl demonstrated the strongest affection for her, and was profuse in promises. Nevertheless, deep down in his heart was the canker-worm of remorse.However, he strove as best he could to assume an air of cheerfulness, and after remaining for the best part of the evening with his mistress he took his departure in company with the Chevalier de Monpres.
Lord Reginald Ethalwood returned to England a sadder and in some respects a wiser man. He was no longer the gay and light-hearted nobleman whose merry pranks and jovial manner caused his associates to court his company.
A strange alteration in the mode of life and manner of the young earl had taken place. He was grave and thoughtful, and at times melancholy.
A shadow seemed to have fallen upon him, and the recollection of the events that had taken place during his sojourn on the Continent seemed to cling to him with terrible tenacity.
There were a number of circumstances connected with hisliaisonwith Theresa Trieste which could not fail to cause him great uneasiness, but beyond and above all there was the fact that he had sent to his account a young man, who, whatever his faults might have been, was true, faithful, and self-sacrificing to the object of his love.
Indeed, Chanet had displayed an amount of chivalry and devotion which could not fail to command the respect of Lord Ethalwood.
Upon returning to his ancestral home Reginald had ample time to consider over past events. He could not but acknowledge to himself that his share in the business did not in any way redound to his credit, and now that he had time and leisure to reflect on the part he had played in the sanguinary drama caused him to upbraid himself for his rash and impetuous course of action.
Lord Reginald, upon his arrival in England, hastened at once to the town residence of his mother, to whom he paid his respects.
Nothing was said about the tragedy of the Jura mountains.
“My dear Reginald,” exclaimed Aveline, embracing her son with maternal fondness, “it is indeed a source of happiness for me to see you again in your native land, and I hope and trust you will not again leave the country—certainly not for some time to come—for, oh, my darling boy, you do not know how anxious I have been about you. Consider, Reginald, the position you hold as the representative of an honoured line—the only representative—and consider also how needful it is for you to uphold the dignity of the house of which you are, I am sure, a worthy representative.”
“I have duly considered that, mother,” returned Reginald.
“And, therefore, it behoves you to be mindful of yourself. Alas! my son, there are many reasons for you to be especially guarded in your conduct. Remember the untimely end of your predecessors—the earl’s sons—and the end also of my poor mother. I tremble when I think of the untoward events which have taken place; and it is, therefore, with something like a melancholy foreboding that I charge you to take special care of yourself.”
“You need not be any way concerned about me,” said Reginald, not very well knowing what his mother was driving at. “I am in good health and spirits. Why, therefore, should you be thus anxious?”
“Are you in good health and spirits? It has struck me that you do not look so happy and contented as when you left for this—this hunting expedition.”
Lord Ethalwood burst out into a loud laugh.
“Why, my dear mother,” said he, “to hear you speak thus one would almost imagine you to be a fatalist.”
“Well, assuming you came to that conclusion, what then?”
“What! You would not have me come to any such rash conclusion, I should imagine?”
“Have you reflected upon past events?” said Aveline. “Have you duly considered the strange vicissitudes of the house of Ethalwood, of which you are now the representative? Have you thought of the untimely deaths of the younger members of that honourable line—of the sad end of your grandmother, and all the events which have led to your being the rightful and acknowledged heir? It behoves you, my son, to be duly impressed with your position, to strive in every possible way to support, to the best of your ability, the dignity of our house.”
“I am duly impressed with all this,” said the young earl, “and do not need to be reminded of it.”
“Ah, Reginald,” exclaimed Aveline, “pardon me for being thus plain-spoken. In you I behold the sole surviving link, from the present to the past, of a great race.”
“I know that, mother. But why this concern and anxiety? I am well, and am heedful of the trust which is imposed upon me.”
“Spoken like my own dear son,” said Aveline. “I am sure you will never do aught to compromise or sully the honour of the Ethalwoods.”
“I hope not,” he added, with something like melancholy foreboding in his tone, for he remembered at the time the sad events which had so recently taken place.
It was evident enough from his mother’s manner that she had some inkling of the part he had been playing in the dark drama on the continent—albeit she wisely forbore from alluding directly to it.
She was concerned and troubled about something—what this was Lord Ethalwood could only surmise.
After paying his respects to his father-in-law he returned to Broxbridge Hall, which has been the stage upon which so many scenes of our drama have been enacted.
At Broxbridge he was, in a great measure, secluded from a host of acquaintances who, at that particular time, he was not anxious to meet.
Mr. Jakyl, full of years and servitude, was still the majordomo of the establishment; he appeared to be as devoted to his young master as he was to the late earl.
Jakyl was at this time a very old man; he had the same soft, respectful, unobtrusive manner as of yore; indeed, these qualities were even more apparent in his declining years—if this were possible.
The slightest hint given by Lord Ethalwood was considered law by his faithful and venerable servitor, and it afforded the old domestic a considerable amount of pleasure and satisfaction at beholding the earl return to his ancestral home.
Mr. Jakyl was not at all demonstrative—was never gushing, but those who knew him best were at no loss to comprehend when he was pleased or otherwise.
Lord Reginald, after his return to Broxbridge, remained for a considerable time secluded.
He did not court the company of his quondam companions, and his retainers could not fail to observe that he had come back a sadder and more thoughtful man.
It is true he received a few visitors, with his accustomed good fellowship and courtesy, but there was no longer that sportive mad-cap merriment which had marked his course of life before leaving for the Continent.
No one was quite able to account for the altered demeanour of the gay and merry young earl.
Very shortly after his return he received a letter from abroad which seemed to deepen the shadow which had so suddenly fallen upon him.
The epistle in question came from Theresa Trieste. It was couched in the most affectionate language. In almost every passage the writer gave expression to deep and unfailing love, but at the same time the tone of it was melancholy and sorrowful to the last degree. In fact it appeared that Theresa was plunged into the depths of despair.
Her mother had been suddenly and unexpectedly struck down with a fit of apoplexy, and after lingering for a few hours, she expired. This was a sad blow to the earl. Theresa was left with little or no provision, and in addition to this she expected very shortly to become a mother.
Lord Ethalwood was greatly concerned upon learning this. He naturally enough upbraided himself for the part he had been playing, but it was now not possible to retract. The death of Madame Trieste was an event he had not counted on, and it, of course, added to the complication of circumstances with which he had become surrounded by his own imprudence.
But he was in an exalted position, was wealthy, and under all the circumstances felt bound to make some provision for the woman whom he had so deeply wronged.
This was an easy matter enough, but Theresa did not view the matter in a mercenary light. She would have been content to share poverty with her seducer so long as she was near him and was assured of his love.
Lord Reginald did not know what to do under the circumstances. He was still greatly attached to Theresa, and he, therefore, wrote a most affectionate letter to her in reply to the one he had received.
He enclosed a draft for a considerable sum with the letter, and bade her consider him in the light of both a friend and a lover.
The position was both a difficult and a delicate one, and he was therefore specially cautious in wording his letter, not that he had the faintest notion that the unhappy Theresa would take any advantage of any incautious expression, but still he deemed it just as well to be on the safe side.
He also dispatched a missive to the Chevalier de Monpres, bidding him wait upon Theresa and comfort her as he best could.
He also entrusted the arrangements of the funeral of Madame Trieste to his friend, De Monpres.
He begged, as a special favour of the old Frenchman, his attention to these matters, and wound up by an earnest request that he, De Monpres, would pay a visit to Broxbridge.
In a week or two after this the earl was both surprised and delighted when one of his servants announced that a gentleman—a stranger to Broxbridge—was waiting in one of the reception rooms.
Upon looking at the card handed to him by the domestic, the earl saw it was none other than his late second, who desired to speak with him.
The chevalier was at once conducted into the presence of the earl.
“My dear good friend!” exclaimed the latter, “this is, indeed, kind and considerate of you. I know not how to thank you sufficiently for your kindness and attention.”
“Well, the fact is, Ethalwood,” said De Monpres, “I could not remain away any longer. I felt, naturally enough, that you needed advice and consolation; besides, it was essential for me to communicate with you personally.”
“I am overjoyed to see you. Sit down and make this place your home, for some time to come, at all events.”
“Ah, but I intend to do that,” cried the chevalier, with a shrug and a grimace. “Eh, but you’ve got a fine old palatial mansion, a grand old place, which I should imagine has stood for centuries—that is, if one is to judge from appearances.”
“It is very old—almost as old as our genealogical tree.”
“I should suppose so. Well, my young friend, I intend to enjoy myself while I am here, so you mustn’t think of assuming a serious or dejected aspect, for I tell you frankly I will not permit it. You are under my care now—do you understand?—and are to be as merry and jocund as possible.”
“I will endeavour to be so,” returned Reginald. “That is as far as circumstances will admit.”
“Bah! circumstances! What have you to complain of? Nothing—positively nothing!”
“Very well, it shall be as you say. I will not repine.”
“I hope not, indeed. I am not an envious man, my dear Ethalwood. If I were I should long to be in your position. You have youth, health, wealth, and bear an honoured name second to none within these realms. What more do you need?”
“A clear conscience,” returned the earl.
“Mon dieu, don’t be so weak and silly. You had better have some champagne, and we can talk this matter over at our leisure.”
“I won’t say no. Let us have some sparkling then, if you have no objection.”
“None in the least.”
“Ah, I see you are not so bad as I thought,” cried De Monpres, raising the glass and pledging his friend with the same.
“Is that better?” said he.
“You received my note, of course,” observed Ethalwood, when the first civilities were over.
The Frenchman nodded.
“And—ahem—the funeral, how did that pass over?”
“I carried out your instructions to the very letter.”
“I was sure you would do that. A thousand thanks. And poor Theresa?”
“Ah,mon ami, she was sadly borne down, poor girl. I thought she would have gone into hysterics, but she is better now—much better. Ah, she will be all right again in the due course of time. These things are always sad, and in her case there was every reason for deep and poignant sorrow. I am thankful for having been of service to her.”
“You did your best to cheer her up, I have no doubt.”
“My very best.”
“Umph, it is altogether a most unfortunate affair, De Monpres, and I need not tell you that it has been a source of trouble to me, which, despite all the philosophy I can bring to bear upon it, still hangs heavily on my conscience.”
“Conscience—bah! You have nothing to charge yourself with—have acted in every way as becomes an honourable gentleman.”
“Oh, no—no!” interrupted the earl, with sudden warmth.
“That is my view of the matter,” observed the Frenchman, “and I am a much older man than you are, and ought to be a competent judge of what is wrong and what is right. Why, my dear young friend, in my young days these things were as common occurrences as possible. Nobody even thought anything of them. You became enamoured of a young and fascinating female, and she was attached to you; well, the end we both know. What do you propose doing?”
“That is precisely why I have been so anxious to see you.”
“To seek my advice—eh?”
“Yes.”
“You cannot do otherwise than make a provision for her.”
“Of course not; but that will not satisfy her.”
“No, it will not,” said the old Frenchman, as he swallowed another glass of wine. “She seems to me to be what one might call madly infatuated; but, dear me, women are such strange creatures, that one hardly knows what to say to them. She wants to come to this country.”
“Yes—so she gave me to understand.”
“To be near you—that is her only reason, I believe. Ah, she is infatuated! But you mustn’t compromise yourself merely for the sake of a love-sick woman.”
“What would you advise me to do, then?”
“Ah, that is a question one finds it difficult to answer upon the spur of the moment.”
“But you have thought the matter over, I suppose.”
“I have certainly given it due consideration, but then I am not Lord Ethalwood—I am only an old military officer. My view of the case and yours may be diametrically opposite; don’t you see that?”
“Yes, I quite understand what you mean, but take another glass.”
“Thank you. It is unfortunate for us—and especially so for her—that her mother died at this juncture, but it could not be helped, and it is not, therefore, any use dwelling upon it.”
“It is very unfortunate.”
“And you know, Ethalwood, I am really sorry for the girl. Perhaps you won’t believe me when I say so, but I am, indeed.”
“I have no reason to disbelieve you, monsieur—far from it.”
“Because, you see, she is placed in a false position.”
“Yes, that is quite true.”
“But you mustn’t compromise yourself. You mustn’t do that, come what may.”
“I should be base, indeed, if I deserted her, after all that has passed.”
“Oh, dear me, no one could think of advising you to do that. Certainly no one who had any respect for you.”
“By the way, this is a splendid glass of wine. A little sweet, perhaps, but it’s none the worse for that. It is of the finest vintage.”
“I am glad it meets with your approval, as I know you are an excellent judge.”
“Well, as I was about to observe,” said the chevalier, carelessly. “Theresa thinks only of you. You are the father of the child, which is soon to see the light, and I am in some doubt as to what course I ought to advise you to take. I should not like to be instrumental in bringing an encumbrance on you—still, at the same time, I cannot conceal from myself that to leave her to take her chance in those cursed mountains all alone, and without any other companion than her maid, who, to say the truth, is a giddy, flirting little puss, is not altogether desirable.”
“I am delighted to hear you say so,” cried the earl, “and for this reason, that it coincides with my own view of the question. I am now determined I will have her over here—take a villa for her in one of the London suburbs.”
“Or apartments for her in the metropolis.”
“Yes, or apartments. Perhaps that would be better.”
“Much better. Villas are all very well in their way, but she would be much more cheerful and contented with apartments.”
“I think you are right; but that is a question which we can determine upon her arrival. I will write at once and tell her to come over to this country without any delay. What say you?”
The chevalier answered with a shrug.
“I think I am in duty bound to do this—eh?”
“Well, perhaps you are. One thing has been made manifest to me plainly enough.”
“What is that?”
“She won’t be contented where she is—that’s quite certain; and—bah!—after all you can well afford to keep a mistress, or half a dozen or so for the matter of that; and you are quite justified in doing so. They are at times troublesome to a man, but one can’t have any pleasure in this world without its alloy. Send for her. Let her come over at once, Ethalwood, before I leave. Possibly I may be of service to you.”
“My dear De Monpres, you are as good as a father to me. I don’t know what I should have done without you.”
“Oh, you would have done well enough, I dare say,” observed the chevalier.
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, we won’t dispute upon that subject. I am here enjoying your society and hospitality, and I don’t intend to leave you for the present. Certainly not, till I see you out of this little difficulty.”
“And how about the mountaineers? Did you see or hear anything of them after I took my departure?”
“I heard a good deal,” cried De Monpres, in a serious tone; “heard enough to fully comprehend that they intended to polish you off if a chance had been afforded them.Sacre, I shudder when I think of the bloodthirsty miscreants.”
“Ah, they meant mischief then?”
“Mon dieuyes.”
“But how did you know this?”
“From the young fellow who was Chanet’s second. He has behaved in a way which meets with my unqualified approval.”
“Has he?”
“Yes, he is an honourable and upright young man and evinced the greatest possible solicitude for your safety. He knew the danger of the situation—knew that a band of mountaineers were in league together to—well—bah—murder you at their earliest convenience, and made me acquainted with the whole of their proceedings. I had three or four of the rascals arrested, but as there was no direct evidence against them they were discharged with a caution. This is all I could possibly do, and I believe that to a certain extent it had a salutary effect. They were intimidated. They knew the eyes of the officers of justice were on them, and they returned to their fastnesses like a set of curs as they are. Still, my friend, despite all these precautions, we cannot conceal from ourselves that your life was not worth a few hours’ purchase while you were in the neighbourhood of those treacherous mountains. Neither would it be now if you were imprudent enough to return.”
“I am not likely to do that,” said Lord Reginald; “not at all likely, for very many reasons.”
“I should suppose not.”
“Oh, dear me, no; but the day is still young, what say you to a stroll in the grounds?”
“Nothing would please me better, but before proceeding thither will you just let me have a look at your picture gallery?”
“By all means—with the greatest pleasure.”
Lord Reginald Ethalwood conducted the chevalier to the gallery in which the late earl so loved to linger, and here it was that Charles Peace, in an earlier day, succeeded in making such a wonderful restoration of one of the portraits which now looked as fresh and bright as when it was first painted.
As the old Frenchman passed through he came to a sudden halt, and stood for some time gazing upon the portrait of the late earl.
“How lifelike!” he ejaculated. “What an admirable representation of my late friend! I should have known it anywhere, and under any circumstances. I never saw a better portrait.”
“It is wonderfully well done, monsieur. The artist has caught the habitual expression of his features, which, to say the truth, were generally tinged with a shade of melancholy.”
“Say, rather, thoughtfulness,” quietly remarked the chevalier. “The late earl was thoughtful and meditative by nature. There were many reasons for this, which it would be needless to dwell upon now.”
“You are quite right—such was the case,” returned Lord Reginald.
After passing through the gallery, the two friends rambled over the grounds and in the woods on the Broxbridge estate, returning to the hall to dinner.
De Monpres’ visit proved to be a great source of comfort to the young earl.
The chevalier had been so mixed up in recent events that he was specially welcome, and was made much of by the master of the hall.
The days passed pleasantly enough. The chevalier had a whole fund of anecdotes at his command, and although advanced in years, he was brimful of jocularity, sparkling repartee, and lively discourse upon present and past events.
The visitors to the hall were quite charmed with him, and Reginald looked forward to his departure with something like sorrow and regret.
But De Monpres was too well satisfied with his present quarters to dream of leaving them at present. He had passed his word to remain in England till the arrival of Theresa Trieste, who had written a reply to the earl’s letter, intimating that she would be with him as soon as she possibly could. Theresa lost no time in carrying out her promise.
She had become an object of mark in her mountain home, and the mountaineers regarded her with malevolent looks, in which aversion, not to say hatred, formed the chief ingredient.
They did not attempt to molest her, or offer any positive insult, but she was duly impressed with the fact that there was a general feeling of discontent and animosity towards her in consequence of the part she had played in the sanguinary drama.
No.72.
Illustration: “HILLOA THERE.“HILLOA THERE, I’VE COTCHED HIM,” CRIED MR. ASHBROOK TO THE DETECTIVE.
“HILLOA THERE, I’VE COTCHED HIM,” CRIED MR. ASHBROOK TO THE DETECTIVE.
Theresa Trieste had lost her parent, and she was left alone in the world, with no other protector than Lord Ethalwood.
To remain any longer in the chateau at the foot of the Jura mountains was therefore quite out of the question.
She therefore gladly acceded to the request of Lord Reginald, and made preparations to take a speedy departure from the home which had now no longer any charms for her.
She believed, as many other women have done under similar circumstances, in the honour and integrity of her seducer. Any way she had no other alternative than to trust to his good faith and consideration.
She hastened at once to England, and upon her arrival at Dover she dispatched a letter to Broxbridge, making him acquainted with the fact.
The Chevalier de Monpres had been commissioned to engage apartments for the lady.
Strange to say, he took a suite of rooms in the house occupied by Mrs. Bourne.
The last-named had long before this furnished her house in Somerset-street in the best possible style, and, as it was a much larger one than she required, she had deputed an agent to procure her a lodger.
The courteous old Frenchman applied to the aforesaid agent who recommended Mrs. Bourne.
De Monpres waited upon the doctor’s widow, with whom he was greatly pleased, and at once engaged the suite of rooms on the first floor.
He was at no loss to divine that Mrs. Bourne was precisely the sort of person Theresa Trieste would, in all probability, get on with; consequently he struck a bargain and engaged the rooms for the young French lady, who was about to arrive from the Continent.
The earl and chevalier met Theresa at the London station, and accompanied her to the widow’s house in Somerset-street.
She was greatly pleased with her new quarters, and her countenance became irradiated with a smile as she gazed on the handsome features of her lover.
She hoped for the best, and had not at this time any misgivings for the future, for the earl demonstrated the strongest affection for her, and was profuse in promises. Nevertheless, deep down in his heart was the canker-worm of remorse.
However, he strove as best he could to assume an air of cheerfulness, and after remaining for the best part of the evening with his mistress he took his departure in company with the Chevalier de Monpres.